Christmas in Radio City

Spectator, The, Dec 13-Dec 20, 2003 by Bredin, Henrietta

Henrietta Bredin thrills to a traditional New York experience

If you go to New York in December there is an annual event that I think almost anyone would get a kick out of -the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. And oh, my goodness, for once the word 'spectacular' entirely lives up to its promise.

Just walking into the building is a thrill. The first thing you see is the luscious curve of the great Art Deco staircase, down which Ginger Rogers should be swooping in a tremble of ostrich feathers, but which is more likely to be thronged with people wrapped up against the cold outside in quilted coats that make them look like Michelin men, clutching the hands of fractious children who are in turn hanging on to buckets of popcorn the size of their heads.

The auditorium is vast and, as you settle into your seat, a troupe of trumpeters blasts a festive welcome before giving way to a 3-D animation sequence that you have to look at through special glasses. Then, before you have a chance to catch your breath, the massive curtain sweeps up in a delectably creamy sequence of folds, revealing a gigantic Christmas tree that fills the stage. A door opens in its base and out trips a never-ending line of precision-trained, muscle-toned, orthodontically blinding, rattle-tapping, scarlet-lipglossed, snowball-costumed Rockettes.

These girls are astounding. It would not be possible to do what they do any better, or with a more lavish helping of seemingly absolutely genuine gusto. Gusto which they certainly need as, although there are two separate sets of dancers who alternate shows, each one of them does at least two performances a day. And the costume changes! No fewer than eight of them altogether. One minute they're in sparkling holly-leaf green with white fur trim, the next in tunics, plumed shakos and white trousers with a broad red stripe down their sides for the famous Toy Soldier number, which finishes with them all collapsing backwards on to one another in an immaculate falling domino line.

But my absolute favourite is the reindeer outfit. Brown velvet breeches, jauntily tilted hats complete with glow-in-the-dark antlers, and something astonishingly clever attached to the front of their shoes, which makes them look as if they've got shiny little hooves at the end of their legs.

The pace is reckless. As soon as the Rockettes finish their first number, a bunch of pastel-shaded dancing bears performs a very strange version of The Nutcracker, then an entire section of the stage disappears and an ice-rink rises up in its place, a pair of skaters gliding about on the gleaming surface as it comes into view. Before one even begins to get used to this transformation, it's gone again, to be replaced by a hall of mirrors filled with an ever-multiplying array of leaping Father Christmases.

Then, after a final joyous explosion of synchronised leg kicks, there is an abrupt and completely unexpected change of gear. A large orchestra appears from below stage (on one of four separately operated elevator sections), a discreet gauze slides down from the flies, the lights dim and a boomingly amplified voice announces: 'The Nativity Experience'.

To the strains of the Mighty Wurlitzer (4,328 pipes), a Charlton Heston sound-alike tells the story of 'One Solitary Life'. Leaden and portentous sentences thud about one's cars and, as they do so, a procession of figures makes its way slowly across the stage, most of them wearing make-up of an alarming orange colour. They are on their way to worship the Baby Jesus, who emits an unearthly glow from his straw-lined crib as his mother bends over him in mute devotion. The shepherds are herding real sheep, a passing friend of theirs is leading a tiny donkey (Aah! goes everyone in the audience), and the three kings have a camel apiece. One of them seems to have lost its hump but it makes up for it by kneeling down in arthritic adoration for the final tableau. When it's all over you file blissfully out on to the rowdy New York streets on a cloud of Christmas carols.

When I last went to Radio City I was accompanied by an extremely eminent theatre designer, a West End stage manager and an erstwhile technical director at English National Opera. They only had one complaint. Considering the exceptionally high standards of execution throughout, wasn't it rather strange that the film sequence at the beginning was so badly out of focus? Somehow, all three of them had failed to notice either the pair of 3-D glasses taped helpfully to their programmes or the fact that every other person in the audience was wearing them.