Aladdin

The tale itself veers from the familiar to the bizarre – it’s as if a production meeting fuelled by espresso and M&M’s sketched out the narrative with the sole proviso: “Will it be awesome? Then let’s do it! Twice!” There’s dancing pandas, and a bright pink Morris Minor driven by the Stig, followed by a Chinese dragon in full flight and a rendition of ‘Single Ladies’, respectfully choreographed – and it all works. The humour’s perfectly pitched, with enough garishly-hued slapstick to wear out the children with laughter, and enough smart one-liners to keep the parents happy (“When I was born,” simpers Clive Rowe as Widow Twankee, “I was so ugly the nurse slapped my mother…”).

Inevitably, each time Rowe comes out of the wings, all six foot of him lightly poised on buckled heels, he lights up the stage so completely it’s easy to forget there are other cast members somewhere in the shadows. Which is not to say he’s a selfish performer, only that every gesture – from a cocked eyebrow to a skittish embrace – is impossible to ignore. There’s that voice, too, like Aretha on a bender in a whisky bar, so that every time he draws breath to belt out some snippet or other you lean forward in the hope he’ll just carry on all night.

David Ashley returns as the villain after last year’s turn as King Rat; he’s demonically sexy and plainly relishes every line. Empire regulars Tameka Empson and Kat B take the roles of Empress of Chin and Genie of the Lamp respectively, with effortless comic timing. Anna Jane Casey makes not the slightest effort to be boyish, slapping her stockinged thigh with a knowing glance at the audience, and singing a gorgeously sentimental duet with Princess Clare-Marie Hall as heart-shaped fireworks explode silently around the auditorium. Matt Dempsey as Wishee-Washee, Aladdin’s dim-witted brother, sings wonderfully, but I was conscious all the way through of wishing he would relax, and relish the inevitable mistakes as chances to seduce a willing audience.

The original songs were no less memorable than the full-chorus renditions of Queen or Pixie Lott, and the orchestra played manfully on through clouds of dry-ice and the occasional insult flung offstage. The costumes designs excel year on year: at one point Widow Twanky shuffles across stage in a Ming vase, immense feet twinkling as she goes - “You like that eh? Well, I’ll do it again!” The sets are outstanding, with Aladdin’s cave in particular so deep a lair, so dim-lit and punctured with glittering stalactites, it should’ve been narrated by David Attenborough. Altogether it was one of those rare evenings the end of which approaches far too fast: when the finale came, there was that same sinking feeling on realising there are no more Poirot books left to read, or that you’ve already eaten the last Hob-Nob. The magic for this year is behind me, alas; but those whose tickets are prudently booked have the sweetest of treats in store.

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