With Mozart himself conducting only months before his death at just 35, The Magic Flute premiered in Vienna in 1791 and was an instant hit. More than 230 years on, it’s still one of our most popular operas chiefly thanks to an exquisite variety of melodic delights, guaranteed to bring heady pleasure to any ear on the planet – or beyond.
Guaranteed, too, are masses of bizarre goings-on, while James Brining’s revival of his 2019 production also offers diverse visual spectacles and surprises that amuse, impress and stimulate thought.
The rambling story is a strange, convoluted concoction but lively, involving and intriguing for all that. Through an added framework we’re whisked into a bewildering fantasy world via a young girl’s imagination just as Alice’s surreal Wonderland came into being in a dream. Frenetic bustle goes on at the girl’s home as Mozart’s busy overture plays on her record player and rowdy dinner party revelries take place amidst ongoing domestic crises as the disturbed youngster is put to bed. Then, in yellow dressing-gown and clutching Teddy, the girl becomes an onlooker to scenes that unfold in a labyrinthine world of fluffy, fairytale romance, of dark, disturbing cruelty and horror, twisty-turny deceptions, creepy cults, comic silliness and (with Mozart and his librettist being freemasons) a world full of mystical masonic symbolism that leads to geometric symbols, an all-seeing eye, and occurrences of the significant number three cropping up all over the place.
Via Mozart’s Singspiel of spoken dialogue and sublime music, dotted with notes stratospherically high and down-in-your-boots low, we’re buoyed along through contrasts of dark and light, fast and slow, good and evil, until ultimately, we see how things pan out for worthy Prince Tamino, for kidnapped princess Pamina, for clownish bird-catcher Papageno, for the Queen of The Night and for the villainous priest of the Sun who, like Her Majesty, isn’t quite what he initially seems. Along the way come trials and tribulations of fire and flood, battles with giant scorpion-tail monsters (reminiscent of Dr Who’s early, polystyrene years), glowing light-sabres, a big syringe, a shiny dagger, a creepy brotherhood cult, a despicable lecher, disquieting treatment of women, uniforms galore, nods to mafia, nazis and Egyptian gods, perky Thunderbird caps, numerous children, a jingle-bell hurdy-gurdy, pan-pipes and, yes, a magic flute (that glows).
The score is hugely rich in interweaves of voice combinations that has characters and voices frequently singing most gloriously together as well as in celebrated solos, and with scope, too, for the talents of the entire chorus. Besides the music, the set plays a massive role in conjuring up atmosphere and changing moods. Captivation is key, and Colin Richmond’s design and costumes certainly captivate, enhanced by Douglas O’Connell’s copious, evocative, provocative projections and Chris Davey’s lighting. The realm inhabited by the rigidly ordered ranks of the brotherhood and the one inhabited by the Queen of the Night are starkly delineated. Towering to a great height while creating fabulous depth across the stage are handsome constructions of geometric doors and windowed walls that create the neat, clinical temple domain of the subjugated, red-clad nuns, red-clad brothers and white-uniformed big-wigs. These walls reconfigure to wonderful effect and, on occasion, turn transparent. Outside, in contrast, is a natural world in a state of decline and decay, now dark, grim and unnatural with uprooted trees dangling down, leafless, and birds now dead. Both worlds reflect sides of our own today and, of course, neither side has got things anything like right.
Rather than the original German libretto of Emanuel Shikaneder (who sang Papageno at the 1791 premiere) Jeremy Sams’ English version with side-titles is used, simple and pedestrian much of the time but peppered with amusing G&S-style puns and rhymes and light-heartedness, often for the comical Papageno. With captivating Welsh lilt for speaking and fine baritone for singing, Emyr Wyn Jones is an amiable, amusing and dishevelled Papageno bird-catcher, dressed in denim, feathers and nets, and the Papageno he eventually meets, is delightful, too, courtesy of Pasquale Orchard with her fine voice and warm, cheeky glow. Meanwhile, Anna Dennis’s bird-loathing Queen of the Night, in dark, elegant glamour, delivers the astounding, acrobatic, into-orbit fireworks of her arias in fine virtuoso style while Egor Zhuravskii’s noble tenor tones do pleasing, lyrical justice to the romantic arias of his earnest, worthy, honest Prince Tamino. As princess Pamina, graceful and lovely in both character and voice, Claire Lees sets her clear, delightful notes to ride in effortless joy upon the air while, in dressing gown and bare legs, Colin Judson becomes the thoroughly distasteful, disgusting lecher, Monostatos, without having to go too far. Msimelelo Mbali and his growling bass, might do well to go further, though, in pouring weightier power and command into high priest Sorastro in addition to showing his warmer side.
Striking are the Queen’s three ladies: dressed as nurses with blood-stained aprons and white hats akin to small boats, they’re always ready for action and carry two light sabres a-piece. They and their trios frequently get in on the act. A highly impressive trio, too, dressed in impeccably smart red uniforms, heads held high, are the young, earnest, upright scout-guides Isla Jones, Isabelle Baglio and Hector Wainman, whose characters charm enormously, along with the delicious sincerity and beauty of their sweet harmonies as they sing of humanity and courage and help save the day. Thankfully, amidst all the lunacy and turmoil, there are still happy endings.
It’s a wild, exhausting ride but full of melodious fun and enjoyment.
Eileen Caiger Gray
