Thanks to Mel Gibson, reconstructions of the Passion have been all the rage this Easter. Bach's two versions, the St Matthew and St John, both more sublime and certainly less gory than Gibson's, seem more popular than ever this year. The connoisseur's choice is the St John at Smith Square, an annual sell-out event under the direction of Stephen Layton.
Over a number of years, and with the experience of the staged version at ENO, which he also conducted, Layton has arrived at what seems an ideal synthesis of dramatic and meditative elements. The drama is tauter, the narrative sweep more thrilling than ever. The betrayal and arrest of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and later the trial, with crowds baying for blood, are projected with faultless timing, recitatives spilling over into choruses with breathless excitement.
The impressive precision of the members of Polyphony, spitting out murderous consonants in their role as Jesus-baiters - the whipcrack volley of Ks in "Kreuzige!" ("Crucify!") rained down with particularly terrifying force - was a great asset here. The chorales, immaculately voiced, provided a much-needed haven for spiritual affirmation and reflection, while the arias were suitably contemplative.
James Rutherford's noble bass was wonderfully expressive in Betrachte, meine Seel, accompanied by a pair of plangent viole d'amore (the Academy of Ancient Music was excellent throughout). The semiquaver runs of Rutherford's Golgotha aria had to be taken largely on trust, though one can forgive almost anything for such sumptuous tonal quality.
Gillian Keith's soprano is less opulently upholstered, but she was as musical and stylish as ever in her two arias. So, too, was the countertenor James Bowman, a Passion veteran who can still deliver lines of near-flawless phrasing and articulation.
James Gilchrist was an urgent, involved Evangelist, doubling as an admirable soloist in the tenor arias. David Wilson-Johnson avoided the danger of sentimentalising Jesus by injecting anger and impatience where appropriate.
Thomas Guthrie's Pilate, by contrast, was a troubled, baffled man - a subtle reading that shifted the balance of power between judge and prisoner.