I’ll say it up front: I love She Loves Me. I’ve loved She Loves Me since I discovered Barbara Cook (God help me, after seeing a matinee of Carrie at the RSC) at the age of 15. I saw the Roundabout Theatre Company’s first Broadway revival, I saw that production’s subsequent London iteration three times, and over the going-on-thirty years since I discovered the show I doubt I’ve gone more than a fortnight at a time without listening to one or other of the various cast recordings. I more or less know the score by heart, it’s on the short, select list of golden-age musicals I think are just about perfect, and I’d booked for this production within an hour of tickets going on sale.
It’s safe to say, then, that my expectations going in to this revival were relatively high; Matthew White’s tiny jewel of a production, playing at the Menier Chocolate Factory until March next year, exceeds pretty much all of them. Based on Miklós László’s play ‘Parfumerie’ (other adaptations include the James Stewart film The Shop Around The Corner, and the Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks
AOL commercial rom-com You’ve Got Mail), She Loves Me centres on two bickering clerks in a Budapest parfumerie who do not realise they are writing to each other via a lonely hearts column. The bold brassiness you’d commonly associate with golden-age American musical comedy is more or less entirely absent here; instead, Joe Masteroff’s beautifully-constructed, literate book and especially Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick’s glorious score give these characters a surprising emotional depth (all the more surprising when you consider the same source material begat the entirely plastic You’ve Got Mail). White resists the temptation – to which previous revivals have sometimes succumbed – to punch up the comedy, and instead goes right to the show’s heart; the result, save for the tiny eight-piece band (forgivable in a 180-seat theatre), is just about as ideal a production of this material as you could imagine.
It helps that the two unwitting pen-pals are so perfectly cast. Scarlett Strallen’s shyly hesitant Amalia is simply lovely. She finds exactly the right balance between sweetness and sadness, and her singing is glorious. She gets the best of the score’s solo numbers, and gives each of them full value; her “Dear Friend”, in particular, is a masterclass in understatement, and all the more moving for it, and she revels in the coloratura at the end of her radiant “Vanilla Ice Cream” in act two. Opposite her, Mark Umbers is possibly the most Daniel Massey-like Georg since Daniel Massey; quiet, bookish, and thoroughly decent, he and Ms. Strallen are the perfect foils for each other, and their long-awaited embrace at the very end of the show is far more moving than you’d expect given the relative slightness of the plot. He’s also, unlike some of his predecessors in the role (*cough* John Gordon Sinclair *cough*) a superb singer, and his firing-on-all-cylinders rendition of the title song in the second act is thoroughly splendid.
They’re matched by a similarly perfect set of ensemble performances. Bock and Harnick’s score spreads the wealth around, as does Masteroff’s book, and each major supporting character gets at least one (wonderful) song and one big scene. If Katherine Kingsley’s flighty Cockney shopgirl is the most memorable, thanks to her slyly humorous account of “A Trip to the Library”, the score’s funniest song, that’s not to take anything away from anyone else. There’s stellar work from Dominic Tighe (Kingsley’s real-life husband) as the snakeskin-smooth Kodaly, the closest thing the piece has to a villain, from Alastair Brookshaw as the pragmatic clerk Ladislav Sipos, and from Callum Howells as delivery-boy Arpad. They’re all warmly funny, they all sing beautifully, and they play beautifully off each other. Most surprising of all, there’s Les Dennis as the shop owner Mr. Maraczek. Dennis has been a fixture on British television since the 1980s, more often as a comedian and game-show host than as an actor, and his brand of “comedy” usually has me reaching for the remote (and possibly the painkillers). Here, he drops the TV mannerisms completely and reveals himself to be a character actor of some skill (which, to be fair, is evident from his programme credits, which encompass a diverse set of plays including works by Goldoni, Priestley, and David Hare). He gets the show’s most dramatic storyline (it involves a suicide attempt), and plays it with exactly the right light touch, so that he never overshadows the show’s central romance. He doesn’t have much of a singing voice, but his “Days Gone By” is appropriately wistful and quite moving. It’s a very fine performance.
There’s a lovely, clever set too – the best I’ve seen at the Menier – from Paul Farnsworth, who also supplies the perfectly-elegant costumes. The Menier is a tricky space – tiny stage, no flyspace, almost no wingspace, low ceiling – and Farnsworth’s solution involves not one but four small turntables, each of which carries a section of wall that can revolve and unfold to form part of the shop’s interior or exterior. Beautifully lit by Paul Pyant, this is a very handsome production indeed; the venue’s technical constraints are still occasionally evident – Umbers has to sing the first part of the title song from the aisle, in front of the curtain, because the stage is so shallow that there’s no room to do a set-change behind a drop with an actor still on the apron – but the production values are far higher than we’ve any right to expect from such a small theatre. Rebecca Howell’s choreography resists the temptation to turn the two big (in relative terms) production numbers – a pompous headwaiter’s attempt to preserve “A Romantic Atmosphere” for his diners despite the clumsiness of his staff, and the increasingly manic parade of Christmas shoppers in “Twelve Days to Christmas” – into big, overblown comic extravaganzas; her work is perfectly in scale with the rest of the show, and she understands, thank God, that less is sometimes more. And while, to be slightly contradictory, more musicians might be nice, Jason Carr’s new orchestrations get full value from the eight players at his disposal, and you’re never conscious of the unpleasantly metallic synthesised string pad sound that characterises the 1993 and 1994 cast recordings.
For once, then, there is more or less nothing to criticise, apart from the usual issues that go with the Menier itself (claustrophobic lobby, not enough toilets, awkward entrance through the restaurant, hideous view of the Shard as you walk up Southwark Street). The material is sublime, the actors – all of them – are just about perfect, and Matthew White’s production is absolutely beguiling. This is as good as anything the Menier has ever done, and as good a revival as I’ve seen all year. Don’t miss it.