Tears for panto’s final curtain? Oh yes there were
It was a gloriously silly escape from Covid gloom. But now the show’s over... and the stars are seething in their sequins
PERHAPS it’s because we knew we had one of t he very l ast golden t i ckets before Covid finally crushes the Christmas spirit. Or maybe it could just be that panto is so silly, sequined and smutty that I can’t help but grin like an idiot — even from behind a mask and sitting next to two empty seats.
Whatever. The London Palladium’s final day of Pantoland, starring Julian Clary, Nigel Havers, Elaine Paige, Gary Wilmot and Beverley Knight has a very special kind of magic.
It is awash with love, joy, laughter, ridiculous outfits, eye-watering double entendres and innuendoes — thanks largely to Clary, introduced as the ‘meat-and-two-veg’ of panto — and so, so many tears.
All around me in the stalls, members of the audience quietly weep, and not just during Elaine Paige’s variation on Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.
Even t he ushers di s hi ng out socially distanced drinks and showing people to the loos, surreptitiously wipe their eyes.
And, of course, the poor crew and cast, who thought they’d be dancing and singing and shouting ‘Oh no you don’t’, ‘ He’s behind you’ and making jokes about wind, and goosing until early January, have been sobbing half the night.
‘ It’s been a very emotional day,’ says company manager Paul Bouchier. ‘It’s a nightmare. And you can’t even give anyone a hug! Everyone’s been in tears.’
But of course they have. Because thanks to the l atest government announcement — which pushed London into Tier Three and from this morning closed all theatres — suddenly, it’s all over.
After weeks of rehearsals, Covidsecure preparations and lots of hard work, they’ve been allowed to perform just six shows — and a special preview l ast Friday attended by t he Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their children. AND
Nigel Havers, as I discover at the stage door, is hopping mad. ‘ They’ve shut us down, but they won’t shut the shops down the road here!’ he rages.
‘And the mayor! God almighty! That man should be taken out and whipped. He opened up Regent Street for the last two Saturdays. For 20,000 people to shop. There’s only 1,000 in here and they shut us down. ‘God. God. GOD!’ He’s not finished yet. ‘It would be good to get the scientists up here to have a look at our theatre,’ he says. ‘ But they’re too far up their own backsides — that’s my feeling, anyway.
‘ We had the f uture King of England — and [Culture Secretary] Oliver Dowden — in here last week! If it wasn’t safe, why would they come?’
Yes, Nigel is very, very cross but he has a point.
Because while no one in theatreland wants to be reckless, or daft, or, God forbid, put anyone at risk, there does seem to be a discrepancy between what is and is not allowed, and the goalposts have been constantly changing over recent weeks. In response to which, London’s theatres really couldn’t have done much more to comply. The Palladium has gone from 2,200 seats to just 1,000 (though surprisingly it doesn’t feel remotely empty), all the staff are masked, the drinks are pre-ordered, the interval is longer to avoid any loo or bar crushes, there are one- way walkways in operation and the punters are happy.
‘I’d far rather be here than in Selfridges,’ says Jennifer, a retiree and amateur dramatics enthusiast. ‘It’s much, much safer.’
‘Hear hear!’ I can almost hear Havers barking.
On top of all that, and despite cutting back on costumes, sets and, for social- distancing reasons, the entire dance troupe, the show has been operating at loss. ‘Thank God for the Lottery funding,’ says Paul Bouchier.
In fact, it only happened at all because creator, writer and director Michael Harrison was so depressed at not doing what he loves that he decided to wing it — and luckily the big stars insisted on doing it for next to nothing. (Many are reportedly on less than a quarter of their usual fee.)
‘Of course we’re not here for the money!’ huffs Havers, a 15-year veteran of panto himself. ‘We’re all on a tiny amount. It’s for the love.
‘That’s fine for us, but think of the younger members of the cast . . .They rely on this money.’
Along with the back-stage crew, the lighting and set teams, the orchestra, the usherettes and even the security guards. ‘There we are then,’ said one burly Scot on the front door sporting an earpiece. ‘I haven’t worked since March and I was hoping for some Christmas money.’
But for one last night, the show goes on. And, although more of a variety show than straight panto — albeit with Gary Wilmot’s dame in an acid yellow crinoline, silly songs, audience participation and Paul Zerdin, the brilliant ventriloquist — it is so, so good.
Even Nigel has somehow cast off his inner fury — ‘I allow myself 24 hours to sulk and then you have to get over it and move on,’ he says — and bounces onto the stage like a man half his age with the springiest of knees, all ready and eager to be ritually humiliated by Clary.
Who, back for the fourth year on the trot at the Palladium, is astonishingly rude but somehow never quite crude as he regales us with his smutty jokes, and is totally and utterly the star of the show.
SO MUCH of the fun of the job has been stripped away by the pandemic that the vim they put in is all the more impressive. Gone are the friends and family members gathered in the wings, gone are stage door autographs, and gone is the ritual of perfectly chilled martinis in Nigel’ s dressing room— apparently, he usually lugs his own freezer along to keep the vodka cold, along with his own very elegant martini glasses so everything is ‘ just so’. This year, t here i s no dressing- r oom mingling, no hugs, no drinks or dinner after shows, no stagedoor adulation.
‘Now I just whisk them into cars and they’re gone into the night,’ says Paul Bouchier. ‘It’s very sad. It’s not normal.’
But still they were all poised to work two shows a day with only Christmas and New Year’s Day off, if only it had lasted.
‘We only opened on Saturday,’ says Clary. ‘ We are a collector’s item! We’re not ready to go. Some of us haven’t learned the lines yet. But go we must.’
And here are t he sell- out audiences — queueing around the block, desperate to absorb a little panto magic in dismal times.
So desperate, in the case of Kirsty and George from Hertfordshire and their two kids, Sophie, five, and Harry, nine, that they bought three blocks of stalls t i ckets f or t his week in a last-minute splurge as Tier Three was looming.
Well, good for them! Let’s hope they feel they really got their money’s worth.
I certainly did as, after two hours and 20 minutes of pure bliss, the show climaxed with a standing ovation that went on for nearly four minutes, followed by a few words from Clary.
‘Thank you for showing that it is possible to enjoy live theatre. Well, possible today apparently, but not tomorrow ...’
And down came the curtain — on the show, the Palladium, live theatre in London, an awful lot of jobs and so much of the sparkle and joy of Christmas.
SARAH VINE IS AWAY