Lucy Worsley's Nights at the Opera review dressing up, singing and sex

This brilliant show flitted from Covent Garden to Venice to Vienna and Milan in pursuit of the history of opera

I haven’t always had the best relationship with opera. My parents took me to a few – dress rehearsals – when I was a kid, probably with the aim of making me more refined and cultured. Clearly, it didn’t work, I hated it. Everything about it – the ponciness, the fact that it took so long for them to say anything (why couldn’t they speak instead of sing?), that I couldn’t understand what they were saying, that it went on for ever ...

That was a long time ago, though. Now I’ve reached an age where I wouldn’t mind a bit more culture; I find more and more solace in classical music; I may be ready for opera. I bought myself a hedge-trimmer the other day (MacAllister op MHTP520, if you’re interested) and I’ve been enjoying that; I think the two – an interest in hedge-trimming and opera – come at around the same time in life.

I’ll need some help, though, from Lucy Worsley’s Nights at the Opera (BBC2, Saturday). She will, no doubt, bring sex into it, she always does. And she’ll dress up a lot. Those are her two things, sex and dressing up. OK, a bit of history, too. That’s actually what she’s doing here, looking at how what was going on inside the opera house reflected what was going on outside, in Europe, between the 17th and 19th centuries.

First, though, she’s in a London taxi, dressed as Lucy Worsley. Nessun Dorma is on the radio (Radio 3! Isn’t it more of a Classic FM number?). “It’s a song about football, isn’t it?” she says, before explaining that really it’s about emotion, death, love, all the big themes … That’s what you said, isn’t it, Lucy – football, right?

Anyway, this seems to be pitched about right for me. We also get Ride of the Helicopters by Wagner (the one from Germany not X Factor) and Mozart’s Duettino Shawshank. Opera has permeated everyone’s skin, whether you like it or not, that’s what Lucy’s saying.

She’s popping into Covent Garden, to see the Royal Opera House’s music director, Antonio Pappano. Sir Tony is on hand to shed light on some of the tunes – again, nothing too technical, more about major emotions than minor thirds.

Now Lucy’s in Venice, in a gondola, of course. No ice-cream aria? She missed a trick there … oh, it’s not from an opera, of course I knew that. Here, in 1643, Monteverdi wrote The Coronation of Poppea. “For the first time ever in opera, we meet real people,” says Lucy. “With real passions, including … sexual passions.”

There it is! Told you! And then, right on cue, she reaches for a plumed helmet and slips it on. Dressing up, too. Next she’s Nero, in a toga and crown of leaves, with a bowl of grapes and a bottle of wine, reclining on a Roman couch. Oh, there’s some history, too, some attitudes and politics of the time, working their way in there as well.

And so it goes on: tra-la-la, little sing-song with the soprano Danielle de Niese, holding hands, “Ooh, that was sexy.” Vienna next, where Lucy explains – with the help of what looks like a sachertorte – how Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro was a rebellious masterpiece, before managing – with the help of technological trickery – to dress as all four principal characters AT THE SAME TIME. Sir Tony P’s the one talking about sex this time; he explains the eroticism of the Countess and Susanna’s duet, AKA That One From The Shawshank Redemption.

Still in Vienna for Beethoven’s Fidelio, about revolution, and personal sacrifice for political ends, and – unsurprisingly – fidelity. Serious intellectual and political argument, through music – although this doesn’t prevent Lucy from finding an excuse to dress up.

And finally to Milan, and Nabucco, an opera that in 1841 reflected the hopes and dreams of a whole people as they struggled towards nationhood. Lucy ends up, dressed as herself again, in the building where Verdi is buried, now a retirement home for singers and musicians. She joins them as they sing Va, Pensiero, the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves. Maybe less polished than the Royal Opera House version earlier, but it’s beautiful and moving, as well as encapsulating the dreams of a generation and of a nation.

Brilliant, sold, cured. Now I’m going to blast out Now That’s What I Call Opera, Vol 1, while trimming the hedge (again). Hurry though, I need to get to Wagner by the second part next weekend.

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