Arts & Culture
Making a song and dance of it
Published 18 December 2006
Musicals dominated the West End, while serious theatre failed to pull in the crowds
This year has been dominated by two trends in theatreland. The first is showbiz; the West End has been dominated by big, rather old-fashioned musicals with big songs, big sets and big chorus lines. The tickets don't get any cheaper, but clearly producers have faith that people are willing to pay upwards of £60 a ticket for unashamed populism. It seems to have paid off, probably because the shows, and most of the talent therein, have been of a consistently high quality.
Continuing the influx of hit shows from Broadway, which started with The Producers, Avenue Q used stage puppetry to deliver a very funny, if somewhat cynical, look at modern American life. It dumped all the clichés, went for a younger audience and got away with it. Evita and Cabaret were both revived, the latter by Rufus Norris, who gave the imagery of 1930s Berlin a brave and somewhat shocking overhaul. Spamalot turned up with a giant Broadway fanfare, yet smacked more of desperation than inspiration. But it was The Sound of Music that took the year's biggest advance and best reviews.
So what could be heard above the yodelling, crooning and tapping coming from Shaftesbury Avenue and its immediate vicinity? Not very much. Several shows closed early, blaming the unstoppable tide of musicals for their failure to pull in the crowds. Only Peter Morgan's Frost/Nixon, a clever and acutely funny look at Richard Nixon's televised skewering, and Tom Stoppard's Rock'n'Roll, a clever if dull look at the Czech revolution through the eyes of a music anorak, gave succour to those who want more from their theatre than a few catchy tunes.
Across the river at the National Theatre, however, the director Nicholas Hytner had a golden year. Among the superb productions on offer were musicals (Caroline, or Change), classics (The Alchemist, The Voysey Inheritance) and new writing (The Seafarer, Southwark Fair and The Overwhelming, among others). Katie Mitchell was allowed to adapt The Seagull to spectacular effect - for me, this was the production of the year.
Outside London, the Theatre Royal in Bath had a season directed by Peter Hall that was well received by the critics but was, for me, a bit of a curate's egg. Chichester scored a hit with both its giant two-part production of Nicholas Nickleby and an extraordinary sestet of early Noë Coward plays. Meanwhile, in Stratford-upon-Avon, the RSC continued to stagger through its year of the complete works of Shakespeare, which I suspect will go down as an interesting experiment, rather than something that should be repeated every decade.
And now, with this year's Christmas season well under way, the most talked-about "posh panto" is the Barbican's Dick Whittington and His Cat, written by the scatologically outrageous Mark Ravenhill. Whoever commissioned him probably thought it a master stroke - but the result is damper than a squib on Fairy Bow Bells's wand. In the first five minutes, bad old King Rat is given a raison d'être, and by the time Dick's Cat was given a decent provenance, I knew the game was up. Pantomime doesn't need provenance! It's about my dear NS colleague Julian Clary telling naughty jokes, and stars from EastEnders slapping their thighs. Or Julian's thighs. A first-class pantomime should whisk past in a flurry of hysteria and tinsel. This one is more like a drab paper chain.
The main problem is that Dick's Dame simply doesn't cut the mustard. Maybe Roger Lloyd Pack, as Sarah the Cook, didn't do enough warm-ups in his frilly knickers. But every second he is on stage, Lloyd Pack, whether in a glittering bikini or a negligee quivering with pink feathers, looks as if he is dying to get off it. Take "Hotsy Totsie Clerkenwell Cutie Pie" - one of the many lame numbers from an assortment of writers, including Fascinating Aida's Dillie Keane and Issy van Randwyck, who have come up with better ditties in their baths. During his speaking (he doesn't do singing) of this tune, Lloyd Pack, eyes half shut and bosom at half-mast, looks as if he is going to collapse with exhaustion.
Danny Worters plays Totally Lazy Jack with wide-eyed enthusiasm, but he lacks the clod-hopping silliness the Principal Boy really needs. Summer Strallen does her best as Dick, but industrial quantities of thigh-slapping cannot, and do not, save the night. The custard-pie sequence failed so dismally that even those flinging the pies acknowledged it (but not comically). The denouement, inexplicably set in Morocco, was actually a bit distasteful (but not comically). There were too many poo jokes for my taste, and rather aggressively done, too.
Maybe it was over-directed. Edward Hall knows how to arrange a Shakespearean history play, but he certainly cannot organise a custard-pie fight. The writing was lacking, too; cracking jokes were marooned, while gags that should have been tossed away were laboured over eternally. Others relied on a keen knowledge of A Winter's Tale and theatrical luvviness ("Why are you talking to the fourth wall, Lazy Jack?" was the worst example). After three hours, we were "treated" to a weedy group sing-song with a bit of doggerel, composed by Kit Hesketh-Harvey. Yes, posh can do popular. Not in this case, however.
For booking details of shows, visit: www.barbican.co.uk
Christmas picks
The Snow Queen
Little Angel Theatre, London N1
Astonishingly ingenious rendition of Hans Christian Andersen's greatest story. Wonderful.
The Enchanted Pig
Young Vic, London SE1
Musical fairy tale about a princess who marries a genuine pig.
Rapunzel
Battersea Arts Centre, London SW11
Kneehigh Theatre's version of the long-haired princess in the tower. Magic pigs feature here, too.
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