This is the kind of DVD I dread: three long piano sonatas by the same composer one after the other. OK – I can go for a walk, have a drink or take a break in some other way between each work, but 105 minutes of non-stop Schubert is how this release is marketed, how it was intended to be heard and, indeed, is how Alfred Brendel perceives the music: ‘Schubert’s last sonatas belong together,’ he writes in his customarily eloquent manner. ‘Not that the three works cannot be played separately; yet, as they illuminate one another, they seem to me more independent than Beethoven’s sonata trilogies.’

I beg to differ on the first point. I do not think Schubert conceived the last sonatas as any kind of entity and, for me, each can be savoured with more relish when heard in isolation, contrasted with or complemented by dissimilar works by other composers. What is to be gained from listening to them in sequence? To do so is to transform the three sonatas into a spurious cycle not intended by the composer.

Well, we can argue that till the cows come home. But here, like it or not, come the three sonatas. You cannot imagine Schubert playing of more sincerity and seriousness. Beautiful sound, beautiful piano. Every last detail, every nuance, every phrase ending has been worked on and polished to such a degree that nothing surprises (except some startling theatrical body and arm movements – try the end of the C minor Sonata, D958) and nothing deflects from the obvious reverence and admiration that the pianist holds for these masterpieces. Equally, for this listener, nothing remotely involves the emotions. Admiration, yes, and fascination in the way Brendel approaches various aspects of the music about which he writes with such elegance. But I am left outside observing the pianist’s mobile face reflecting each turn of the musical narrative, showing me how I should feel when listening to a particular passage. This is punctuated by the characteristic peristaltic motions of Brendel’s throat muscles, the close-ups of the tatty plasters protecting fingertips and, in No 21, by a hairstyle that has transformed itself between sonatas into Mohican mode.

The set-up doesn’t help, frankly. The austerely empty Great Hall of the Middle Temple sits oddly with the pianist’s formal dress, attired as if for a sell-out concert in the Festival Hall. Humphrey Burton’s discreet cameras move about on eggshells and the whole experience makes the viewer about as relaxed as a straight man in a gay bar. None of the above, of course, will matter flumpence and a box of buttons to Brendel’s legions of admirers who will, I am sure, snap this release up hungrily. Sorry, but I shan’t be among them.