There are only two ways to stage The Magic Flute. Treat it as a surreal panto: an illogical muddle of a plot with some sublime tunes attached. Or try to make something dramatically coherent out of the power struggle between the chilling and fascistic Sarastro and the dazzling but unstable Queen of the Night (for which, read patriarchal bossiness versus feminine hysteria) — even though the evidence suggests that the opera’s creators, Mozart and Schikaneder, were themselves confused about which side was supposed to be the goodies and which the baddies.

Tim Supple’s modern-day staging for Opera North attempts the latter but ends up muddled anyway. When the production was new, four years ago, Sarastro and his henchmen were played by black singers and his followers portrayed as deluded white middle-class dropouts — a brainwashed cult, perhaps, against which the Queen and her Ladies were understandably in rebellion.

That angle is much diluted in this revival. Perhaps that’s because, no matter how unpleasant the misogynist Sarastro and his racist acolytes may seem to modern-day liberals, the opera’s happy denouement inescapably depends on an affirmation of his world-order. But Supple does cling to his touchy-feely ending, in which the rival courts of Sarastro and the Queen kiss and make up. It rather makes you wonder what the preceding three hours’ fuss was all about.

Still, within Jean Kalman’s disarmingly simple sets — curtains of ropes rising and falling, and a seemingly cobbled-together tree suddenly sprouting coloured birds and fairy-lights — there is plenty of lively stagecraft. And if the cast had sung with uniform distinction and put over Carol Ann Duffy’s sometimes jolting, in-yer-face English translation with more pace and punch, this would have been a very presentable show.

Unfortunately, there were some sorry displays in both the singing and speaking departments. Indeed, only Roderick Williams’s characterful Papageno — a woolly-hatted hippy simpleton with an admirably even-toned baritone and impeccable diction — got everything right. As Pamina, Noriko Urata displayed a crystal-clear voice and bounced round the stage like a yo-yo. But why present The Magic Flute in English and then cast as Pamina a Japanese soprano whose rendition of the dialogue made Inspector Clouseau sound like a BBC announcer?

Ed Lyon’s boyish, backpacker Tamino had lyrical moments, but his voice almost packed up, and his acting never got out of first gear. The rather terrifying Penelope Randall-Davies hurled out the Queen’s vertiginous flurries as if determined to shatter glass, even if her costume was more Queen of the Nightie. And Chester Patton, who looked about 11ft tall, cut an imposing figure as Sarastro — but oh dear, where were his bass notes? At least the Three Ladies were busty and busy, and the Three Boys (actually two little chaps and a girl) were excellent. In the pit Paul McGrath ensured that there were no musical hiccups. But there wasn’t much magic either — from the flute or anything else.

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