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What’s better at Christmastime than watching a group of petrified children being called “maggots” by their cruel teacher?
The big bad bully under the tree is Miss Trunchbull, from the dark mind of British author Roald Dahl, in Netflix’s all-right adaptation of “Matilda the Musical.”
Australian composer Tim Minchin’s show — whip-smart if somewhat frigid — ran on Broadway for four years and continues to play in London, and onstage the distinctive musical has a sickly, subversive, nuclear sludge-like atmosphere shrewdly broken up by the occasional sweet song sung by little kids.
Audiences love nothing more than watching a pack of perky preteens sing and dance.
The lesser film version, directed by Matthew Warchus who also helmed the live musical, is unfortunately absent of any invigorating aesthetic to rouse viewers. The movie looks like every other Netflix show shot in Britain — “Sex Education,” “Heartstopper” — except that here children break into song on unremarkable cobblestone streets.
Stage directors, by and large, are inept at making movies and yet we keep allowing them to make movies.
