Badjelly has been delighting audiences for well over 40 years. More people know its plot than can describe Hamlet’s. It can be reduced to a one-sided postcard. Take one witch, one giant, one errant cow, lots of small animals, a large barrel of imagination and stir it all in with two bright adult ‘kids’ looking for the cow. Mayhem and unbounded happiness will always ensue.

I catch this performance at 10am on a cold, grey Monday in Wellington. There are about 40 kids sitting in ones and twos on the floor (practically as part of the stage) with others on their parents’ laps in more formal seating. Before Badjelly starts to strut her mildly evil stuff these children are in a high state of expectancy. They’re not just here for something to do.

While we jaded adults so often go the theatre out of pure habit or because we ‘got some tickets, these little ones are here at an ungodly hour because they overtly want to be. Although the performance only lasts about 50 minutes (calculated in adult time) you can see the young ’uns salting away memory after memory and joining in, with that joyous certainty that each year of grown-up life strips from us. By the end they are simply humming.

The cast too are seriously up for it. They well understand that kids hate being patronised and any attempt to short-change them through even one moment’s insincerity will have the mites leaping from the floor and going for the femoral artery.

The theatre is the Tararua Tramping Club’s rooms in Mt Victoria but they boast a serviceable theatrical sweep and very respectable lights, scenery and speakers when KidzStuff are around. This light and airy space enables Badjelly – played with conviction and skill by Amalia Calder – to execute impressively long and fast swoops on her broom. I’m sure the younger part of audience would swear she is actually flying.

Despite her devilish mien, Badjelly does not even remotely terrify the teeny tots; she just comes across only as the least empathetic person on the stage. (When she clumsily suggests she might eat Tim and Rose a la Hansel and Gretel it would be as part of a scrummy Devonshire tea – very British our Badjelly). So the tots trust her enough to savour her nicely worked antics and to swarm up to her in great numbers for aftershow selfies. (A most inspiring touch, is that). She is not the stuff of nightmares.

Gareth Tiopira-Waaka takes on the roles of the braindead giant, a mud-guzzling worm, a tree goblin, a mouse and a policeman who has been turned into a tree but who longs to be back at base eating his jam sandwiches. He does this all very gently and effectively, using small articulate effigies or a soft toy over his face. The kids accept these constructs without a murmur. When five of them are asked to simulate a river using a blue coloured sheet they promptly get simulating. 

Adam Koveskali and Annica Lewis exude zest and coherence in the roles of Tim and Rose. Dialogue is crisp and clear and the short bouts of music/song (Lyrics: John Cairney; Music: Geoff Davidson) all work a treat, adding greatly to the story without causing any manner of distraction.

The estimable climax of the production occurs after the welcome arrival of Jim the British Eagle (energetically superior to Sam the American Eagle, one must say) and the disembodied voice of God proves a satisfying game breaker. Therein is a moment of drama that is mightily impressive. Badjelly’s moral stocks are by then sufficiently low that she is noisily eviscerated by a higher power. The staging of that is top hole.

I look around the room at that key moment and kids as old as eight are riveted in a moment of pure ecstasy, as good visibly triumphs over evil. It is the sort of actor/audience connection that all actors rehearse hard to achieve but succeed at only infrequently. Take a bow, director Hilary Norris.

I have thoroughly enjoyed this little show. It is instructive as to what theatre is all about: using the power of belief to make something engaging out of an empty space. Some call it magic. I don’t disagree. The junior audience represents the next generation of New Zealand theatre people. Maybe that entranced six year old kid sitting cross-legged inches away from the witch, the one with a snotty nose and grubby glasses held together with a Band-Aid, may be the next Russell Crowe. I like to think so. 

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