<< Back 12/11/02 The sad truth about ‘The Nutcracker’ By Jay Hardwig I have said it before: I am not a Christmas Grinch. Oh sure, certain things bug me — if you’re not at least a little grossed out, you’re not paying attention — but by and large I am in the holiday spirit. I like poinsettias, eggnog, and little tiny light bulbs. I like Handel’s “Messiah,” coffeecake in the morning, and stockings hung by the mantle with care. Lampoil miracles suit me fine, and while I’ve never been to one, I think I would take a shine to the Muslim feast called Eid-Al-Fitr. And though I wouldn’t eat a roasted chestnut without a sharp stick held to my back, I’m glad they’re being roasted all the same. “The Nutcracker,” however, gives me gas. Not only is it a bore, it’s a pretentious one. Of all the recycled holiday contrivances out there, “The Nutcracker” is one that I wish they’d leave alone. I have painful memories of going to see the Knoxville Ballet Company’s performance of “The Nutcracker” as a third-grader. And a fourth-grader. And a fifth-grader. I have never been a fan of ballet. To this day I’m not sure if this distaste was a product of — or a prelude to — my repeated forced exposure to “The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies” when I was still a young and impressionable child. I was a rare third-grader in that I listened almost entirely to classical music, but “The Nutcracker Suite” failed to move me. On top of that, I found the story more boring than fantastical. Wooden soldiers, giant mice, everyone in a tutu: it’s the kind of surreal experience that I ought to have enjoyed, but to this day I find it stilted and absurd. I’m not sure why. So when I was informed, just before Thanksgiving, that our weekend plans involved a trip to “The Nutcracker,” I was less than thrilled. We were in Washington, D.C., at the time, and if the news had a saving grace, it was that the production was being staged by The Puppet Company, a capital-area troupe that specializes in children’s theater, fancy stringwork, and things with big foam heads. This wasn’t ballet: it was puppetry. Puppets I like. Rolf the Dawg is a puppet. I shouldn’t have been so forgiving. “The Nutcracker” is as “The Nutcracker does” — whatever that means — and moving from ballerinas to hand puppets makes little difference. Of course, it wasn’t all hand puppets, but rod puppets, shadow puppets, and marionettes as well — the full puppet spectrum, as it were. The large, people-sized puppets — the ones with the foam heads — were built like the dumpy critters of kids fare on TV, although in an odd turn they were given those big slanty eyes one associates with the aliens from the Weekly World News. If I had to write the headline, it would read as follows: Alien Teletubbies Perform Tchaikovsky Ballet. I was bored silly in five minutes. Eli, of course, was not. He was transfixed, if a little baffled. It was like TV — which he loves — except it wasn’t TV. It was bright and big and colorful; there was music; there was action and exaggeration and a touch of slapstick: he could hang. There were no words, mind you, so his Mom whispered the play-by-play in his ear whenever she could. There were times, however, when it was hard for even seasoned Nutcracker-watchers to tell what the oaf was going on. The narrative makes little sense as it is — a young girl dreams that she does battle with a mouse who has nearly broken a nutcracker — and at 2, I’m sure Eli was duly confounded. Still, as I’ve said before, things don’t have to make sense to be entertaining to a toddler. They’re still at the age where nothing makes sense, and therefore everything makes sense. They are open to all possible worlds, and even a few impossible ones. There is something refreshing in that. While Eli watched on with a rapt expression usually reserved for Bob the Builder, I looked for another source of entertainment. I found one in a dour old usher who frowned royally and wielded her flashlight with grave authority. In that flashlight was power, and she knew it. She saw herself as the Keeper of the Law in that puppet theater, and she had no intention of letting control slip from her knotted fingers. She was constantly hushing and shushing young kids who tittered too loudly, and went far enough as to escort a few to the door. She seemed to have identified our corner as one with potential misfits, and cast many disapproving glances our way. Those glances were chilling and vindictive, an effect that was not mitigated in the least by her period dress and cheery red bonnet. Every good trip to the puppet theater needs a good adversary, and I had mine. I began to peer back at her with something of the distaste she sent my way, but if she noticed she was too strong to show it. I became so engaged in this epic battle of the minds that I scarcely noticed when the final chords of the piece began to sound, calling down the curtains and signaling an imminent end to the masquerade. The lights came up and Eli looked around blinking. I had to admit that, with the benefit of full light, the usher didn’t seem nearly so menacing. I made my peace and headed for the exits. I am a poor sport, I know. Bashing puppet theater takes a particularly sour spirit, and I feel bad having done it. The Puppet Company, after all, had managed to entertain a roomful of kids ranging in age from 1 to 12 for almost an hour. The kids were not just entertained, they were spellbound. What’s more, the yeofolks at the Puppet Company did it all without a TV screen — in flesh, blood, and felt, that is — and without a word from our sponsors. For that, I give them their due. Next time, though, let’s opt for something fresher. Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas? Now that’s entertainment. (Jay Hardwig can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)