God damn it, voilà!

H2S

Or, a few brief thoughts about Wilton’s Music Hall‘s very, very problematic revival of How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying, which closed yesterday:

  • It is very nearly impossible to kill this material. Many of this production’s reviews have rather sniffily compared this show to Loesser‘s much better-known Guys and Dolls; it’s true that workplace mores have changed more than a little since the show’s debut in 1962, but to assume any shortcomings are the fault of the material rather than the director is too easy. Done with the right (light) touch, it can play like gangbusters, even today.
  • Saying that upfront may lead you to some assumptions about this production. Those assumptions would be entirely correct.
  • It’s worth saying upfront that everybody involved here clearly respects and loves the material. The production has, for example, paid for a 9-piece band; that’s a huge outlay in a 300-seat venue, and the score – a longtime favourite of mine – sounds terrific. The singing, too, is distinguished throughout. But while everybody involved clearly loves and respects the material, it is unfortunately not absolutely clear whether everybody involved understands it.
  • A note for Benji Sperring, this production’s director: IT. IS. A. SATIRE. And that goes for every character, not just the more obviously caricatured supporting roles.
  • There’s obviously more than one way to play a character, but in this case it’s worth going back to Robert Morse‘s performance in the original (easily enough available on film), although you don’t necessarily have to imitate it. This is a story about ambition – the central character, J. Pierrepont Finch, rises from the mailroom to chairman of a huge corporation in an impossibly short time by following the pithy advice of the self-help book (itself a parody) by Shepherd Mead that gives the show its title – but it is not simply a portrayal of a ruthless young man’s swift corporate ascent, and it’s also not a treatise against the evils of big business. It’s a satire – but a gentle, knowing one.
  • The thing about Morse’s portrayal: he was adorable in the role. However duplicitous the character became, however badly he behaved towards Rosemary, his love-interest, you rooted for him. Watch the film: there’s a sweetness and a guilelessness to Morse’s performance that lets his Finch get away with pretty much anything.
  • Under Sperring’s direction, Mark Pickering plays Finch as a lizard in a suit. And if the acting choices weren’t misguided enough, it doesn’t help at all that Nic Farman, the lighting designer, chooses to illuminate Finch’s many fourth-wall-breaking takes to the audience either by bathing the stage in green light, or by isolating Finch in an ice-blue spotlight. Under those conditions, there’s no opportunity at all for Pickering to communicate anything resembling warmth – and if Finch comes across as cold, if you can’t like him, the show starts to come apart at the seams. This simply is not a story in which a villain/antihero prevails – but that’s what you get here.
  • Given the rest of the production, my inclination would be to blame the director. I’m pretty sure the performance I saw Pickering give is the performance Sperring wanted. Make of that what you will.
  • Hannah Grover’s Rosemary, on the other hand, is pretty much perfect. She has the right combination of wide-eyed ingenuousness and steel backbone, she delivers a delightful ‘Happy To Keep His Dinner Warm’ (yes, the show’s sexual politics are firmly rooted in the early 60s), and she’s warmly funny throughout.
  • Andrew C. Wadsworth, luxury-cast as boss JB Biggley, is an absolute delight.
  • So is Lizzii Hills’s delightfully dim Hedy LaRue, Biggley’s smart-dumb bimbo of a mistress. My inner feminist might have cringed, but Hills is so funny that I didn’t care.
  • Maisey Bawden’s Miss Jones is in the Lillias White mode – in ‘Brotherhood of Man’, she lets rip with a stream of fabulous scat-singing, rather than an operatic obbligato. It’s not quite the joke Loesser wrote, but the joke does work (at least, it worked in the 1995 Broadway revival – which, yes, I saw). It doesn’t work here because Bawden simply reads as being at least thirty years too young to portray a starchy, spinsterly senior office manager – and while Loesser didn’t write scat-singing for Miss Jones anyway, in either case the joke is about an older, conservative, straight-laced woman falling under Finch’s “spell” and letting loose at the climax of the song, rather than just a supporting character who hasn’t sung before revealing that she has a voice.
  • The production has clearly been put up on the kind of budget that makes the Southwark Playhouse look like an offshoot of the Las Vegas Strip. Mike Lees’s pop-art corporate HQ backdrop looks perfectly fine, although reports elsewhere suggest the (presumably plywood) elevator doors have been somewhat temperamental. The costumes and wigs, I’m afraid, simply look cheap, to the point where the waist of Rosemary’s dress is cinched with a length of ribbon instead of a belt.
  • Whatever the production’s shortcomings – and the production, in case you hadn’t guessed by now, has many, many shortcomings – it’s a treat to hear this music performed live, and performed well.
  • Lovely as the venue is, it is less than a treat to sit on the Wilton Music Hall’s seats, which resemble something you’d expect to find in a school assembly, for the length of the ninety-minute first act. Yes, that first act is long, and is always long. If it’s done well, it passes in a blink; if it isn’t, it’s a real arse-paralyser, and so are those chairs.

