Performing a cohesive piece of 16th-century musical comedy is a challenge at the best of times. It is especially tough when the narrative is carried by a madrigal group of five voices (not like opera with a single voice per character), the story, contrasting the serious and the delightful, a series of contemporary conceits, in-jokes, local dialects and puns impossibly embedded in the physiognomy of a world long gone. Add to this all the local knowledge, tricks and formulae which define the essentially improvisatory nature of commedia dell’arte of the Italian Renaissance and you have an arcane cocktail. Until, that is, I Fagiolini turn a silk purse into one beaded with gold.

To appreciate the originality of Vecchi’s achievement, one has to understand the basic irony within its structure of 14 madrigal scenas. Vecchi wanted to evoke a vision of intense human observation, sensibility and foible, without action, a ‘spectacle of the mind’. Robert Hollingworth, never one to allow dogma to dampen the spirit of his own vision, has superimposed a level of invigorating dell’arte pastiche and we end up with the best of all worlds.

Set in the grounds of Dartington, the ‘Twin Peaks of Parnassus’ are gauged to play on the extremes of musical profundity and incorrigible slapstick ‘carry-on’. In the latter category, the action is taken from a live concert in the Hall where the singers sit discreetly to the side while the exhibitionists in the ensemble mime the dialogue and action of the protagonists. This includes sending up the usual stereo-types of the period, the rich and deluded merchant, the trading Jew and so on. These are usually highly entertaining though some scenes inevitably work better than others: Hollingworth implies as much by recognising the dangers of ‘translating complicated aural puns into visual counterparts’. Generally, the comedy is conceived with imagination and flair, even if there is the occasional need for more clearly articulated gesture at relatively neutral moments.

Alongside the badinage, Vecchi weaves in the elevated world of the mannerists, namely the delicious juxtaposition of love and tragic loss between Isabella and Lucio. In ‘Behold no hope remains’, the sense of regret that Isabella expresses at Lucio’s supposed suicide (with a self-absorbed hint of ‘well, it takes two to tango’) is palpable and achingly inten-sified with the control of colour in each individual line seemingly finding its rest in the same bosom.

The actor, Simon Callow, doesn’t actually act. He provides the deft facial expression and taut delivery to illuminate Timothy Knapman’s snappy and suggestive verse. This is a truly collaborative effort but Callow makes sense of it all, sailing through the cultural secrecy of Vecchi’s courtly ambience and cutting through the proverbial. A highly enjoyable production which celebrates the immediacy, relevance and enjoyment to be found in a 400-year old musical.