Arts > Theatre
Lord of the Flies at Theatre Royal
25/11/14
If you watched the Lord of the Flies in English class, you no doubt remember the asthmatic wheeze of the chubby, ugly, untrained actor they found to play the lead. In every school in England kids would faint from lack of oxygen, trying to emulate the sounds that were later made famous by Stevie Boy of ‘Malcolm in the Middle’. Ballet dancers don’t resemble children, much less the pasty, tubby wankers of 1950s England. That’s probably why Matthew Bourne has thrown his talented lot in with Norfolk’s brightest, called it ‘Re:Bourne’ and packed theatres with the mums and dads and grandmas of the X-Factor generation. It shouldn’t be this good, but it bloody is. It’s bloody terrifying.
As the public arrive, the loud and familiar sounds of teenage boys pipe through the auditorium- yelling and whistling, a faint fap-fap-fap. By the time the lights go down I've started to fear for the under-10s- what were their parents thinking, I cry, exactly like the sort of adult these boys would butcher. The professional and amateur dancers enter neatly in two straight lines- in their blazers, socks and short shorts, they remind me of Madeline, or the People’s Liberation Army. An army of Madelines. Gosh!
The difference between the Biguns and the Littleuns is obvious- the post-pubescent boys, their patchy neckbeards visible from the circle, look exactly like the kids who used to kick the changing room doors in. But in the chaos that follows the opening plane crash the Biguns hand out teddies, food and blankets, tucking the first years in beneath the stage. No need to be afraid, Littleuns- the alphas chose their underdog long ago. Poor Piggy. I've studied the book about four times and still don’t know his real name. It's probably Evelyn, or Vyvian, or Shirley. The hardcore bullying takes place when no-one’s watching- as Ralph and his gang scale the circle, stealing the adult’s attention, Piggy’s glasses are stolen and stepped on. You can imagine the teachers scolding beleaguered Piggy- “don’t tell tales, boys will be boys, make more of an effort”. Piggy may long to reinvent himself, but doesn’t take his chance- his uniform remains pristine, his manner still insufferable. He stumbles around blindly for longer than I can bear- a proto-Velma, inspiring no-one’s childhood crush. Simon- the delicate little flower- isn’t treated badly, just left to himself. It happens that this is the worst place for him- I knew pig masks were scary (I’ve seen Saw III, and Babe II) but Simon’s dance with the Lord himself is concentrated nightmare fuel. The Biggest, baddest wolf wouldn’t last a minute, and Simon never recovers, the little damp violet.
After every traditional solo the cast returns to a deafening barefoot stomp-and-clap, performing perfect drills that are perhaps more frightening in uniform than war-paint. It’s exquisitely jarring- while one swan dancing is beautiful, a flock of them look like a mob. It isn’t flawless- the music sounds like an 8-bit boss fight and the dance is better when it dies and we can hear the hunters pant and sniff the air. Sam’N’Eric look too much like Crabbe and Goyle, or any tough-guy double-act. But you try sleeping knowing tomorrow belongs to these vicious wee bastards. Pass my inhaler.