The bottom line: it doesn’t work, and I’m glad I went. The band is great, there are some incredibly talented performers in supporting roles, it’s a wonderful score, and any production of this show, on some level, is going to be worthwhile. But it’s a far more nuanced piece than this director understands, and the misguided choices surrounding the central role torpedo the production right at the top of the show. Pity.

And in future, if you’re going to see anything longer than the briefest one-act in this venue, be warned: take a cushion, or anaesthetise your buttocks before you go in.

Double your fun…

duke of yorks glass menagerieaudra leicester square

Or, two (almost) perfect theatrical experiences in a single day.

I can’t say that The Glass Menagerie has ever been my favourite play, and it’s difficult for me to read it without thinking of For Whom The Southern Belle Tolls, Christopher Durang‘s brutal parody, and dissolving into giggles. Sometimes, though, it’s the actors who pull you into the theatre rather than the play they’re appearing in, and so it is here: I’d never seen Cherry Jones in a play, I had a (very rare) free afternoon in London, and Today Tix had a whopper of a special offer (stalls seats for £15). So I booked.

I can’t say it completely changed my mind about the play, but the production is more or less perfect. There’s no escaping that this is a memory play: Bob Crowley’s stylised set, which suspends the Wingfields’ apartment above a reflecting pool into which characters onstage occasionally peer, combines with stylised entrances (Laura makes her first entrance and her last exit through the back of a sofa) and Steven Hoggett’s falling-through-space movement in the transitions between Tom’s narration and the flashback scenes to make it very clear that we’re watching a recollection rather than a naturalistic scene set in the characters’ present. John Tiffany’s staging is flawless, Nico Muhly’s music is shimmeringly lovely, and everyone involved gets the tone exactly right. This is material that can teeter on the edge of self-parody; make the performances half a shade too big, or make Laura half a shade too childlike, or push Amanda half a shade too far towards the stereotype of the flightly Southern Belle, and it can easily become (inappropriately) hilarious, which is the reason that Durang parody is so devastating. This is an acknowledged classic, but it’s also a very easy play to ruin.

Here, fortunately, all four performances are exceptional. Michael Esper conveys Tom’s anger and restlessness, but also the odd codependency in his relationship with his mother. Kate O’Flynn’s Laura is childlike at times, but never childish; she’s horribly vulnerable, but it’s always clear that if the right doors opened, she could find a way to live in the adult world, and Amanda’s hopes for her do not, here, seem entirely delusional. Her scene with Brian J. Smith’s gentleman caller is truly lovely – a far more hopeful take on the conversation than is often the case, and again there is the sense that if things were different, if he wasn’t already going steady with the unseen Betty, there would be a real possibility of a future for them. And Cherry Jones’s Amanda is sublime – a straight-backed, dignified, practical woman who has engineered her family’s (financial) survival through the Depression despite her husband’s absence, and who clings tenaciously to the past but does not live there. I went mostly to see Jones, but I’m glad I saw all four; these are very, very fine performances indeed, and they’re surrounded by an exceptionally strong production.

And then, in the evening, something completely different: an informal concert by the (deservedly) much-lauded American actress and singer Audra McDonald, accompanied by Seth Rudetsky on the piano, with a guest appearance from Will Swenson, Ms. McDonald’s husband, who came out and sang two songs while she went backstage to tend to their six-month-old baby. To say the performance was a joy from beginning to end would be a serious understatement: Ms. McDonald is one of the greats, and very few people can put a song across as well as she can, but she’s also a warm, funny, thoroughly down-to-earth presence, and she doesn’t carry even the slightest hint of the diva (take note, Ms. LuPone).

She also – I’m starting to gush and I don’t care – knows her way around the repertoire, and her choice of material extends far beyond the parade of gold-plated standards we’ve all heard every single musical theatre actor who ever lived sing a thousand times. So yes, we got I Could Have Danced All Night – but she encouraged the audience to sing along, including the big substitute high notes at the end, and we also got Go Back Home from The Scottsboro Boys, Adam Gwon’s wrenching I’ll Be Here from his musical Ordinary Days, Jason Robert Brown’s Stars and the Moon (which Ms. McDonald was rather too young to sing when she recorded it way back in 1998), and Bock and Harnick’s glorious When Did I Fall In Love? (from Fiorello!). Ms. McDonald is a Juilliard-trained soprano, and her voice is exquisite, but she’s also a superb actress and a formidably skilled interpreter of song lyrics (three things that by no means always go together), and to hear her sing from a distance of about twenty feet is about as pure a theatrical high as you’ll ever find.

The evening’s informality helped: Mr. Rudetsky proved a genial host, the chatter between songs was spontaneous, genuinely illuminating, and sometimes very funny, and if you haven’t heard a Juilliard-trained classical lyric soprano impersonating Billie Holiday singing I Dreamed a Dream and A New Argentina then trust me, you haven’t lived (and I’ll certainly be back in London later this year to see Ms. McDonald play Billie Holiday at Wyndham’s). Mr. Swenson’s two songs were great fun – I’d have said I don’t really need to hear Stars from Les Misérables out of context, but few people can have sung it better, and his Pirate King was hilarious. It was, as I said, simply an absolute joy to be there.

