The news that Miramax co-founder Harvey Weinstein was to make the leap into theatrical production with a musical version of his 2004 movie aroused a flurry of speculation: that Gwyneth Paltrow might be in it (she isn't); that Bono and the Edge would be paying a visit (they have). It's certainly a coup for the Curve to be the focus for such an event: though what actually emerges is an industriously staged, if slightly anaemic, adaptation of a flawed and semi-imagined biopic.
DH Lawrence observed that "JM Barrie has a fatal touch for those he loves. They die." It's hardly the premise for an uplifting, family musical; and Allan Knee's book romanticises events to say the least. It takes for granted that Barrie's cuckoo-like inveiglement into the Llewelyn Davies family was more of a blessing than a curse. The boys' mother, Sylvia, is conveniently introduced as a widow (in fact, her husband, Arthur, was still alive when Barrie's infatuation began). And her final exit up a primrose staircase towards the beckoning stars is at some remove from the reality of an early death from cancer.
As long as you accept we're in the realm of pure fantasy, the concept works well enough: Rob Ashford's picturesque staging is never wanting for a spectacular intervention, be it a pirate ship, a vintage car or an enormous St Bernard dog. But it outruns the invention of Scott Frankel's score, which stirs the emotions much as one might stir porridge, in the hope that it will eventually produce a more piquant flavour. Rosalie Craig gives an affecting performance as Sylvia; but although Julian Ovenden's Barrie is personable, you never quite believe he possesses the psychological capacity to write a work as morally ambivalent as Peter Pan, despite the entreaties of Oliver Boot's Hook to lay aside banal drawing-room comedies and connect with his inner pirate. In fact, the most completely realised performance comes from 12-year-old Harry Polden, whose troubled Peter Llewelyn Davies already shows signs of the mental disquiet that would lead to him hurling himself under a train.
In short, Weinstein's first venture as a theatrical producer hits most of the targets it attempts to. Yet its tendency to sentimentalise Barrie's peculiar genius has the effect of making death seem like a curiously small adventure.
