Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, New Wimbledon Theatre, London Who is Priscilla Presley? Wife, mother or child of Elvis? Turns out she's wife, or widow, though she does look uncannily like a little sister. And you may have seen her in Dallas, or the Naked Gun movies. She is, for panto purposes, a Wicked Queen "with a strange American accent" who comes on like a mini-Joan Collins, her spangled dresses slit from the waist, her crown a devil's head-piece, her best moment a down and dirty-ish version of "I'm Evil" with four bare-chested hunks in dark glasses. And she doesn't mind being booed, even though she is a former Miss Tennessee. The Prince requests an audience. "He can have this one," she spits, "they're rubbish." That got us going alright, though I noticed a distinct diminution in the number of light-up swords and bracelets this year. It must be the recession. Compared to the Birmingham Hippodrome spectacular, there is a general sense of every expense being spared. The stage is just about a-glitter, though, and there is a full complement of dwarfs, even though one of them wanders off. "We're one short," shouts the Prof -- Warwick Davis, a bigger (though also smaller) film star than Presley, and game butt of Ricky Gervais's jokes - only to be reminded, "We're all short!" One of them is besotted with Paralympian swimmer Ellie Simmonds, another talks of fighting off the goalies -- picking on someone his own size (not), Manchester City's Joe Hart - when he means ghoulies. The little people welcome the abandoned Snow White of Lizzie Jay-Hughes - who, confusingly, looks like Priscilla's younger sister - to the Madness song of "Our House." After the interval, she's still scrubbing away while the dwarfs lie exhausted all over the place. It's been a hard night. And when their cook and cleaner is found "dead" after biting the poisoned apple, one of these nasty knee-tremblers merely shrugs and says, "Oh well, looks like a takeaway tonight." The children love them, these lewd little people who don't even draw the line at impersonating Susan Boyle singing "I Dreamed a Dream." There's a handy small band under David Roper, and director Ian Talbot has organised the coming and going efficiently, with a nice blue and silver royal wedding at the end which compensates for the low-tech Mirror on the Wall and the worst joke of the season (which I loved) from someone called Jarred Christmas, the Queen's henchman.