Grown men cry at Paddington – that is his power. It’s not just children, moved to laughter or anxiety, who want to reach for his paw, but those much too old and sober for the soft comfort of bears. We know his upturned snout and his hard stare. We like his manners and the trusting nature we no longer share. He’s alive on our screens, thanks to public-service CGI, and an illustrated childhood memory. So when Paddington arrives onstage – such small steps and shaggy fur – it is all we can do but to greet him with a broad, warm smile: for here is an old friend, looking out from a train platform. Then everyone starts to cheer.
The cheering never really stops for the duration; perhaps it won’t, for as long as this show runs and runs, which surely it will. Michael Bond’s creation has always been property of west London – it was only a matter of time before he became a staple of the West End. But anyone worried about franchise fatigue or the never-ending squeeze, as if from a Sicilian orange, of IP should be reassured: this is the “Paddington experience” promised to families many times before.
It is a joy to be in his company, to watch him waddle and stick out his belly. He stands just under 120cm tall – a work of costume design, puppetry, technology and human agility. Arti Shah, who has pseudoachondroplasia, performs in the suit onstage (preparation: sauna-training) while in the wings a note-perfect James Hameed gives it the full Ben Whishaw, providing the voice and controlling Paddington’s facial expressions (instinctive) and mouth (less in sync). This bear is the brainchild of Tahra Zafar, maker of Star Wars creatures and the PG Tips monkey, but he is really Shah’s child: her apparently effortless bumbling – strenuous, not strained – was inspired by her eight-year-old son.
There are 21 original song’s by McFly’s Tom Fletcher, child-proof storytelling and staging like a fairground
But here’s a surprise: Paddington is the attraction, not the main event. There are 21 original songs by McFly’s Tom Fletcher, child-proof storytelling – no sharp edges – and staging like a fairground: animal busts spring from walls, water sprays, Bonnie Langford does the splits. The plot, which, like the visual elements, broadly follows the first Paul King movie, concerns Paddington as he is named (“Thank God, we didn’t find you in Wapping”) and embraced by the nuclear Brown family: risk analyst father, neglected cartoonist mother, a sweet, swotty son Jonathan and a gen-z Judy, mopish in headphones and lilac denim. In blows the Tory villain, who is after Paddington’s skin – Millicent Clyde, a tweed-clad taxidermist, played by Victoria Hamilton-Barritt with slightly less botox but a lot more oomph than Nicole Kidman’s screen counterpart – pouting, high-kicking, splaying herself like a pinned butterfly, she achieves a drag performer’s level of camp (well, she does love the bears).
Tom Pye’s Victorian-inspired interiors – Mr Gruber’s antique shop; Millicent’s workshop; the Geographer’s Guild, home of the Dodo and stolen marbles (“Someone should cancel us”) – are so richly detailed, so handcrafted and tactile, they awaken not only the eye but the childlike desire to run grubby hands over every surface. The beauty, as it always was with Paddington, is not that we are in his world but that he is in ours: station arches sweep, mid-century wallpaper rises; the wardrobe department, among the bowler hats, equip the ensemble with modern cycle helmets, running vests and Rains backpacks. Mrs Brown wears a dress by the Vampire’s Wife.
So this is a love letter to London, as it is and used to be. There’s the King’s Guard and cockney rhyming slang, but also a taxi ride costing £122.73p. It is diverse and inclusive; Paddington is ever the refugee. But wit and wink-wink (even a litter picker stands to attention) and good old-fashioned irony offset the worthiness. “I hear what London has to say,” Paddington sings – what London says is, “Get out the way”. “Turn Paddington into a tourist attraction?” says Mr Curry (Tom Edden – another contender in the camp-off) as a plan is hatched to have the bear stuffed and displayed. “Who would do that… ?”
The musical is carried off by a fine cast of comics and Fletcher’s catchy, well-conceived songs and lyrics, built on humour and diversity. The band, occasionally overamplified, sweep across genres, from Caribbean to swing, twee ballads and 80s hard-rock parody: tiger, meet “the eye of the bear”. A panto singalong – an ode to Ma-ma-marmalade – is an explosion of tack and tangerine; bear exits pursued by fancy-dress orange.
It is irresistible; delicious and guilt-free. Here the politics of Paddington do not stand naively in the way of entertainment: for all the idealism, a Peruvian bear cannot make the world kinder, any more than the stage can offer perpetual sanctuary. But he will draw people – from near and far – to a city that is not short of loveliness, though the weary cannot see it. Soft power – that’s Paddington’s gift.
Paddington the Musical is at the Savoy Theatre, London WC2 until 25 October 2026
Photograph by Johan Persson/PA