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| Dance, drink and be merrily
killed |
JACK THE RIPPER: THE MUSICAL
Jermyn Theatre by RICHARD OSLEY
THE plot for the Christmas Day episode of Eastenders hasn’t
been leaked but I can pretty much tell you now what will happen.
It’s the same every year. Come the big day there will be a
clumsy contrast between merry families having a great time –
pulling crackers, perhaps celebrating a new baby or a marriage proposal
– and weeping families having their worst Christmas ever –
a flooded bathroom or a cheating husband, maybe.
Susceptible viewers will become spun out and not know whether to
laugh or cry.
That’s kind of how a more grisly East End drama, Jack The Ripper:
The Musical, turns out.
One minute we are rosy-faced and riding the crest of a cockney sparrow
knees-up, peering into a mythical world where being poor and even
a whore doesn’t seem that bad as long as you can sing, dance,
rhyme and joke.
The next, we feel guilty for all the stomping jollity and top-hat
slapstick when the Ripper steals in to leave the neck of one of
this show’s pride of twirling hookers dripping with ketchup.
It’s a tough, happy-sad balance which director Tim McArthur
just about strikes, maintaining the desperate social comment of
the original show with enough wisecracks and bouncy choreography
to make sure we don’t all head home too gloomy.
The intimacy of the Jermyn is the perfect place to pull it off.
This cosy basement just off Picadilly Circus is transformed into
a Victorian alleyway where you can dance by day, booze all night
and have your throat cut by morning.
But it is indulgently long and risks becoming a watch-checker. Some
songs could be cut out and some smarter editing could trim back
bloated scenes. Nevertheless, there is plenty to build a recommendation
on, not least the wealth of heel-clicking routines to hum along
to and a sparkling company clearly on top form. Cathy McManamon,
Clare Lomas and Janine Hales stand out as bruised back-street wenches
– unfairly to their colleagues you are left hoping they won’t
be sidelined too early in the action by Jack’s blade.
I’ve already ruined the Chrimbo soap opera for you, so I won’t
give anything more away by telling you whether they do fall victim
or not.
Until December 22
020 7287 2875
Virtually funny
ALADDIN
Pleasance by TOM FOOT
THIS is not the fabled Aladdin of Arabian lore. It is not even
the tried and tested UK pantomime version. This is Aladdin: The
New Pantomime. And how they loved it.
It is hard to tell what is the most bizarre element of The Pleasance
Theatre Trust production.
Nigel Planer, the loveable hippy from The Young Ones, ‘features’
as a wraithlike and suitably chilled-out ‘virtual-genie’.
Planer’s head is beamed on stage from a back-stage projector
whenever Aladdin rubs his lamp. The lamp is actually a Playstation
computer, which becomes known to the cast as a – wait for it
– Genie-Station. Genius.
The dialogue between Aladdin and his true love Princess Masha –
who both sang well – is based mostly on melon puns. Their flirting
was adult enough to have the parents reminiscing. The evil sorcerer,
Abananzar, draws his power from a pair of golden Y-fronts, which
prove a useful tool in turning the Princess’s father, King
Sheik Ya Booty, against Aladdin. The slapstick antics of transvestite
Twanky left me shivering in fear and wishing on the interval.
I have an open mind when it comes to theatre, but in a room full
of toddlers I immediately turned purist. Was it really possible
to dumb down a panto? At least have some class and make it a Super
Nintendo.
But the audience that mattered, those aged seven and below, remained
rooted to their seats spellbound – for the full 100 minutes
– as the preposterous plot ploughed on.
My four-year old nephew, Joe, took a break from nursery to cast
his judicious eye over this much-hyped Aladdin.
In June, he lambasted the internationally acclaimed Gruffalo at
the Pleasance, dismissing it as ‘bad’. The Pleasance quaked
in fear as he took his front row seat. But they needn’t have
worried. The true test came when his mother tried to make him leave
early to pick up his sister.
