Pinocchio at Shakespeare’s Globe: A Night That Stayed With Me

As I stood beneath a clear winter sky and the drizzle began to cling to my coat, a familiar feeling took hold. My heart was stolen once again by a magical block of wood destined to become a real boy through the stomach of a whale. Of course it is Pinocchio, and I am quickly learning that this is a story that will always make me cry for reasons I cannot fully name.

Either every production I have seen of this title has been sensational, or there is something inside this story that speaks to a part of me I do not yet understand. I joke about needing more therapy, but perhaps that is why I turn up to the theatre in the first place. To let stories ask the questions I am afraid to say out loud.

I was sceptical about seeing something that is not Shakespeare at the 1997 reincarnation of the Globe Theatre on London’s Southbank. I also thought it was much older. Yet within moments of the production beginning, I and many others, some significantly older than I, gave our hearts to the block of wood that began to dance around the stage.

The rustic aesthetic of the piece lent itself perfectly to its surroundings. But even the Globe could not keep the scale of this show in check. Whenever you thought it could not possibly get any bigger, props moved toward us in The Yard, the stage cracked open beneath our feet, and the Blue Fairy soared across the sky riding a moon.

What I loved about this production was that it gave the younger members of the audience the credit of possessing a few brain cells and understood exactly what it was and where it was being staged. It let us in on the joke too, with several clever quips thrown at us in a brilliant rant. Disarmingly funny, with a heart of gold, and moments of real theatrical magic even within the limitations of the setting, it was easy to suspend disbelief. Though I could physically see things being done, my mind stopped registering them after a while. I promise you, I had only consumed a bottle of still water.

I do not underestimate the number of beats each performer must hit with precision in order to make this piece seem effortless. When something appears simple, the story and its morals shine through.

This is a testament to the book and lyrics by Charlie Josephine, the music and lyrics by Jim Fortune, a beautifully restrained but effective set by Peter O’Rourke, and an ensemble whose relentless energy turns what could be clunky or disjointed into something polished and full of heart.

The folk like production weaves songs into the story in a way that lifts moments rather than overwhelms them with spectacle. As the blueprint of it all comes together through song, we learn that the Globe has the blueprint of a beautiful family musical that warms the hearts of patrons during its winter run.

I think this is one of those stories that demands that cast members bring out their own inner child and inject something from their hearts into the work. Otherwise it would feel flat and not at all grounded, which is an odd thing to say about a tale so fantastical. But the characters, though larger than life, feel changed by this piece and that warmth radiates around the theatre.

Pinocchio is also living proof that theatre can be truly affordable and still deliver a piece that moves, sways and challenges the human experience. You simply have to give yourself to it.

This is a reminder that the Globe should not sit frozen as a historical gimmick on a tourist itinerary. What happened on that stage last night was not a departure from Shakespeare but a return to him. The pyrotechnics. The collapsing floor. The audience interaction. The scale that seems larger than the building itself. These are all Shakespearean devices at their core. The Globe can be a catalyst for theatre that overcomes the rigid limitations of its architecture and still touches audiences in an intimate way.

A wooden boy found a courage I am still learning to find within myself.

Somewhere between the rain, the wood and the moon, I realised something. Stories want us to become real. To stop performing. To be seen. Perhaps that is why I cried. Because a wooden boy found a courage I am still learning to find within myself.