Die Zauberflote, Royal Opera House, London

Guided by illuminated orbs held out before them like astrological compasses, young men in frock-coats led the way, processing down the aisles of the Temple of Arts, formally known as the Royal Opera House.A tiny door from the darkened auditorium opened on to yet more darkness beyond. A place uncharted – infinite night. Music of mystery and merriment played all the while, under the distinguished baton of Sir Colin Davis. Could this be the dawning of the Age of Enlightenment?

It could. A long day's journey from night. David McVicar's new staging of Mozart's Die Zauberflote unfolds entirely in shadow. His designer John F Macfarlane and lighting designer Paule Constable lose us in endless black-marbled corridors with shifting walls and gaunt doorways.

The spectre of freemasonry is much in evidence, but it's worn far less cumbersomely than is sometimes the case. More prevalent are the symbols of astrology and of science, once seen as "the dark arts". When Mozart's librettist, Emanuel Schikaneder, reached for his masonic metaphor it was precisely for that reason. Maria Theresa had used force to break up the lodges. Fear of the unknown. Schikaneder saw the mileage in that. Ignorance is fearful. It resides in darkness. With knowledge comes light. And we shall be enlightened. Simple.

Well, simple for some. For Papageno the learning does not come easily. This loveable birdcatcher is the character we most identify with. And any production of Die Zauberflote largely stands or falls on his skills. Not as a birdcatcher, I hasten to add – this one almost has him outfoxed and upstaged by a witty piece of puppeteering (just one aspect of 18th-century stagecraft that McVicar exploits) – but as a clown, a reluctant master of ceremonies.

Simon Keenlyside's Papageno is a complete winner, one of the best things this talented artist has yet given us. He plays the spoken text – in German, of course – as if it were his native tongue. His charm, his cockiness, his bewilderment, his verbal and physical comedy, all are beautifully judged. He's natural and he's touching.

There's a marvellous moment in his early duet with Pamina where hope quite literally shines through the gloom. The excellent Dorothea Roschmann spins one of those phrases that brush with the sublime as only Mozart can. Roschmann's lovely voice arched from shining top to dusky bottom of the register in one enticing breath, and that's where McVicar has us, fleetingly, tantalisingly, see the light.

The rest of the casting – with the notable exception of the Three Ladies (Gillian Webster, Christine Rice, and Yvonne Howard), who were outstanding – was less consistent. Will Hartmann's Tamino sounded like a pushed-up baritone, pinched in the upper reaches and none too reliable in pitch; Franz-Josef Selig's imposingly built Sarastro only really came into focus for me at the profundo end of his register; and Diana Damrau's Queen of the Night certainly struck a blow for the forces of retrogression with her top-F-popping second aria having somewhat swallowed too much of her first.

Sir Colin Davis gave us the benefit of his wisdom throughout, somewhat portly at times but balanced and blended and "sung" (wonderful work from the woodwinds) with sensitivity and relish. And when the golden sun was finally rolled out like a ripe and wholesome cheese, enlightenment was palpable in the sound.

To 17 February (020-7304 4000)