Theatre
Raymond Briggs's Snowman is celebrating his 20th birthday (that makes him, I believe, in snowman years pretty ancient). But his charms have not melted away with time. He is to be found at the Peacock Theatre, in Bill Alexander's entrancing production, in excellent fettle.
Snow is falling gently and a boy is asleep on stage. A two-year-old in the audience on the first night was unaccountably alarmed, shouting, to the amusement of everyone who heard him: "No! I don't want to go near it . . ." Morning arrives and the boy clears the condensation from his bedroom window. As in Briggs's original book, there are no words in this show and no need for them as the boy takes off through the front door into the snow to do a joyful, galumphing gum-boot dance.
The Snowman himself is assembled at effortless speed, with lumps of black coal for his eyes and buttons. My seven-year-old son, Leo, was more interested in the boy than the snowman. He asked me disbelievingly, more than once: "Is he really a child?" For to see a child dancing as Drew McOnie does is at least as miraculous, to a watching boy, as seeing a cavorting snowman. McOnie is a small 13-year-old who dances with grace in dressing gown and pyjamas but continues (thanks, partly, to Robert North's ingenious choreography) to look robust and never Peter Pannish.
The Snowman is an antidote to rowdy, thigh-slapping panto. It is soothing, almost (but not quite) soporific with its snowfall and its gentle carol singers and the most peaceable brass section you ever heard. The boys' parents, however, might be said to be too peaceful for their own good. Decrepit vegetables would be a fair description. Dad (Simon Rice) is installed dozing in front of the TV; Mum (Vicky Charlton) irons interminably, stirring her stumps only to chase her son to bed. The message is clear: a world that does not involve parents will always be more lively than one that does.
When the Snowman (Michael Hodges) first moves, he gyrates rather dangerously but is exceedingly courteous, bowing to the boy before coming into his home. His first encounter within involves a mean, velvety individual, a cat (Juliet Webster) who makes unfriendly, feline advances. Worse follows: the snowman sits too close to an electric fire. ("Is that a real electric fire?" Leo wondered.) But the comic piece de resistance of the first half is the unpacking of a freezer from which a coconut, a pineapple and a banana emerge. "Which fruit do you like best?" Leo whispered. "The banana," I replied. The banana is wearing shades and I think him cool (even if he is partly unpeeled and has to be cautious about bending).
The Snowman climbs on to an old-fashioned motorbike with a yellow sidecar attached. "That's wicked," Leo said. The Snowman turns out to be a bit of a roadhog. But who needs a motorbike when you can fly? The first half ends to Howard Blake's wonderfully sentimental song "Walking in the Air" and the boy and the Snowman lift off without fuss from the ground. I adored watching them fly and found, to my surprise, that I had tears in my eyes. Leo said firmly: "I can see the strings. Look, Mum, there are the strings!"
In the interval Leo said he was "quite enjoying it" but asked rather unpromisingly: "Is Raymond Briggs dead?" The start of the second half brings a spontaneous round of applause as penguins shimmy across Snowman Land. The boy and the Snowman descend and we meet the gorgeously varied, barmy snowmen who appear to have raided the dressing-up box. They include a Scot, a Fred Astaire type and a cowboy. It is hilarious seeing someone with a snowman's girth attempting a macho, lasso-brandishing dance.
The original Snowman turns out to be warm-hearted and amorous, dancing with what I would ordinarily describe as a piece of crumpet, but, in this case, make that ice-cube. Father Christmas is played with gusto by Simon Rice. He dances as if intoxicated and his nose is so red, I suspect booze rather than frostbite.
Ruari Murchison's design is homely and serviceable. Some of the animal costumes are first-rate (first prize to the penguins, second to the squirrel). The ending had me wiping my eyes again, watching the boy look through the melancholy little pile of Snowman leavings: his hat, his buttons, his eyes. Leo smiled and started to clap.
"The Snowman" is at the Peacock Theatre, Portugal Street, London WC2 (0171-863 8222) until 30 January
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by using the 'report this comment' facility or by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
