Not quite a ripping yarn
Sees at Bristol Passenger Shed, but finds that the intrigue of the Blyton stories is missing
Long before there was Hogwarts, there was Malory Towers – another des-res boarding-school in an exotically remote part of the kingdom, with a fantastical castle aspect to it. No magic spells – “simply wizard!” was just a bit of slang here – no boys, either. Enid Blyton’s half-dozen books set on the Cornish coast offered amazing sea-views and the tantalising prospect of characterforming girls’ own adventures. First published in 1946, their idyll answered a yearning for post-war restoration while evoking the emotional prep needed to go forth into the world.
Blyton’s books are, of course, innocent and innocuous by today’s standards and can fall foul of politically correct attitudes, but their vim and vigour, with lashings of good humour, should make them go-to choices for theatre-makers cooking up family fare.
The prospects of success here looked good: after years running Kneehigh theatre, Emma Rice’s association with Cornwall runs as deep as a tin mine; and her forte is the playful antic, in touch with the inner child.
With her new company, Wise Children, she’s touring an adaptation that draws primarily from the first and final books but alas blends her virtues with her vices. Moodcreation is her specialism but she also has a tendency to rely on atmosphere at the expense of drama. And so it proves here: as a director, she’s top-class; as adapter her end-ofterm report reads “could do better”.
The set-up bodes well, albeit the framing-device that gets us from modern-day school argy-bargy to Blyton-world feels redundant. We’re treated to a proto-Potter-ish scene at Paddington in which the new gals, in clean purple pinnies and smart boaters, meet, form Insta-friendships and rivalries, and generally define
their personality-types. St Trinian’sesque anarchy is out of bounds but even so there’s the pleasing prospect of spoilt little madam Gwendoline, the archetypal devious frenemy, getting her inevitable come-uppance after tormenting the chronically shy Mary Lou, with plucky central protagonist Darrell, initially misidentified as the problem-child after coming to the rescue of her bashful classmate.
As an overall narrative arc, supplemented with a dash of cliff-side jeopardy, that’s enough – just. But it feels as though the show needs to be filled with lots more incidental detail, where Rice opts for numerous, paceslowing songs – with Mr Sandman recurring as an oddly incongruous motif.
The seven actors nicely chalk out the Malorians’ temperaments, with spiffing work from Renée Lamb as the incessant joker Alicia, Francesca Mills as the comically redoubtable Sally and non-binary actor Vinnie Heaven as horse-loving Wilhelmina, whose “tomboy” ways demand short hair and being called “Bill”.
The cast has got the gymnastic springiness to fill the space – a school-hall style high stage, with dorm-beds tucked underneath, a pianist to one side, augmented at the tour’s start in Bristol by the cavernous surrounds of Brunel’s (converted) 19th-century Passenger Shed. But the shadowy projection of the headmistress (lent a kindly voice by Sheila Hancock) aside, there are sadly no teachers or matrons, and too little sense of nooks, crannies, rituals, hierarchies. Malory Towers feels too little like a school, and too much like a holiday camp.
Come the second half and a comfort-blanket-soft rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I’d had my fill of the tuck-shop overload of sweetness, even if there’s a bitter sting in the tale. For the insatiable devotee and impressionable nursery-slopes attendee, this version will serve but the books are the better treat.
I feel a heel for dismissing this labour of love out of hand. But the lesson is that the story is king (or queen). Rice has been at her best when she has married her theatrical reveries to substance.
Blyton does, of course, offer intrigue in spades. It’s hard not to draw the conclusion, then, that aside from her runaway relish for ambience, what seems to have come between the material and the interpreter is the desire to make a statement, the assumption being that spirited girlhood is inspiring enough in itself to hold attention. But is it? I think not.