In C.S. Lewis’ iconic novel The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, four siblings are being fostered in an English countryside mansion during the Second World War. While playing games, they stumble across a mysterious wardrobe with finicky abilities. When the youngest child, Lucy, steps into it, she encounters a magical land full of snow, wonder, and fairytale creatures. But when her doubtful older siblings Peter and Susan look inside, all that’s presented to them is an array of coats on hangers. The Shaw Festival’s new adaptation, directed by Selma Dimitrijevic, feels closer to Peter and Susan’s experience. Sometimes, theatre transports you to a fantastic new world. Other times, you just get the coats.
This is the Shaw Festival’s final adventure in the world of Narnia; over the last few years, it’s tackled a handful of other entries in Lewis’ series, including Prince Caspian and The Magician’s Nephew. Because of its majestic scale, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe would be a challenge for any company. This version, adapted for the stage by Dimitrijevic and Tim Carroll, aims to maintain the original material’s mature exploration of war, politics, and Christian faith, all while remaining kid-friendly and true to the fantasy genre.
In some ways, it succeeds, mainly due to the cast’s considerable skill. The accomplished Élodie Gillett struts across the stage in a Targaryen-in-trousers ensemble as the White Witch — an evil, power-drunk usurper determined to keep her control over the kingdom of Narnia. This White Witch is hammy, cackling, merciless, and sassy, every inch the Disney Renaissance villain. As the bumbling Professor Kirke and the chirpy Mr. Tumnus, David Adams and Michael Therriault play their talkative comic relief characters well, immersing audiences in this strange reality where England and Narnia can co-exist.
In other aspects, this production disenchants. Narnia’s snow is just white birthday party streamers hanging from the ceiling. Compared to the winter wonderland described in the books, I found this underwhelming. James Lavoie is listed in the program as the scenic consultant, and I struggled to accept his simpler vision of Lewis’ world — I was expecting a little more sparkle and magic.
The show includes two musical numbers, but doesn’t quite commit to being a full-on musical. Mr. Beaver (Shawn Wright) and Mrs. Beaver (Jade Repeta) put on a pantomime-esque performance as they serve a home-cooked feast to Susan (Kristi Frank), Peter (Jeff Ivring), Lucy (Alexandra Gratton), and Edmund (Dieter Lische-Parkes). Later, the whole cast performs a Broadway-style ensemble song, led by the Spirit of Narnia (played by Alana Bridgewater). Though the musical numbers showcase the cast’s singing talents, they do little to add to the plot, and disrupt the narrative’s pacing.
Most noticeably of all, the show’s depiction of the talking lion Aslan, the signature character of the series, was for me a major disappointment. Lewis characterizes Aslan as a regal, larger-than-life, godlike figure who inspires awe, reverence, and loyalty in the other characters. This production presents Aslan as an ordinary human, played by Kelly Wong, with no costume save a pair of trousers, a shirt, and suspenders. There is little to back up the idea that this Aslan is meant to be a ginormous beast ruling over Narnia, other than an occasional timely roar. The production retreats from taking any sort of risk with him. As a longtime admirer of the Chronicles of Narnia books and the Disney movies, I found this minimalist take on Aslan to be disheartening; it felt like a trip to the zoo where the lion cage is empty.
Overall, Shaw’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe makes for a fun enough afternoon or evening for a family with children, or perhaps a group of adults in search of nostalgia. But its too-safe visual approach offers little of the expected splendour. I left the theatre with lukewarm feelings and a continued preference for the books.
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe runs at the Shaw Festival until October 4. Tickets are available here.
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