Return of Michael Ball can’t redeem this baffling revival of the thin, sugary musical or excuse its offensive sexual politics
What a gooey, oozy, gaudy box of stale chocolates this is. Based on a 1955 novella by David Garnett, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical made its first West End appearance back in 1989, before flopping spectacularly on Broadway the following year. This revival is, frankly, mystifying. It’s not just that the sung-through show is thinly written, mawkish and meandering; it’s not just that the music is Lloyd Webber at his most blandly saccharine or that the lyrics, by Don Black and Charles Hart, are trite – although all those things, unfortunately, are true. What’s most howlingly problematic is the plot: a textureless glob of sexist cliche that surely must have seemed faintly nauseating even three decades ago, and now looks creepy and, at its most flagrant, startlingly offensive.
Jonathan Kent’s production features a lead performance by original cast member Michael Ball, who made something of a signature tune of the earworm number Love Changes Everything. Ball certainly has his superfans. But it would take more than his golden-syrup vocals and twinkly charm to make wading through this sugary sludge worthwhile.
Everything about it feels fake – from the forced, phoney passions to designer John MacFarlane’s cod-Impressionist backdrops painted on cardboardish flats, and Douglas O’Connell’s sliding video screens with their blurred, screensaver vistas.
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Our story (brace yourself) begins in post-war France – cue, naturally, cobbles and accordions – where Rose Vibert (Laura Pitt-Pulford), a young actress, is struggling to make her name. When a teenage fan, Alex (Jamie Bogyo), visits her dressing room, she improbably agrees to flit off with him to a villa in the Pyrenees before she even knows his name. There, she meets his wealthy uncle George (Ball) – and whoops, being a brainless creature for whom the dehumanising phrase “object of desire” might have been invented, she falls for him too.
The love triangle thus constructed, we’re then treated to 20 narrative years of maundering, bickering and bed-swapping, in which the low points include Rose and George’s arty Italian mistress (operatic soprano Danielle de Niese) bonding over his adorable little ways (“shameless old Romeo”, they coo), and the arrival of George and Rose’s daughter Jenny (Anna Unwin), who swiftly becomes underage catnip to cousin Alex and subject to a bilious, quasi-incestuous tug-of-love between him and her own father.
The enormously gifted Pitt-Pulford is wasted here, reduced to endless pouting and girly twirling; Bogyo is petulant and De Niese a cringe-inducingly cartoonish sex bomb. Ball performs with characteristic ease, soaringly delivering the song everyone’s waiting for, which has been shamelessly reallocated from Alex to George for the occasion. But enduring this lurid musical male fantasy is a high price to pay: one tiny spark of nostalgia for one giant ick.
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