As we take in news of the cuts that the arts will have to absorb, and wait for the Cassandras to start hollering, it's important to remind ourselves of one arts venue that won't be wiping one bead of sweat off its brow as a result of today's announcements: the Wigmore Hall. This season, Britain's finest chamber music venue has a line-up of unsurpassed quality and variety. Yet it does so with less subsidy than any other equivalent music organisation in the country. Cuts in state subsidy do not end quality. They improve it.

The Blitz may be about to descend on dance in theatres, but Rambert have the authentic British grit under fire. They truck on into a bleak autumn with the courage to present to the straitened nation a new commission of music and dance, and a new acquisition from an unknown German choreographer. Perhaps most radically, three female choreographers on one bill (and that’s not something I’ve known in my lifetime, at least not at this level).

Parallels have occasionally been drawn between techno and modern classical music, most especially dissonant movements such as minimalism, serialism and the broader avant garde. The purest techno has a stark, almost barren simplicity and those involved with it, notably Detroit techno original Jeff Mills, are keen to build bridges with the orchestral community, taking techno into concert halls and hoping to add a certain intellectual kudos. Such ventures are a mixed blessing - often losing the sheer energetic fun of the music along the way - but a new German outfit called Brandt Brauer Frick bridge the gap in a fascinating manner, throwing in a hint of jazz along the way.

It's hard to overestimate the importance of Goethe's Faust to the German soul, though I did once have a German friend who valued George Eliot's Middlemarch more highly. If there's a real English competitor to Goethe in the literary stakes, it is of course Shakespeare, but that doesn't really work either, because, when not thinking of Goethe, many Germans consider Shakespeare neither better nor worse; simply theirs.

Gounod's Faust is many things: vaudeville act, sentimental romance, Gothic tragedy, Catholic catechism, in short, a wholly unrealistic but winningly schizophrenic work that should be taken about as seriously as an episode of Sunset Beach. Director Des McAnuff's attempt to marshal this melodrama into revealing truths about Nazism, war crimes and the morality of modern science was always going to be a bit ambitious.

I suppose it was inevitable after their magnificent high with Meistersinger in the summer that Welsh National Opera’s next production in Cardiff’s Wales Millennium Centre would be a let-down. But one hardly expected a crash-landing quite as spectacular as their new Fidelio, which looks, sounds and feels like a show thrown together with a scratch cast, a weary orchestra, and a director who was shown the score for the first time last Tuesday.

I suppose it was inevitable after their magnificent high with Meistersinger in the summer that Welsh National Opera’s next production in Cardiff’s Wales Millennium Centre would be a let-down. But one hardly expected a crash-landing quite as spectacular as their new Fidelio, which looks, sounds and feels like a show thrown together with a scratch cast, a weary orchestra, and a director who was shown the score for the first time last Tuesday.

Few artists can creep you out like Gregor Schneider. His work is scary and it’s absurd. But even as you giggle nervously when confronted with its less than subtle deployment of shock-horror tactics, a more profound disquiet creeps up on you. Schneider knows how to tap into our visceral fears.

From the cuckoo hidden somewhere in the Albert Hall thicket to the Wagnerian bacchanalia of a rollicking Witch's Ride, Glyndebourne adapted its queasy little fairy tale to the widescreen of the Proms with its usual style. There was a twist or two to the consumerist heaven and hell of Laurent Pelly's never too heavy-handed production as semi-staged by assistant director Stéphane Marlot. And centre-platform rather than down in the pit, the phenomenally gifted Robin Ticciati played Peter Pan to the best possible pair of "children", helping them to soar in Albertspace with effortless charm.

From the cuckoo hidden somewhere in the Albert Hall thicket to the Wagnerian bacchanalia of a rollicking Witch's Ride, Glyndebourne adapted its queasy little fairy tale to the widescreen of the Proms with its usual style. There was a twist or two to the consumerist heaven and hell of Laurent Pelly's never too heavy-handed production as semi-staged by assistant director Stéphane Marlot. And centre-platform rather than down in the pit, the phenomenally gifted Robin Ticciati played Peter Pan to the best possible pair of "children", helping them to soar in Albertspace with effortless charm.