Don Giovanni has become such a focus for directorial intervention of late that playing the work straight and in period almost feels like the exception nowadays rather than the norm. Such, however, is the case with this wonderful production, directed by Marshall Pynkoski, conducted by Gaétan Jarry and filmed in Versailles last autumn. In contrast to the glosses, successful or otherwise, imposed by the likes of Dmitri Tcherniakov (Bel Air Classics, A/13) or Claus Guth (EuroArts, 1/11), Pynkoski gives us the opera in 18th-century dress against a straightforward set of screens, doors and balconies, working outwards from libretto and score, and trusting both to form the basis of his interpretation. There is nothing remotely conventional about it, however, rather a probing examination of the work’s psychology and metaphysics, often remarkable in its subtlety.

Pynkoski is helped immeasurably by his cast, an unstarry but flawlessly integrated ensemble. Everyone acts as well as they sing, diction is impeccable and recitatives are as integral to characterisation as arias and ensembles. Robert Gleadow’s Giovanni is insistently sexual, his voice changing from grit to silk in a flash as desire overtakes him. Phrases such as ‘Mi pare sentir odor di femmina’ sound utterly indecent. In moments of seduction he is at once erotic and hectoring, pressing money on Éléonore Pancrazi’s knowing Zerlina at ‘Io cangierò tua sorte’ even as he spins out the lines of ‘Là ci darem’ in ways that are utterly beguiling.

Throughout we’re aware not only of his destructiveness but also of why those drawn into his orbit are effectively unable to leave. He and Riccardo Novaro’s Leporello are curiously intimate, almost emotionally attached, deeply familiar with each other’s behaviour. They dress alike apart from their jackets, and come tellingly close to an embrace when Giovanni, in the graveyard scene, talks of encountering Leporello’s girlfriend. Beneath Elvira’s window, Leporello lip syncs to Giovanni’s words: this, we suddenly realise, is a practised routine, done many times before.

It’s unsurprising that Arianna Vendittelli’s vulnerable yet dignified Elvira is so hopelessly smitten, or that Florie Valiquette’s proud Anna so attracted, even as she faces the fact that Giovanni is her father’s murderer. Vocally, the two women are finely contrasted, with Vendittelli’s warmth nicely offsetting Valiquette’s greater brilliance. Enguerrand de Hys’s Ottavio, first seen looking dishevelled in his night attire before later reappearing as a periwigged fop, is nicely elegant, if just occasionally tremulous. Pancrazi sounds beautiful, with Jean-Gabriel Saint Martin handsome-voiced as her stroppy if adoring Masetto. Nicolas Certenais, fractionally over-amplified in the penultimate scene, makes an excellent Commendatore.

In the pit, Jarry, a wonderful conductor, gets the mix of titanic fire and deep humanity bang on, and there’s some superbly focused playing, with warm strings, gracious woodwind, and truly terrifying trombones in the graveyard scene. It’s beautifully filmed by Colin Laurent, too, with an admirable use of close-up that gives us telling details like the brief unease that steals across Anna’s face when Ottavio sings ‘Hai sposo e padre in me’, Zerlina’s giggle of disbelief when Giovanni says he will marry her, and the glint of desire in Masetto’s eyes while Zerlina sings ‘Vedrai carino’. Any cavils can only be minor: a pause to fly in a backdrop during the Act 1 finale briefly intrudes on its momentum; and the 1788 Vienna score is used rather than the Prague original, which means Elvira gets ‘Mi tradì’ (Vendittelli is very fine here) and Ottavio has ‘Dalla sua pace’ rather than ‘Il mio tesoro’, though the Zerlina/Leporello duet is cut, as it almost invariably is. But even so, this is one of the most compelling, complete and detailed interpretations of Don Giovanni that I’ve seen in ages. Very highly recommended indeed.