This is the (new) King’s Head Theatre’s second go at panto after a luke-warm Cinderella in 2024. By all accounts their first one (written and directed, as is the case this year, by Andrew Pollard) was fine, if a little lacking in the ‘fun’ department. I’m glad to say the team working away four floors below Upper Street got the memo, as this year’s Jack and the Beanstalk is absolutely bursting with berserk energy (and fart jokes) from the word go.
Nominally set in Islington, there isn’t anything hugely conceptually different about this retelling of the fairy tale. What it does have is bags of vim. The whole thing is supercharged with anarchic, Saturday-morning telly kineticism. The boy and girl actors (Elliot Baker-Costello and Priscile Grace) emanate the energy of a thousand Labrador puppies. Even the fact the theatre is so damn deep underground helps generate an atmosphere. As you descend into what feels like the bowels of the earth to reach the stage, there’s a tangible sense of mounting excitement. By the time the kids are in their seats, gathered in what feels like a cross between a school gymnasium and the Manhattan Project, it’s all a bit febrile.
The two children I brought along were properly engrossed for 90 percent of the two-hour run time, which is good going. In fact, the intimacy of the venue means that not paying attention is actively difficult. The cast of six hurl themselves around Jake Evans’ brutally colourful (and dynamically lit) stage, gurning at the crowd, shouting catchphrases and dancing at every available opportunity. Every other line triggers a frenetic musical number, often lasting no longer than five seconds, usually featuring blink-and-you’ll-miss-them references to Labubus, Jet2 Holidays, Traitors and K Pop Demon Hunters (interesting that a ‘chicken jockey’ reference completely dies on its arse, while ‘six, seven’ almost causes a riot. Oh, fickle winds of change.)
Vogueing up a storm, and deserving of special acknowledgement, is Pavanveer Sagoo who brings fabulous benzo-addled vulnerability to his role as the family’s ‘non-bovinary’ cow, Pat. It’s a bravura performance, one capable of getting the audience roaring with laughter one minute and then, moments later, reducing one of my child companions to actual tears of genuine sadness. Both kids were also rendered temporarily wide eyed and slack jawed by some full-throttle dame-ng from Drag Race UK’s Victoria Scone who ingeniously channelled what was obviously a pretty gnarly sore throat into some carnivorous two-packs-a-day Joanna Lumley energy.
My only criticism would be that the script could have more fun with London references in general, and Islington in particular. Why go to the bother of setting your panto in Islington if you’re not going to get to grips with one of London’s most eminently insult-able boroughs? Jokes about spotting Paul Mescal, middle-class Arsenal fans or the over-priced pretentious toys at After Noah surely write themselves.
The last word goes to my seven-year-old companion, who is a seasoned pantomime watcher and not prone to hyperbole. ‘Jack’s mother was very well played,’ he wrote in his notes. ‘It was one of my best pantos, for me’.
