LIGHTS, camera, action. Not quite what you expect in opera, but Nina Brazier’s new production of Così introduced a reel-to-reel camera during the overture and all the paraphernalia of a film set.

It subtly indicated that we were in the 1950s, which Laura Jane Stanfield’s costumes confirmed. So the long-suffering quartet of extras, when not on choral duties, doubled as director, cameraman, wardrobe mistress and gofers.

More practically, it made a virtue of bringing the costume-racks and make-up tables to the back of the stage, which they shared with Eamonn Dougan’s 11-piece band.

Part of the fun at Ryedale is talent-spotting – artistic director Christopher Glynn always has his finger on the pulse where the up-and-coming are concerned – and Così was no exception. All six of the principals had distinctive qualities to offer; one had an exceptional voice, another was a natural actor.

The show hangs on a bet instigated by a philosopher who doubts the fidelity of women. Bertie Watson was not quite the arch-manipulator that Don Alfonso can sometimes be, but he boasted a forthright bass-baritone that worked wonders whenever he needed to call the two wayward couples to order.

His fellow puppeteer was the fetching Despina of Jessica Cale, whose nimble soprano perfectly matched her stage agility; her diction also made the most of John Warrack’s typically suave translation. She remembered to preen for the camera.

The fulsome soprano of Claire Tunney’s Fiordiligi is beginning to sound better suited to Verdi, or even Wagner, than Mozart. She was at her best in the agonies of her Act 2 monologue, pulled by conflicting emotions. Elsewhere a tendency to overblow made her focus unpredictable. Felicity Turner’s amiable, more mezzo Dorabella made a nice contrast, less contorted with moral difficulties and correspondingly more relaxed in tone.

You would not have guessed what Kieran Carrel’s Ferrando had in store from his blustery opening scene. His subsequent aria was exquisitely shaped and his tenor was beautifully fluent throughout Act 2, his acting not quite so. Michael Vickers gave a Guglielmo of unfailing bonhomie, in an ardent baritone that reflected his optimism. Moustaches made their Turkish disguises, gold tops and white skirts over baggy trousers, more persuasive.

Dougan’s baton maintained a steady momentum and was especially well served by his woodwinds. It was not his fault that singers reached several cadences ahead of the beat, but it was still a heart-warming show.