I Love Lucy

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I am a world-class nit-picker, so you may want to sit down for this: as performed – gloriously – by the extraordinary Laura Linney, Rona Munro‘s stage adaptation of Elizabeth Strout‘s novel My Name is Lucy Barton is a perfect theatrical experience. This is one of those incredibly rare productions where everything works. The only thing wrong with it is that the run is only three weeks so I won’t get to see it again.

Strout’s novel – and Munro’s stage script – presents a woman looking back, first at an experience in the 1980s when she became ill following a supposedly routine operation and was hospitalised for several weeks, during which time she was visited by her estranged mother, and second at her childhood, and at the causes of her estrangement from her family. From these recollections, she pieces together the process by which she acquired the ruthlessness necessary to forge a successful career as a writer. That’s a simplistic summary, because Munro’s monologue is difficult to reduce to a two-line synopsis; it’s a ninety-minute tiptoe through an emotional minefield, and if there can be such a thing as a low-key tour-de-force, this is it.

Lucy’s story, at times, is certainly harrowing. Growing up on a farm in rural Illinois, in the kind of acute poverty that made other children mock her and her siblings for smelling bad, with a war-veteran father suffering from undiagnosed PTSD and a harshly undemonstrative mother, Lucy’s stories of her early childhood recall Dickens without the warmth. The tone is carefully matter-of-fact, without fireworks or histrionics, because this isn’t an I-survived-abuse confessional. Strout (via Munro) offers, instead, a careful meditation on whether it’s ever possible to escape your upbringing, and on the ways in which we sift through our memories in search of a story to tell. There’s more going on, of course – Lucy’s lengthy hospitalisation occurs in the early 1980s, the spectre of AIDS is hovering over Manhattan (there are some fascinating echoes, here and there, of The Inheritance, another play in which the ways we organise our lives and memories into narratives is a significant theme); Munro’s great achievement is to take Strout’s more-complex-than-they-seem characters and ideas and distil them, with remarkable clarity, into ninety minutes of stage time.

Laura Linney matches the writing with an impeccably-judged, quietly astonishing performance which, again, counts as a low-key tour-de-force. There are no big explosions, no bite-marks in the scenery – just a masterclass in how to tell a story simply and clearly, making every word, every breath, every pause, every gesture count. Linney slips between Lucy, who has acquired the manners and voice of a Big Ten-educated New Yorker, and her mother’s spikily flat Midwestern drawl with forensic precision, and finds all the (considerable) humour in her mother’s tales of People Back Home Who Met a Bad End. More than that, Linney navigates Strout’s complicated emotional territory without grandstanding, and without ever succumbing to oh-pity-me melodramatics; she holds back the tears instead of turning on the waterworks, and navigates a clear course through the three levels of Strout’s timeline. Linney’s presence – for want of a better word – is extraordinary: this is simultaneously a blazing star turn and an intimate character study, and there are very few actors who could navigate that contradictory duality as confidently as she does, particularly in a 900-seat theatre.

It’s beautifully directed, too, by Richard Eyre, on a simple, stark set – three projection screens, one behind the other, at the back of the stage, plus a hospital bed, a nightstand, and a chair – by Bob Crowley. Video projections, which take us from a Manhattan hospital room with a view of the Chrysler Building to an Illinois cornfield and back – are by Luke Hills, and the lighting and sound are by, respectively, Peter Mumford and John Leonard. They appear to be working in perfect unison – as in Linney’s performance, there are no flamboyant flourishes here, just a carefully-modulated exploration of every nuance of Strout and Munro’s text.

It’s safe to assume that it’ll have a life beyond the Bridge, although nothing has yet been announced. Behind that unassuming title there’s a quietly shattering piece of theatre, and Linney’s performance is utterly mesmerising. It’s a given that it’ll be seen in New York, and it’s to be hoped that it will be filmed – it would be perfect as a standalone special for Netflix or HBO – and if I lived any closer to London I’d be back before the end of the run. Don’t be put off by the cosily middlebrow poster art; there are no caveats, no buts, no holes to pick, and it’s (at least) is as good as anything you’ll see this year. Linney’s performance may be as good as anything you’ll see this decade.

 

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All the clichés in a row…

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The title number – an ode to the pleasures of the roller-skating rink delivered by a chorus of six men who somehow manage to tap-dance on the stoppers on their rollerskates – is five minutes of pure joy. As choreographed by Fabian Aloise, it might well turn out to be the year’s most spectacular showstopper, never mind that it’s being staged in a 250-seat converted industrial space on Newington Causeway rather than in the West End. The gleefully exuberant performances are an absolute delight,  and the icing on the cake is the holy-shit-we-got-through-it-without-breaking-anything look on the actors’ faces as they hold their poses during the applause. It’s sensational, thrilling, and delivers ten times more sheer fun than any of the overblown tap sequences in the Duracell ad currently playing at Drury Lane. If you love musical theatre, you need to see those five minutes, and you’ll probably want to see them more than once (I would, if I didn’t live so far from London). It’s that good.

Unfortunately, that production number arrives halfway through the second act of a show with more than its share of problems, most of them attributable to the writing. Or rather, mostly attributable to Terrence McNally‘s turd of a book, because about two-thirds of the show’s score is top-tier Kander and Ebb, and the few (relatively) duff songs in it are still better than anything you’ll find in some shows that were much bigger hits. The Rink is set in the late 1970s in a dilapidated roller rink somewhere on the US’s eastern seaboard, and McNally’s book consists of two hours of bickering between the rink’s (co-) owner, Anna Antonelli, who has just sold up and is planning to retire, and her estranged adult daughter Angel(a), who left home in her late teens (i.e. in the mid-60s) to join the protest movement. Between the rounds of bickering, we see (many) flashbacks in which the gradual disintegration of Anna and Angel’s relationship is set against the gradual decline of the boardwalk. Occasionally, seemingly almost at random, McNally throws in a couple of zingers, some of which – to be fair – are genuinely funny (Anna: “If you ever see anybody parked in a brown Toyota with his seatbelt on, that’s Lenny.”). It’s clear from the show’s (feeble) attempt to examine the various social changes seen in the US over the roughly thirty-year span covered by the show’s flashbacks that McNally is aiming for something along the lines of a slightly more intimate Follies; what we get, unfortunately, is an uneven hybrid which plays like a warmed-over mother-daughter movie-of-the-week punctuated by lines from an insipid, long-cancelled sitcom, served up with a generous topping of Italian-American clichés. The book, in short, is bad. Really bad. It’s so bad that you’d never guess it was by the same writer who gave us Lips Together, Teeth Apart and Love! Valour! Compassion! (you might, on the other hand, guess it’s by the same writer who gave us Master Class and Deuce). It’s so bad, it includes a scene in which a father melodramatically announces “I have no son!”. It’s so bad that there is not a single moment anywhere in the show where you won’t a) be three steps ahead of what Mr. McNally must have fondly imagined was the plot, and b) be counting the seconds until everybody stops speaking and starts singing again. If you started to count the clichés in McNally’s dialogue you’d either slash your wrists or run out of numbers. There are a lot of 1980s musicals with really bad books. This is one of the worst, and it’s the reason the show has never been a hit.

