In recent years the National Theatre’s non-Christmassy Christmas shows have moved in somewhat from left field towards adaptations of classic children’s stories. Pinocchio pretty much covers all the bases: a version of Carlo Collodi’s beloved 1883 tale about a magical wooden puppet who longs to become a real boy, it includes the songs from the 1940 Disney animated feature largely responsible for the tale’s becoming so widely beloved, and a script by Dennis Kelly, writer of the book of Matilda The Musical and TV series such as Pulling and Utopia. It’s directed by John Tiffany, whose successes range from Black Watch to Harry Potter And The Cursed Child, and designed by the admirable Bob Crowley. Appropriately for a play with such subject matter, it makes extensive use of rod puppetry, from a petite Jiminy Cricket to a double-size Gepetto who towers over Joe Idris-Roberts as Pinocchio.

What’s perplexing is that the whole is somehow less than the sum of all these first-rate parts. Crowley’s design looks simple and sumptuous at once and is far more detailed than it seems. Locations are labelled in Italian: even the huge illuminated letters which form most of the Pleasure Island set (where naughty children are turned into donkeys) spell out “Isola del Piacere.” Jamie Harrison’s illusions include a fine donkey-transformation and, of course, the ever-growing nose.

Kelly’s script and Tiffany’s staging are unsettlingly shadowy, but not excessively so (although the Blue Fairy’s final declaration – that what makes humans human is pain – may be pushing it a bit), and the visual aspect always counteracts this tendency. So do Martin Lowe’s arrangements of the songs, which veer towards the sentimental (few would mourn the loss of the piccolo from this orchestra pit). Idris-Roberts is a friendly Pinocchio, with Audrey Brisson an amusing, hygiene-neurotic female Jiminy Cricket and David Langham urbanely despicable as the Fox.

And yet, and yet. The many children in the opening-night audience were silent, but it didn’t seem to be the silence of captivation. Neither the hum of boredom nor the buzz of excitement were noticeable either during the performance or in the interval, and much of the applause seemed dutiful. My adult side, which observes and admires creativity, intelligence and flair, was agreeably engaged; the child in me, that wanted to be entranced, wasn’t.

Written for the Financial Times.