Written and Directed by Johnny McKnight

Musical Direction, Composition and Arrangements by Alan Penman

Review by Dominic Corr

Macroberts Art Centre

Remarkable to think that, in celebrating their twenty years of involvement with the Macroberts Art Centre pantomime, the celebrated performer, writer, director, dame, and icon Johnny McKnight revisits the woods nearly a decade later. McKnight brings Stirling to the forefront of the Scottish pantomime extravaganza with a production that rings with laughter and passion, possessing plenty of brains, sass, and raucous amounts of cheer and mirth.

Though many shortcut their remarks on McKnight’s perfection of the craft, this never seems to make them feel the need to coast or to push themselves (or their knees) to the brink. Magic Merlina, armed with some of Loof’s costume designs, is equipped with a thistle and buns to lead this merry band of whiskered and jazzy-decked miscreants through a journey of magic and identity. But it isn’t Merlina’s story: it’s an ensemble production where love is at the heart of all things—paternal, unrequited, friendship, and yes, romantic.

Amidst the trees, nestled in a quaint little school, beats an enchanting heart of sorcery—utilised for good (and a few perks for Merlina). Gretel is top of the class, and Hansel, well, they’re scraping by at the back. Helen McAlpine, right by McKnight’s side where they were born to be, makes for an ideal go-between for the audience—just enough banter to keep the jokes flowing, but invested enough in the story to carry us forward. Equally, Kara Swinney’s Gretel works hard to strike a balance of a goodie-two-shoes without overstepping the mark; the audience is on their side, particularly as they open up about their insecurities and worries.

The David Thomlinson of the Panto-sphere, Robert Jack, continues their running streak of outstanding contributions to villainy as the Sheriff of Stirling-Stella-ham, the dastardly magic-user who flaunts their ambitions in ruling all. Fully immersed, and more than keen for any laugh they can eke out of their co-stars, Jack ensures the audience knows when they aren’t playing along enough, and relishes the flourishes of foul play in a way that makes you root for the baddie to win. And when paired with McKnight and McAlpine? Lethal. Sides will split, grins will stretch, and undies may require changing whenever these three are left unattended.

But it’s not all humour; there’s a touching heart and a tackling of wealth distribution by way of the tremendously talented Dani Heron, shifting gear from Ayr Gaiety to the Macroberts—hanging up their baddie cape and strutting out in a pair of thigh-slapping tights as Little Red, just in the beginning stages of realising their true goal of helping those less fortunate. Vocally, Heron and Kara Swinney stand out over Penman’s composition, hitting the notes and carrying a few of the more recognisable tunes (ensuring not one person in the audience is tired of hearing “Golden” just yet), surrounded by a chorus of the young cast members—every last one of them a credit to the theatre and those supporting them. Holding their own with the cast, throwing out a solid line or three, and led by understudies and dance captains Katie Weir and Craig Hunter.

Often flanking, darting around Karen Tennent’s effective set design, is the howling greatness of past Kirkcaldy Panto star Robin MacKenzie: a name any critic worth their salt will be taking note of. Capturing Stephanie MacDonald’s choreography and making it their own, MacKenzie’s glittering wolf is precisely the sort of ‘lackey’ all baddies should have: fabulous, furry, and belting out a note with ease.

The deeper into the woods we venture, the more the weans grow. And the deeper into the Panto we traverse, the more we see the history of the art form mature. All the classical elements—puns to groan over, costume changes to marvel at, and tropes to tick off—are present. But in the twenty years McKnight has been appearing on and off stage at the Macroberts, it becomes clear that the landscape of this pantosphere has been forever shaped for the better. Weans in the Woods is a perfect panto prance through identity and tribute: fart gags sit alongside normalised moments of queer identity, and classical skits match wits with puns on the skitters and recognition of injustices and poverty gaps. Pantomime has grown up, but still has that cheeky, timeless smile at heart.

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