“No way,” he said, without turning his head.
Until January 8
020 7609 1800
Williams loses nothing
THE NIGHT OF THE IGUANA
Lyric Theatre by ILLTYD HARRINGTON
IT is an excellent thing to see Tennessee Williams back on Shaftesbury
Avenue. The play was a triumph on Broadway in 1961 and Iguana has
lost nothing of its poetic passion, humanity and relevance. Williams
sets it in a hotel on the west coast of Mexico, high above the sea.
It has two Germans crowing about the bombing of London and listening
to the Fuhrer on the radio.
Reverend Shannon arrives with a busload of disgruntled southern
American Baptist ladies on a sightseeing tour. Here is a man similar
to the tied up iguana beneath the balcony being fattened up and
at the end of his tether.
Woody Harrelson (Shannon), from Cheers, turns in an admirable performance
of pain, despair that also has gentle humour. Shannon is not just
an object of lust, this is an ex-priest with a dark vision and a
powerful voice.
Clare Higgins is the feisty Maxine running the hotel. She loves
Shannon and knows the humiliation he suffers. Strident and brazen,
she is worth going out in the cold to see.
Jenny Seagrove is travelling with her grandfather Mr Coffin; “the
world’s oldest living and practising poet” – he is
97. She got it together in the second act but this character has
much more to convey. After all, she has gone around the world with
her grandfather on a shoestring. At the end Grandfather Coffin completes
his last poem, cites it, and dies. Williams wrote the poem and it
is a moving conclusion.
Camden’s Anthony Page is well respected and one of our foremost
directors and is well served by Anthony Ward’s uncluttered
and vivid set. Shannon says: “There is a great deal that lies
under the public surfaces of our cities.” And there is indeed
in this play.
Until March 25
0870 890 1107
Doesn’t cut the mustard
EDWARD SCISSORHANDS
Sadlers Wells by SAM JONES
I WAS excitedly anticipating this production the moment I saw
it advertised.
The haunting Tim Burton film, with its gothic romance and allegorical
messages on exclusion are, at first sight, perfect for dance. However,
what this production illustrates is that what might at first appear
the perfect dance piece is not always so.
The story is simple – boy with scissors for hands pitches up
in an average US town, is feted for his cutting skills until he
spurns one desperate housewife’s seduction.
Thereafter he is chased away bringing to an end a charming love
affair with a local girl. It has all the elements of the fantastical
meeting the tragic that is so beloved of ballet.
Yet this production has two problems – it is based on a popular
film and the charm of cinematic dialogue cannot be relied upon to
fill the ‘blank’ moments. The result is a rather dull
first half.
The choreography is clever but the action is lifeless and rambling.
Occasionally there are too many elements active on stage at once,
none of whom are doing anything of particular interest.
Even the ingenious Topiary Garden is rather insipid. The second
half is better. Sam Archer as Edward gets the best steps, his duet
with Joyce (Michaela Meazza) as she fails to bed him a strong, humourous
pairing and the highlight of the night.
Again, in the ensemble Christmas ball, the choreography is pretty
and inventive but directionless. The big romantic Ice Dance, when
Edward produces a lifesize sculpture of his lover is a moving scene
in the film, but here, and in the later Farewell, is a limited,
repetitive exercise.
One must admire Archer’s efforts, considering he has 10 12-inch
scissor blades on his fingers but he is barely stretched here. The
choreographer seems bored with the female lead’s body.
This is my first experience of Matthew Bourne’s work and it
is disappointing. I’ve no doubt it will be a seasonal success,
though.
Until February 4
0870 737 7737
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Paris is still No.1 in the wine world
PARIS, sera toujours Paris, sang the French singer and Hollywood star
of the 1940s Maurice Chevalier.
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Give our school kids a sporting
chance
DON’T know about you but I hated sport at school. It was all that
prancing around in your knickers...
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