There’s a sign up in Hyde Park which says something to the effect that J.M.Barrie erected the famous sculpture of Peter Pan “near this spot” in 1912.  What’s remarkable is that apparently the statue appeared overnight, as if by magic. You can see how the organisers of this summer’s production of Peter Pan in the park would have loved this little gem of a fact as a marketing gift.  Peter Pan in the park, right where the statue is.. ker-ching! It’s a box office hit! 

I’m not sure J.M.Barrie would have been so thrilled but on the day we went - today in fact, a hot Saturday matinee performance - many were; the glorified circus tent was packed.  Recession?  What recession?  Our tickets, 2nd best out of three options, were a princely £38.50 each, so for four of us, plus a booking fee, it cost £172.  A very rough guess and I’d say they are making about £60k per performance, although their production costs, the star of which is definitely the lavish backdrops projected onto the 360degree circular tent roof can’t have been cheap.  This video footage was the saving grace of the entire show.  At one point, when Peter Pan, Wendy and the boys were flying over the roof tops of London, over the park, over St Paul’s under a glittering night sky, it was absolutely magical.  For a second you could almost forget the chattering of toddlers in the audience. 

But that was at one point only.  The rest of the time, it was truly awful, with the terrible acoustics not helped by the sounds of little kids and their big parents fidgeting, getting up to go and buy another Magnum/Calippo/popcorn, to make yet another trip to the loo, or worse still, arriving late (although with the ticket prices so expensive I suppose they could hardly be turned away).  

The acting, as wooden as the stage-floor, was really no more than shouting, and jumping up and down.  It reminded me of that bit in the Generation Game when Bruce Forsyth used to get a mother and son or an uncle and nephew to enact a scene from A Tale of Two Cities or something.   To be fair, perhaps that’s because if you cast grown-ups to play kids, they’re always going to look faintly ridiculous at best, and for the most part slightly perverse.  Captain Hook and his team of pirates worked well, because they were always meant to be adults playing adults.  

So where did it all go wrong?  Well,  do I need to see Tigerlily perform a vaguely seductive dance for Peter Pan to a breathy soundtrack of what as my husband said sounded like a couple humping on the mixing desk, having hit the volume button accidentally?   Aren’t they supposed to be about 12?  Maybe this is what 12 year olds do these days, or maybe they put that bit of titillation in for the dads in the audience, who by now were probably getting a bit fed up with all those trips to the loo with toddlers in tow.  It wouldn’t have surprised me if they decided to take a short cut across the stage… “Excuse me Captain Hook.. mind if I take little Jack to the bog?” 

But the sexy dance did get me thinking.  Maybe I’d missed the point with Peter Pan.  Perhaps really it’s the ultimate chick flick plot-line, three very different women fighting for their man.   First up, Tinkerbell, who in this production resembles a cross between Leah Wood, Katy Perry, and one of those grubby girls you see hanging out at Notting Hill Carnival, way after everyone else has gone home.  You know, the one with a few goat bones and a can of Nourish, who knows where to score crack on Westbourne Park Road.  She’s wearing a pink tutu, a white tight vest and a pair of Doctor Marten-style boots (you just know they’re not the real thing).

Next contender for his affections is Tigerlily, with her Salome-style dance.  And thirdly, Wendy, playing the maternal, yet virginal figure, the Madonna.  ”What are your exact feelings for me Peter?” she asks.  ”Like a devoted son,” he replies.  If this was a pantomime, (and it nearly was) we’d all be shouting, “HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU!” 

Half-time comes along and for a minute, we wonder if we can get away with pretending it’s the end but the kids look at us suspiciously.  ”Really?  It’s a funny ending.”  Armand wants to know what is going to happen to Peter Pan, who has been left to die on a rock. 

“Why does he have to die?” asks Armand. 

“To spare us from the second half,” mutters Olly under his breath. 

So we persevere.  There’s a kid three seats down who’s kicking what sounds like an empty oil drum but it’s probably only a coke can.  I’m so disgruntled and bored now and thinking how many outfits I could have bought in TopShop for £170 that it might as well be an oil tanker.   Wendy is being annoying on stage in a jumper and pyjama combination that looks suspiciously like it comes from Uniqlo.  Would it be very rude to get my iPod out from my handbag?  Or my copy of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet? 

“Do you think if we clap really hard at the end of this scene everyone will think it’s the end and we can go home?”  I whisper to Olly.   He shakes his head, sadly.  ”How about a Mexican wave?” 

It ends, somewhat sinisterly, with a message all chick-flick fans will recognise.  Wendy, you see, gets old. She can’t fly any more. “I’m an old married woman now.”  So what does Peter do?  He runs off with HER DAUGHTER!

I think I preferred my daughter’s version, which she performed at school when she was four.  Given the part of Wendy, and faced with a gaggle of little boys and girls lying on the floor to gently put to sleep, she turned furiously on the teacher and shouted as imperiously as only a four-year old can, “MY NAME IS NOT WENDY!” 

Now that, was worth paying money for.