The score, fortunately, is better – much better – and if you knew the show at all before this production was announced, chances are the score is what made you buy a ticket. The milieu is perfect for Kander and Ebb, and they deliver in spades: Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, an exultant shout of independence from a woman who has spent decades of her life attending to everybody’s needs except her own; Don’t Ah, Ma Me!, a furiously combative mother-daughter duet; Colored Lights, Angel’s gradual realisation that years on the protest trail have left her unsatisfied and unfulfilled; that glorious title song; the always-darkest-just-before-the-dawn ballad We Can Make It; Marry Me, the most self-effacing marriage proposal number ever written (delivered with exquisite restraint on the original Broadway cast recording by a pre-Seinfeld Jason Alexander); and Wallflower, a sensational dance number for Anna and Angel in a flashback sequence at Angel’s spring prom. It’s unfortunate that All The Children in a Row, Angel’s climactic recollection of her journey through the counterculture movement, includes the worst lyric quatrain Fred Ebb ever wrote (“Why’d you have to take that stuff?/Come on, Danny, that’s enough/We can make it, we’ll survive/Danny, you’re too stoned to drive!”), but that’s four lines out of a mostly stellar whole. The original Broadway cast recording, on which Anna and Angel are played by, respectively, Chita Rivera and Liza Minnelli, is spectacular; both stars are at their peak, and the material is perfect for them (Rivera’s role was written specifically for her) There aren’t many opportunities to hear this music performed live; for some, it’ll be worth gritting your teeth through the awful dialogue for the opportunity to hear this cast tear into these songs.

That’s because the good news is that director Adam Lenson has assembled one hell of a cast for this production. It should probably go without saying that Caroline O’Connor can do no wrong – I mean, the last time I saw her in a show I very nearly founded a religion based on worship of her – but she’s every bit as good an Anna as you’d expect. She dances up a storm, of course, and belts the hell out of Anna’s numbers, but she also miraculously, through sheer force of personality, somehow manages to transcend the dazzling hideousness of McNally’s writing. As Angel, Gemma Sutton doesn’t, but it isn’t her fault: her character is badly short-changed by this version of the script, which is significantly revised from the version seen on Broadway in 1984 (and in Manchester in 1987 and London in 1988). In the original script, the show opens with Angel alone onstage singing Colored Lights, a wistful song about her longing for her childhood home. In this version, the show opens with what was originally the next scene – Anna greeting the wreckers who have come to demolish the rink, announcing her retirement and departure, and singing Chief Cook and Bottle Washer – and Colored Lights doesn’t appear until the end of the first act, where there was originally a short reprise of it. The result, unfortunately, is that Angel enters at the end of what is now the first scene and immediately starts arguing with Anna, and that inevitably means the audience sides against her: this version of the script introduces her as a barrier between Anna and her retirement rather than as a woman looking to rediscover her roots, and that change (which is in the current version of the published script as well) damages the first act quite badly. Ms. Sutton is abundantly talented – she’s a beautifully honest actress and a wonderful singer (she does not, however, deserve the dead polecat masquerading as a wig that she is forced to wear in this production), but this revised version of the script – which incidentally solves almost none of the original script’s problems beyond cutting the cringe-inducing flashback scene between a teenage Angel and her lecherous Uncle Fausto – doesn’t do her any favours. When she finally sings Colored Lights, it’s a gorgeous performance.

The rest of the roles – yes, all of them – are played by the six wreckers Anna hires to demolish the rink: Stewart Clarke, Ross Dawes, Michael Lin, Elander Moore, Ben Redfern, and Jason Winter. They’re all flawless, and their two musical numbers – that fabulous title song in Act Two, and the witheringly sarcastic After All These Years in Act One – are among the production’s great highlights. There’s equally flawless musical direction from Joe Bunker, whose seven-piece band sounds terrific, and Bec Chippendale does as much as anybody could to recreate the faded grandeur of a roller rink on the Jersey shore within the confines of the Southwark Playhouse’s auditorium and budget. There’s even a glitterball, and it looks magical under Matt Daw’s lighting. The production, overall, is just about as good as it could possibly be – but it’s a good production of very, very problematic material. You’ll want to see it for O’Connor and the rest of the cast, for that sensational title song, and for the chance to hear this score performed live. It is more than worth the Southwark Playhouse’s standard £25 ticket price. While the musical numbers, though, are genuinely thrilling, don’t be surprised if the show as a whole leaves you unmoved, even given the fiercely committed performances from the two leading actors. Don’t be surprised, either, if you find yourself taking an inner journey during the dialogue scenes. A lot of what you’ll see is very entertaining – but this is, in the end, a superlative production of a show that just doesn’t work.

 

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(Re)fried Rice

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I saw it the first time around too, but I didn’t want to miss it again. Emma Rice‘s adaptation of Brief Encounter – or rather, or Brief Encounter and Still Life, the short play Brief Encounter is based on – may be (a lot) more Emma Rice than Noël Coward, but it’s (still) a thrilling, sometimes breathtaking, thoroughly memorable theatrical experience, and there (still) isn’t anything else quite like it in the West End.

It (still) isn’t precisely a straightforward adaptation of the film, though the film’s plot points are all present and correct (surely for THIS of all things you don’t need a synopsis, do you?). Rice’s calling-card is a larger-than-life theatricality that is less concerned with simply telling a story than in evoking what the characters in her productions are feeling. Rice doesn’t simply stage the screenplay, and she also doesn’t attempt a precise recreation of the film’s look and feel. Instead, she uses a combination of dialogue, song, stylised movement, and projected film to evoke the intensity of Laura and Alec’s feelings as they fall in love, and as they are forced to part. The action spills off the stage into the stalls, characters walk through a screen into and out of scenes being shown on projected film, at one point Alec swings from a chandelier, and a selection of Coward’s songs are performed in counterpoint as a kind of live underscoring. It shouldn’t work, but it does, mostly triumphantly.

Whether it’s as startling now as it was ten years ago, though, is another question. If, like me, this was your introduction to Rice’s distinctive directorial aesthetic, you may well, in 2007, have never seen anything quite like it. It’s not that the production doesn’t stand up to repeat viewing – it’s still thoroughly entertaining – but inevitably on a second viewing the element of surprise is somewhat diminished. It’s still an utterly charming, delightful evening (well, matinée in this case), but it didn’t blow me away this time the way it did the first time I saw it.

That’s no reflection on the performers; there’s perfectly-judged work from Isabel Pollen and Jim Sturgeon as the thwarted lovers, and behind them a terrific ensemble cast, some of whom also play musical instruments, switch roles and personas at the drop of a hat. It’s (still) sometimes surprisingly funny, although without ever diminishing the emotional core of the piece, and in particular this time around Rice and her cast find tremendous humour and warmth in the relationships between the various people working in the station tea room. The singing, right across the cast, is wonderful, with Jos Slovick’s Go Slow, Johnny a particular highlight.

What’s less wonderful this time around are the ticket prices, which top out at £65, which is more than double the show’s £29.50 top price at the same venue ten years ago (in terms of inflation, £29.50 in 2008 would be worth a few pence under £39 today). It’s no secret that ticket prices across the West End have been on a sharply upward trajectory over the past few years; wonderful as the show is, £65 is a lot of money, and while London has always been a very expensive city it stretches credulity beyond breaking-point to suggest the cost of producing theatre there has risen so much faster than inflation over the past decade when wages, to say the least, have not. What’s going on here is a crude form of dynamic pricing: I sat in a seat that is on sale for next week’s Wednesday matinée for £65, and I paid significantly less than that (I paid less, though not much less, than the 2008 top price of £29.50). Discounts are available if you shop around – but only if you shop around, and not for every performance. The top price, presumably, is set where it is in order to allow more room for the possibility of discounts. This show is well worth seeing, particularly if you missed it first time around – but do your homework before you book, because the best price isn’t necessarily going to come from the theatre box office. Go and see it, by all means – it’s (still) wonderful – but purchase carefully.

