As we sit in the Theatre Royal Plymouth, it strikes us that the stage adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane is nothing if not maximalist.
We’re not sure why we’re surprised. After all, what would you expect from the producers of War Horse and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time? However, it’s still something of a sensory overload. When the audience isn’t being barraged by an influx of pyrotechnics, they’re being subjected to sudden blackouts and loud bangs. When they’re not being smothered in smoke, they’re being exposed to sudden strobe effects; and just when they’re beginning to think that they might be able to relax, they’re swiftly proven wrong.
And therein, dear reader, lies its beauty.
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You see, The Ocean at the End of the Lane isn’t designed to be the kind of show you forget in a hurry.
Having been present at its opening night at Theatre Royal Plymouth, it’s hard to see how anyone in attendance that evening could have walked away feeling anything other than spellbound. It’s a mesmerising production, with spellbinding staging, and a cast as talented as any you might find on the stages of London’s West End.
For those unfamiliar with the plot, it essentially revolves around a man who finds himself standing beside the pond of the old Sussex farmhouse where he used to play. He’s transported to his 12th birthday when his remarkable friend Lettie claimed it wasn’t a pond, but an ocean – or, more specifically, a ‘magical place where everything is possible’.
That, in essence, is what makes The Ocean at the End of the Lane a brilliant piece of theatre. It’s transformational, magical, and immersive, and ensures that each and every member of the audience escapes reality for a few short hours and finds themselves in the middle of something extraordinary.
And isn’t that, dear reader, precisely the point of the theatre?