The dissonance at the heart of The Magic Flute

Yesterday, I finally had the chance to see a live performance of The Magic Flute. Although I have long known the music—to the point where every note seems etched into my memory—this was my first time experiencing the opera in full, as it was meant to be seen and heard.

And it was somewhat of a revelation; so much so that, for the second week in a row, I abandoned my plans for my column. Beyond the sublime music, so perfectly crafted for each character and scene, the opera’s libretto sparked questions and an unease that have stayed with me, reshaping how I view this much-loved work.

While The Magic Flute has long been revered as a masterpiece of operatic art, it is also very much a product of its time. The lofty ideals it champions—love, harmony, wisdom and the rejection of baser impulses like jealousy and revenge—continue to resonate with modern audiences, perhaps more now than ever in these times of division and hate. Yet, as I watched the unfolding drama, I was struck by the dissonance between those ideals and the opera’s treatment of gender and race. How is it, I wondered, that an opera about enlightenment can contain moments so deeply at odds with that very principle?

At its heart, The Magic Flute is a fairytale journey of personal growth, love and enlightenment. Tamino and Pamina undergo trials to prove their worthiness, striving to embody virtues like courage and wisdom. The music captures these themes with an emotional depth that remains unparalleled. Every aria, duet and chorus is a study in how sound can illuminate character and story. From Papageno’s whimsical charm to Pamina’s heartbreaking vulnerability, Mozart’s genius lies in his ability to humanize these archetypal figures and make them seem utterly relatable.

Yet the libretto, written by Emanuel Schikaneder with Mozart’s active collaboration, complicates the picture. Leaving aside questions of how ‘Masonic’ the opera truly is, its moral ideals are often presented in a pantomime-like fashion, which appeals to our modern desire for clarity and purpose. However, they are also riddled with contradictions. Sarastro’s temple, meant to symbolize wisdom and justice, is also a space where outdated views on gender and race are strikingly evident.

Sarastro is a figure of great authority and dignity, and meant to embody the principles of enlightenment. Yet his statements about women jar with today’s understanding of equality. At one point, he declares that women’s hearts should be guided by men, a sentiment that rings as archaic as it is condescending. While Pamina ultimately undertakes the trials of wisdom and courage alongside Tamino, achieving a form of equality, the path to that equality is fraught with sexism.

Pamina’s journey is one of suffering and subjugation. She is abducted, threatened and silenced; her agency seemingly at the mercy of others. It is only through love and endurance that she earns her place beside Tamino. While this resolution may have seemed progressive in the late 18th century, it raises questions about how far we have come—and how far we have yet to go—in portraying women as full and equal participants in narratives of enlightenment.

Worse still is the character of Monostatos, whose portrayal is deeply troubling. He is cast as an outsider, his supposed ugliness and despicableness tied explicitly to his black skin. His longing for Pamina is mocked as absurd, and his character serves as a foil to the purity and virtue of the other protagonists. This depiction cannot be excused as merely a reflection of its time. Mozart was not a passive composer setting another’s words to music; he was actively involved in shaping the opera’s vision. The racism embedded in Monostatos’ character is therefore part of the opera’s DNA.

In a work that celebrates enlightenment, the exclusion and ridicule of Monostatos feel like a betrayal of its central ideals. How can an opera that exalts equality and wisdom also perpetuate such dehumanizing stereotypes? This question is not merely academic; it goes to the heart of how we engage with canonical works that contain both brilliance and bigotry.

Modern productions of The Magic Flute often sidestep these issues, presenting the opera as an unproblematic delight. Papageno’s comic antics, the Queen of the Night’s electrifying arias, and the visual spectacle of the trials tend to dominate the audience’s attention. But ignoring the problematic aspects of the libretto does a disservice to both the opera and its audience. It risks perpetuating harmful stereotypes and diminishes the opportunity for thoughtful engagement.

This all reminds me of my reflections on Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s The Beloved, as discussed in my column from 13 July 2023. The painting, while visually striking, underscores how Rossetti compartmentalized his values, using a young black boy as an exotic decoration despite his professed humanity and progressive ideals. Similarly, The Magic Flute reveals how even enlightened creators can harbor troubling blind spots, failing to fully realise the principles they espouse. Confronting these contradictions allows us to engage more deeply with Mozart’s opera and the complexities of its legacy.

In recent years, several opera companies, such as Houston Grand Opera, have acknowledged and addressed the problematic aspects of The Magic Flute, engaging in discussions about the racial implications of Monostatos's portrayal and the broader issues of race and representation in opera. One way around the issue could be to change “black” to “dark” and “white” to “pure” in Monostatos’ scenes. It may seem like a minor adjustment, but it can make a significant difference in how the character is perceived. Likewise, productions can emphasize Pamina’s strength and agency, counterbalancing the moments where she is portrayed as a passive victim.

These changes are not about censorship but about context. They acknowledge the opera’s historical roots while ensuring it speaks to contemporary audiences. Just as music can be reinterpreted through new performances, so too can librettos be adapted to reflect evolving cultural values.

I am not suggesting that we stop performing The Magic Flute. On the contrary, its music is too sublime, its themes too universal, to be relegated to history. But we must approach it with a conscientiousness that respects both its genius and its flaws. We should engage with the opera’s contradictions, using them as a starting point for discussions about art, history and society. By doing so, we honour Mozart’s vision of enlightenment—a vision that, for all its shortcomings, still challenges us to strive for a better, more harmonious world.

For me, seeing The Magic Flute live was both a joy and a challenge. It reminded me of the power of art to inspire and provoke, to delight and unsettle. It also reinforced the responsibility we bear as interpreters and stewards of our cultural heritage. If we are to keep The Magic Flute alive for future generations, we must do so with eyes wide open, embracing its complexities and contradictions as part of the ongoing journey toward wisdom and harmony.