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Muito queijo

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Here we are again – it’s May, it’s Saturday night, and it’s time to sandblast our retinas and eardrums watching the continent-wide celebration of unrestrained kitsch that is the Eurovision Song Contest. Whoopeee. One thought before we start: it would be super, wouldn’t it, if the UK won and we ended up having to host a televised celebration of European pop culture six weeks after we leave the EU next year?* I mean it won’t happen, obviously, because there’s no way in hell we’ll win, but if I was every other country in Europe I’d give the UK douze points all the way simply for the chance to stick two fingers up at the Brexiteers. And then, for good measure, I’d make Jacob Rees-Mogg and Andrea Leadsom put on spandex jumpsuits and host next year’s show.

*IF we leave the EU, which is not a foregone conclusion.

As usual, I am not watching the show live – although it hasn’t finished yet and I have remained spoiler-free – because the therapy bills would probably break me. I’ve recorded it, because I need to be able to pause/fast-forward/scream/go and lie down in a darkened room if it all gets too much. And the one certainty at Eurovision is that at some point in the evening it WILL all get too much.

I am also, as ever, watching completely stone-cold sober, if you don’t count the little bit of white wine in the chicken à la king I made earlier (yes I know it’s supposed to be sherry, I hadn’t got any). I hope you appreciate my bravery.

And no, of course I didn’t watch the semi-finals. Do you think I enjoy pain?

(I’m watching the Eurovision Song Contest. Maybe don’t answer that.)

ANYway. So. Lisbon, because Portugal was last year’s winner. I remember nothing whatsoever of last year’s winning entry. We open with a lot of footage of Lisbon’s (gorgeous) cityscape, which reminds me that I was last there 24 years ago. Apparently a lot of the “big hitters” didn’t make it through to the grand final, which I might have known if I’d watched the semi-finals. Or if I cared.

The disappointingly subdued opening begins with a guy in a black suit playing classical guitar accompanying a lady named Ana Moura singing something called ‘Loucura (Sou du Fado)’. It’s very Portuguese and rather lovely, although her ragged black frock seems to have crept in from the aftermath of a battle scene in ‘Game of Thrones’. It’s… tasteful, which in this context is quite frightening.

Oh, wait, no. Bye bye good taste, now we’re watching a row of military drummers behind a thin screechy lady in a glittery low-cut flesh-coloured gown. Whatever she’s singing – I don’t speak Portuguese – is obviously deeply meaningful to her. She and Ms. Moura end up at the front of the runway in front of the stage, and the crowd goes wild.

Now, we’re informed by Graham Norton, we’re having a flag ceremony, backed by “the world DJ scratching champions”. The wooden grid at the back of the set is apparently supposed to represent shipbuilding, so now you know. Flags of each participating nation are carried around the runway, and we meet the contestants one (group) by one. There are no LED screens on the set, which – according to Mr. Norton – means the staging of some of the numbers is going to be “quite bonkers”. Good, that’s what we’re here for.

There is apparently no clear winner, which might mean we’re all actually going to have to watch the voting. Pray for us all.

So that was the flag ceremony. Now it’s time to meet our hosts. Four young women, all wearing improbably shiny dresses, and all smiling in a way that suggests rubber bands pulled very, very tight.

Voting doesn’t open until after the last song has been performed, and in the UK we can vote by app but not text. Not that I’ll be voting, because I’m two hours behind the rest of Europe.

The majority of tonight’s performances, we are reminded, contain flashing lights and strobe effects. We’d want a refund if they didn’t.

And without further ado, we’re into the songs. Everybody got their paracetamol handy? Good. Let’s begin.

One. Ukraine. Melovin, which sounds like something you’d apply to an open wound, with Under the Ladder.
He begins in what looks like a cross between a coracle and a sarcophagus, lit from within in red, and then the bars open and he’s standing on a platform above the stage looking like an extra from a Twilight film. The song is catchy, generic Europop, and I think he might be about to turn everybody in the front row into vampires.
Oh. Now he’s whipped his jacket off, the platform thing is actually a piano at the top of a staircase, and he’s playing the piano as he sings and the staircase is burning while bolts of flame shoot into the air behind him and interpretive dancers whirl meaningfully as fire rages around them. If the sound system wasn’t obliterating nearly all the lyrics, this might make sense.

Oh, wait. This is Eurovision. Probably not.

Two. Spain. Amaia y Alfred – a real-life couple, apparently, though not for very long – with Tu Canción. A reminder: nothing in the second slot has ever won.
We’re beginning in minor-key drippy piano ballad territory, with the singers moving towards each other from opposite sides of the stage. It’s pretty and sweet and sincere and incredibly dull. It builds to a nicely-sung final chorus with swooping strings in the background, but – sorry, Amaia y Alfred – it still isn’t interesting.

Three. Slovenia. Lea Sirk, singing Hvala, ne!, which apparently means “thanks but no thanks”. Hands up who’s hoping for a blast of Previn, Comden and Green? Just me? Oh well.
Ms. Sirk has (mostly) pink hair, and co-wrote the song herself. It doesn’t appear to have a melody, but never mind. There are dancers in metallic bodices doing vaguely ‘street’ vogueing that might have been au courant in 1994, and Ms. Sirk’s personality is unfortunately drowned out by the hyperactive light-show. At one point she stops the music and tries, not successfully, to get the audience to clap along. That’s the best bit.

Four. Lithuania. leva Zasimauskaitè, with When We’re Old.
Another piano ballad. No gimmicky staging. She’s very young, very pretty – naturally pretty, as opposed to the rather plastic airbrushed-and-blow-dried-into-infinity look that so often passes for pretty at Eurovision – and the song is low-key and rather touching. She has an appealingly throaty voice, and can pull out a hell of a belt when she wants to. I don’t think she’ll win, but it’s an interesting contrast with the brain-shredding schlock you usually expect at Eurovision.

Five. Austria. Cesár Sampson, whose aunt is apparently Pepsi from Pepsi and Shirlie, with Nobody But You.
Jazzy baritone, unfortunate rubber T-shirt and trousers, decent song, and for some reason he’s standing on a platform with lights underneath that looks a bit like the alien spaceship that abducts Fallon in The Colbys. The song has a very strong, very catchy chorus, he can really sing, there’s a gospel choir somewhere offstage, and he throws in a couple of spectacular high notes in the final refrain. It’s a really good performance, though not the kind of mesmerising star turn that won the contest for Austria a few years ago.

Six. Estonia. Elina Nechayeva, singing something called La Forza. Her dress, we are told, cost €65,000. All the clothes I’ve ever bought in my life wouldn’t add up to more than a fraction of that.
She’s a proper singer, and we seem to be in Sarah Brightman crossover territory. Her dress lights up from underneath and then starts showing projections as she sopranos off into the stratosphere. She has a hell of a voice, but the projections-on-a-dress effect has been done before, although it possibly hasn’t been done better. It’s absurdly OTT, she hits her big high note at the end dead-on, and overall it’s a really good performance. Whether the song itself is memorable enough to do well, though, is a different question.

Seven. Norway. Alexander Rybak, who won in 2009, back for more with a song called That’s How You Write A Song.
He mimes playing violin, then drums, then guitar, then starts singing. It’s an upbeat, slightly kitsch, bouncy blast of pop, and he certainly throws himself into it. The song, despite the title, isn’t that great, but he’s a terrific performer. Yes, he plays violin for real in the bridge. The overall effect, though, is of a relentlessly upbeat production number from the kind of musical that opens on Broadway to mediocre reviews, runs seven months, and doesn’t win any Tony awards.

