In all of this Ostwald was abetted by the quick-change artistry of set designer Jean-François Revon and the lighting of Steven Mannshardt. This was a works-in-progress of incomplete flats, zany perspective, and a Seville not quite right. How apt.

There was one false touch. It jarred. In a production which animated the bubbling humanity of its citizens, and the plausibility of their times and place, Ostwald inexplicably used an electronic effect to simulate breaking dishes. We were suddenly yanked back to our times and no one wanted to be there. It took some moments to recover.

Jordan Shanahan created a fresh and dominating Figaro. He has the gift of mimickry, firecracker timing, and knowing eyes. Gone were the misguided leers and foppish manipulations so often associated with this role. In its stead we were given an unafraid host, one who knows his place in a changing society and improves it, perpetually loyal to love and himself. His voice bears color and insinuation, and his diction (both spoken and sung) was a revelation.

Playing Dr Bartolo as cuckold-in-waiting, bass Michael Morris was superb. Pomposity rang and rotted in his voice, and so too resignation at the end. Morris is a wily veteran of the stage. At one moment he realized that he was blocking the upstage Rosina, who could not see the conductor. Morris made a little two-step to his left, did it in time and character, and prevented a problem. Directors love such alert and unselfish singers. No wonder.

Another sure touch conveyed the care and warmth of this production. John Zuckerman in the role of Almaviva/Lindoro sings “Se il mio nome” to his beloved Rosina. Zuckerman played the guitar himself, and well. It was an enchanting realism, inflected by a Spanish sound he knew to draw from that instrument. Although Zuckerman's voice often sounded tired, even that fact served his many impersonations.

Sonia Gariaeff sang Rosina. She has a rich, unforced chest voice and a ringing top. It was in the middle that her vocalism — and diction — occasionally lost ground, especially in the rapid-fire language which Rossini demands. (Bartoli has set an almost-impossible standard in this repertoire, and no one can avoid it.) Gariaeff has a knowing way with irony and was at her best in “Una voce poco fa,” making it clear that this was a master of men.

Conductor David Sloss is an excellent accompanist. When at the harpsichord he never missed, and he used a keyboard realization which emphasized the quizzical and added to the humor. Tempi were generally on the cautious side, and it was clear that Sloss would never press his singers beyond their limits. Even so, in two of the ensembles the required Gatling-gun diction became disorderly and Sloss made a subtle adjustment downwards. It worked, though I caught a look of exasperation on his face.

The overture offered the most unsteady playing of the night. Ill-fitting unisons among the strings and a weird sort of Orientalism in their pitch generally may have explained an unusual caution in tempo. Only in the woodwinds, superbly led by oboist Peter Lemberg, did any kind of Italian sparkle burst out. Once uncorked it came to prevail, and the rest of the players adopted his sonic cue. Thereafter, the orchestra went well.

The proceedings were guided by clever supertitles, edited by conductor Sloss. Were titles able to take a bow, the audience would have applauded them too, as they had laughed at every waggish insult and wicked aside.

This Barber of Seville is a production which works wonders introducing strangers to Rossini. It revealed the low cunning and high ambitions of every personality, graced with outlandish humor and forgiving love. We could live in a worse place.