Nobody has done more for Venetian opera since the last war than Raymond Leppard, a greatly gifted musician sadly lost to the UK for the past two decades. His edition of Poppea, first staged at Glyndebourne in 1962, opened many people’s eyes and ears to Monteverdi for the first time, especially when it was performed at the Proms; it was followed by Orfeo and Il ritorno d’Ulisse, and several operas by Cavalli.

By 1984, though, when Glyndebourne mounted this new production, Leppard’s Respighi-isation of Monteverdi’s sparse original was distinctly old hat, as much so as Elgar’s Bach or Beecham’s Handel. The allegorical prologue was restored; but as well as the lush string textures there remained the downward transposition of castrato roles and, perhaps worst of all, the squeezing of three acts into two.

And yet, only the most fanatical devotee of ‘historically informed’ performance could fail to respond to this quite wonderful production. With sumptuous designs by John Bury, pink to the fore, it is directed with an unerring touch by Peter Hall. The louche goings-on of the mortals are observed from above by the figures from the prologue, Fortune and Virtue looking cheesed off most of the time while Cupid rejoices.

Hall’s production is, quite properly, dominated by Poppea. Maria Ewing is the personification of sensuousness, singing with rich tone throughout. But what she conveys so brilliantly is Poppea’s ruthless ambition, her steely determination to become empress at all costs. By the end you feel that Poppea and Nero richly deserve each other, and the empress Ottavia is well shot of her husband.

At least, in the opera anyway, Ottavia is merely banished, as are Ottone and his new love, Drusilla. Robert Lloyd, bearded like an Old Testament prophet, makes a dignified Seneca. Calmly polishing his spectacles while being insulted by Ottavia’s page, he is as fiercely implacable in the scene with Nero as the Grand Inquisitor in Don Carlos. Dennis Bailey is at his best here, giving full rein to the emperor’s petulance. Cynthia Clarey invests Ottavia’s two laments with passion, and Dale Duesing is equally good at expressing Ottone’s torment.

Hall frequently has his singers addressing the camera: a bold move, but one that forces the viewer to become involved in the fate of these mainly rather unappealing characters. The feeble documentation doesn’t even include a full cast list. The drawbacks of Leppard’s edition notwithstanding, this is a great theatrical experience; and you can restore the original curtain to Act 1 by pausing after Ottone’s admission that although Drusilla is on his lips, it is Poppea who is in his heart.