So, two perfect productions, plus one wonderful catch-up with an old friend I hadn’t seen in the best part of two decades between them. A perfect day? Not quite. It wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t some kind of wrinkle. The show was sold as a 90-minute performance with a start time of 8.45pm; from Leicester Square, that leaves plenty of time to make the 11pm train home from Euston, right? The tickets, furthermore, were unequivocal about punctuality:

LST

You can guess what happened. We got to the theatre about twenty minutes before the published start time to find a long queue of people snaking up the street into Chinatown. The theatre’s front-of-house staff didn’t start letting us in until a couple of minutes before showtime, and the performance started around fifteen minutes late, which isn’t good news when you’ve got a train to catch, particularly when you’ve got to travel about two hundred miles and there isn’t a later one. An usher, when I asked, told me it was a ninety-minute performance and it would definitely be over by ten-thirty. It wasn’t, and I had to dash out of there during the bows and skip the encore. Much as I hate to be that person who rushes up the aisle towards the exit during the curtain-call, this time I had no choice. I made my train, but just barely. In a city where theatres draw from as wide a catchment area as they do in London, it’s not really good enough for a house management to delay a show without explanation, particularly later on in the evening, and doing so may well force people into making a run for it before the show is completely finished. Don’t get me wrong, the show was a wonderful experience and I wouldn’t have missed it – but thanks to the late start, I also got slightly less than I paid for, in that I didn’t get to hear Ms. McDonald’s whole performance.

So – not quite a perfect day, but close. A great play, a collection of great songs, a handful of great actors, one of the great musical theatre voices of our time… and a mad dash up the Northern Line at the end. You can’t win ’em all.

How not to cancel a show

Or, Saturday afternoon at The Other Palace.

Stuff happens. I saw The Wild Party last month, loved it, booked to go back for a repeat visit at the last matinée of the run – but when I arrived at the theatre yesterday, about half-an-hour before the performance was due to begin, I was handed this at the door:

other palace cancellation

Disappointing, obviously, but this is live theatre: it’s made by people, not machines, and people sometimes get sick, and in an off-West End venue budgets don’t stretch to hiring understudies. You book a ticket taking a calculated risk that the performance will go ahead; yesterday, someone in the cast was ill, so it couldn’t.

The evening performance did go ahead, and I can understand cancelling a matinee to enable a performer to get through the show’s closing performance – particularly having seen this show, whose very, very physical staging must have demanded an enormous amount of energy from every member of the cast.

From a customer service perspective, though, the experience left a great deal to be desired. First, let’s look at that letter: at the bottom, admittedly partly cut off by my inept photography, it informs me that a cheque for the full amount (of the refund for my ticket) will be forwarded to me within 14 days. They’ve backpeddalled from that since, and will be processing card refunds (and doing so far more quickly), and with good reason: if I pay you for a service, and you are unable for whatever reason to provide that service, telling me you’ll sit on my money and refund it at your leisure isn’t acceptable. It’s also – bizarrely – more work than simply processing credit/debit card refunds, so why suggest it in the first place?

More problematic is the timing of the cancellation. It can’t have come as a total surprise, given that Thursday night’s performance was apparently also cancelled. I understand not wanting to let a paying audience down, but there’s more than one way of letting people down: I don’t exactly live around the corner from the theatre, I’d travelled about 200 miles to see the show and the train fare was significantly more expensive than the theatre ticket, and (notwithstanding the fact that I was there last week too), I am generally in London infrequently enough that there are a lot of things I don’t get the opportunity to see. At 2pm, when I learned the performance had been cancelled, the only other option close by for an afternoon at the theatre was Wicked, and I’m not a masochist. The Other Palace is just far enough from the heart of the West End that getting to another theatre, buying a ticket, and getting seated for another 2.30pm performance wasn’t going to happen. Theatres in London draw from a very, very wide catchment area; unfortunately performances do sometimes have to be cancelled, but customers who have travelled – and I mean even from zone 2, never mind from up north – deserve the opportunity to try to arrange to see something else instead. Because the cancellation was announced so late yesterday, I didn’t get that opportunity – the other things I would have liked to see all started at the same time – and without the theatre ticket, I wouldn’t have spent the money on the train fare.

The theatre did – eventually – tweet and email about the cancellation, but note the time stamps:

other palace tweet

other palace time stamp

 

This is information that should have reached customers as soon as possible before the performance was scheduled to begin; again, tweeting ten minutes after showtime and not emailing until forty minutes after that suggests customer service is hardly the venue’s first priority. I do understand, as I said, that people get sick. I understand delaying the decision to cancel as long as possible, in the hope that you won’t have to disappoint customers – but what happened yesterday afternoon ended up being the worst of all possible worlds. Tweets are easy to miss, but that email announcing the cancellation should have reached my inbox (and therefore my phone) an hour before curtain time, not fifty minutes afterwards; theatres have a responsibility to their customers as well as to the performers, and yesterday afternoon The Other Palace let their customers down.

