Herald Diary at Large: What's the verdict on Elfingrove at Kelvingrove?

The whole sorry story kicks off on Sunday afternoon. My fourteen-year-old son, Ben, is enjoying a hectic day of sofa slumping. Phone in hand, he’s engrossed in a YouTube video showing another fourteen-year-old boy slumped on a sofa watching a YouTube video.

“Fancy an entertaining night on the tiles?” I ask him.

Ben doesn’t glance up from his phone. “I’ve got to watch this before doing anything else,” he mumbles. “It’s the most important YouTube video I’ve watched since the last one I watched half an hour ago.”

“How long will it last?” I ask.

“Just a couple more hours,” he says.

At which point I amputate Ben’s backside from the sofa, dislocate his brain from YouTube, and guide him firmly in the direction of Glasgow’s west end, where Elfingrove awaits us.

Elfingrove, for the uninitiated, is an event that’s running over the Christmas period at Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. The concept is that every evening the building is temporarily taken over by a bunch of mischievous elves who bring the museum to life in their own magical way. Essentially it’s Night at the Museum crossed with Elf, the movie.

All of which sounds like fun, especially if you’re into over-the-top Christmas events, which I certainly am. At this time of year my inner child executes a daring Steve McQueen-style prison break to go on an eggnog fuelled rampage that doesn’t end until December the 26th.

However, it’s my other child, the phone-loving dude who goes by the name of Ben, who I’m really hoping will enjoy this evening’s entertainment. Although there’s a sizable risk he won’t be impressed at all. And not just because the night doesn’t involve any YouTube celebrities.

Elfingrove has become a controversial topic on social media, with a number of mums and dads complaining that it’s overpriced and under-imagined. Of course social media doesn’t always provide the most balanced of forums. Take a reasonable comment, pluck it from its moorings and drop it in the Twittersphere and strange things start to happen. Like Dr Jekyll gulping down a pint of bubbling green potion, that same innocent statement will rapidly morph into something a lot less innocuous. It soon becomes a snarling, cackling, half-crazed, “Wit-you-lookin-at-pal?” screech of unbridled rage.

So perhaps social media manufactured the entire #elfingroveiseffinrubbish brouhaha.

That doesn’t stop me feeling a tad trepidatious as Ben and I scurry through a west end that’s being relentlessly rained upon by a mob of heckling storm clouds that are clearly on the side of Twitter and Facebook when it comes to the Elfingrove altercation.

Ben’s not making me feel any better. The daggers he’s flashing me are the only thing illuminating the night sky. Until we reach Kelvingrove Museum, that is. Suddenly there’s light everywhere. The entire façade of the building has been turned into a modernist canvas, with spotlights painting wild patterns on the brickwork. I’m impressed, and so (reluctantly) is Ben.

Things improve even more when we reach the grounds of Kelvingrove, where a Christmas market has been rolled out. Readers of last week’s Diary at Large may recall that I was disappointed with the Christmas market in Glasgow city centre. This one’s smaller, though better, with more of a cosy Crimbo feel.

Tents have been erected, similar to Native American teepees. Inside there’s good cheer and drink. Opposite the teepees are food stalls and wood-burning fires for roasting marshmallows on sticks.

There’s also a silent disco tent, which intrigues Ben, though we’ve no time to pause as we’re racing up the steps into the museum. Awaiting us inside is an elf. Actually it’s an actor in an elf suit (nothing escapes me) though I don’t tell Ben this, not wanting to spoil the moment’s magic.

“Oh look, it’s an actor in an elf suit,” says Ben. Sometimes I forget he’s 14. Almost a middle-aged bloke. Any moment now he’ll be smoking a pipe, griping about the youth of today and voting to bring back hanging.

Though he’s not there yet, and I can tell that he is (slowly), (reluctantly), (grudgingly) starting to enjoy himself. Though obviously he doesn’t tell me that, as it would ruin his cool. (Is cool still a cool word to use? I’m not sure, though I daren’t ask Ben. He’ll realise I’m not cool.)

The actor/elf informs us she’s in charge of elf and safety. (Boom-boom.) She also gives us a card to guide us through the museum. It lists a number of elves we’ll meet on the way, to be ticked-off on the card as we spot them.

And so we head into the bowels of the museum. First up, there’s a series of sculpted heads hanging from the cavernous ceiling in the main hall. Regular visitors to the museum will know this installation predates Elfingrove by quite a few years and was created by the artist Sophie Cave. However, for Elfingrove the heads have been brought to life. Almost. While spotlights flash upon them Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody booms out, making it appear as though the heads are belting out the lyrics.

Upstairs we come across more elves and more playful content. There’s an elf in charge of wrapping, although on this occasion that’s been updated to mean rapping. Y’know, like P. Diddy and Emimem. (Are P. Diddy and Eminem still hip-hop hip? No way am I asking Ben. If I get this wrong he’ll think I’m ready for a hip replacement.)

This particular elf isn’t the best rapper I’ve heard, though that doesn’t seem to bother the kids. They’re mostly primary school age, so probably aren’t well-versed in the traditional rapping lore of hook-ups, hold-ups and hustles. Though even a mature fellow like Ben is enjoying the performance.

He also gets into the spirit of things in various other rooms, dutifully writing a letter to Santa which he slides down a chute.

Then there’s a Christmas Knight Out, with a pair of armoured knights battling in a corridor in a scrap to the death. Or at least until they’re thoroughly knackered, which they seem to be already.

Next up, we meet Rudolf. Though in this case he’s not a reindeer but a roaring, robotic Tyrannosaurus Rex. We also come across a dancing fairy and some massive brussels sprouts hanging from a ceiling.

An attempt has been made to enliven the spitfire that dangles from the museum’s western court. Flashing lights streak along the plane’s wings, and the roaring noise of engines create the illusion the plane’s in flight.

Clearly a great deal of ambition, creativity and hard graft has gone into creating Elfingrove. So are the grumpy parents on social media being meanspirited? Not entirely.

Some of the elf actors are a little bit awkward and amateurish, though I’m guessing the cream of the local acting talent are hamming it up in panto, this time of year.

The major set pieces, such as the singing heads and flying spitfire, are impressive. Though not especially Christmas flavoured. Meanwhile the more intimate happenings lack a certain level of razzle-dazzle, and could almost have been cobbled together by a particularly energetic primary school teacher, well-versed in the wonders of glue, string, sticky-tape and papier-mâché.

Now I’m starting to sound like one of those Twitter tantrum types. So I’ll also add that the younger kids seemed to be having a ball. Plus a few of the older ones, too...

“Time to go home,” I inform Ben, after we’ve roamed the museum for a couple of hours. (And enjoyed our fair share of toasted marshmallows.)

“But I haven’t been in the silent disco yet!” says Ben. “And there’s still a few rooms in the museum I’ve got to see…”

He shakes his head in disappointment as I guide him towards the exit gate.

And so, because of me, the poor wee fellow only got to enjoy the singing heads, the flying spitfire, a mountain of marshmallows plus a few other quirky moments of minor magic.

I told you I wasn’t much cop as a dad. When it comes to parenting, it’s clear that nothing beats the loving embrace of a young man’s favourite YouTube channel.

Elfingrove will run daily from tonight until January 5 at Kelvingrove Musuem in Glasgow, excluding Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day as well as Hogmanay, New Year's Day and January 2.