A Christmas Carol review

Now in its eighth year, the Old Vic's production of A Christmas Carol is as much a part of the festive season as turkey, Brussels sprouts, mince pies and mulled wine.

There's no free mulled wine on offer but complimentary mince pies and satsumas are handed out by ushers in Victorian garb as you enter the auditorium and the band plays some jolly tunes, creating a cheerful atmosphere.

Not that there's much cheer in the first act of Jack Thorne's adaptation of the Charles Dickens classic. Thorne has made a few tweaks to the original; Ebenezer Scrooge’s father is an alcoholic and the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future are female.

But mostly his script cleaves faithfully to the well-known tale of a tight-fisted businessman who is shown the error of his ways by the ghosts who come to haunt him on Christmas Eve.

John Simm joins a distinguished line of thespians in the lead role, following Rhys Ifans, Stephen Tompkinson, Paterson Joseph, Andrew Lincoln (via live broadcast during the Covid lockdown),  Stephen Mangan, Owen Teale and Christopher Eccleston.

I saw Teale and Eccleston and where the former was like a grizzly bear who became a gentle giant and the latter played Scrooge as a crotchety miser who eventually found giddy joy in helping others, Simm has a lighter touch. He snarls and scowls, but there's a sardonic humour beneath the bluster and he's light on his feet too.

Unchanged since it debuted in 2017, the production remains a marvel. Traditional carols are threaded into the story, Hugh Vanstone’s lighting creates mood with minimal scenery, and director Matthew Warchus directs it at a nimble pace, keeping things as lean as the perfectly cooked roast.

Speaking of which, when Scrooge sees the error of his ways and serves up a Christmas feast for all and sundry a huge turkey swings above his head (Simm ducks it deftly), sprouts float down from on high on little parachutes and fruit and spuds are rolled down to the stage on linen chutes.

As befits Dickens' story, darkness gives way to light as fake snow drenches the stalls (it's made of a soapy substance that dissolves quickly) and the ensemble take up bells to perform Silent Night.

It's a lovely end to a Yuletide treat and Dickens' plea for charity towards those who are less fortunate than ourselves rings out loud and clear, with the departing audience asked to donate whatever they can to Waterloo Foodbank.

I'm sure he'd be pleased to know that a tale he spun in 1843 was still inspiring folk to open their hearts and wallets.