Fidgety Feet

dominion american in paris

Bullet points again – here are a few brief thoughts about the new London production of Christopher Wheeldon‘s stage adaptation of An American in Paris:

  • It’s beautiful to look at. Wheeldon’s choreography is glorious, and Bob Crowley’s fluid, evocative designs offer a captivating portrait of postwar Paris.
  • It’s beautifully sung. Yes, the leading lady – the wonderful Leanne Cope – is a ballet dancer rather than a musical theatre actress, but she has a lovely voice and a great deal of presence. The singing from the other leads is unimpeachable (Robert Fairchild was off at the performance I saw; his alternate, Ashley Day, is excellent).
  • Craig Lucas, who wrote the show’s book, has departed a little from the plot of the source film. It’s still the story of three young men – artistically-inclined former American soldiers Jerry Mulligan and Adam Hochberg and their French friend Henri Baurel – on the loose in Paris after the end of World War Two, and (of course) they still all fall for the same girl, but the plot carries a little more weight here than it does in the film.
  • That said, this is still a show in which everything else exists to support the dancing – and the dancers. Lucas’s book is constructed very carefully so that the heavy lifting, in terms of acting requirements, is directed away from the two principal roles, which are cast with ballet dancers rather than actors.
  • This means that while Cope’s on-the-cusp-of-stardom ballerina, Lise Dassin, is given more of a backstory (she’s Jewish, her parents were arrested by the Nazis, and Henri’s family hid her and others during the Occupation, which is why she feels beholden to them), explaining it is mostly left to other characters, which means Lise has long stretches, when she isn’t dancing, of simply being Shy And Enigmatic. This probably does Cope a great disservice; she’s a capable actress, and she’s the lead, but while her role is dazzlingly choreographed, it’s also badly underwritten.
  • The supporting characters are given a little more room here than they are in the film. In particular, Zoë Rainey’s Milo Davenport – a wealthy American patron of the arts who takes an interest in Jerry, and not just for his paintings – gets a significantly more prominent role in the story, financing a ballet in which Lise will star and persuading the ballet company to hire Jerry as designer. Rainey is wonderful – and that’s good, because she gets more to sing than the show’s leading lady, even though Cope’s (admittedly smaller) voice is hardly an embarrassment.
  • The men are all terrific. Ashley Day’s Jerry also suffers a little (though less than Cope) from his role being carefully designed for (let’s put this kindly) an actor of limited skill, which he is not. Day will be taking over from Robert Fairchild, who originated the role in Paris and on Broadway, later in the year, and he’s great.
  • The running gag about whether Haydn Oakley’s Henri Baurel might be gay isn’t very funny, and should have been cut before rehearsals.
  • Oakley has to carry a great deal of the hidden-from-the-Nazis plot strand, and he delivers a performance of enormous subtlety – not easy in a barn like the Dominion, particularly when the book scenes could almost have been written on flashcards.
  • David Seadon-Young’s Adam Hochberg is a charming narrator, a convincing song-and-dance man, and absolutely believable as a lovelorn romantic, but Lucas’s book is simply too thin for us to be moved in any way by his character’s unrequited love for Lise.
  • Jane Asher is luxury-cast as Mme. Baurel, Henri’s overbearing mother. She can do this kind of role in her sleep, but she doesn’t; her timing is sharp as ever, she owns the stage in all of her (brief) appearances, and she finds far more complexity in the character than you’d guess from the writing, which – again – tends towards the simplistic.
  • The film’s brief-ish score is augmented by a handful of classics from elsewhere in the Gershwin catalogue; they’re all beautifully sung (and played, although the 13-piece orchestra could really do with about a dozen more musicians), but they also seem oddly interchangeable. It’s not the songs that matter here, it’s the dancing.
  • The climactic ballet sequence, while shorter than it is in the film, is simply stunning. Day is very good indeed, Cope is sensational, the choreography is breathtaking, and the Mondrian-inspired costumes and projected backdrops are gorgeous.
  • Wheeldon’s choreography throughout is dazzlingly inventive, which is as it should be in a show where the dancing is the star. The opening ballet, to a chunk of Gershwin’s Concerto in F, communicates the beauty and menace of postwar Paris, dance drives most of the plot’s most significant moments, and Bob Crowley’s handsome sets move with the same choreographed precision as the dancers.
  • If you go in expecting a lighter-than-light tap-and-feathers extravaganza along the lines of, say, Crazy For You, you will be disappointed. Wheeldon and his colleagues are attempting something a little more highbrow, and a little more thoughtful. Apart from Henri’s dazzling art deco hat-and-cane fantasy in Stairway to Paradise, that kind of out-and-out production number is not what is on offer here.
  • And if you’re looking for the kind of full-on mascara-down-your-cheeks romance that will leave you sobbing into a tissue at the curtain-call, look elsewhere. This show is beautiful to look at, beautifully sung, thrillingly choreographed and danced, and brilliantly designed, but it’s also not enormously emotionally engaging. It’ll keep you interested, and sometimes dazzled, but you may not be moved.
  • Ticket prices in the West End are on a sharp upward trajectory right now, but the Dominion is a barn and there are some bargains to be had. At the front of the rear half of the circle (the theatre has only two tiers in use), row H has a low barrier in front; these seats are sold as ‘restricted view’, but the bar won’t cause you any trouble at all if you’re taller than about 4’10”, and this is a show where it’s no bad thing to be sitting far enough back that you can see the full stage picture. This was my ‘restricted’ view:
    drv
  • The realities of commercial musical theatre: you could populate a couple of football teams out of the list of producing entities billed above the title on the showcard, and the full list of producers takes up a double-page spread in the (very, very overpriced) programme:
    AP producers
    AP programme

