Tim Bannerman's Diary of a Pantomime 3
“The Mystery of the Exploding Greenhouse” – a pantomime in one violent act, not suitable for gardeners or children.
Well, maybe not – but I took the astonishing spread of lethal, literally bodice-ripping glass shards that must have exploded at some point in the howling nocturnal maelstrom of last weekend’s storm, as a sign that just when you think everything’s slotting into place, it only takes an unsuspected event for everything to be up in the air again.
Fortunately, or otherwise, very little is “slotting into place”, neither plot, nor casting, nor props, nor, most frightening of all, calendar.
I just about managed to give the impression of someone who vaguely knew what they were about at the Great Gathering of the Panto Team last week. At least Chris and I worked out who wanted to do what, in terms of performance and back-stage, singing or not, prop-making, costumes and so on. And it was encouraging to see the sheer numbers round the table, with their various expressions, ranging from energised enthusiasm to degrees of confusion as to exactly what this pantomime was actually about. But Gill and I are still spending all hours in between apples, visit of youngest son’s little family, clearing up exploded greenhouses and the rest of it, worrying at this multi-headed Hydra of a pantomime plot.
Perhaps you could help us?
You see there’s this Knight – he’s a goody – and this Lord – he’s a baddy. And the Lord chops off the Knight’s head because he won’t give up a magic well (with all the usual healing, wish-fulfilling properties you can think of). The Knight has given a solemn oath to protect this well, along with the gift of a fabulous bowl given to him as reward for his healing arts on his travels in the East. The well, as you would expect, is a life-giving resource for all living things in this remote village and, in return for sanctuary from all his battles and travails over the long, long years of his wanderings, the Knight lays down his sword and settles down for a nice, quiet retirement.
Blessed by the Nine Witches of the Brook from the Hill, the precious bowl is brought out once year for the villagers to share in a Wassail to celebrate their communal care and well-being and to bless the harvest of the fruits of their magnificent orchard to come. All the faiths and rituals of ancient times and current times blend as one as Pomona, goddess of the fruits and the trees in the orchard, is hailed by Christian and Pagan. She, a pure in heart young woman of the village, takes the blessing to the well after all have drunk and sung and made merry, and cleanses the sacred bowl in the well. And so it was – until the arrival of the wicked Lord, 1st Earl of Archenfield.
After the somewhat one-sided battle with the Knight, who, as a Hospitaller, has sworn never to kill, the Lord then claims all the common land and starts building his mansion. However, because he chopped off the Knight’s head, the witches place a curse on the well and it dries up, leaving only the blood-stained stones as an enraging reminder of the wrong he has committed. So he builds over the top of it. If he can’t use it, then no-one else can. So there.
Fast forward 1,000 years and we are in a dilapidated mansion, yes, the same, where we meet a young woman who was dumped on the doorstep as a baby in a basket 18 years before, with a note addressed to Ethelred Archenfield, saying: “Please look after this baby. Her name is Eleanor. I can’t look after her but I love her with all my heart and will come back to find her one day.” The note is unsigned but Ethelred, known inevitably by all and sundry as Ethel, is not only heir to the now dilapidated dynasty founded by the bad first Lord, but is pretty sure whose baby it is. As a consequence, he devotes himself to the care of the baby despite the remonstrances of his old battleaxe of his mother. She suspects it is his baby no matter how much he denies this.
Ethel is now the new, unmarried Lord Archenfield, the house is falling down, the family faces ruin, thanks to his father having gambled away the last of the family fortunes, and the baby, known, of course, as Ella, is now a fine young woman in her own right. However, not unnaturally, she wants to know who her mother and father are so she can truly know who she is and why she was abandoned in a basket on the doorstep of the old hall.
Fortunately, in addition to Ethel, who is not very good at anything, especially being a Lord, except gardening and looking after her, she has some allies in the house. These include the mice, who have been there for as long as the family over the generations, and – ta-ra! – the Ghost, who is none other than the headless Knight, condemned to haunt the house and its inhabitants in perpetuity – until or unless the house and, more importantly, the well, all once on common land, are returned to their rightful congregation of villagers.
So here we are in the present day. Ella, as she’s now called is hard at work preparing for the first Cider-makers’ Ball. Ethel’s younger brother, called Perry, has decided that it would help market their cider and Perry’s Perry from their orchard, which is all that remains of the once as-far-as-the-eye-can-see estate. And it’s her birthday. 18 and never been kissed. Or hardly.
Lots of comic business ensues from the Ghost, the Witches, the Young Farmers and two hapless builders who, in their slapstick chaos, manage to uncover the old well, hidden these thousand years or more. Oh and two holiday-makers-cum-treasure seekers who are on the trail of the precious bowl. Plus two mad old Archenfield aunts and then the arrival of a big, brash American property developer, strangely reminiscent of the first Lord A.with his eye on creating a super new site for the British Open Golf tournament – over the top of the crumbling mansion and the orchard. And a strange woman who appears exactly on Ella’s birthday. Who can she be, we wonder…?
It may not surprise you that it turns out that all of them are connected in one way or another with the village and its past and – but I wouldn’t like to spoil the ending, so you’ll either have to come and see it, or wait till Gill and Chris and I have worked out how to bring it all together.
But it’s a minefield in so many ways. Not only does everyone have to have a part but it has to be the right part – not too long, not too short, not too serious, not too funny, singing or non-singing. And then there’s all the names of the characters. We’ve had to change several of them as they’re too close to real people in the village. And there are at least two old mansions-cum-castles that have been lived in by the same families for 1,000 years or so on the doorstep. Let alone trying write something that will make sense to a 5 year old and a 90 year old and everything in between.
A long way to go but the music is wonderful, thanks to our resident composer, Chris. Just got to find a way to write it so it doesn’t go on longer than Hamlet, has the right balance of story and silliness, isn’t too soppy or preachy, yet can tug the odd tear-duct as well as the tickling sticks, and has a good, simple moral at its heart. Simples, as they say on tv.
Unless it all explodes like the greenhouse.