Eight. Portugal. Our hosts. Cláudia Pascoal, singing O Jardim. Her pink hair is way pinker than Lea Sirk’s.
It’s a wispy ballad, she’s singing with her eyes closed, and this is clearly the please-don’t-make-us-pay-to-host-the-show-next-year entry. She has a nice voice, it’s a nice-enough song, and things don’t perk up when the songwriter joins in halfway through.

An interruption from the hosts. If you listened to all the songs ever performed at Eurovision back-to-back, it would take nearly 73 hours. Or you could just watch the show, which won’t take 73 hours but might feel like it. There’s a very forced gay/straight joke buried somewhere within their spiel. Ms. Shiny Dress #4 is wearing a temporary shoulder tattoo saying “the commentators rock”. She gets Ms. Estonia to sing an arpeggio. She really does have a hell of a voice. Ms. Estonia, not Ms. Shiny Dress #4.

Nine. United Kingdom. Us. SuRie, with a song called Storm which I haven’t heard before RIGHT NOW.
Memorable chorus, decent voice, bland lyrics. She still believes in chasing rainbows, apparently. Is this a song about the European Research Group? She’s Terribly Sincere. Imagine a cross between Annie Lennox and Yazz and you’re on the right track.
Oh. There’s a stage invasion – a man in a tracksuit shouting something about Nazis and the UK – and he gets really, scarily close to her. Security guards drag him offstage, and SuRie – impressively – doesn’t miss a beat. Very, VERY cool handling of what must have been a frightening moment. She finishes to huge applause and deserves it. Whether she’ll get to perform again, we don’t know.

Ms. Shiny Dress #4 is talking to the Ukrainian singer via an interpreter. She tells him he looks like a vampire. Yes, we know. He moves into bite her. This is an unscheduled pause, we’re told, while the backstage management figure out what to do about the moment of OMGWTF we’ve just witnessed. For now, we’re going on to the next song.

Ten. Serbia. Sanja Ilic and Balkanika, singing Nova Deca.
Ooh. Wind machine. Beardy man playing a flute/recorder thing. Three women in black and white intoning meaningfully while a big bald bearded man who obviously considers himself a sex god – he isn’t – sings the lead vocal in a surprisingly wimpy voice and someone bangs steel drums rhythmically at the side of the stage. I can’t help wondering whether they’re all members of a death cult – and if they are, is it us or them who is supposed to end up dead? It’s… not very good.

He represented Yugoslavia in 1982, apparently, and came 14th.

Eleven. Germany. Michael Schulte, You Let Me Walk Alone, apparently inspired by the death of his father. We’re told he’s the German Ed Sheeran… presumably if Ed Sheeran had more hair.
And yes, his song is right out of the Ed Sheeran how-to-write-a-sincere-ballad manual. The chorus, though, is basically the verse of Adele’s Someone Like You, only speeded up a bit, so let’s knock off a few points there. His performance is suitably anguished, and a lot of people like this sort of thing more than I do. Which doesn’t necessarily mean they’re right. It builds to a ghastly melodramatic climax as swirling beams of red light go insane behind him. It’s clearly a popular entry, but it’s also completely dreadful.

Twelve. Albania. Eugent Bushpepa, with Mall. The Chinese network objected to Eugent’s tattoos, it seems, so the show – all of it – isn’t being shown there this year. He looks like Jake Gyllenhaal playing Dave Gahan, and – a common Eurovision trope, this – his voice isn’t nearly as tough as his outfit. A wailing rock tenor number that isn’t quite as rock-n-roll as it thinks it is, and it all falls apart when he starts screlting near the end.

Thirteen. France. Madame Monsieur, with Mercy, a song inspired by the refugee crisis.
Monsieur plays guitar, Madame sings. It’s low-key modern political pop, presented without gimmicks, and none the worse for that. If you’re at all familiar with Francophone pop there are no surprises here at all, but it’s a decent song with a strong singalong final section, and she sings it very well indeed.

Fourteen. Czech Republic. Mikolas Josef, Lie To Me (Mr. Norton’s aside: “OK, I think you’re going to win.”)
He’s wearing a bowtie, braces, and glasses, and – why? – a leather backpack, and it’s a very white take on New York hip-hop from circa 1985. Yes, there is breakdancing. Breakdancing dancers in shell suits. It’s – what’s the phrase I’m looking for? – fucking awful. He yells “WASSUP EUROVISION?” towards the end, and the crowd screams, I think more in fear than anything else.

Fifteen. Denmark. Rasmussen, with Higher Ground.
Rasmussen looks a bit like Tilda Swinton, if Tilda Swinton had a big bushy red hipster beard. Beard grooming, unfortunately, might have been a higher priority for Rasmussen than coming up with a decent song. There are four similarly hipster-beardy backing singers, and it’s basically like watching Take That, if Take That hadn’t shaved for two years and had forgotten how to write a chorus. “NOW COME ON, WALK WITH US!”, he yells. No. A wind machine blows fake snow over them as the song lumbers towards what I assume must have been intended as a climax, but unfortunately they don’t get buried in a fake snowdrift.

Sixteen Australia. Yes I know Australia isn’t in Europe, deal with it and move on. Jessica Mauboy, We Got Love.
Jessica is a huge, huge star in Australia. She’s wearing blue tinfoil and chewing up most of her consonants, she sounds like Danni Minogue imitating Natalie Imbruglia, and her song is terrible. She tries to get the crowd to sing along with the chorus, and they don’t. Ouch.

Two of the shiny presenter ladies are back to tell us we’re all having a great time. Especially the stage invader, I’m sure.

The Serbian wannabe-sex-God is telling shiny presenter lady #4 that he’s in love with her. It’s not creepy at all. Then she asks Mr. Rubber Outfit from Austria to lift her up three times in five seconds. He does. There’s a subtext here, and perhaps we don’t want to delve into it too deeply.

Seventeen. Finland, Finland, Finland. The country where I quite want to be. Pony-trekking or camping, or just watching TV… where was I? Not in Finland. Damn. OK. Saara Aalto, Monsters. Hit it, Saara.
Saara has a very elaborate top-knot/plait thing on her head, and eye make-up that goes back to the top of her ears. She sings the first verse while being spun upside-down on a rotating disk. She’s backed by a team of S&M prison guards doing fascistic interpretive dance – the kind of moves that might have been daring in a Eurythmics video in 1982 – and she does have a really good voice. She doesn’t have a really good song, but the staging is weird enough that it might not matter. Yes, of course there are fireworks at the end.

OK. So. SuRie was offered the chance to perform again, and declined, saying that she had nothing to prove. She’s right.

Eighteen. Bulgaria. Equinox, singing Bones.
Four bars in and the screaming starts. One of the singers, I think, not me, but I had to check. It’s another hipster invasion, and another group who might be singing about a death cult. They can all sing, although the song is quite tedious, but I can’t shake the feeling that this, to them, is what passes for an uplifting song. It’s all a bit overwrought, there’s dry ice AND the wind machine, and the screamy lady in the middle ends with a screamy countermelody over the final refrain.

