The Box of Delights: The Wolves Are Running

"That's the time that likings are made."

I have distinct childhood memories of watching The Box of Delights, but I haven’t seen it since 1984, when I was seven. I’ve only seen it that once, thirty-five years ago, and such memories I have are full of the fuzziness of being that age- and bound up with other things of the era like reading Battle Action Force and whatever else I was into at that particular time. So what will I make of it now?

The first episode is an odd but atmospheric beast. That title sequence is bloody terrifying, though, especially Mr Punch- how come I have no childhood memories of this giving me nightmares when other things most certainly did? Surprising, too, that I don’t remember recognising Patrick Troughton, as I certainly knew who he was. But, mostly, my memories are just impressions and this felt new, my memories just faint ghosts.

So, it’s the early twentieth century, presumably 1935 going by the novel, and we begin with a steam train in the English countryside, where young Kay Harker is returning home for Christmas having been sent away to boarding school for the whole half term, the heartlessness of which is not remarked upon. But then again, I assume he’s an orphan, and Caroline Louisa is his older sister? The two of them share an obvious affection, but she isn’t very maternal and, possible crucially, not much of an authority figure.

Cole Hawlings is a suitably mysterious and wizard-like figure, doing his stuff since “pagan times” (although presumably not Punch and Judy for as long as all that) who has undefined magic powers- able to show Kay a Phoenix and walk into a picture, both times by harnessing the incredible power of cartoons. Only Patrick Troughton could possibly have played him.

Cole’s real magic is contrasted against the sinister card sharpery of Foxy Faced Charles and Chubby Joe, but only at the end do we, and Kay, see the full extent of the baddies- including Rat (Bill Sallis, incredibly) and the unnamed baddie boss, played by that icon of the ‘60s stage Robert Stephens, who was so splendid in The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. Alas, he supposedly turned to the bottle and derailed his career, but he’s in fine fettle here, quite the ac-tor.

But this is only the beginning. I’m excited for the rest...