The bottom line? It’s certainly worth seeing. To take these particular ingredients and work them into something that, at times, is transcendently beautiful is not at all an easy achievement – but too often, as brilliantly staged and designed and beautifully performed as it is, the result is just beautiful, and it could have been more. This love story may well thrill you, but you probably won’t fall in love.

Drag me to Hull

hthp

Or, a few random notes about Richard Bean‘s funny, messy, wonderful farce, a co-production between Hull Truck Theatre and the RSC for the Hull UK City of Culture 2017 programme:

  • The play is a slab of local history rendered as farce, and it possibly helps to read the programme notes first. I didn’t. That said, this (culled from the theatre website) is probably all you need to know going in:hth
  • It’s very, very funny. There’s a lot of toilet humour, some truly inspired marital insults, a great deal of splendid physical comedy, and a hysterically riotous fight scene. This isn’t just a “Hull show”, and you’ll have a good time even if you don’t get all of the inside jokes.
  • You’ll probably get more of the inside jokes than you expect, though, even if (like me) you’ve been to Hull only a handful of times. Once you’ve worked out that, to steal a line from the wonderful (Hull-born) Maureen Lipman, Hull is the only place in the world where pearls come from Poland – or rather, the ernly plerce in the werld where perls come from Perland – you’ll be all set.
  • The decrepit-but-unbelievably-agile-servant gag may be recycled from One Man, Two Guvnors, but it still gets enormous laughs, and there’s an eye-popping, vertigo-inducing piece of physical comedy at the Act One curtain.
  • Once again, the action is punctuated by songs by Grant Olding, and they’re terrific; most of them are sung by Josh Sneesby, and he’s terrific too.
  • This isn’t quite the well-oiled laugh machine you found at One Man, Two Guvnors. It’s rougher around the edges, the structure is a little looser, and the second act in particular is (even) more anarchic.
  • There’s also, underneath, a serious point about the nature of parliamentary democracy – quite pertinent in a month in which certain members of our government, having led a successful right-wing power grab campaign to “restore sovereignty” to the UK’s parliament, are now performing spectacular logical gymnastics in their efforts to prevent that parliament from influencing the negotiating framework surrounding our breathtakingly moronic act of national self-harm impending divorce from the EU.
  • Mark Addy and Caroline Quentin are as good at playing this kind of farce as anyone you’ll find; they’re both flawless. So are the supporting cast.
  • Phillip Breen’s direction keeps the pace up, and he never allows the comic business onstage to become self-indulgent. That’s not as easy as it sounds.
  • The illusions – which include a beheading – are by Chris Fisher, and they’re beautifully, seamlessly done.
  • There’s stage mist. In one scene, quite a lot of it:
    hwbh

Overall? This isn’t a life-changing piece of theatrical art. It is great fun, and it’s a tremendously entertaining romp through a slice of history that probably isn’t all that familiar unless you happen to come from Hull. It’s playing a month in Stratford after it closes in Hull, and it’s more than worth the trip. If you aren’t from Hull, though, just give yourself time to read the programme notes before the lights go down.

A chorus in her lonely symphony

wpop

Cross one off my list of regrets. I’ve probably listened to the cast recording of the 2000 Broadway production of Michael John LaChiusa and George C. Wolfe‘s musical adaptation of Joseph Moncure March‘s narrative poem The Wild Party at least once a week since I bought it, and I bought it the week it came out. It’s a spectacular album – a brilliant, starry cast led by Toni Collette, Mandy Patinkin and Eartha Kitt giving a more or less perfect performance of (most of) a brilliant, criminally underrated score – but by the time I heard it, the show had only a couple more weeks to run on Broadway, and while I lived much closer (an overnight bus ride) to New York then than I do now, I wasn’t able to get there to see it before it closed. The show played 36 previews and just 68 performances on Broadway – not a “hit” by any yardstick, but that doesn’t make the score any less spectacular. My interest was further piqued after the publication of Wiley Hausam’s anthology The New American Musical, which I picked up at a conference book fair; it contains the show’s script, and the script is fascinating. I’ve loved the material for a long time, but never had the opportunity to see the show live in a theatre, so when the British premiere production was announced – a mere sixteen years after it closed on Broadway – I’d booked a ticket within an hour of them going on sale.

