There is something of an air of autobiographical revelation breezing through The Magic Flute, a summing up of a lifetime of acquired attitudes and experience on Mozart’s part. Premiered in September 1791 in Vienna, three months before the composer’s shockingly premature death at the age of thirty-five, opera’s penultimate expression of rollicking singspiel, part love story, part parable, part social tract, seems to suggest, as some commentators have suggested, a degree of embedded, deliberately personalized backstory. The temptation to extrapolate from Mozart’s past to specifics of narrative and character as reflected in The Magic Flute’s tumbled libretto, authored by the composer’s longtime friend, singer/collaborator/impresario Emanuel Schikaneder, is impossible to resist.

Satire and allegory loom large seen through the speculative lens of history here, mischievous and playful at times, principled and messaged at others, both outlooks often contained in a single view.

Mozart’s youthful decision to abandon his petty position in stifling hometown Salzburg as Konzertmeister to abusive Prince-Archbishop Count Colloredo and strike out for Paris is paralleled by the adventure motif that underlies Tamino’s flight from a menacing serpent and his subsequent exploits in a fabled land.

Emperor Joseph II who had favoured Mozart with a long-coveted imperial appointment as court composer is personified as The Magic Flute’s dauntless hero, upholder of goodness.

Empress Maria Theresa, the redoubtable Habsburg matriarch who had branded Mozart and family as “useless people who go about the world like beggars” becomes the Queen of the Night, villainous embodiment of darkness and irrationality.

The order of Free Masonry, a popular secret fraternal society of philanthropically-minded late 18th century VIPs— Mozart and Schikaneder had somehow managed to gain admission to their elite Viennese lodge — confers endless arcane imagery and emblem in The Magic Flute, the mystical Masonic number three recurring with almost mathematical regularity. Three watchful ladies. Three boyish spirits. Three paths to enlightenment via three doors to three temples.

The sheer volume of symbol and metaphor in play here is immense and, although not overtly referenced in Opera Atelier’s sparkling, period-focused production currently on offer at Toronto’s landmark Elgin Theatre, Mozart’s journey from wunderkind to genius amply resonates subtextually on at least two levels. His eternal, fundamentally optimistic striving for compositional originality and elegance in the face of countless career roadblocks may have compelled frequent tactical shifts of direction but never once did Mozart turn away from his need to create. His irrepressibility, an unshakeable sense of musical purpose, sustained him even in dark times of grave uncertainty. Little wonder OA’s Magic Flute has become something of a company signature piece.

First presented in 1991, restaged on several occasions with varying degrees of realignment, the work has both inspired and sustained the company for much of its extraordinary forty-year history, substantially revamped by resident set designer, Gerard Gauci in 2013, the version that prevails to present day. Fanciful painted backdrops and visionary flats bathed in designer Kimberly Purtell’s pools of bright sunshine bounded by inky darkness, convey an ephemeral, fairytale atmosphere. Costuming by Dora Rust D’Eye and Michael Gianfrancesco sumptuous and extravagant, adds to the ever-mounting sense of dreamscape.

The passage of twelve years and a catastrophic pandemic has failed to dull this impossibly radiant, boundlessly energetic show. The unrelenting bursts of high voltage energy so abundantly on display is positively propulsive.

Again and again, entrances and exits are executed headlong at breakneck speed by dashing singer actors, director Marshall Pynkoski leading the charge, diving headfirst into scene after scene, provoking a swirl of tumultuous action. Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. A triple-ringed starry constellation orbits a wicked queen. Magical bells tame an evil cohort. The villainous are made to jump rope, devilish henchman turning double Dutch. Comedy is broad. Burlesque flips ritual upside down. Love and truth are purified by waves of fire and water. A joyful pair of rustics bubble and and bounce, dancing with Tik Tok-ish abandon. Choreographer Jeannette Lajeunesse Zingg processes her exotically costumed Artists of Atelier Ballet through the outer precincts of a mystical temple in a stately passacaglia. The curtain falls on a glowing tableau.