Nineteen. Moldova. DoReDos, My Lucky Day.
The staging involves overexcited people opening doors/windows in a white wall and grimacing/gesturing/shaking their hips, while other overexcited people sing and prance about in front, and sometimes the people in front of the wall swap places with the (identical) people behind it. It’s a slab of cheerfully naff Europop, performed by hyperactive CBeebies presenters dressed up for a night out on the piss at a 1970s theme bar in Wigan. It’s jaw-droppingly bonkers and great fun.

Twenty. Sweden. In the pre-performance clip he’s shown making cheese, which in a sense is what everybody connected to this show has been doing all evening. Benjamin Ingrosso, Dance You Off.
Solo performance in front of a coolly stylish light show consisting of horizontal bars of light. The visuals are better than the song, but it’s got a memorable hook in the chorus and it’s somehow fresher and more up-to-date than most of what we’ve seen this evening even though it also sounds like a Bee Gees offcut from twenty years ago. He doesn’t have a huge voice, but he can sing, he can move, and it’s very watchable. And then it ends, and the lights stop flashing, and you can see his improbably tight/rigid trousers properly for the first time, and it suddenly becomes clear why his voice moved sharply upwards as if he was regressing back towards puberty every time he moved his legs.

Twenty-one. Hungary. A metal group, oh joy. AWS, Vislát Nyár. Brace yourselves.
They are obviously ready to rock. I’m not sure anyone else is. There’s lots of grimacing and attitude, flames start shooting out of the front of the stage, and miraculously none of their improbably floppy fringes get singed. The singer is barefoot, the guitarist does a stage dive, and the drummer should have worn more anti-perspirant. It ends in a scream, which eerily matches what we’ve all been doing internally for the last three minutes.

Twenty-two. Israel. Netta, with a song called Toy.
Netta looks a little bit like Dawn French playing Bjork. She’s fabulously eccentric; she’s standing in front of a table with three panels that light up like a Simon Says game, behind her are two walls of shelves filled with golden toy cats with metronome-like wagging tails, and there are three dancers in black and pink tracksuits doing a Jane Fonda Workout on a bridge off to her left. Netta also has one hell of a voice, and is giving the most original performance we’ve seen all night. The song is also eccentric, and at two points seems to involve Netta making chicken noises – but of all the things we’ve seen so far, this is the one that looks most like a winner.

Twenty-three. Nearly there now. Netherlands. Waylon, who was one of the Common Linnets, who came close to winning in 2014, singing Outlaw in ‘Em.
It’s a passable pastiche of American country-rock. Everybody’s got a little outlaw in ’em, according to the chorus, and I assume whoever designed Waylon’s shiny animal-print coat has been on the run from the law for quite some time. It’s an enjoyable performance, but not the greatest song; his 2014 entry, a rather lovely country song called Calm After the Storm, was far better (and far better, actually, than nearly anything that has been performed at Eurovision since).

Twenty-four. Ireland. Ryan O’Shaughnessy, Together.
Pretty ballad, he hits all the high notes in the chorus, but the staging – which has a boy-meets-boy courtship enacted by two dancers behind Mr. O’Shaughnessy and his pianist – is better than the song. The song is lovely, actually – but the staging is a knockout.

Twenty-five. Cyprus. Eleni Foureira, Fuego. I assume she won’t be singing about a Renault.
She opens the song in a metallic flame-patterned jumpsuit while the lights form what looks like a ten-foot-high vagina behind her, and that’s just about the most memorable thing about it. It’s bog-standard Greek Europop, the sort of thing you hear all summer in every beach bar in every Mediterranean resort east of Brindisi; given the title it’s inevitable that the staging will involve flames, and it does. We’re told this is the bookies’ favourite, and I – seriously – can’t imagine why.

Twenty-six. Italy. The last number. Ermal Meta e Fabrizio Moro, Non mi avete fatto niente
It’s apparently about overcoming your fear of being a victim of terrorism. It’s very well-meaning, they’ve both got good voices, and it needs a little bit more urgency. A tasteful, low-key performance, and not a bad song, but it’s not going to win.

So that’s all the songs. There’ll be a recap before the voting lines open, except I’m two hours behind so voting has already closed (no I don’t know who won, I am still spoiler-free). The four shiny presenter ladies have changed into new, even shinier frocks, and it’s time to take a loo break.

Two of the shiny presenter ladies are shouting HAVE YOU VOTED? over and over again. No I haven’t, please don’t hurt me.

Now we’re being invited to get a bit mellow and get into Lisbon’s groove. It’s the interval act. It is indeed mellow. The singer who opens the sequence is terrific; I’m sure the guy rapping in Portuguese is too, but I’ve no idea what any of it means. The music is a rather charming intersection of Europe, Africa and Brazil; it’s all rather subdued and tinged with melancholy around the edges, and it makes a rather nice change from the Debbie Allen Dance Number knockoffs you often get in the interval act.

Now two of the shiny presenter ladies are handed a phone by a naked man whose dangly bits are conveniently hidden by the onscreen graphics. One of them tells him he’d better leave before the graphics get taken off. Oh, how we laughed.

Now we’re getting a quick tour through some of the 53 songs Portugal entered in Eurovision before they finally won. It’s grim. People who aren’t funny trying to be funny in front of a TV audience of 200 million. Moving swiftly on…

…to the Junior Eurovision winner. Polina Bogusevich, a Russian 14-year-old with one hell of a voice. We see a clip of her winning song, and it’s completely batshit insane. She sings a couple of lines a capella, and she is so very pleased to be here on this amazing stage. That’s nice.

Now we get last year’s winner performing his new single. Like many things this evening, I’m sure it’s terribly meaningful if you speak Portuguese, but the closest I can get is GCSE Spanish, which I took almost thirty years ago. Fast forward time.

Another recap of the 26 songs in tonight’s contest before the voting lines close. Fast forward time again.

First, the jury votes, which are based on the dress rehearsal performance last night. I’ll be fast forwarding a lot… again.
A dozen countries in and the UK has nul points. I’m (cough) shocked, and it has nothing to do with the performance or the song.
(I mean, really, what did we expect? Our leaders, most of our newspapers, and a chunk of the public have all spent the past couple of years metaphorically sticking two fingers up at Europe, and what goes around comes around. Especially at Eurovision, which is a grudge match as much as it’s a song contest.)
Mel Giedroyc announces the points from the UK jury. Mel is in Uxbridge, which is currently represented in the House of Commons by Boris Johnson. Sorry, Mel, but we all have our crosses to bear. We’ve given 8 to Bulgaria – perhaps the screamy lady frightened the judges – and 10 to Israel, with douze points going to Mr. Rubber Pants from Austria. Bye Mel, you can get the hell out of Uxbridge now. Quickly, before Boris farts in your general direction.

Halfway through the Jury votes, Norway’s points are being awarded by a man in a shiny red jacket and Darth Vader. Israel and Austria are tied in the lead, with Cyprus third and Germany fourth.

Three-quarters of the way through, Austria is in the lead, Israel is second, Sweden is third. The UK is third from the bottom.

The last jury to award votes is Portugal. Portugal’s twelve points go to Estonia, who are a third of the way down the board; Austria is first, Sweden is second, Israel is third, the UK is fourth from the bottom.

As a result of the public vote, though, everything can change. And often does. Mr. Rubber Pants is really, really touched, he says. Not through those pants, he isn’t.

And before the public vote is revealed, a quick word from Eurovision’s executive something-or-other, I stopped listening and so did everybody else. Blah blah blah, platitude platitude platitude, shut the fuck up already and let’s get to the end of this shitfest.

