Melodrama on a human scale

Edward Seckerson never thought he'd say this, but Raymond Gubbay's Albert Hall productions of Cav and Pag are masterful – and genuinely moving

A giant crucifix hangs portentously over the orchestra at the "high altar" of the Albert Hall. It sets the tone, it establishes the place. Crimes of passion in rural Italy. Heat and dust, jealousy and high anxiety in closed Catholic communities. If there's one thing that binds opera's most famous double-act, Pagliacci and Cavalleria Rusticana, it's this stifling sense of private passions publicly displayed. In Pagliacci, it's a travelling theatre troupe, a tawdry melodrama made flesh and blood; in Cavalleria Rusticana, it's the prying eyes of nosy neighbours – and the highest judge of all. The Catholic guilt is simmering away nicely before even a note is sounded. The crucifix is spot-on. We can hardly wait for the "Easter Hymn".

And we're not disappointed. Martin Duncan's masterly staging of Cavalleria Rusticana is quite simply as good as any I've seen. He and his designer, Alison Chitty, have really cracked the "arena" concept, and so simply too. There's that crucifix, of course. And there's the arena itself: a sandy, rock-strewn bull-ring that becomes the focus of village life, a place for "sport", a place where people live and love and die under such unforgiving scrutiny.

But, as with all good theatre, it's the people that count. It's the way that bodies are moved and focus is maintained that makes the difference in arena opera. Duncan animates his "community" with tremendous skill, diverting our eyes with this detail or that but always pulling the focus where he needs to. There's never any doubt as to where we should be looking. The amplified sound, too, is much improved, more "directional", which helps.

Pagliacci is less successful, partly due to the fussier nature of Leoncavallo's piece. There's an arresting image at the start: a deflated big-top which, intriguingly, shrouds the performance space. Tonio (Philip Joll), the master of ceremonies, pops up through the middle of it to greet us and to effectively uncover, in his words, "a slice of life as we live it". The tent is then whisked away into the dome of the hall, revealing that all the world is, indeed, a stage.

There are strong performances here: from Mary Hegarty, a touching Nedda; David Stephenson, a physically lithe and vocally suave Silvio; and David Rendall, a tortured Canio. The latter is suitably stirring in the big notes of his tragic aria, which has him isolated like a clown puppet with his strings cut. Not nearly enough of Edmund Tracey's English translation comes through, though.

Cavalleria Rusticana is far better in that and, indeed, every other respect. A subtle shift in period now spirits us from the turn of the century to the Mussolini era. Telegraph wires now appear. Prying ears as well as eyes. They're harvesting oranges. It's Easter Sunday. But there is no joy, only jealousy, in Santuzza's heart, and it's driven her lover, Turiddu, away.

Cue some of the best, and most shamelessly, pumped-up tunes in verismo opera (small wonder Mahler was so impressed by Mascagni), and cue two strapping singers, too, in Anne-Marie Owens and John Hudson. Their emotional commitment and vocal generosity really raised the temperature in the hall, despite the efforts of the new air-cooling system – whose intrusive roaring almost did for the scrumptious kitsch of the "Intermezzo", played with rosy religiosity by the Royal Philharmonic under the sound direction of Brad Cohen. A marvellous visual moment that, too, with lighting designer Andrew Bridge bathing both orchestra and crucifix in an ominously golden light.

It's an absolute knock-out, then. Any Cavalleria Rusticana in which Turiddu's tearful farewell to his mother is actually, genuinely, intimately moving (and in this, of all venues) has to be doing something right. But Martin Duncan and his company do just about everything right. I never thought I'd say it, but this is one Raymond Gubbay show all opera fans shouldn't miss.

To 5 Oct (020-7589 8212)