An arduous labour of luvvies
Critical superlatives galore were heaped on Les Enfants Terribles’ immersive extravaganza when it opened at the Vaults – that extensive tunnel network beneath Waterloo Station – in 2015, helping to mark 150 years since the publication of Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland. So many, in fact, that I felt sheepish not to have caught it, a feeling compounded when it was nominated for an Olivier award.
I felt sheepish anew, however, on finally making my way through its ambitious cornucopia of elaborately constructed, Lewis Carroll-inspired “wonders” now that the show has returned for another season. Literally, sheep-like. The sales pitch may be that no two experiences are alike; the reality is more akin to a crowded, cost-effective conveyor belt.
After a mingle in a sketchily decorative café hang-out, we’re herded into a study crammed with books, birdcages and Victoriana. Its ticking clocks suddenly go a bit mental, lights flicker, a mechanical monkey in a jar starts clashing its cymbals, and up pops Alice. A bewigged, actressy sort of Alice, video-recorded, and almost totally inaudible. If she uttered a story-line set-up, I missed it (as did my 12-yearold daughter), but beyond a gradually gleaned awareness that the Queen of Hearts has outlawed nonsense and there may be a spy in her midst, a strong semblance of narrative is as absent as the heroine herself.
At various points, the throng gets carved up, so the intense initial claustrophobia is alleviated. After a rudimentary collective “tumble” down the rabbit hole (involving a mirror-walled rotunda with a whirling zoetrope-style projection), the party is split 50/50, cajoled by a nicely realised White Rabbit into choosing the “Drink me” or “Eat me” options. This is the most effective coup de théâtre of the show, a trompe-l’oeil perspective, utilising a sloping, chequered floor, appearing to make participants shrink or shoot upwards in size as they approach their respective doors.
Thereafter, while there is plenty of forward momentum, it’s a case of diminishing returns as we obediently traipse through the musty warren of chambers, the route determined by card-suits allocated at a mock-stern “passport control”. No question, the primary vignettes (and interconnecting passageways) have been artfully achieved. Among the encounters: a grotesque-masked Tweedledum and Tweedledee swinging in unison on harnesses; a mournful Mock Turtle, marooned amid a rain-bespattered lagoon – and, before we reach the courtroom where towers and glowers the Queen, an invitation to join the Mad Hatter at a vastly elongated table for tea.
The gist of Alice is undoubtedly here, but without sufficient fleshing out, or scope for interaction or time to linger, somehow the enchanting genius of it goes missing – and amid this exhaustive labour of theatrical love, my, how the luvvies do labour! Tightly scheduled with a remorseless, Gradgrindian eye on the clock, some will, I fear, succumb to repetitive refrain injury before the summer is out.