Nothing is perfect, always some stammer in the divine speech: we know that. But such blemishes as occur in the Scala production are incidental to its general excellence and to the greatness of Angela Gheorghiu’s Violetta. She is a strangely variable quantity in the musical life of our time and has been on my own blacklist for concerts offering, in my view, shamefully poor musical value. But here she is once again a true artist, the voice lovely as ever throughout most of its range, the expressive art in both singing and acting matured so that this portrayal is intensely moving and memorable. Here is a Violetta who rises to the great moments but whose every phrase and movement is intelligently guided and deeply felt. The internal argument in the solo of Act 1, for instance, develops with a marvellously subtle conflict of impulses, and though “pleasure” wins at the end of it there has been just the right degree of forced gaiety to make it no surprise to find in Act 2 that love has prevailed after all. The Germonts, son and father, are maddeningly stupid characters but decent, honest singers, the one (Ramón Vargas) not imaginative but capable of delicacy, the other (Roberto Frontali) clean-cut in his tone and modestly affecting in his aria. Maazel’s conducting is a model of controlled flexibility, and the orchestra respond to him with unfailing precision. Visually, the production is a treat, the chorus handled unfussily as a collection of individuals, with the principal characters and their relationships given thoughtful and sensitive preparation.

I would rank this with the Los Angeles production with Fleming and Villazón (DG, 4/08): we should count ourselves a favoured generation to have both or the choice of either. The production from St Margarethen in South Austria is not in that class but has its own attractions. These lie principally in the spectacle, on stage and off. The party scenes are rich in life and colour, and as parties both may be said to swing. Kristiane Kaiser’s Violetta spends most of Act 1 smiling brilliantly; one feels she might die smiling, and indeed she almost does. Her voice is somewhat thin and infirm in the lower half but pure and pleasing in the upper. Her Germont fils has a fast vibrato, his père a slow one. Some of the sillier points of production concern Alfredo, as when he is made to sing his solo in Act 2 to a silent, but busily miming, drinking companion. But the real scene-stealer is the scenery itself, this extraordinary Baroque façade which opens up on a stage ablaze with candle-light, and all against the background of the evening and night sky eventually to be brightened with a show of fireworks scarcely to be matched west of Beijing. The audience sit in the open air before this vast area of what I believe was the site of a Roman quarry. The Festival is now well established, with a 10-year history, and on this evidence is definitely worth a visit.