Andrew Porter’s economical, admirably coherent German to English translation provides a generous source of readily accessible entry points to narrative in this bustling Magic Flute. Pynkoski’s decision to quote Schikaneder’s teeming libretto at some considerable length opens at least one door to greater scenic understanding all too frequently withheld by virtue of timing cuts.

In a snappish, unexpurgated prelude to Mozart’s mighty anthem to unbridled fury, Hell’s vengeance rages in my heart (“Der Hölle Rache”), the Queen of the Night curses her loss of power, a direct consequence of her late sorcerer husband’s transfer of the “seven fold Circle of the Sun” to Sarastro, divinely appointed upholder of light. Suddenly, her depth of hatred for the formidable High Priest is made credible.

Elsewhere, select, well-considered edits serve to address expressly contemporary issues. Reducing the scope of Monostatos’ story involvement effectively severs a disturbing thread linking the lustful Moor to the harassment and abuse of Pamina in Act I. The omission of the Papagena as frail old woman apparition in Act II is hugely welcome.

Charm and enchantment power this lovingly revived celebration of all that is everlasting — love, sensation, art.

Singing an appropriately naive, wide-eyed Tamino, Colin Ainsworth ceaselessly thrills, his ringing, velvety smooth tenor ideally suited to the wandering prince, dispatching the role’s vaulting lyricism with supreme confidence and agility. Oh, vision of enchanting grace! (“Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön”), Mozart’s iconic ode to helpless infatuation, in Ainsworth’s accommodating hands, is rendered with great beauty and humanity.

Appearing as Pamina, soprano Meghan Lindsay gifts the evening with a sensitive, emotionally fraught performance of sweeping expressiveness, her voice polished to a gleaming silvery sheen, stage manners acutely focused. Singing her character’s heartbreaking lament, Ah, I feel my life is over (“Ach, ich fühl’s”), Lindsay deeply moves, despair and anguish masterfully spotlit in a gorgeous display of luminous legato.

On stage for a two-act total of a mere ten minutes, visiting American coloratura soprano Rainelle Krause quite simply triumphs as the Queen of the Night, delivering Mozart’s aforementioned “Der Hölle Rache” with blistering virtuosity and showstopping precision. Sinuous runs raging, keen trills aglow, Krause attacks, her darkly manic Queen precariously balanced on the knife edge of murderous calculation and hysteria. Recalled to the stage by an explosion of cheers on opening night — a commonplace occurrence in Italian opera houses, intra act encores far from customary here — Krause reignited her performance, interpolated high Cs rising to F♯s ablaze.

Featured in a role debut as the hapless bird-catcher, Papageno, baritone Douglas Williams delights, endowing the character with more than a smattering of sensuality absolutely unique to the character. This is an artist with enormous singer actorly appeal, raffish, athletic, empathic, with a robust, attractive voice to match. Papageno’s introductory aria, Mozart’s jaunty, Oh, catching birds, that is my trade (“Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja”), accompanied by a hefty measure of self-deprecating humour, instantly establishes Williams’ ownership of a goodly amount of stage geography, every square centimetre masterfully exploited.

Soprano Karine White is a captivating Papagena; bass-baritone Stephen Hegedus, a suitably sonorous Sarastro. Blaise Rantoanina is an unexpectedly sympathetic Monostatus. Tenor Alexander Cappellazzo appears as First Armed Man; Olivier Laquerre as both Second Armed Man and Speaker — the two characters perceptively merged into a single figure of authority. Carla Huhtanen, Danielle MacMillan and Laura Pudwell are tirelessly entertaining as the Three Ladies. Katie Lair, Alison Beckwith and Cynthia Akemi Smithers are the Three Boys, voices innocently blended.

The men and women of the Nathaniel Dett Chorale, D. Brainerd Blyden-Taylor artistic director, populate a fine, uplifting chorus, singing — as is often the case in Opera Atelier productions — from an airy spotlit box, house right.

Music director David Fallis conducts a gloriously expansive period ensemble courtesy Tafelmusik, tempi exhilarating and brisk, harmonies rich and rolling, orchestral colours spectacularly bright.

A magical Magic Flute. Utterly spell-binding.