Tao of Glass at @sohoplace in the West End – review

Tao of Glass is an evening of two halves. If you are in need of a hefty tonic to soothe your modern woes, the first act is just that: A funny, nourishing 55-year-old, coming-of-age story that masterfully stops just short of twee. And then maybe in the interval, just go home, with a belly full of Phelim McDermott’s charm and playfulness.

That’s not to say there aren’t some brilliant moments in act two, but the first act is so beautiful, so well-paced, a five-star show in the making, that to be presented with another hour of meandering ideas feels like a great disappointment.

This story begins with a story that was never told. McDermott spins a wonderful yarn about how composer Philip Glass, children’s author Maurice Sendak and McDermott himself came very close to working together on what would have been a fantastically mad, genre-bending, magical retelling of Sendak’s picture book, In the Night Kitchen.

Puppeteers Sarah Wright, Janet Etuk and Vic Llewellyn give us a little taste of what this might have been, holding tissue paper covered in a musical score as a projector screen, casting shadows from a little torch, and using the inside of a piano and various household items to depict landscapes and skylines for protagonist little Mickey to fly across, naked. A band of four, led by Chris Varalaro, accompanies throughout with a cinematic, wistful score, compliments of Glass himself.

It’s fantastical and disarming in a way that normally seems out of reach for adult theatre. And all the more so when, at the end of act one, it doesn’t quite go McDermott’s way. “What do I do now?” he asks himself, despairing.

In the second half, after a couple of, admittedly, excellent digressions, we discover that nothing is to be done, because as it turns out, all is well. There’s no narrative tension, everything goes to plan, and ultimately we end up in a self-indulgent, Tao-inspired Philip Glass listening party, but the only person who gets to fully commit, to close their eyes and lie comfortably, is McDermott. The rest of us sit upright, watching him take a nap while the band provides a hypnotic (if slightly droning) soundtrack.

McDermott philosophises on the act of creativity, the art of breaking and remaking, the three levels of Taoist consciousness – all this and more. It’s deep and worthy of contemplation, but it’s missing a theatrical narrative.

Staging it in the round is a stroke of brilliance; the audience is now necessarily privy to both the magic of a puppet show, and the mechanics backstage, equally enchanting, as the stage turns on its axis. Fly Davis’ design allows for moments of utter chaos, followed by elegant but efficient tidy-ups, which are just as much a part of the show. It all moves so gracefully, every step of the puppeteers, musicians and McDermott seemingly planned with precision, while still maintaining a sense of playfulness and improvisation.

The opening, too, is one of the most delightful I’ve ever seen – I shan’t say what. It’s just a crying shame that the story runs out of steam just when it feels moments away from being extraordinary.