“Hullo, my little cock robin!” cries Bob Cratchit, catching sight of Tiny Tim and Mrs. Cratchit outside the chilly offices of Scrooge & Marley where he scrabbles out a meagre living. His face lights up in wonder; he sheds the drudgery of his life in the warmth of human connection.
There’s something magnetic about Julien Arnold’s quintessential performance as Scrooge’s frostbitten clerk that just took hold of my heart the other night when I saw the Citadel’s masterful 15-year-old production of A Christmas Carol again.
Later, under thetutelage of a Ghost of Christmas Present, the old skinflint, whose Bah! Humbug! has a withering rage in James MacDonald’s performance, sees the Cratchits at home. And he’s startled, incredulous, appalled, and then jarred by a redeeming ripple of shame, at their capacity for joy – and for grief. It was wonderfully set forth, in vivid detail, Thursday night, as A Christmas Carol returned to its seasonal place: no, my little cock robins you won’t see a better Christmas Carol anywhere.
Every year I see this extraordinary version of Dickens’ great 1843 ghost story; every year I’m struck again by the ingenious theatricality of it, in a magical Victorian pop-up Christmas card (designed by the great Leslie Frankish) opened, and turned by human agency. This time, I noticed, more than ever, the sheer emotional heat generated by the Cratchits – Mrs. Cratchit (the excellent Kate Ryan) fierce in defence of a man who is temperamentally unable to defend himself; the children protective of a man they suspect might be more innocent than they are.
It gives depth and an emotional coherence to the redemption narrative of an ossified soul rescued from his own isolation and doom. It’s a story about the possibility of change. The lustre of Tom Wood’s adaptation and Bob Baker’s production is not just its superb stagecraft. So often the story of the flinty Ebenezer turns out to be a showcase for codger-dom, Scrooge as a crusty old guy who’s in a bad mood, and then isn’t, thanks to a dream. Here, in MacDonald’s performance, he’s someone trapped in his own anger. The actor, who inherited the role from Wood, whose keynote was sardonic humour, has made it triumphantly his own.
He’s an energetically malevolent, exasperated Scrooge, not a Scrooge who’s simply listless, or a gloomy Gus pennypincher. Donald’s Scrooge is vigorously angry, as he stomps through his world. I hear from all kinds of sources that the alternate Scrooge, Glenn Nelson, is excellent too.
It’s a measure of the attention and care lavished on the production that the role of Fred, Scrooge’s irrepressible nephew, is occupied by John Ullyatt. In Christmas Carol‘s world-wide, Fred, as buoyant and charitable as his uncle is not, always makes you smile. He doesn’t often break your heart, the way this actor does when Uncle Scrooge finally arrives at his door on Christmas day.
The long poetic speech at the top of Act II, as the set opens up in sunlight through stained glass, struck me this time, too. In a duet with the Ghost of Christmas Present, the pastor speaks of the way the spirit of Christmas roams through the world of sailors and miners. I loved it for its strangeness, and for the sense of the world as haunted by human kindness.
This is a show to make you feel the specialness of the season every year – “at this time of the rolling year” in Dickens’ memorable line. I wouldn’t want to miss that; that’s why I’ve seen the show 14 of its 15 incarnations. Christmas can now officially begin.
A Christmas Carol runs on the Citadel’s Maclab stage through Dec. 23. Tickets: 780-425-1820.
