I saw Walking With Dinosaurs last night. It’s not Shakespeare, as demonstrated by the bored “paleontologist” actor who has to wear a vest and a head mike and provide comments like “Species come and species go. Some big, some small. Some fast, some slow…” I kept waiting for him to bust out into some kind of Dr. Seuss tune—or maybe “Corner of the Sky” from Pippin.

Sure, it’s hokey and a little stupid, the noble attempt to put everything in scientific context notwithstanding. But there is large, colorful foliage—exotic grasses and trees and flowers—that magically inflates at center stage and all around the rim of the arena. And, come on, there are cool-looking dinosaurs. Adults will enjoy trying to catch a glimpse of the practically supine operators driving the tiny, James Bond-ian cars that propel the larger dinos; kids will just be transfixed.

I was with a very happy six-year-old, whose own running commentary at watching the various lumbering creatures—which keep increasing in size until we meet the magnificent T. Rex and baby (crowd favorites)—ranged from “He’s just like my cat—he eats grass” to “I’m scared” to “I’m a dinosaur” to “I’m not scared anymore.”

Although the raptors and the rest may give a fright or two, the main thing scaring the kids around me was the loud, portentous music that ushered in each new era of dino history which the sad man in the vest was forced to detail all by his lonesome. And I’d like to give a good throttling to whoever made the decision to start the show with the sight of an adorable hatchling getting eaten right out of its egg. Why not trot out Bambi’s mother and take aim while you’re at it, folks?

Here’s a bit of advice: Kids don’t like cute things to be devoured; have the T. Rex eat the paleontologist and we’ll call it even.