Every generation has its own Horrid Henry. As the tousle-haired scourge of teachers, babysitters and kid brothers, Francesca Simon's creation is really just the most current incarnation of the prepubescent super-ego run wild, in the great tradition of Dennis the Menace, Just William and the Artful Dodger.
Since his first appearance in 1993, Henry has shifted more than 10m books, appeared in his own animated TV series, and is now brought to the stage for the first time in "the best, most brilliant, most spectacular show in the history of the universe" (in his own estimation, that is). Bringing cartoon characters to life is always tricky, though hiring John Godber to provide the adaptation was inspired, given his ability to write high-octane narrative in broad, colourful strokes.
Henry and his pals, who all have alliterative names such as Rude Ralph and Sour Susan, could be infant versions of Godber's mature characters; and there is even a slow-motion sports sequence in which Henry scores a goal with his fist, a move he must have picked up from Devious Diego.
Hannah Chissick's production has no shortage of energy, although the device of presenting two Henrys is underdeveloped and potentially confusing. Why does he need a doppelganger to talk to when he voices his thoughts out loud anyway? Yet the busy trade in lurid, blue-and-yellow striped sweaters on the merchandise stall ensures there are plenty of other Horrid Henry clones dotted about the auditorium. No doubt these genuinely horrid garments are great for spotting your child at a distance. But I bet they are the very devil to wash.