So… the public vote. Did the public agree with the jury? Probably not, that’d be boring.
Australia got just nine points from the public vote. That’s eleven more than they deserved. The UK got 25, which gives us a total of 48, which means we won’t be coming last. Phew.
(Like I care.)

Two-thirds of the way through the public vote, Austria and Sweden are both out of the running to win even though they were first and second in the jury vote, and the potential winners are Israel, Germany, or Cyprus. I can’t remember Cyprus’s entry and it’s less than an hour since I saw it.

And the public vote boots Denmark from near the bottom of the board to near the top, and kicks Mr. Rubber Pants into third place. Netta wins for Israel, Cyprus is second, and it’s all very exciting. Portugal finished last, so their plan worked. We’re third from the bottom, and – again – I can’t possibly imagine what 52% of the electorate, a gaggle of our politicians, and a big chunk of our media might have done to so piss off both the juries and the public voters right across Europe.

Netta is clearly overjoyed and overcome. The trophy – a cut-glass microphone on a plastic stand – is staggeringly hideous, the waving golden cats are wheeled out again, and Netta gives us a reprise as the show’s grand finale.

So… next year in Tel Aviv, presumably. While you’re waiting, here’s Netta:

 

 

 

 

Nobody’s on nobody’s side

chess coliseum 3

There are sixty-seven musicians in the orchestra, and twenty members of the ENO Chorus padding out an already large company. That’s the most important thing about Laurence Connor’s simultaneously gargantuan and undernourished revival of Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus and Tim Rice‘s cold-war pop opera Chess, now playing a limited run at the Coliseum. If you love this score – and I really love this score – then you should do whatever you can to see this production at some point over the next three weeks. Chess has always had a dazzling score; despite the many imperfections elsewhere in this particular iteration of the show, that score, under the baton of Murray Hipkin (at the performance I saw; the regular conductor is John Rigby), is served spectacularly well, and to hear this music performed by such a superb orchestra and chorus is genuinely thrilling. As long as you go for the music, you’ll have a wonderful time.

If you’re looking for a piece of musical theatre, on the other hand, better manage your expectations. Chess first appeared as a concept album in 1984, and the biggest hit single from it – I Know Him So Well, in which two women spend four minutes lamenting that neither of them can fulfil their (same) man’s needs, because fuck the Bechdel Test – spent four weeks at number one in the UK pop charts. Since then, the show has gone through a dizzying number of incarnations onstage; the original London production was a moderate hit, but was too expensive to replicate elsewhere, the subsequent heavily-rewritten Broadway production was an eight-week flop, and since then it’s become one of those shows that, like Bernstein’s Candide, seems to get revised for each new production. This production – guess what? – represents yet another attempt to rewrite the show, and the result, as theatre, is – I’ll be kind – not successful.

This version of the show goes back to the concept album, and presents the songs on the album in album order, which is not (at all) the order in which they appeared in the original London production. It’s fair to say that the show’s biggest fault has always been that in constructing the plot, Tim Rice’s reach exceeded his grasp – to make the show’s combination of cold-war politics and international chess work completely probably requires a playwright of the calibre of Christopher Hampton and a lyricist with the skill and range of Stephen Sondheim, and while Rice has his moments he is neither of those things – but there is a viable show somewhere in this material. The basic story – an international chess championship in which the Russian contestant beats the American reigning champion and then defects to the west after falling in love with the American’s (female) second/coach – has potential, and the love story at the centre of the show can be quite touching if it’s played well. While some versions of the show have become bogged down in the layers of political intrigue in the second act, this version of the show goes too far in the opposite direction. For this production, somebody has taken the decision to reduce the show, more or less, to a series of Big Numbers with as little distance between them as possible. A great deal of the material that linked the big numbers in the original London production has been cut, to the point where one major supporting character – Walter, a CIA agent – is missing (and missed, particularly in the second act). Instead, the musical numbers are linked by brief snatches of atrociously simplistic dialogue that sounds like it was written on flashcards (at one point, one character actually announces “My heart is breaking!”).  The result is a script that sucks almost all the depth out of a piece that never had quite as much depth as it thought it did to begin with.

There might have been a good reason for that choice if things had worked out the way I suspect the producers – it’s a coproduction between the ENO and a commercial management – had planned. Similar ENO coproductions have had casting lined up before tickets went on sale – Bryn Terfel and Emma Thompson in Sweeney Todd, Glenn Close in Sunset Boulevard, Alfie Boe and Katherine Jenkins in Carousel. Chess didn’t, although it did have the same eye-watering ticket prices (peaking at £150, with a transaction charge on top if you book online) as those three earlier shows. Tickets had been on sale for more than three months before the casting for the leads was announced; Michael Ball, playing the Russian chess champion at the centre of the plot, told the Daily Express in an interview that he approached the producers about the role in January, after tickets had already been on sale for a couple of months. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the producers were pursuing some kind of megastar for one or more of the leads, and that the people they were hoping to sign turned it down. That, in turn, probably explains this version of the script: if the aim was to cast pop stars, which is an understandable aim given that the ENO’s previous three musical coproductions have all relied to some extent on superstar casting, then it makes sense to strip out everything that might expose their limitations as stage actors. If you also strip out most of the (already limited) character development, maybe it doesn’t matter if the leading roles are going to be played by the kind of million-megawatt STARS whose personal charisma can fill in the blanks.

That approach, though, falls apart when your star casting falls through and you have to find a set of leads at the last minute. As Florence, the woman who ping-pongs between the American and Russian champions, Cassidy Janson is perfectly OK. She has a really good voice, she sings the hell out of Nobody’s Side – my favourite song in the score – and she’s a decent actress and she manages to deliver some really, really atrocious dialogue with a straight face. She is not the kind of star who can use sheer force of personality to paper over the cracks in the script, particularly in a space the size of the Coliseum, and it shows. She’s very good, but she’d be far better in a version of the show that gave her more to act, which would be literally every single other version of the show that has ever been staged, rather than one designed to accommodate (and protect) stars with limited stage experience. As the Russian wife, Alexandra Burke – who is a pop star – has the opposite problem: she has a stunning voice, but she’s not quite the right kind of singer for most of her music here. Again, she doesn’t have the kind of superstar presence that might compensate for the (huge) gaps in her (very) underwritten role, but she also doesn’t have the kind of nuanced approach to interpreting song lyrics that would get the most mileage out of the interpolated He is a Man, He is a Child. That song, more than anything else in the score, is an extended dramatic monologue, albeit one with a couple of huge musical peaks; Ms. Burke, unfortunately, can’t act. At all. She makes lovely sounds, but they usually seem unconnected to the words she’s singing.

