Following the release of Christof Loy’s Deutsche Oper production (8/15), this is the second filmed Jenůfa from Berlin to appear in the catalogue, captured in an empty Staatsoper at the height of lockdown in February 2021. It’s a hugely powerful performance that, if anything, benefits from the placement of the chorus dotted, the regulation distance from one another, around the auditorium – initially distracting in Beatrix Conrad’s video direction but taking on the almost ritualistic role of impassive observers as the whole tragedy unfurls in Act 3.

At the head of that tragedy is Evelyn Herlitzius’s astonishing Kostelnička, a portrayal of visceral dramatic force but which also nonetheless conveys the complexity of the character’s motivations, showing glimpses of remaining humanity detectable despite years of suppressed pain and shame. She’s in fine, penetrating voice, too, and this version is worth seeing for that alone. But there’s also a moving, powerfully acted performance of the title-role from Camilla Nylund: she’s heartbreaking in Act 2 but convincingly forgiving at the redemptive close, and her soprano has just the right mixture of limpidity and power.

Stuart Skelton is superb as a heartbreakingly hopeless – in the most literal sense – Laca, and he sings with his customary big-hearted passion. Ladislav Elgr, also Števa at the Deutsche Oper, is excellent, the fragile, almost frantic machismo he portrays in Act 1 swiftly giving way to cowardice and, in Act 3, something closer to complete subservience. There’s a fine supporting cast, including a vivid Grandmother Buryjovka from Hanna Schwarz (also repeating her role from the Deutsche Oper performance); Aytaj Shikhalizada, one of several members of the Staatsoper’s International Opera Studio, stands out for her lively and immediately engaging Herds(wo)man.

In the pit, Simon Rattle secures playing of imposing lyrical sweep and power from the Staatskapelle. The conductor provides the foundations for a superb musical performance all round, the power of which is ably amplified by Damiano Michieletto’s spare, concentrated production, beautifully lit by Alessandro Carletti.

Paolo Fantin’s single set confines the action with hanging sheets of frosted glass or Perspex, with a series of minimalist benches serving different purposes – one is an omnipresent altar. Other symbols are used sparingly but powerfully: a block of ice, hacked to pieces by Števa in Act 1; a red baby blanket knitted by Jenůfa. Her decidedly triste rosemary plant and pathetic little flowers hint at a natural world that offers little in the way of consolation. Most imposingly, a large rock begins to descend from on high halfway through Act 2 (presumably the stone that Jenůfa imagines crushing her); in Act 3, meltwater drips down it into a jagged hole in the middle of the stage.

It doesn’t always make for a unified, beautiful stage picture – for that, Loy’s your man – but the fractured world Michieletto creates has a concentrated power of its own, while also ultimately showing itself capable of accommodating redemption. With Claus Guth’s recent Royal Opera production also likely to make it on to DVD/Blu ray soon, we’re going to be spoilt for choice, but this new performance from Berlin can be highly recommended.