It’s dangerous, sometimes, to go in to something with high expectations. I deliberately didn’t listen to the cast recording between booking the ticket and seeing the show (an interval of perhaps four months) in order to enable myself to come to the material fresh when I actually saw it – not easy to achieve with music you’ve listened to regularly for a decade and a half, but never mind. This production’s biggest achievement is that it made something very, very familiar to me seem absolutely fresh. That original cast recording features a roster of perfect, distinctive performances; for this production, director Drew McOnie has cast a good proportion of the show’s central roles deliberately against the types embodied by the actors who originated them, and the result is invigorating. The musical, far more than the (long but rather thin) poem it’s based on, is about social facades: what people hide, what people choose to reveal (and to whom), and what happens when the facade begins to crumble.

Seeing the production in the theatre is also a lesson in how cast recordings can be imperfect documents: I knew, but had half-forgotten, that this is a very music-heavy show and that a great deal of the score is not preserved on the album, but it was still a surprise to (re)discover just how much is missing. As I said, March’s poem, in terms of narrative, is somewhat on the thin side – depending how you frame it, it doesn’t necessarily contain enough incident to fill two hours of stage time – but in this adaptation, despite fine lyrics by LaChiusa and a taut book by LaChiusa and Wolfe, it’s the music that drives the show. This is a dazzling score; LaChiusa’s very, very clever musical pastiche draws from a variety of Roaring Twenties song styles, but the score’s structure is entirely contemporary. This is more a continuous musical tapestry than a parade of individual songs (although the score includes a number of very, very fine individual songs), and it often seems as though the show’s musical numbers don’t begin and end so much as collide. The result is sometimes harshly dissonant, sometimes achingly melodic, and always thrillingly theatrical.

Somewhat in the manner of Chicago (but only somewhat) the show is presented as a sequence of (sometimes very extended) vaudeville sketches; possibly a little too much time is devoted, in the first third of the show, to giving each individual guest at the party a musical number outlining his/her backstory, but the music is exciting enough to hold your attention. The plot, such as it is, centres on Queenie, a vaudeville dancer, and her deteriorating relationship with her live-in lover/common-law husband, a violently unpleasant vaudeville clown named Burrs. Burrs suggests hosting a wild party in order to end a fight; the party, though, spirals out of control, with sexual inhibitions and social masks being lowered by a combination of bathtub gin and cocaine, and there are tragic consequences in the final scene. As the party gathers steam, Queenie’s friend Kate arrives trailing an escort named Black, and there’s an immediate attraction between him and Queenie; by the end of the party, Burrs is dead, but Queenie has tentatively begun to step out from behind the various “masks” – make-up, alcohol, co-dependent relationships with unsuitable men – she’s previously hidden behind, and the show’s final image is of her scrubbing off her make-up. There’s a strong sense, at the end, of redemption and even salvation, for her if not for anyone else. She will rise, as the show’s star once memorably sang in another context, and never fall again, and she will be free (I know, I know – but when the door is open, it would be criminal to walk by).

So yes, I like the material – and by ‘like’, I mean this is as good a musical score as anyone on either side of the Atlantic has written in at least the last three decades. The particular triumph of Drew McOnie’s sensational production is that he matches the relentless, propulsive, dazzling score with a staging driven by relentless, propulsive, dazzling movement. Under his direction, the show feels choreographed from end to end, although it isn’t precisely a ‘dance musical’. The closest comparison, in terms of what I’ve seen, would be Tommy Tune’s (brilliantly staged) production of Grand Hotel, only (of course) with fewer chairs. The show begins with an explosive row and keeps building in intensity; this production adds an intermission (on Broadway, the show played in a single act), and it’s necessary: after an hour at this party, you need a few moments to catch your breath. There’s plenty of light and shade, but there’s so much packed into every moment that without a break the production could easily become overwhelming, and the show’s pace very rarely lets up: this wild party is a wild, wild ride.

That’s also down to a collection of exhilarating performances. Frances Ruffelle is the production’s above-the-title star, and she’s sensational, but she’s surrounded by a spectacular supporting cast. John Owen Jones‘s Burrs is a seething, furious train wreck waiting to happen. Jones makes the character magnetically unpleasant, brings real fire to his musical numbers, and does not (thank God) in any way resemble Mandy Patinkin, who created the role in the Broadway production. As faded star Dolores Montoya – the role originated by the late, great Eartha Kitt – Donna McKechnie effortlessly embodies a bloodied-but-unbowed showbiz survivor, and she slams her big not-quite-eleven-o’clock number, When It Ends, into the rafters with riveting precision. Gloria Obianyo and Genesis Lynea are insinuatingly sexy as the Brothers d’Armano, an incestuous song-and-dance act; if you’re as familiar with the Broadway cast recording as I am, it’s a little startling to hear their musical numbers performed by two women, but the casting isn’t simply a stunt, and the point is revealed in the second half when we see one “brother” binding the other’s chest: LaChiusa and Wolfe adapted March’s poem into a story about “the way we use cultural masks to hide or obfuscate our real identities: racial masks, sexual masks, emotional masks” (as LaChiusa puts it in a lengthy programme note), so of course it makes sense to show two women (apparently successfully) passing as men, at least in public. Best of all, there’s Victoria Hamilton-Barritt‘s electrifying star-turn-in-a-supporting-role as Queenie’s frenemy Kate, an effortlessly sexy combination of heat, froideur, and bulletproof timing. Her paean to/putdown of her current lover, Black is a Moocher, is probably the show’s musical peak, and when she duets with Ruffelle, earlier in the show, sparks fly.

