Longborough’s new production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute calls strongly on the opera’s fairytale plot. The action opens in a child’s bedroom, where a little boy lies on his small iron bedstead reading a book, kicking his heels, occasionally getting up to look out of his enormous bedroom window through a telescope. Through the windowpanes, we can see a giant 18th-century sketch of a sophisticated formal garden, which is eventually revealed in full as the landscape and gardens of Sarastro’s temple, a cultivated plain in a wider, wilder landscape: like a view of Versailles with a pyramid drawn over the top, it offers a visual allegory of the Enlightenment, with Man taming Nature by virtue of Reason. Like Glyndebourne’s recent Rinaldo, the ensuing opera seems to take shape as the boy’s daydream, or perhaps the world of his storybook coming to life in his imagination, and at first, he is an extra participant on stage, blowing Papageno’s pipes and assisting Prince Tamino. Later, he reappears as a beneficent spirit serving in Sarastro’s temple; by then, we have virtually left the framing device behind, although a sense of dreamlike surrealism never quite fades from the stage. Magic feels real here, thanks to the skilful use of puppetry throughout the evening, as well as a faithful, traditional approach to the work itself, celebrating Mozart’s aims rather than problematising or probing them too deeply.
Director Thomas Guthrie has contributed plenty of energy and ideas to his vivid production, but has also maintained the opera’s crucial air of mystery: we, and Tamino, have to find out for ourselves who is evil, and who is good; who is right, and who is wrong; who can be trusted, and in whom we can ourselves safely trust. These questions, the perennial anxieties of fairytale and of childhood itself, propel the plot forward, modulated by Mozart through the ceremonies and symbolism of Masonry. Accordingly, Sarastro’s followers wear aprons, and keep their precious secrets well guarded, while Sarastro exudes humanity and compassion, yet wields extreme control over all around him. Colours are intense, with black, white and crimson key. Tamino and Pamina first appear as white, lifesize puppets, with their singers (Julian Hubbard and Beate Mordal) hooded and cloaked in black beside them: though singers eventually shed their cloaks and take over, it feels supremely appropriate for this particular Prince and Princess to be puppets, pulled as they are in different directions by the warring influences of Male and Female, of Light and Dark, of Sarastro and the Queen of the Night, before they finally find happiness in unity and love.