Peter Pan: An Arena Spectacular: Boy George glowers for Britain in his panto debut
Given that, at 62, George O’Dowd still goes by the name of Boy George, you might say that he’s the ultimate example, besides Peter Pan, of the boy who refused to grow up. So there’s a certain irony to his making his panto debut in an extravaganza based on the evergreen JM Barrie tale – albeit that he has landed the role of Captain Hook. Even so, there’s an apt dimension to that too, given that he was a poster-boy for the New Romantics, who raided dressing-up boxes and loved buccaneering looks.
The Eighties “gender-bending” cause célèbre and former Culture Club frontman appears in his sartorial element when he makes his entrance. No mere traipsing on stage for him in this show, directed by Jon Conway. The Cardiff arena-ites go bonkers as Hook’s galleon trundles right round the auditorium, along its main gangways, a huge skull at its prow. The star’s hook-handed villain visibly glowers like some toxic lighthouse, turning this way and that. When he fully heaves into view, he’s a fright of bejewelled dreadlocks, dandyish coat, enough mascara to sink a small armada, and a sinister red tall bowler marked with a large X.
His counter-intuitive approach – perhaps drawing from real-life – is to be world-weary and withering, his eyes sadly glazed as if emerging from some opium den or scanning the horizon for an elusive parking-spot.
Weirdly, the air of terminal boredom works – adding thuggish menace. “I’m in a hideous, hateful, foul, rotten, disgusting mood,” he drawls, tired of fighting Pan even at the start, and suffering his piratical helpers’ bid to jolly him up with a The Voice-style round of Village People’s YMCA. “I really love how you’ve made that song your own,” he sneers, not a smile issuing from his lips until curtain-call.
Given his languid movement and lacklustre delivery, we’re not talking “an acting legend is born” here. But when his ship gets pelted from all sides by foamy canon-balls during the showdown battle-scene, there’s an affection to the audience lobbing. He has nostalgically swelled that by gamely warbling old hits (Karma Chameleon, with red, gold and green lights, and the War Song, adorned by a video-wall of marching skeletons and spliced with Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?). “Time won’t give me time!” this trouper even jokes upon fishing out his alarm-clock from the jaws of the crocodile.
I feared this ‘spectacular” would prove overpriced tat, but while it’s not in a spellbinding league of its own, it’s stylish fun, boasting beguiling animated backdrops, requisite rounds of flying, a memorable moment when the audience illuminate their smart-phone lights to rouse Tinker Bell, an interlude of clownish acrobatics, and a few other decent circus thrills. Conway’s son, Jordan, (who has co-written the script with his father) is a garrulous, Irish-accented Pan, who stays the right side of jovial overload. He does seem a bit too manly to pass for “boyish” but, when you’ve got one of the oldest pop kids on the block in tow, that’s hardly a hissable offence.
Touring the UK until Jan 7; peterpantix.com