The men fare better. As the Arbiter, Cedric Neal blows the roof off the Coliseum in his one big number. Tim Howar‘s John McEnroe-esque Freddie, the bratty American champion, is so brilliantly sung that it’s easy to forgive his relative lack of charisma in the (brief) scenes. His biggest number, Pity the Child, is a formidably difficult rock howler, and he pulls it off effortlessly (I could have done without the gratuitous “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO” at the end of the song, though – perhaps it snuck in uninvited from Laurence Connor’s mediocre production of Miss Saigon, in which more than one actor does more or less the same thing, but it should have been shown the door the moment it appeared in rehearsals). And as Anatoly, the Russian challenger in the chess championship, Michael Ball is the only one of the production’s leads who has the combination of voice, acting skill, and charisma necessary to make this streamlined version of the show completely work for him. Somehow, despite a script that provides almost no connective tissue between his big numbers, he manages to create a believable character. It’s very easy to make fun of his cheesy vocal mannerisms – he put at least half the cheese into cheesy listening – but he’s on his best behaviour here and his singing is mostly superb, and the cheese, thank God, is mostly left offstage. His Anthem, the defiantly patriotic/internationalist hymn Anatoly sings at the climax of the first act, is the production’s most thrilling musical moment, and also one of the few moments in the production that works as drama.

chess coliseum 1

As for the production itself, I’m starting to think ‘directed by Laurence Connor’ should be taken as some kind of warning. There’s a spectacular set by Matt Kinley – remarkably spectacular for a five-week run – consisting of grids of square screens which show video projections (designed by Terry Scruby) – sometimes of the actors emoting their way through their big numbers, sometimes of cold-war newsreel footage, and sometimes wince-inducingly naff computerised animation, like the sequence early in the first act when we see Freddie’s private jet descend over Merano then turn (at an improbable angle) and land at the airport. Stephen Mear’s choreography gets the most out of the two big scene-setting dance numbers, and his parade of merchandisers in the opening ceremony sequence is terrific (it’s also the only place where Scruby’s video footage – which in that sequence shows Howar mugging his way through a series of gloriously spot-on ads for chess-themed souvenir merchandise ranging from coffee mugs to toothpaste – manages to be genuinely witty). There’s a lot going on – a lot of people on the stage, a lot of other visual information via the screens, and Connor does manage to marshall it all so nothing collides with anything else, and so that it’s always clear where you should be looking. He’s very good at the big picture, just as he was in Miss Saigon – but again, just like in his production of Miss Saigon, there’s not a great deal of subtlety to any of the performances, his attention to character work seems to stop at big, bland, generic emotions, and he’s prone to letting actors over-emote in places where less would be more. In the Swedish production in which it premiered, the late Josefin Nilsson‘s performance of He is a Man, He is a Child is a masterpiece of restraint – she has big notes, but she deploys them very carefully, and it’s all the more moving for it. Burke, on the other hand, has two volume settings and a tendency to sob, and the result isn’t nearly as moving because there is absolutely no feeling behind it. And Cassidy Janson sings much of the (gorgeous) final duet with tears (and mascara) running down her cheeks; it’s not a good choice, the moment would be more moving if we saw her holding back emotion rather than giving in to it.

But then, this version of the show, as I said at the beginning, probably wasn’t intended to be about acting. In purely musical terms, much of what you’ll hear is superb, and if you go for the music you’ll love it. Several individual numbers received thunderous applause, the show as a whole received a huge standing ovation, and – as a musical experience, as opposed to as a piece of musical theatre – it absolutely deserved it. As a concert with over-the-top visuals, it’s a stunning success. As a piece of theatre, it is lacking. The show might never completely work in any version, but as theatre even Richard Nelson‘s turd of a book from the Broadway production would be an improvement over what’s on offer at the Coliseum. It’ll be a long time before you get to hear these songs played by this kind of orchestra and chorus again, though – at least unless you go to Sweden, where the show is sometimes produced by major opera companies – so if you love the music this is certainly a must-see. Just – as I said – manage your expectations.

Finally, for the Chess geeks among us, the song list:

Act One

Overture (the first half of the overture used on Broadway)
The Story of Chess
Merano
Where I Want to Be (includes the preceding scene from the concept album)
Opening Ceremony/US vs. USSR/Merchandisers
The Arbiter/Chess Hymn
Chess
Quartet (A Model of Decorum and Tranquility)
Nobody’s Side (includes the preceding scene from the concept album)
Der Kleine Franz
Mountain Duet
Chess
Florence Quits
Someone Else’s Story (with Svetlana’s lyrics from the Australian production)
Embassy Lament
Anthem

Act Two:

He is a Man, He is a Child
Golden Bangkok
One Night in Bangkok
Heaven Help My Heart
The Soviet Machine
The Interview
Argument
I Know Him So Well
The Deal (mostly as on the concept album but with Svetlana’s reprise of Where I Want to Be at the beginning)
Pity the Child
Endgame
You And I (musically as on the concept album, incorporating a short reprise of The Story of Chess rather than all of it, but using the Broadway lyrics for the main body of the song rather than the [better] ones from the concept album)

Bows – an instrumental mostly based on Nobody’s Side.

Sunshine on Leeds

sunshine on leith

What do you do on the sunniest May bank holiday weekend in years? If you’re me, you go to the theatre. Granted, I booked the ticket months before I saw the weather forecast, and I don’t much like sitting in the sun – but as it turns out, the West Yorkshire Playhouse‘s revival of Sunshine on Leith, the jukebox musical based on the songs of the Proclaimers, is even more uplifting than a concentrated dose of sunshine, and you won’t get sunburned.

If you’ve seen the film – and if you haven’t, you should – you’ll know what you’re getting: a slightly soap-opera-ish romantic-comedy-slash-family-drama centred on two soldiers returning home to Leith from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, and carefully woven around a stack of Proclaimers songs. The film is a gorgeous, glorious joy from beginning to end; in James Brining’s new production, the stage version is a little grittier, a little more carefully working-class, and it doesn’t have the film’s pull-out-all-the-stops flash-mob finale outside the Scottish National Gallery, but it’s utterly charming, and Stephen Greenhorn‘s book tells a sweetly touching story of ordinary people muddling through their ordinary lives.

There are lovely performances, too, from everyone in the ensemble cast (some of whom also play instruments – guitar, sax, trumpet – to supplement the production’s fine seven-piece band). You don’t get the film’s string section, but David Shrubsole’s folk-pop arrangements suit the stage production’s more down-to-earth tone very well, and remind us, as the film did, that this is a superb set of songs. They’re beautifully sung here, too – yes, by everyone, although Hilary Maclean’s movingly restrained take on the title song might be first among equals. Brining’s production keeps the pace moving but never feels rushed, Colin Richmond’s cleverly simple set takes us from a patrol in Helmand to a pub on Leith Walk to a Leith tenement via a hospital, a supermarket, and even Waverley Station, and the finale – yes, ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)‘, and get ready to sing along – is a jolt of pure theatrical ecstasy. The cast and band are clearly having the most wonderful time doing this show, the audience – me too – had a wonderful time watching it, the standing ovation at the curtain call was absolutely spontaneous and very well-deserved, and the Proclaimers, via video screen, got the final bow.

That’s as it should be; Greenhorn’s book is a tremendously skilful piece of writing (he’s given it a light update this time around; at one point, a Brexit reference gets a huge laugh), but there’s a clear-eyed, unsentimental realness to these songs, and they’re the element that gives the show its emotional depth. This is that rarest of things: a genuinely moving jukebox musical that elevates rather than diminishes the songbook it draws from, and that charms the audience instead of trying to beat them into submission (well, more or less – I got a balloon in my face in the finale, but I’ll live). I didn’t have to walk 500 miles to see it, but it would have been worth it.

The heat is off in Saigon

miss saigon palace manchester

I’m old. I saw the original London production of Miss Saigon way, way back in 1989 – September 23rd, 1989, in fact – on the first Saturday matinee after it opened. Yes, I saw Jonathan Pryce, and yes, I saw (and slightly winced at) the eye makeup (not to mention at the yellowface elsewhere in the cast, because Pryce wasn’t the only white actor cast as a Vietnamese character) – and yes, I loved it. Even at not-quite-seventeen I could pick all kinds of holes in it, but it blew me away. I loved the music, I loved Nicholas Hytner‘s production, and Lea Salonga gave what is still just about as good a performance as I’ve ever seen.

