#smallgirl was suitably excited entering the tent (‘We’re in a balloon!” she said), and the auditorium was magical. Stadium seating was covered in soft green Astroturf and the set was beautiful, a faithful reproduction of the television show. Above us, projected on the ceiling of the tent, the Pinky Ponk flew, making less obscene noises than usual it has to be said. On this ceiling, flowers grew, stars twinkled, and magic was created. The light dimmed. The whole auditorium, full of once noisy children and their keepers, hushed, spellbound and ready. It was not a good moment then when Will, the director, bounded on stage in mufti, apologising for the heat and introducing the show. “Hello, I’m Will, I’m the director”, he said apologetically, to a slightly stunned ennui. No-one even asked “What’s a director?”. If three year olds knew what tumbleweed was, this would have been such a moment. However, #smallgirl and her compatriots were willing to ignore this faux pas, and if it’s good enough for them it’s certainly good for us; the ‘rents let out a sigh and on with the show. However, directors everywhere, please note: don’t apologise and don’t ever introduce your show, especially if your audience is only three years old and you’ve gone a long way to immersing them in a magical world.

The show proper started beautifully with a recorded version of the song that starts the television programme. Maybe it was the hot day, but as soon as I heard ‘The night is black, And the stars are bright, And the sea is dark and deep...”, I had to wipe away a little tear and even blow my nose; this was the first thing on television that had really captured #smallgirl’s imagination, it was beautiful to be with her, absorbed in the experience. Or else it was my sinuses, who knows. My attention was soon drawn back to the stage as there was a roar from the small audients – here came Igglepiggle’s boat! Yes! Again this was beautifully done, with a puppet Igglepiggle ferried across stage by one of the garden people, puppeteers who remained visible throughout the show. The boat was complete with its sail (‘Take the Little Sail Down’ – and it did!) and Igglepiggle’s blanket. And lo! As it went off into the wings, on came a big Igglepiggle! He was growed because of perspective don’t you know, the size of a Real Person (indeed, the size of a Very Hot Actor). Well you could not believe the noise! Every single child in that audience shouted to Igglepiggle and waved at him, each one calling to him because of their own personal relationship with the character. And Igglepiggle waved back, and every child in that tent knew he was waving at them. It was the meeting with a true friend you had lived each of your 36 months for. It was beautiful.

And on this note I wish I could end. Indeed, I sort of wish that at that moment we were transported back home, the special magic intact and the moment living with #smallgirl forever. But it was not to be; we stayed on our seat and watched the show. So what could possibly go wrong? The thing is, the show was a faithful replication of the television show, following the same format rather than attempting to find a story arc. This almost magazine format with regular favourite items works well for an episodic television programme but not for a one-off theatre event. And each episode is at most 25 minutes; drawing it out to more than twice its length for the theatre show just had to create longeurs.

Clever attempts were made at perspective for no earthly reason; the children neither noticed, understood nor cared, and these added length without interest. Moreover, as any fule kno, short choppy scenes work fabulously in television but very rarely in theatre. This is not only because they sometimes necessitate disproportionately long scene changes, but actually because theatre is a more leisurely medium, it needs to take time to get to know its characters, to build story, to make emotional connection. It can’t use short cuts like close ups to convey emotion, actors actually have to act. But what theatre can do that television can’t is create an absolutely live immediacy, and a real feeling of relationship. This is what had happened the moment that Igglepiggle entered, and the actor, even encased in several kilos of foam and blue fluff, knew how to work with it. However this was never exploited by the director. Neither Igglepiggle nor any of the succeeding characters, beyond a wave, ever broke the fourth wall. Macca Pacca was a round ball of endearing cuteness and the children were so interested in him for so long, but he didn’t ask for their help in finding his lost sponge, ask them to count his pile of stones, or teach them his song. The production, like the programme, has a narrator; this device could have been used to provide a ‘voice’ for the character or instructions for the audience. But none of this happened. By the time Upsy Daisy came on, interest had wained considerably. Where children and adults had sung the familiar songs enthusiastically this had become somewhat desultory. The fabulous scene with the puppet Pontipines should have been a delight for everyone, but by now the audience was distracted, by the heat, by their snacks, by each other. Towards the end I looked around and the disarray of the once serried ranks of audience members was now reminiscent of the Louisiana Superdome, with individual families leading their own lives, having a snack and a chat, and an awful lot of ‘rents looking at their watches.

Finally came the bandstand, with all of the characters on stage dancing, right down to projected Ha Hoos at the back. Everyone was pleased to see this, clapped it hugely and made their way out quickly. However it was not the end; despite being a celebratory set piece which would have fitted a theatre finale well, the television show does not end here and stubbornly neither did the theatre one. The curtains started to re-open; someone spotted a distinct lack of audience and the curtains faltered while someone backstage tried to work out what to do next; they finally stuttered apart and the few of us remaining saw a potted version of the end of the show. The rest had fled; had they thought it was the end? Or worse, had they known it was not?

Throughout all of this, one small girl (not my own) in a blue polka dot dress stood just to one side of me throughout the whole show. She was transfixed from the beginning to the very, very end. She did not even notice the audience leaving. For her, this whole thing had been one magical trip to the Night Garden, and one she will never forget. This is what all of the children should have found. And with its fabulous set and costumes, its excellent performers and even its great auditorium, this is what the show deserved. It was a faithful reproduction of the television show. But theatre is not television, and television is not theatre, and theatre should never be just television with legs. It’s just a pity no-one told Will.

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