As for Ruffelle, she’s a revelation. It goes without saying that her singing is superb (although she isn’t the first voice I’d have thought of for this), but there’s a tremendous emotional depth to her performance, and that’s not the easiest thing to achieve in a production as relentlessly frenetic as this one. She’s funny, steely, vulnerable, sexy, smart and foolish, sometimes all in the same beat, and she fully mines the well of deep sadness behind LaChiusa’s more introspective songs. Her duet with Black, People Like Us – probably my favourite song in the score – is the show’s beating heart. In the middle of the noise and the smoke and the chaos of the surrounding party, Ruffelle and Simon Thomas’s Black show two damaged, lonely people singing about a sense of yearning that they can’t quite put into words. It’s a lovely moment; for me, it was worth the cost of the ticket for just that one song.

The production values, too, are impressive. This is The Other Palace‘s first venture under the artistic directorship of Paul Taylor-Mills; the theatre’s mission, per the cover page on their website, is to “offer a creative hub for all things musical theatre, from providing spaces to develop and workshop new ideas to presenting full-scale productions.” If they can maintain the standard they’ve set with this first production, it’s going to be a venue to watch. This isn’t the West End, and there’s clearly a budgetary ceiling, but the production has an atmospheric multilevel set by Soutra Gilmore (great use is made of a winding tenement staircase that stretches up towards the flies), an eight-piece band on a platform above the stage (the flawless musical direction and new arrangements are by Theo Jamieson, who also plays piano), period-perfect costumes by Chris Cahill, and a range of ticket prices that drop as low as £15 without discounts – if you’re going to make a name for yourself as a laboratory space for new/lesser-known material, tickets need to be affordable enough that people feel able to take a punt on something unfamiliar. When top prices elsewhere in the West End are rising into three-figure territory, keeping a tight hold on the bottom end of the pricing scale is the best way to bring in a new audience, particularly to a venue that’s a little off the beaten path. Better still, those £15 tickets aren’t, as they are in some theatres, behind a pillar in a top balcony. The steeply-raked auditorium has only one tier of seats, and sightlines are admirable.

Really, assuming you respond to the material – as I said, I love it, but it’s certainly the kind of show that polarises audiences – there’s very little to criticise here. Perhaps Richard Howell’s lighting is a little heavy-handed in places – he maybe falls back once or twice too often on shining blinders into the audience, and (assuming it wasn’t a tech malfunction) having the spotlight fade sharply on Queenie on the show’s final beat as she sings the line “this is what it is to live in light” is a thuddingly obvious choice that veers past irony almost into the realm of the bathetic – but in every other way the physical production is ideal. Yes, it’s relentless and exhausting – I’ve some sympathy with Matt Wolf’s description of the production in the New York Times as “Follies on amphetamines” – but it’s also a dazzling, thrilling roller-coaster ride through a truly brilliant musical score. How good is it? I live 200 miles from London, and I’m going again before it closes.

Miracle of Miracles

fiddler-everyman

It’s an old idea, but it’s been out of fashion for so long that this possibly qualifies as innovation. For this season, instead of casting each show individually, Liverpool’s Everyman Theatre has hired a resident company of actors. All five shows in their season will be cast from the same pool of actors, and in the summer all five will play in rep for a month. Once upon a time, not all that long ago, it was relatively common for a regional theatre to hire actors on this basis; these days, it’s almost unknown. It’s a bold step – and if this revival of Fiddler on the Roof, the season’s first production, is anything to go by, the gamble is likely to pay off in spades.

Inevitably there are going to be compromises. Since everybody has been cast for their suitability for several productions, the company includes relatively few musical theatre performers. This isn’t going to be the best-sung Fiddler you’ve ever seen. It also isn’t the starriest, the biggest, or the most musically lush – this is regional theatre, budgets are tight, and we can at least be grateful the cast aren’t forced to play the musical instruments themselves. The compensation? These actors tell their story simply and beautifully, working together as an ensemble in a way that finds a great deal of resonance in a musical that is essentially about a community. In the 1994 Topol revival at the London Palladium (I saw, I suffered, and Topol played the role so s l o w l y that by the time intermission rolled around it was 1995) you were basically watching The Tevye Show. While this production has a (very) fine Tevye, that isn’t the case here.