From there to here is quite a distance, and in more ways than one. I’m older, the show is older, I haven’t seen it “live” since a return visit a few years into the original London run, and the world in general – most of it, anyway – is at least a little bit more woke when it comes to issues of postcolonialism and representation and all the rest of it than it was three decades ago. It still offers a rather uneasy Western view of south-east Asia – far more uneasy, in some ways, than something like The King and I, which is so far removed from reality that it’s probably best taken as a fairytale – and while the show’s point of view is undoubtedly that America’s involvement in Vietnam was disastrous and damaging for everybody involved, the show’s writers begin to develop a thesis about how American complacency contributed to an ongoing tragedy after the war was over and they don’t take it nearly far enough, particularly in the last third of the second act when the melodrama at the centre of the plot kicks into gear.

That plot, though, is the same as it always was: a smarter-than-it-looks rehash of Madam Butterfly in which an American GI meets and very quickly falls for a Vietnamese bar girl in the last days before the fall of Saigon; he fails to get her out with him when he’s forced to evacuate, and when, years later, he finds out she’s survived and has a child, he and his new American wife offer to support the child but refuse to give him a home in America, with tragic consequences. Alain Boublil and Richard Maltby, Jr., the show’s original librettists, find more light and shade than you’d expect within this scenario (this production credits “additional lyrics”, none of which are an improvement over the originals, to Michael Mahler), although they possibly still don’t find quite enough, and while some of Claude-Michel Schönberg‘s music is bombastic and thuddingly banal, some of it is very lovely indeed. It’s always been to the show’s great credit that despite some gratuitously Hallmark-card lyrics, the Vietnamese heroine, Kim, is portrayed as a woman of immense strength and courage rather than as a lovelorn sap. It’s equally to the show’s credit that Chris, the Pinkerton figure, isn’t simply a colonial shit or a stereotypical Ugly American, and that Ellen, his American wife, is never portrayed as a villain either – Chris suffers as a result of leaving Kim in Vietnam, and Ellen is perfectly willing to help support a child she didn’t know about. That their support – or rather, their western complacency – imposes boundaries may be the engine that drives the melodrama towards the climax of the second act, but the writing isn’t as one-dimensional as it could have been. There are shades of grey here, and an understanding that well-meaning people sometimes do not behave well when confronted with complex moral decisions. In this kind of steamroller of a blockbuster musical, those shades of grey are relatively rare.

Those shades of grey, though, don’t entirely survive intact in the production currently playing in Manchester, which is the touring iteration of the revival that was recently seen in the West End and on Broadway (and on DVD). As directed – mostly in the sense of directing traffic – by Laurence Connor, this is a very efficient reading of the show: the big moments are all present and correct, including the (admittedly still dazzling) helicopter effect in the Fall of Saigon scene, and the actors all emote the hell out of their big numbers, and there is absolutely no depth or complexity in almost all of the performances. It’s loud and crass and sometimes even slightly distasteful in a way the original production never was (yes, even despite the original production’s yellowface): Nicholas Hytner’s original production, even years into the run with the umpteenth replacement cast, told a story about the tragic aftermath of the Vietnam war, whereas this production, despite being smaller in scale and budget, takes the tragic aftermath of the Vietnam war and makes a spectacle out of it. There’s a giant statue of Ho Chi Minh, a Saigon bar, various interiors, a dragon dance, twirling ribbons, projected film of orphaned American-Vietnamese children, a Cadillac, a shiny chrome representation of the head of the Statue of Liberty, and a more-or-less life-size (model) helicopter that lands on the stage – but there’s no emotional content at all, just a careful facsimile of it. It’s not that any of the performances are bad, exactly – indeed, this production is, by and large, very, very well-sung. It’s that every last scrap of subtlety appears to have been ironed out of a piece that, while more subtle than it could have been, was never that subtle to begin with. How unsubtle is it? There’s more than one instance in which a character stands/kneels centre stage, face contorted in a careful imitation of anguish, and screams “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”. That did not happen – and I mean did not happen, not once – in the original production.

As for individual performances, they’re mostly, well… accurate. Everybody hits their notes and their marks, and nearly everybody seems completely devoid of inner life. There are two honourable exceptions: Vinny Coyle’s Chris, who sings the role very well indeed and works strenuously to put back some of the shades of subtlety that have largely been bleached – and I chose that word very carefully – out of this production, and Red Concepción as the Engineer, the Pandarus-like pimp whose bar/whorehouse is the venue for Kim and Chris’s first meeting, and whose machinations get Kim and her child out of Vietnam at the end of the first act. Concepción’s Engineer is gleefully, bracingly nasty, sung with show-stopping fervour, and somehow believably real in a way that eludes nearly everyone else.  Coyle, incidentally, is an understudy, though you’d never have guessed, and his appearance in the role was not announced in the theatre before the performance, which is inexcusable. As Kim, Sooha Kim has a lovely voice, but doesn’t manage to transcend the production’s essential hollowness. And it’s a tiny role, but Acielle Santos’s Gigi – the prostitute who sings The Movie in my Mind, which used to be my favourite song in the score before it was disembowelled by this production’s lyric rewrites – exemplifies the problem with most of the performances here: she has a great voice, and she sings the song very well indeed, but the emotions are all on the surface. She sobs through it, ends the number in tears, and the moment is far more powerful (as, in the theatre, many moments are more powerful) if the performer doesn’t emote the song to death. In the original cast – you can even hear this on the original London cast recording – Isay Alvarez brought a devastating, absolutely haunting dignity to the song; it was very moving indeed, but it was moving because it was performed with restraint. In this production, the actress weeps all the way through the song’s climax – and because she weeps, we don’t.

Elsewhere, Connor repeats Hytner’s one big misstep, and shows a slide-show of real Vietnamese orphans during the act two opener, a (terrible) song called Bui-doi, which is basically a (God help us) raise-the-roof showstopper about mixed-race orphans trapped in a society where they’re largely shunned. In Hytner’s production this was crass, but there was at least a genuine emotional impulse behind the song (and Peter Polycarpou gave a very, very good performance indeed as the ex-solder who sings it); here there isn’t, which means the plight of these poor children merely becomes set-dressing in an expensive western theatrical spectacle, and it’s spectacularly tasteless.

The show itself, though, is solid enough – even given that the writing is far from unimpeachable – that it works on some level even in less than ideal circumstances. In many ways, this touring production is impressive: as I said, it’s sung very well indeed. The orchestrations are reduced, but reduced carefully; fifteen musicians are never going to sound like the original production’s twenty-four, and the lack of a larger string section contributes significantly to the near-complete absence in this production of the fine emotional shading that made the original so powerful. The band never sounds bad, but they never sound as good either; this is a show that really needs a big, lush sound, so it’s inevitably diminished by the smaller orchestra. The special effects are terrific, particularly in a touring production – the helicopter effect is superb (technology can do things now that just were not possible in 1989) – but when this story, the most nakedly human and intimate of all the big 1980s megamusicals, becomes a show dominated by special effects, it’s a problem. The effects were immense in 1989 too, but you walked out of the theatre remembering Lea Salonga and Simon Bowman, not the helicopter and the Ho Chi Minh statue. Now, because the performances are mostly painted with such a broad emotional brush, you barely remember the people at all, and the result is a show that’s impressive to look at but emotionally empty. Everybody works hard, but this Miss Saigon, in the end, is the equivalent of watching a hurriedly-made Saturday morning cartoon version of something that was originally written for grown-ups.