What could be worse than going to a ballet performed by children? Going to a ballet performed by adults pretending to be children. The palpitations induced by realising that all the cast photos in the programme were of toddlers were lessened when a twenty-something Clara skittered onto the stage. It didn't help that the fourth wall was then comprehensively shattered, as Clara was joined by besmocked characters all mugging and waving madly at the audience. Throughout, this is more of a panto than a ballet.
And it is extremely, even breathtakingly, well done. The classic ballet has been lovingly adapted and rechoreographed into a glossy and cheerful extravaganza, perfect (though 20 years old), for the reality TV generation. And good luck to it. As Matthew Bourne rightly says, "I have always felt that the Christmas party...represented a fantasy itself for most audiences." The shift to Clara's fantasy world is, as intended, very much more vivid for Bourne's reimagining of the opening party scene to Christmas at a grim orphanage. It's Oliver Twist by way of Tim Burton with a nod to Lemony Snicket.
Great thought has been given to characterisation, effects and costumes. There are probably thousands of little stories being enacted over the course of the evening. My only beef is that it can't resist being silly even for a moment. Hannah Vassallo (Clara) and Chris Trenfield (Nutcracker) share a lovely, animalistic pas de deux at the end of the first act: lots of exposed muscle and falling silk, a beautiful physical exposition on Vassallo's part of a girl's dawning sexuality. Or it would have been had not the hearty slapstick style of the rest of the piece kept forcing itself in to gestures here and there.
The music sort of works. There is no live orchestra, which does subtly detract from the experience, but it's a good recording and I do see, oh I do, why they did it. The matching of music and movement is so successfully thought out that one is jarred by the few lapses. The mouse war becomes the music for the orphan revolution and works very well; the famous nutcracker noise on the other hand is completely ignored and hence baffling: nuts don't enter into the affair and as far as we can see it's just an ordinary doll. Until it comes alive as a sort of Ronald McDonald zombie, which is another thing I wasn't expecting.
The sets and costumes are really very good indeed: wonderfully thought out and great fun. The dancing is... well, it's not ballet really, it's sort of musical comedy without vocals. And the intensely emotional waltz in the second act is allowed to pass with no more than ensemble posturing, which made me cross. And all the capering and grimacing made me feel a bit sea-sick after a while. A real dancer should be a mime, not a ham. The one performer that gave me the pleasure I'd usually expect from watching dance (apart from Hannah Vassello with her lovely if saccharine expressiveness) was Daniel Collins as spoilt brat Fritz. He is a great physical comedian. He was overdoing it to the cringing point, but appropriately so, and his timing and his masklike expressions were highly enjoyable in their perfection.
But, as I have to keep reminding myself, ballet's not what this production sets out to do. The best bit was the dances of the sweets - in a conventional production, unless the second-rank performers are unusually good, this can be a place where the piece drags. Here it was witty and attractive and full of nice conceits. I could have watched that all evening.
So if you want a riotous, rip-roaring evening of sugary fun for all the family, this is for you. For easily-nauseated spoilsports like myself, stay in with the gin bottle and a nice Raymond Chandler.