It was typical of Beethoven to make no concessions to what was expected of the urbane opera composer. Fidelio, his only attempt, perches awkwardly between categories, being part knockabout domestic sitcom, part radiant, Magic Flute-derived meditation, part blazingly angry diatribe and wholly a paean to the triumphant human spirit.Its text is a hackneyed, badly written story of improbable marital steadfastness: Leonore dresses up as a man to get work in the prison where husband Florestan languishes, and rescues him from the forces of evil. Everything is redeemed by Beethoven’s musical treatment, though it is certainly uneven, and he was never happy with it, having four shots at just writing the overture. But like all his music it possesses such spiritual strength, such muscular quest