Fifteen or sixteen
years ago, I loved a series of books about an archaeologist (and little-known
poet) called Cairo Jim who had
as companions a blue-and-gold macaw and a telepathic ‘wonder camel.’ The
brain-child of author Geoffrey McSkimming, the intrepid trio criss-crossed the
once-ancient world, foiling the nefarious schemes of Captain Neptune Bone,
restoring wrongs to rights, discovering immeasurable wonders and falling in
love with Jocelyn Osgood. My favourite was the very first volume
in the long-running series, Cairo Jim
& Doris in Search of Martenarten – there was something about it that
grabbed my nine-year-old imagination and kicked it into the stratosphere. There
was adventure by the bucketload, sand (lots of sand), and some very silly puns;
it was almost like an Errol Flynn film, or the Indiana Jones films, except in a
book, for younger readers. Like a lot of kids (and, I suppose, adults too), I
loved the mystery and intrigue that surrounded Ancient Egypt, all the gods and
tombs and treasures, the mummies wrapped in kilometres of bandages, the
colossal temples, pyramids, statues. Once I discovered the series had ended (at
least for the time-being, or so we are reassured), I read them all again, and
‘Martenarten’ is still the best.
Imagine, then, my
delight when I discovered Opera Australia’s regional
touring production for 2014 was a new version of Mozart’s immortal The Magic Flute,
set in 1930s Egypt Hollywood B-movies and Saturday
afternoon serials aside, this Magic Flute,
directed and adapted by Michael Gow, is full of the adventure, danger, romance
and magic that Mozart’s music so perfectly captures, and is an inordinate
amount of fun.
Robert Kemp’s
richly textured set recalls those of the Hollywood
films which inspired this production and holds up to anything seen on the
silver screen; the stage’s letterbox presentation does nothing to destroy this
allusion. Set ostensibly in an Egyptian temple, it also becomes a tomb and a
doorway into a world of dangers, trials, spirits and mummies. Kemp’s costumes
complete the illusion with references to the imperial wave of exploration which
followed the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922, and the cultural
subjugation and superiority that followed. Still drawing on Mozart’s themes of
Enlightenment, fantasy and the Rule of Three,
Gow makes a crucial (albeit slight and not destructive) alteration to Mozart
and Schikaneder’s ending and ensures that you leave with a smile. Not only does
it restore a kind of balance to the world of the Flute, but it also corrects the Enlightenment way of thinking about
good and evil, makes sense of the ending so that no one is truly lost or
damned. Under Matt Scott’s lighting, every bit as rich and colourful as a
pharoah’s tomb or a Hollywood picture, the
theatrical and melodramatic lineage of Gow’s Flute is undisputed and celebrated; his simulation of fire and
water is simple, effective, and finely attuned to the production’s touring
nature.
This is a
production that relies less on magic and more on human-kind’s capacity for
generosity, compassion and goodwill. In this regard, Gow’s cast are all superb
– we don’t see any one character as more or less good than any other because of
the way they act; just as each person is a combination of their good and bad
experiences, neither should truly ever cancel out or overwrite the other. We
are all capable of good deeds, just as much as we are of cruel ones, but that shouldn’t
make us any less human. While Sarastro seems at first like a power-hungry archaeologist-cum-philosopher,
we soon learn that he has divorced his wife, the Queen of the Night, and that
their daughter, Pamina, is the collateral or bargaining tool (much like the
Changeling boy in A Midsummer Night’s
Dream). It makes the whole opera more human and much less mystical but no
less mysterious.
Sam Roberts-Smith
brought a charisma and charm to his Tamino, an adventuring ‘prince’ dressed
very much like Indiana Jones; “he looks like a movie star,” the Three Ladies
sang at one point. I don’t know if it was love he felt for Pamina, but his
actions and progress through the three challenges were enough to bring a family
together again, to restore balance and order in this world. Stacey Alleaume’s
Pamina was determined, knew what she had to do, even if it was a hard choice to
make. Regina Daniel’s Queen of the Night, a society-hostess in a glittering
gown and blistering white hair, was fiery and resplendent in her arias, but
brought a humanness and a very real sense of anger and indignation to her
character, something which is often lost in other, more magical, productions.
Steven Gallop’s Sarastro, an archaeologist in the grip of Egyptmania, had
dignity and gravitas, a warmth to his voice which seemed to speak of reason and
intelligence, but instead was perhaps more of just a sureness of his (at times,
wrongful) convictions. Christopher Hillier’s Papageno, while the necessary
comic-relief character, had a charm and an innocence to his desperate quest for
a girlfriend or a wife; Anna Dowsley’s Papagena was Hillier’s equal, a sugary
flighty figment of his imagination, two lovebirds in a nest, and their duet at
the end was every bit as silly, flirtatious and euphemistic as it could be.
Benjamin Rasheed brought a very human jealousy and desire to his Monostatos, a
man who has been subjugated by the British imperialists to suit their cause;
his turn as a mummy in the opening moments made sure the production found its
tone immediately and it did not flag for a second. The Three Ladies – Hannah
Dahlenburg, Emma Castelli, and Anna Yun – were a maid, schoolgirl and a nurse,
and sang with grace, charm and cheekiness. The two guards – Nicholas Jones and
Andrew Moran – were good-natured, stoic, and eversoslightly overplaying their
roles, relishing every moment, opportunity and costume-change, to the delight
of the audience.
Gow’s adaptation
ensures that the text, sung in English, is concise, modern and uncluttered. It
is also quite cheeky, with numerous in-jokes to its not-so-subtle sources of
inspiration and still manages to rhyme and fit the rhythm of Mozart’s music. As
classic a quest story as you will ever find, Gow says it is all about a “young
man who wants to find enlightenment and true love, but he’s got it all the
wrong way around, and has to deal with his own ego. Much of this opera is about
letting go of what you want, and finding a way to meet people halfway.” It’s
about grace, forgiveness and compassion, about music and its power to redeem,
strengthen and heal. Mozart’s music, performed here by a nine-strong chamber
orchestra, is crisp and clear, and is perfectly suited to the production’s
scale and needs, while losing none of Mozart’s colour, vitality or
enchantingness.
This is a Flute that does not get bogged down in
the Masonic symbolism inherent in Mozart and Schikaneder’s original; rather
than emphasise the ‘magic,’ it highlights the human relationships and struggle
at the heart of the opera and ensures that you are swept up in the adventure,
caught amongst the sands of the Valley of the Kings, and that for one night you
are a kid again, dreaming of archaeologists, treasures, mummies and adventure,
every bit as colourful, emotional, romantic and eventful as anything Hollywood
could conjure up.
Theatre playlist: 43. Sandcastles, from The Mummy Returns, Alan
Silvestri
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