Look behind you!

This Christmas, I wanted to revisit a beloved British tradition: Pantomime, or ‘Panto’. I think I was first introduced to the word while reading The Mystery of the Pantomime Cat, featuring the Five Find-Outers – only decades later was I to find out that the theatre tradition is quite different from the literal translation of the word. It isn’t mute mimicry but something loud, proud and slapstick.

With just four months in the city and my first time living alone, I was pushed to choose between staring at the ceiling or popping by and saying hello to my friendly neighbourhood amateur theatre.

Community theatres here are known for their inclusiveness and tend to welcome all with open arms. I was asked if I could sing on my first visit and on nodding affirmative, made part of the chorus. Little did I know then that there’d be dancing involved as well. Also, it didn’t matter whether I said yes or no; the chorus was the place for all late joiners and stage fright grapplers.

In the middle of the practice sessions, I remember someone from the group asking me if I’d participated in Panto before. When I said I hadn’t, that my last theatre experience was doing community shows for family and friends back home during New Year’s as a kid, I was helpfully told to think of Panto as a Bollywood musical.

Oh Boy!

Now, I could write an essay on Bollywood musicals and how mixing top-notch storytelling, entertainment, and music precedes Taylor Swift. But I digress; that’s a story for another day.

The similarities between Panto and Bollywood musicals end with both being family entertainers and both perhaps adapting beloved folk tales. Cross-dressing is not a staple in the latter, nor can it invite the audience to participate. Both do evoke joy and laughter and if done right, nostalgia.

Once confident that the theatre was not part of some intricate church induction, I could put my guard down and do people-watching at leisure. With few exceptions, most of my playmates(!) were retired folks who had been part of the theatre for very many years, and were a treat to observe. If I’m not mistaken, the oldest was well into her 70s or maybe even 80s and, like the others, hadn’t lost her joie de vivre. You could be forgiven for taking them to be a bunch of playful, teasing teenagers, acting cheeky with the crowd, sharing everyday life experiences, being nonchalant about their troubles, and showing us the innate wisdom in not taking life too seriously.

My brief encounter also gave me occasion for some inventive costume-making. I was a villager and a troll, instructed to paint my face scary for a tug-of-war chase sequence and provoke the kids in the audience as we circled them. We had gunny bags to coat in mud, add spidery/skull décor, and/or slash away. Slash away I did and used the leftover cut-outs for a mummy-inspired mask, saving myself the trouble of face painting while taking sanctuary from a hundred watchful eyes.

Even otherwise, the stage fright hiccups were minimal, and the five performance days were festive and well-synchronised. The audience had fun, there were drinks all around, and we’d end each day on the high note of a celebratory carol.  

End of the Panto - Mother Goose Party!

All of this was last year, and because of travel commitments and life occurrences, I couldn’t continue participating in subsequent plays. In retrospect, I’m surprised I did the first time. My 13-year-old self would be proud. She’d also call me a silly goose.