Joyous stage version of Aladdin delivers Disney delight

Cynicism is a fundamental trait of the English. I celebrate it when it makes satire so delightful, and political debate so practical. It gets tedious, however, when we get to the Disney argument.

A certain type of English cynic carries a strong anti-Disney argument in his soul. The loftier his education and class, the more likely he is to stick pins into the Disney balloon. For him, the company is an imperialist commercial juggernaut, destroying traditional European fairy tales with sugar-coated American endings and using film franchises to flog toys and accessories. He sees only trickery directed at small children, and can't grasp how any childless adult would willingly submit to a film, stage show or ... God forbid ... time in one of the theme parks.

While I know a few Americans who'd agree, most of us brought up in the comforting embrace of Uncle Walt's vision retain the wonder into our adulthood. Sometimes you want high culture, or an experience that pushes you to think about the contrasts and conflicts of the human condition.

And sometimes, you just want to be happy.

To feel the kind of pure, uncluttered, uncomplicated glee you touched when you were eight. Before jobs, taxes and responsibilities. Back when a fairy godmother appearing to send you to a ball, or a flying boy at your window inviting you to fight pirates, was completely credible.

If you want to re-capture that glee, and are free of Anglo-adult cynicism, book a ticket for Aladdin at London's Prince Edward Theatre. You don't even need a kid for cover. On the night we went, adults vastly outnumbered children. And many, bless them, were English.

Like The Lion King, this is an eye-poppingly lavish production with exquisite costumes and gorgeous sets. The golden cave in which Aladdin finds the lamp will drop your jaw. Agrabah's towers, palaces and markets come to glorious life. The flying carpet scene is truly magical. There are lavish, pull-out-all-the-stops song-and-dance numbers in the tradition of all the great musicals. But Aladdin is a good deal funnier, and faster paced, than The Lion King. (Which, let's face it, is dealing with some serious themes despite the hakuna matata.)

Dean John-Wilson, who comes to London from the Broadway production, solidly anchors the whole thing as the genie. He manages to remind us of the sheer brilliance of Robin Williams' original while making the role his own. The humour is wry, clever and quick, and the bromance between the genie and Aladdin is arguably more interesting than the central love story with the princess.

The writers have made several improvements on the film. Instead of Abu the monkey, Aladdin comes with a trio of mates who offer a hysterical sub-plot. Excess plot elements are pared out; we get to the cave of the lamp much faster and there's more action overall. The Sultan is less of a fool, more of an indulgent father ... which makes the plot more credible.

The only fly in the theatrical ointment is Jade Ewen's Princess Jasmin, whose singing voice isn't up to the rest of the cast and was routinely upstaged by her ladies-in-waiting. But that's easily forgotten in a rollicking evening that flies by faster than a magic rug.

Go ahead. Give in to your inner child. Book a ticket.