What you also get, partly because this is a relatively small theatre and the production is played in the round, which means you’re seeing the show in close-up, is a stronger sense than usual of the material’s contemporary relevance. Joseph Stein’s book, based on the stories of Sholem Aleichem, isn’t simply the story of a family dealing with the gradual erosion of their traditional (religious) way of life. It’s an examination, as well, of a community of people who are forced to leave their homes. Over the past several years, we’ve seen pictures on the news of migrants leaving war zones that are closer than we think to where we live, and undertaking shockingly arduous or risky journeys in order to find safety for themselves and their families. We’ve all seen the pictures of migrant boats in the Mediterranean, bodies washed up on beaches, exhausted people walking for weeks through southern Europe in search of a home where their children won’t be bombed. We also, shamefully, have a government whose response to the migrant crisis in the Mediterranean was to cancel funding for patrol boats on the grounds that a few hundred drownings might serve as a deterrent – they put it a little more nicely, but that was the general idea – and who have recently (disgustingly) reneged on their pledge to allow unaccompanied child migrants into the country under the Dubs Amendment. Across the Atlantic, there is now a peculiarly orange President whose understanding of international relations would be unbecoming in a moderately well-read four-year-old, and whose central campaign pledge was to Build A Wall right across the USA’s southern border in order to keep Mexicans out (Q: How do Mexicans feel about Trump’s wall? A: They’ll get over it.) Fiddler on the Roof is set in Russia in 1905, but similar stories play out on every continent, every day, and they are not specific to any particular culture. Change a few names and a few details, and you could set the plot in Syria or South Sudan last year. Watching this revival, you can’t help but be aware of how toxic the word ‘migrant’ has become in certain circles in Europe and the US. Now, just as it was 112 years ago, people who are forced to flee their homes by no means always meet with kindness when they arrive somewhere safe. Fiddler on the Roof tells the beginning of the story; we already know how it ends, and the ending doesn’t do us any credit.

None of which should be taken to imply that this production is an endless misery-fest. Under Gemma Bodinetz’s direction, the company offers a tremendously humane reading of the show. Save for one very clever, very simple flourish in the last minute or so of stage time, Ms. Bodinetz’s staging is absolutely straightforward: she and her cast tell the story simply and clearly, mining the joy and the humour in the material as well as the sadness in the show’s ending. The big set-pieces are all present and correct: the dream sequence is hilarious, the bottle dance is tremendous fun, and Sunrise, Sunset has possibly never been lovelier, even if it’s been more prettily sung. The small space helps: Philip Roth famously dismissed the show as “shtetl kitsch”, and that’s a fair-enough description of that faintly ghastly 1994 production at the Palladium, but this revival offers a quietly moving portrayal of a loving, cohesive community that has been, by the end of the second act, dispersed but not broken. There’s a strong sense of hope at the end of this production (at the Palladium, I lost the will to live fifteen minutes into If I Were A Rich Man, and by the end of the show, six months later, I no longer had any sensation in my buttocks and needed jump-leads to restart my brain), even though – as I said – we know perfectly well how the wider world treats refugees. The (minimal) violence, too, benefits from being seen in close-up. This is still, as written, the politest pogrom in history, but there’s a far greater sense of menace when the fight scene is happening right in front of you than you’d get from the fifteenth row with the action behind a proscenium arch.

As for the cast, they function so well as an ensemble that it’s almost unfair to single out individual performances. Patrick Brennan manages to play Tevye without invoking either Topol or Zero Mostel; his performance is simultaneously absolutely traditional and absolutely fresh, and he sets the tone for the rest of the production. Melanie La Barrie’s Golde is the perfect combination of warmth and steel, and Emily Hughes, in a very, very strong professional debut performance, is a lovely, moving Hodel. There’s tremendously detailed work, though, even from the actors in the smallest roles; what the production lacks in scale and slickness is more than made up in sheer heart. The physical production may be simple to the point of austerity – the ‘company season design’ is credited to Molly Elizabeth Lacey Davies, Jocelyn Meall & Michael Vale, and for this production it consists of lighbulbs hanging over the stage to suggest a starry sky, Tevye’s milk cart, a trestle table and a few chairs – but that simplicity simply pushes the focus onto the actors, and the actors really deliver. In an ideal world, it would be nice to have more than four musicians (keyboard, double bass, clarinet, guitar), but musical director/arranger George Francis does the score proud: this is a tiny production, but the smallness of the band works with the poverty of the setting, and the musicianship is impeccable.

As for that directorial flourish I mentioned: this isn’t a revisal. Nobody changes a word, nobody acts around the lines, and it’s performed absolutely in period – until the last minute or so of stage time. As Tevye and what’s left of his family start their long march out of Anatevka, the rest of the company fall in behind them, wearing contemporary clothing and carrying improvised contemporary luggage (plastic laundry bags etc). As I said, Fiddler on the Roof marks the beginning of a story we’ve been watching play out on the news right across Europe for a few years now (and in different forms, in different places, more or less since the beginning of recorded history); without being strident about it, and without messing with the text, this final tableau drives the point home to devastating effect. It’s a simple but breathtaking conclusion to a more or less perfect revival; I suppose I should admit that my favourite Bock and Harnick show is actually She Loves Me, but Fiddler is still a glorious piece of writing (albeit, as that revival at the Palladium loudly demonstrated, not bulletproof), and Bodinetz and her superb cast are well worth the trip to Liverpool.