Perennial pantomime villain Kit Hesketh-Harvey explains why this corny, hammed-up, ritualistic theatrical format is loved so dearly. Oh yes, it is!
IT’S as bizarre, as inexplicable to foreigners, as cricket or ‘Mornington Crescent’. It smells of sweets and sweat, of sherry and sulphur. It’s as gaudy, as tasteless, as a tinsel Christmas tree. Part Commedia dell’arte, part music hall, its political satire is as subtle as a bazooka, its rabid incorrectness as bawdy as a McGill seaside postcard. It’s also the emergency drip of our regional theatres, without which they couldn’t function financially. And it’s murder to do: I lose 20lb each season.
Pantomime is the safety valve that binds generations—indeed, this island—together. It’s a litmus test and defiant celebration of our Britishness and it sanctions the release of a year’s tension. The servants mock their masters as precisely as they did in the medieval Feast of Fools and, on Twelfth Night, in the midnight ‘cod’ pastiche of the run, the backstage crew mocks even the mockers.
It’s shot through with superstition. One must never utter the final line during rehearsals so as to jinx the opening night with a perfect rehearsal. One leaves the dressing room with one’s best foot forward, stepping out on the left—possibly a Masonic belief. No whistling, no peacock feathers, no flowers on stage and it’s unlucky to rehearse the bows.
The ‘Oh yes, you do’ and ‘It’s behind you’ are as ritualistic as the tree or pudding. The proscenium arch, the fourth wall, the suspension of disbelief—all become irrelevant. Corny routines—the chase scene, the custard-pie scene, the ghost gag—are greeted rowdily as long-lost friends, the drunken uncles at the party. The characters are as predictable as The Queen’s Speech or the Boxing Day hangover. The story barely matters.
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Tales as old as time
By appointing writers-in-residence to landscape locations, the National Trust is hoping to spark in us a new engagement with our ancient surroundings, finds Richard Smyth
Do the active farmer test
Farming is a profession, not a lifestyle choice’ and, therefore, the Budget is unfair
Night Thoughts by Howard Hodgkin
Charlotte Mullins comments on Moght Thoughts
SOS: save our wild salmon
Jane Wheatley examines the dire situation facing the king of fish
Into the deep
Beneath the crystal-clear, alien world of water lie the great piscean survivors of the Ice Age. The Lake District is a fish-spotter's paradise, reports John Lewis-Stempel
It's alive!
Living, burping and bubbling fermented masses of flour, yeast and water that spawn countless loaves—Emma Hughes charts the rise and rise) of sourdough starters
There's orange gold in them thar fields
A kitchen staple that is easily taken for granted, the carrot is actually an incredibly tricky customer to cultivate that could reduce a grown man to tears, says Sarah Todd
True blues
I HAVE been planting English bluebells. They grow in their millions in the beechwoods that surround us—but not in our own garden. They are, however, a protected species. The law is clear and uncompromising: ‘It is illegal to dig up bluebells or their bulbs from the wild, or to trade or sell wild bluebell bulbs and seeds.’ I have, therefore, had to buy them from a respectable bulb-merchant.
Oh so hip
Stay the hand that itches to deadhead spent roses and you can enjoy their glittering fruits instead, writes John Hoyland
A best kept secret
Oft-forgotten Rutland, England's smallest county, is a 'Notswold' haven deserving of more attention, finds Nicola Venning
