Review: The Magic Flute, Wilton’s Music Hall

A misty set of ivy-festooned rocks and a soundscape of jungle creatures initially put your reviewer in mind of Indiana Jones rather than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. But that’s exciting, right? To start a show with a sense of adventure? Bravo. Indeed, the first scene, in which plucky adventurer Tamino is captured by a lively band of sex-starved Amazonian natives, promises much. I am, therefore, a little sad to report that the rest of this Charles Court Opera production of The Magic Flute struggles to build on its initial spark.

For an essentially musical experience, I hesitate to focus on words. Part of me thinks you should let Mozart’s melodies wash over you and forgive a less-than-inspired libretto. But then another, bigger part of me says if you’re going to sing in English, it pays to avoid a clunky, pedestrian translation. We see a ‘bloke’ with a ‘joke’ coming a mile off. Mozart cries out for poetry, and we don’t get it here. Writing duties are split: John Savournin, who also directed the original production, gives us the book. David Eaton, the sung text. Perhaps a slight disconnection explains why nothing rises beyond the functional.

This matters most when we reach the jungle temple. I haven’t any desire to explain any plot to you, by the way. You just need to know it’s as childlike as a pantomime. Buckle up and get on board, or don’t. The flute? It gets mentioned twice. It’s not particularly magical, either. Anyhow, in this temple, a priest shares a life philosophy. Think for yourself, he says. Historians will tell you this satirises 1790s freemasonry. Here, it is expressed as ‘facilitating one’s destiny’ – a concept that feels banal and wholly unoperatic.

Thank heaven, then, for the cast who frankly make the whole evening worthwhile. As the love-lorn birdcatcher Papageno, Matthew Kellet is impossible to dislike. If you’ll forgive an ancient TV reference, he has the cartoonish air of Mr Claypole from Rentaghost, a skilled comic making the most of weak material. When he threatens suicide late in the second half, we desperately want our clown to live and be happy.

Peter Lidbetter, as the aforementioned priest Sorastro, brings muscular gravitas despite a questionable Mohican ‘thing’ on his head. I hesitate to even call it a wig. Similarly, it’s difficult to enjoy the otherwise excellent Alison Langer as Pamina without wondering why she’s turned up to the jungle in a 1980s cocktail dress. Design choices matter. Even a passing knowledge of South America tells you that colourful bobbled knitwear comes from the Andes, not the Amazon. Lurid bird puppets and fluorescent snakes seem to have wandered in from a different show entirely. Possibly one aimed at the under eights.

Love is chaste here and played for laughs. Hearts do not beat faster. Sex is merely innuendo. Martin Smaukstelis is nerdy as Tamino rather than a gallant romantic lead. Joe Ashmore plays a broad villain competing for Pamina’s affection. He’s so broad there was a single, half-hearted attempt to boo his character at the curtain call. Of course, the real villain is the Queen of The Night, a role Eleri Gwilym steals the show with. Impressive musical dexterity aside, she won my heart by pulling the head off a stuffed parrot. I’d given up on subtly and nuance by that point.

Mozart’s music is the draw here, and I’m grateful to have heard it live, sung by unquestionably talented singers. It feels churlish to be disappointed by other aspects of my evening, yet, dear reader, here we are.

Directed by: John Savournin
Musical Direction by: David Eaton
Design by: Simon Bejer
Lighting Design by: Ben Pickersgill
Choreography by: Damian Czarnecki
Revival Design by: Lucy Fowler
Revival Choreography by: Merry Holden

The Magic Flute runs at Wilton’s Music Hall until Saturday 8 March.