Tamino, The Three Ladies and the Dragon
The Magic Flute/ Opera Atelier
Photo: Bruce Zinger
Opera Atelier/ The Magic Flute, music by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, libretto by Emanuel Schikaneder, directed by Marshall Pynkoski, choreographed by Jeannette Lajeunesse Zingg, conducted by David Fallis, Elgin Theatre, until Oct. 19.
In my heart of hearts, I know that Opera Atelier’s production of The Magic Flute is as close as anyone will ever come to the original 1791 staging at Vienna’s Freihaus-Theater auf der Wieden. It was Emanuel Schikaneder’s own theatre — he was the Broadway Baby of his day, the Hal Prince of his time — not only producer and director, but also actor, and the original Papageno. His audiences were not the aristocrats at the high court theatre in Vienna, but the middle and working classes who flocked to the suburbs for their entertainment.
Schikaneder gave them what they wanted: singspiel — that joyous hybrid of dialogue and music that was essentially the musical comedy of its day — packed with stage tricks, flying machines, trap doors, thunder, waterfalls, and spectacular lighting effects. He staged Shakespeare, too, and was said to be a fine Hamlet. But as time went on, singspiel became his trademark, and he demanded the highest musical standards and the best musicians.
In his Salzburg days and because of his quest for excellence, Schikaneder had been drawn to the musical Mozart family where he had developed a warm friendship with young Wolfgang. That closeness continued in Vienna and led to The Magic Flute — a perfect blend of words and music.
When Opera Atelier first staged The Magic Flute in 1991, it was done in their hallmark Baroque aesthetic — elegant, stylized, and courtly, with painted flats, commedia-dell’arte gestures, and the Enlightenment’s sense of allegory. But the 2013 redesign by Gerard Gauci shifted everything. It recaptured Schikaneder’s popular Viennese theatre — trompe-l’œil backdrops, a mechanized dragon, flying machines, and bright, sumptuous colour. Eighteenth-century Europe was enamoured of the orientalism of “the East,” and Gauci’s meticulous research captures that exotica that would have entranced Schikaneder’s audience.
Jeannette Lajeunesse Zingg’s choreography emulates the ceremonial ballet sequences of Schikaneder’s time, complete with golden palm fronds, the men indistinguishable from the women — a luminous nod to fairy-tale spectacle. Director Marshall Pynkoski layers in physical comedy and visual wit that no formal opera company today would dare. Papageno, as Schikaneder first conceived him, becomes the comic centre of gravity again, the living heartbeat of the piece. This fifth revival marks the full shift from allegory to theatrical magic — from aristocratic Enlightenment to old Viennese popular theatre.
Monostatos, Pamina, and Papageno
The Magic Flute/ Opera Atelier
Photo: Bruce Zinger
Importantly, the production keeps all of Andrew Porter’s clever English translation and the original spoken dialogue. Most modern companies cut the words to get to the music faster, but this production honours the singspiel form. Yes, the opera purists may grumble — “Why so much dialogue?” — but Schikaneder’s witty libretto was as vital to Mozart as the music itself. The layers of fairy-tale, folklore, and fantastical imagery were what the suburban Viennese public wanted.
Schikaneder and Mozart were both Masons, and while the Masonic symbolism — the threes – the chords, the Ladies, the Spirits – may have escaped most of the audience, they still would have enjoyed the ritualistic aspect of the imagery.
And what a special treat this performance has in store for the audience. After the Queen of the Night (superb American coloratura soprano Rainelle Krause) brings down the house with her second-act aria, (“Der Hölle Rache”)— she glides majestically off the stage, then, in a coup de théâtre, swoops back in, cues the conductor, and sings part of the aria again with additional dazzling flourishes and an even higher note thrown in, before sweeping off again.
The cast is a true ensemble of singing actors. If you are going to emulate Schikaneder, you need artists willing to act and move as well as sing, and that is exactly what Pynkoski and Lajeunesse Zingg have assembled.
The exceptionally talented duo of tenor Colin Ainsworth and soprano Meghan Lindsay are a lovely Tamino and Pamina. Bass-baritone Stephen Hegedus anchors the production as the regal and dignified Sarastro, one of opera’s deepest basso profundo roles, and I swear the singer has low notes in his toes.Soprano Carla Huhtanen, mezzo-soprano Danielle MacMillan, and mezzo-soprano Laura Pudwell (so good to see her back!) make a delicious trio of Ladies, squabbling over the prone Tamino.
The Three Spirits are sung not by children but by sopranos Katie Lair, Alison Beckwith, and Cynthia Akemi Smithers — lively and pure of tone. Tenor Alexandar Cappellazzo as the 1st Armed Man has the required resignation to deal with Papageno while baritone Olivier Laquerre carries the dignity of 2nd Armed Man/Speaker.
Blaise Rantoanina (Monostatos) is a tiny gamin of a tenor from Madagascar, trained in France, light on his feet and impossible to resist. When Papageno’s magic bells charm Monostatos and his henchmen, Pynkoski has them toss away their whips and skip rope, with Rantoanina doing double dutch — it’s enchanting.
Ceremonial Ballet
The Magic Flute/ Opera Atelier
Photo: Bruce Zinger
And the show belongs to Douglas Williams. The American bass-baritone’s Papageno channels the spirit of Schikaneder himself — nerdy, cowardly, loveable, full of life. His chemistry with soprano Karine White’s sweet debutante Papagena is pure delight.
Finally, in the pit, the glorious Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra under David Fallis’s splendid reading of the score, gives us the sound Mozart would have heard — transparent, buoyant, and alive. And how nice to have the excellent Nathaniel Dett Chorale on stage and not hidden in the boxes. As for the warm-hearted curtain call, Schikaneder’s audience would have loved it.
Singers who can act, baroque instruments, period design, historically informed choreography — every element works together to take us back to that production in 1791.
In a way, this Magic Flute is a love letter to the roots of opera itself — to a moment when high art and popular theatre collided to make theatrical magic.