A ring of tables (at which theatre-diners eat tapas) surrounds the podium on which most of the action is played: the bookish Don (complete with Don's robe – ha!) acquires a louche squire, Sancho Panza, and goes off to seek adventure whilst his niece is violated by the villainous Marquis and the sadistic Duchess dispatches hubby in favour of a matador whose tackle has been replaced with the horn of the bull that gored him. Just as Quixote grows disillusioned, his idealistic visions are vindicated, and they all – well, a few of them – live happily ever after – well, live, anyway.
But all the impossible dreaming in the world can't overlook the weaknesses in Ted Craig's un-Christmassy Christmas show. Vince Foxall, trying to strike a balance between linguistic vivacity and panto banter, scores with his anachronistic phrases but stumbles with all those jingling internal rhymes. The performances of Mia Soteriou's songs come over as sheepish, reluctant to fill either the physical or the imaginative space, and the script degenerates into a fug of metaphysics, revenge and Hispanic supernaturalism as it needs to be hitting its good-time stride. A sad letdown after the Warehouse's last couple of Yules.
Written for City Limits magazine.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights reserved.
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