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enough in their own fields to make the transition to theater despite an alarming lack of thespian aptitude. This last category reflects the nature of modern fame, and is itself a form of cross-dressing: if you are acclaimed in one area, then you are accepted as a valued guest in another where you have no natural business. For instance, this year there were three television newsreaders appearing in panto, in London, Stevenage, and Torquay. Russell Grant, a spherical TV astrologer made famous by breakfast TV, fun sweaters, and a hospitable campiness, starred in
Robinson Crusoe in
Cardiff Eddie Kidd, a motorbike Stuntman who has leapt over dozens of London buses and broken almost as many limbs in the process, was in
Dick Whittington
at Deptford. But the real novelties this season were the pugilistic pantos. In Reading, you could see Barry McGuigan, the former featherweight world champion, make his theatrical debut in
Snow White—
while Snow White herself, with an ironical deftness rare to panto, was played by one of the nation’s best-loved topless models, Linda Lusardi. In London, the hottest ticket,
Aladdin
, also featured a boxer, the former British heavyweight titleholder Frank Bruno.
    Bruno, the first black champion here, is very large, very civil andvery popular. He is an excellent example of the traditional British veneration for the good loser—the “plucky little Belgium” syndrome in the national psyche. For many decades, the country has not had a boxer capable of winning the world heavyweight title, but the manner in which local champions are dispatched by American titleholders is always carefully scrutinized. Henry Cooper once put Cassius Clay (as he then was) on the canvas with a left hook, and for buttoning The Lip, if briefly, Cooper has remained a national hero ever since, advertising Brut toiletries and appearing in countless TV game shows and pro-celebrity golf tournaments. Bruno is the most personable champ since Cooper, and the manner of his inevitable defeat last year by Mike Tyson endeared him to the nation with a solidity that only a charge of child molestation could conceivably budge. He stayed upright for several rounds, hit Tyson with one punch that we are practically sure almost hurt the American champion, and didn’t disgrace the flag. Plucky big Frank! His salability as a TV commodity was greatly enhanced; he landed a six-week run in
Aladdin
at the Dominion Theatre, Tottenham Court Road; and in the New Year Honours List he was awarded an MBE by the Queen.
    At the Dominion, Bruno plays the Genie of the Lamp, whose main task is to materialize whenever Aladdin rubs the magic lamp and seeks assistance. Bruno was never exactly twinkle-toed in the ring, and his Genie is a less than impish conception. When he is required to dance, he watches his feet lest they do something wrong; when he is required to spar, he watches his hands lest they forget themselves and do something right. He is dogged, wooden, and touchingly word-perfect, pushing out the words in the same way he pushed out the left jabs—schooled rather than natural. But this awkwardness makes him, if anything, even more popular with the audience, and as he stands there, in a costume half out of the boxing ring and half out of
Dynasty
(ankle boots and whopping shoulders), the former heavyweight champion doesn’t look particularly incongruous.
    Aladdin
, the tale of the younger son of a Chinese laundry woman and his love for the Emperor’s daughter, turns out to have an appropriately yuppie message for our times: all you have to do is rub amagic lamp (make the right deal, buy the clever futures) and you’ll get your heart’s desire of goods, services, and love. It also has one archetypally Freudian moment, when the virginal boy Aladdin (played by a virginally pretty girl in very short skirts) is being tempted by the wicked Abanazer to visit the Dark Cave, where all the Secret Treasure is stored. “Shall I go in, children?” this innocent