Miscin concludes that the only solution is for him to take his place.With David Parry’s vividly loud-mouthed English translation as his catalyst, McDiarmid makes the performance – his swansong as the Almeida’s outgoing co-Artistic Director – into a typically terrific tour de force. In the last stages of this 85-minute, single-act theatre piece, poor old Lenin dissolves rather spectacularly into dust. But then, whatever his own failings may be, the tale itself is presumably an allegorical commentary on post-Soviet Russia. Unless, of course, it’s Miscin himself – who gets filthy drunk on the job and spends more time ruminating on what Communism did for Russia, the torture and disappearance of his parents and his unhappy marriage – who is actually responsible. Unluckily for him, the body has, it eventually transpires, been none too well looked after. At the Almeida, McDiarmid is virtually the sole protagonist as Alexei Miscin, the eponymous anti-hero in Renzo Rosso’s story of an embalmer who takes charge of Lenin’s preserved corpse. With composers worldwide queueing up for attention, this might seem an over-indulgence, but the results have undeniably been impressive.
Like its predecessors, this version of The Embalmer avoids singing, though an alternative one for baritone also exists.

The 49-year-old Italian composer Giorgio Battistelli, whose The Embalmer received its premiere last Wednesday, has been a favourite at the Almeida, with productions of Experimentum Mundi (the one with an ensemble of artisans) and The Cenci (the very lurid one involving Ian McDiarmid) in the mid 1990s. Anne Sophie Duprels was a ringingly warm Magda, if outdone by Gail Pearson’s chirpy, Despina-like maid, Lisette.Best of all were the two tenors: Dominic Natoli made an ably engaging Prunier, and the young Irishman S? Ruane’s natural movements and pliant, reined-in voice marked him out as one of the finds of the year.To 27 July; festival continues to 10 August (020-7602 7856). The story (kept woman abandons new-found love to preserve his propriety) is touching, and the singing was grand. But everyone, including the slightly muddying conductor Jeremy Silver, came good in Act III. It could learn a few tricks from Hawkes, and a woollier RPO lacked fire for the opening acts. Lara Taylor’s cor anglais nursed out the wheedling poison motif perfectly.Nik Ashton’s staging of Puccini’s La Rondine is also a rarity, pace Covent Garden’s recent Gheorghiu-Alagna triumph. As the Princess who despatches her rival with a bowl of poisoned violets, Rosalind Plowright – a stage legend, having outfaced Janet Baker in Maria Stuarda – looks a killer from the start and sings to kill for, too.Cutting in delivery, caked in sly irony, and abetted by Arturo Colautti’s nicely snide libretto, John Gibbons drew much delicious playing from the mere 21 strings (plus harp) of an on-form RPO – the bassoons and flutes get my accolade.

Lavender’s antihero looks like a bellboy on first entry; he tends to welly out his fine tenor, which is fine for Maritana, but not for here. Her top notes just lost it early on, but she has presence, and by the death scene it was all there. Stage levels, props (none wasted, as when Justin Lavender’s occasionally incongruous Maurizio leaps astride a circular blue sofa to expound his Saranoff-like military exploits), an exquisite Judgment of Paris dance sequence – all serve the story and Cil?s score well.Christine Bunning – more Mrs Thatcher than the Sarah Bernhardt figure hankered after by her adoring manager (Charles Johnston’s admirably hesitant Michonnet) – had a moving shot at Adriana. Lecouvreur is the famous classical actress, admired by Voltaire: the cast’s bustling, buzzing opening sequence is like Moulin Rouge meets La Cage aux Folles.