Our fascination with staring at the sun has been with us since the dawn of consciousness and it continues to exercise a powerful hold on our imagination. That much was evident from the arresting image into which we are drawn at the end of Sir David McVicar’s classic production of The Magic Flute. The force of the attraction is of course the light, rather than the heat, and that is what animates this gorgeous staging; a lightness of touch in the direction which keeps the comic action mercurial and which also prevents the moments of serious intent from bombast.
Conducting the performance was Marie Jacquot, here making her Covent Garden debut. A majestic start to the overture set the pace for a reading of the score that fizzed with woodwind flourishes, glowing warmth from the brass and the cantabile refinement of the strings. Together with revival director Ruth Knight, Jacquot pulled out all the stops to animate John Macfarlane’s sumptuous designs, Paule Constable’s cosmic lighting and, above all, McVicar’s engrossing exposition of one of Mozart’s most engaging masterpieces.
Topping my list of performers is Lucy Crowe. Her Pamina was an innocent abroad, a sylph-like figure floating across the landscape draped in white, with the occasional hint of blue. She sang delightfully, secure in all registers but especially compelling in her high notes which were tinged with gold. As her mother, the Queen of the Night, Kathryn Lewek did her best to bully her with a superbly venomous performance of “Der Hölle Rache”; and she was assailed by the oil-covered tones of Gerhard Siegel’s Monostatos, liberated from servility but pursuing a career as a sex-pest. Neither of them got the better of her and she was mollified by Sarastro, stylishly sung by Soloman Howard, dispensing wisdom as though born to it. His delivery was suitably magisterial, although some of his lowest notes lost definition.
Pamina’s tenderest moments were, naturally, with Tamino, a role I am certain Amitai Pati will make his own. He grew with an effortless grace from little-boy-lost to an initiate of the mysteries of the universe, and his vocal performance was attuned to the circumstances of his encounters; laddish when bantering with Papageno; reticent in his rising passion for Pamina; and resigned when confronting his somewhat atrophied trials of initiation. Speaking of Papageno, his Dopplegänger was the brilliant Huw Montague Rendall. Blessed with a voice admirably suited to singing Mozart, he is also a talented comic actor who can switch from slapstick to stand-up with a click of the fingers. He and Tamino had a great time with the Three Ladies, Hannah Edmunds, Ellen Pearson (both Jette Parker Artists) and Emma Carrington. Their well-blended voices were sharp enough to slay the monster but they nearly forgot themselves in fawning over Tamino.
Away from the world of mysticism is the real world of falling in love for the purpose of having babies, so before inviting us to stare into the sun McVicar gives us a peep into the future fecundity of Papageno and Papagena – the deliciously seductive Marianna Hovanisyan (another Jette Parker Artist). Along with the Three Children in a flying machine (Reni Bianchi, Georgina Bamford and Phoenix Matthews) there was a whole crèche joining the chorus in full throttle to bring down the curtain on a gloriously enjoyable performance unblemished by a technical glitch that delayed the start of Act 2.
