YOU WOULD think that a whole clutch of ballet Alices would be circulating. The title is familiar; children and adults can delight in Lewis Carroll's surreal characters; there is even a score, written by Joseph Horovitz for the English National Ballet's first Alice in 1953. Yet while we have Romeo and Juliets coming out of our ears, the same company's Derek Deane is one of only a handful of choreographers to have given Alice a go.

Why has Deane ditched Horovitz? Perhaps through a belt-and-braces desire to add yet another box-office-friendly name - Tchaikovsky - to the credits. Yet Horovitz's music has a unity not shared by the substitution of Tchaikovsky pieces put through the infernal Carl Davis rendering machine. But never mind, Deane's Alice, created in 1995 and on the road again, clearly pleased the audience who had the distinction of being in Oxford, home of Lewis Carroll.

ENB's Alice Crawford not only has the name, but the physique and the manner - tiny porcelain body, prettily precise feet, sweetness mixed with spirit. The headband, blue dress and apron make her instantly knowable, which does not always happen with the multitude of other characters, designed by Sue Blane, if your Carroll is a bit rusty. Nathan Coppen was clearly the Knave of Hearts, who dances a pas de deux with Daria Klimentova as an adult Alice - a neat Deane device to introduce a touch of romance. I could identify Yat Sen Chang's busy White Rabbit and Michael Coleman's Duchess, but the Cheshire Cat (Felipe Diaz) was an unprepossessingly mangy beast, recognised only from the smile projected at the back, while the Fish Footmen and Lobsters passed me by.

Part of the problem is Deane's choreography, which should make the most of what is necessarily a succession of cameos. Yes, the choreography does try to give the characters their signature styles, but none of it is sharp or witty enough. The Caterpillar convolutes his body unctuously; the March Hare and Mad Hatter rush and bump into each other. The air turns electric as Tamara Rojo's Queen makes her dramatic playing-card entrance (illusions are by Paul Kieve) and strides about with angry pointing gestures. But they are all soon defeated by movement which appears trite and over- extended.

From the evidence around me, I wasn't the only one programme-peering in the dark, in a vain attempt to identify characters. Let's not strain our eyes, let's have surtitles - or at least a few more hints on stage. But the younger spectators were certainly more on the ball, able to notice that there was no Walrus, as an otherwise thrilled little boy informed me on the way out.

Touring to 18 March