Last Monday, Stuff published what purported to be a review of fresh-hatched Wellington Opera's Don Giovanni which had opened two nights earlier at the Opera House.

Headed "Wellington Opera brings the #metoo movement to the stage with Mozart's Don Giovanni," it was not so much a review as a grim, humourless scold, typical of Wellington Woke-Witches, labouring the point that "These days the ladies would call Don Giovanni (Christian Thurston) a jerk or perhaps a sexual predator, rather than an irresistible, irresponsible yet lovable cad, but hey! This is how things rolled in the 17th century." (I think she meant the 18th.)

It must have dawned on the editors at Stuff that there was something remiss about a review that consisted almost entirely of ideological hectoring and had almost nothing to say about the singing, the acting, the music, the orchestra or any other aspect of the actual production. For they then published a genuine review by singing legend Roger Wilson. They explained: "We ran a piece about Wellington Opera’s Don Giovanni in the paper and online on Monday, but as it did not address the music or performance, so we are publishing this review."

Mr. Wilson proclaimed Sara Brodie's production a "wonderful achievement"—which it was.

And, mercifully, it was anything but Woke (aside from the silly token T-Shirt with "NOPE" emblazoned on it. Why was that necessary when the "predator" gets his comeuppance in the end anyway?!). Quite the opposite. It was the opera Mozart and his librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte wrote. If anything it was sexed up. The characters groped, fondled and mounted each other with delicious unseemliness (thank goodness for the concept of consenting adults in public), singing beautifully all the while. Wine and women (not necessarily in that order) were proclaimed the glory of mankind (oh the gender unneutrality of it!).

The afore-mentioned Stuff "review" had admonished that Don Giovanni's seductees should be considered victims rather than conquests; but where Don Giovanni takes the form of lithe, handsome, bare-chested Christian Thurston, I should rather consider them extremely fortunate. Certainly, Mr. Thurston was altogether too delectable to be detestable.

The singing of all the principals, men and women, was outstanding, but being a tenor fiend I should like to single out Oliver Sewell's sublime renderings of Dalla Sua Pace and Il Mio Tesoro. I have recordings of these by many of the greats, including McCormack, Tauber and Wunderlich; Oliver's performances were as good as any and more impassioned than most.

Glorious music, gloriously sung from beginning to end, and, reassuringly, cheered to the echo by Thursday's capacity crowd. A hopeful sign that Woke-Fascism has not yet totally triumphed? Or will the Woke-Witches get even Wolfie cancelled in the end?