Rumpelstiltskin

I have admired the way both the productions I have now seen in The Park Theatre have utilized a small space to great effect. The first was earlier this year in the spring when Bill Rosenfeld's excellent journey story, Another America played at the smaller of the venue's two theaters, using a basketball, a clever script and three fantastic character actors to portray a revolving cross section of all of America.

This seasonal production of Rumpelstiltskin makes equally creative use of space, presenting us, in the 90 seat theater, with a sumptuously furnished study which feels just cozy enough to while away a few crackling hours of the holiday while curling up with a good story, or many good stories given the countless volumes sitting on these sturdy, plush looking shelves that serve as the backdrop for the playful narrative to follow.

It is brave to bring pantomime, that most traditional of British storytelling forms, from a massive space like Stratford East or The Hackney Empire to the intimate Park 90.

But if you are going to do something so brave and so different, with a form that has so many expectations for so my patrons already baked into it – chiefly that you will be caught up in a contagious evening of silliness and frivolity, but also that genders will be bent, sweets will be tossed, audience members will be brought up on stage (the last two of which does happen to be fair) – then you really have to blow your audience away from the start.

Unfortunately, this production does not.

From the opening we have miked up performers belting out numbers clearly written to bring down a larger house than the one they're performing in. The difficult acoustics made most of the lyrics unintelligible, leading to what I can only assume was supposed to be one of the most rousing performances, with the actors attempting to bring the audience to their feet to dance, falling flat. The expectant patrons got confused, clapping and doing our best to 'shimmy to the left' and 'shimmy to the right' while remaining seated.

It's a clever enough story, turning our expectations, as most pantomimes generally do, of a well known fairytale character, on their heads, while working in some funny lines, some (in)appropriate jokes and some well written satire, bringing to life Downing Street's Larry the Cat on stage where we expected Dick Whittington's, along with some clever repartee about not knowing which owner is coming or going. And 'Rats' is memorable for feeling like an ode to working class, cockney London, skanking away to a Specials like offbeat and sounding catchier than any other tune in the production.

Alas, the four performers rotating their roles in this show, seem unable, owing to seriously flawed writing, to keep that momentum going. They are talented, particularly Lucy Whitney, playing the aforementioned feline and possibly the most parts onstage, but they seem to lack any visible chemistry with the star playing the title character, Philip Lee. Lee seems ill at ease compared to his less experienced costars, resulting in a character in which it is difficult to invest.

I wanted this show to work and was willing it to succeed several songs after my companions for the evening had lost patience with the altered formula of this well known form that was appearing before us, but Charles Court has taken away too many elements and not put enough vitality back in for it to take on a life of its own, let alone make us want to live in this fantasy.

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