The Magic Flute Review – Foolproof, Aerial and Lots of Fun | Opera

TThe orbs are relit and the falcon is impounded, the massive structure is put back in place, and three more boys commandeer the flying contraption (part Wright brothers’ prototype, part Victorian carriage). Twenty years after its debut, with revivals now in double digits, David MacVicar’s The Magic Flute is back in production, under the direction of revival director Ruth Knight.

The lighting is as beautiful as ever: there’s no mistaking the visual tropes of the Enlightenment here. Although a technical snag delayed the start of the second act on opening night, the opera’s mysterious sequence of nowheres glides along, dream-like and atmospheric. Opera has long outlived the Singspiel – an 18th century genre – and its edutainment ethos inevitably harkens back to another era. Whether you agree with the program that opera, which insists that women always need male guidance, is “very suitable for children” will depend on your parenting style. But it’s hard to imagine the plot making any more sense in the 21st century than it did in McVicar’s hands.

This revival is also a lot of fun, weaving a lively thread of panto-ready physical comedy through the serious lessons of Sarastro and his pseudo-Masonic initiates. The German dialogue is delivered so fluently that you’ll ignore the absurdity of a London audience listening to non-German actors speaking in German. The opera’s “noble” couple, Tamino and Pamina, can be boring – all the head of the viceroy Judi Judi – but Amitai Paty and Lucy Crowe were too lively for that. Crowe sparkled from the start, her tone warm, and her phrases exquisitely controlled. Patti (the Samoan-born brother of tenor Benny) shone heroically but mixed sensitively in the various ensembles: a brilliant Royal Opera debut.

Hugh Montagu Rendall is a natural Papageno, sympathetic as he struts and moves, his singing easy, his comic timing sharp. Gerhard Siegel’s Monostatos (the most overtly racialized character) was downright sinister, while Catherine Lueck’s Queen of the Night was relatively ahistorical, her soprano steely and extremely precise, the leaps of her most famous song ringing, like a bell. Like Sarastro, Solomon Howard had an easy authority, his high register stately, his lowest notes densely velvety. The three boys boasted an exceptional vocal tone and an angelic tone. The three ladies sing a graceful, luminous ensemble.

It was the young French conductor, Marie Jacquot, who held it all together with a sense of musicianship that was completely and completely assured. It derived supremely elegant playing from the orchestra: the tutti haift remained transparent, the choral sections were exquisitely tuned, and the solos were brilliantly sculpted. At one point, her hand rose, releasing the end of the phrase as if she were holding it in her fist, such was her intimate engagement with the music. Remember Jacquot’s name: this Royal Opera debut suggests we’ll need him.