Peter Pan

A month or so ago, Liz enthusiastically related a PBS tidbit she had seen, a documentary about the making of the new stage version of Peter Pan, a non-musical version of the play done under a big top with CGI effects and Cirque de Soleil pyrotechnics. Though usually I do not go in for stage extravaganzas, particularly since the tickets are so so pricey, I relented on this one because I too had caught part of this documentary and had been impressed and because Goldstar, the discount ticket outfit whose announcements I regularly get by email, was offering a deal.
It would have been more fun if our sons had been little kids, like the wide-eyed boy next to us, but still, since I love well-made children's movies, shows, and books, and have been moved by the story of Peter Pan, with its deep psychological resonance, I agreed we should go.
The big white tent loomed before us, like an oyster mushroom, perhaps an outgrowth of the enormous glass structures around it, the performing arts complex of Orange County. There were the usual money-making souvenirs--tee shorts, expensive snacks, tutus for the neo-Tinkerbell, but we weren't biting. We found our seats, rather like the set up at a ball park with its alphabetized and numbered sections, and the show began.
The CGI flying effects were quite amazing. Like a ride at Disneyland, which it is bound to become, the flying took us over the night skies of London and out to sea, where a tiny green asterisk--Neverland--floated serenely. The young man who played Peter Pan perfectly captured the paradox that is this character, both tender and tough, a pre/post sexual overgrown child. Tinkerbell, I think, was the best of the portrayals. Instead of the miniature cheesecake Disney gave us, she played the part like a nasty little four year old urchin, which was both funny and convincing. With her Mexican accent and frazzled tutu, sparked with internal lights and bespattered with artificial dirt, she made the perfect match for this Peter.
The Darling children, even Wendy, who always nauseated with her preciousness and prissiness, almost escaped that by being childlike in the ways you would have wished. The puppet animals (not just Nana, the dog, but a couple of fantastic birds fashioned from drapery and footballs) were lovely and fanciful, and the versatile props and Chinese dragon crocodile were whimsical delights.
We were struck by the sad state of maleness, as portrayed in this show, which announces frequently that men are both helpless and useless without women, and ciphers with them. When they escape, as Peter does, they are only half human, incapable of connection. This is what is most valuable about that story, pondering this commentary of emotional disconnectedness.