Bafflement is an underused word. But when taking a pal from New Zealand to a pantomime, it’s entirely appropriate. 

It’s easy to forget that there’s something peculiarly British about panto. As far as I can tell, it’s rarely performed outside of the UK. In its earliest form, pantomime dates back to ancient Rome, but it’s hard to imagine Plautus writing “he’s behind you!”. 

As I watched my wide-eyed Kiwi friend navigate the vicissitudes of the plot of Rumpelstiltskin at The Met in Bury, including the Dame’s massive knockers, water pistols fired into the crowd, and a cacophony of audience participation, it reminded me of another long-held ritual: the Catholic Mass. I’m not suggesting that a revered liturgical service has anything in common with a free-for-all night at the theatre (“oh no I’m not!”), but there is common ground here. Much like the lapsed Catholics who spring upright during services and recite long-forgotten verse, so middle-aged men and women whose last panto was a school trip know when to cheer the hero and boo the baddie.

That said, Rumpelstiltskin is rather an odd choice for a panto. Prior to curtain up, my friends and I struggled to remember the story and, if I’m honest, struggled to care. We Brits don’t ask much of panto – we’re happy with a paper-thin plot, ostentatious costumes, and a lot of silliness. I’m a hard-core panto fan, having sampled pantomimes nationwide, and this was the most complicated narrative I’d ever seen. Less exposition, more daftness please. 

Nevertheless, there was a lot to like at The Met’s Christmas show. Known for its programme of folk music and comedy, this small but perfectly-formed venue consistently punches above its weight. In 2022, I saw its first panto in five years. Then, as now, it was produced by The Big Tiny. But 2022’s Dick Whittington was, in the words of my then 10-year-old niece, “the best panto I’ve ever seen Aunty Helen”. And so it was. 

A panto of that calibre is hard to live up to, even when stewarded by the same management. On press night, Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed a rapturous reception. There were issues with sound and lighting, but presumably that’ll be ironed out pretty quickly. And I expect that the cast will soon relax into the rhythms of the production. The ensemble all performed well, with Toby West as Badges and Charlie Hodgkinson as Rumpelstiltskin drawing the requisite amount of larfs and boos respectively. Andrew Truluck as, um, Winnie the Warden, sported a series of voluminous costumes as the Dame but lacked oomph. It’s panto law that the Dame steals the show but he looked proper knackered. Perhaps this will change as the run gathers pace. 

Given that pantos are designed to be a hoot and a half, there was less comedy than I’d expected, and scant evidence of a crucial panto tradition: treading the line between child-friendly banter and a bit of blue for the dads. But I did come away with a hoarse voice having shouted long and loud throughout the entire performance. Man, I love panto’s jettisoning of theatre etiquette.

At a time when theatre can be prohibitively expensive, an adult ticket for The Met’s panto is priced between £22 and £24. Despite my misgivings, I reckon this represents ferociously good value for a Christmas show with an abundance of inventive staging and ample laughs. And the Prince is FIT. 

By Helen Nugent, Editor of Northern Soul

Main image by Howard Barlow

 

Rumpelstiltskin is at The Met, Bury until December 26, 2024. For more information, click here.