The script skirts cutesiness, and Peter could easily have slipped over the border from sublime silliness to just plain dumb. Written by Rick Elice and based on the novel by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, the play tells the story of how a nameless orphan who never had the chance to be a child becomes Peter Pan, happily trapped in perpetual boyhood. It’s a measure of the production’s low-tech delights that when Molly, the cast’s sole female, ingests a dose of “starstuff,” crosses her legs and levitates, Jeannie-style, it looks like a miraculous effect, even though we can clearly see the plank, the pivot, and the hand on the seesaw’s other end. There’s a naval battle, an island full of savages, and a mermaid chorus, all packed onto a stage that feels no bigger than a conch shell. A cast of twelve, a couple of trunks, and a versatile length of rope yield more storytelling than most oversize spectaculars can manage. Peter and the Starcatcher is a tiny show, but spectacle, wit, and joy spill out of it like treasure from a magic pocket.
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