The year 1724 found Handel at the very height of his popularity. Giulio Cesare, written for a handpicked cast of the finest singers, may lack the psychological depth of Tamerlano, the year’s other premiere, but rarely had the composer come up with such an infectious score. A gung-ho tale of colonial conquest, it is ripe for sending up politicians with a hankering for foreign intervention. Here, however, David Alden resists the temptation to skewer the likes of Trump in a Kafkaesque production that takes quite a different tack.

For an opera often staged as a comedic romp, Alden’s nightmarish world of body bags and refugees is about as dark as it gets. Cesare initially seems more interested in his military memoirs than sleeping with the enemy. Cleopatra is unhealthily fixated on asps while her servant, in a brilliantly absurdist twist, is a bona fide mummy. Tolomeo’s general urinates in the toilet while his master lounges in the nearby bath and Cornelia, widow of the brutally beheaded Pompey the Great, is battered and bewildered until she finally turns to the bottle.

Despite two attempted rapes and a dash of incest there are plenty of gags, albeit of the blackest humour, including a deliciously creepy scene set in and around a tank full of snakes. Va tacito e nascosto is staged as a game of musical chairs with Alden adding a dollop of slapstick by having Cesare’s tasters keel over on the conference table, victims of Tolomeo’s poisoned drinks and nibbles.

The production is impressively cast. Tim Mead is a doughty Cesare, his burnished countertenor lending authority to a refreshingly serious-minded portrayal. Sarah Brady brings a touch of the Sally Bowles to Cleopatra. No twittering songbird she; instead, her bright, agile soprano is rooted in the emotional moment. Da tempeste il legno infranto is a showstopper.

Jess Dandy makes a warmly lyrical Cornelia, digging into her stygian lower register while shrieks of horror illuminate her rollercoaster psychological journey. She’s well matched by Zheng Jiang’s bright-toned Sesto, whose transition from public schoolboy to blood-streaked quarterback is one of Alden’s most original touches. Their moving duet, Son nata a lagrimar is a highlight.

Hugh Cutting unleashes a petulant storm of coloratura as a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth Tolomeo, James Atkinson is a grinning, sadistic Achilla and Tristan Hambleton a surprisingly amusing Curio. As the aforementioned mummy, a plangent Owen Willetts achieves the seemingly impossible by transcending his array of bandages.

Visually, Jon Morrell’s set and timeless costumes are sharply lit by Matthew Richardson, and there’s inventive choreography by Tim Claydon and a troupe of serpentine dancers. Less compelling is Christian Curnyn’s prosaic conducting of an unusually scrappy Early Opera Company, which too often leaves it to the singers to bring the music to life.