Musical version of the TV show is too vanilla
Soufflés sink, bottoms go soggy and everything gets the musical treatment sooner or later. So here it is, The Great British Cash-In, coming to the West End after proofing the pudding in Cheltenham earlier this year. Baking puns at the ready, everyone: is it just what we knead, does it rise to the occasion, is it half-baked? Well, none of the above, really. In a cheery production by Rachel Kavanaugh, it is a perfectly decent musical. But it can never quite work out what it wants to be.
Writers Jake Brunger and Pippa Cleary structure the show as an imagined series of Bake-Off, with eight contestants bringing spatulas and sob stories to the bunting-festooned tent in a big opening number. They’re familiar types: an older gay man who dresses well, an eco-conscious vegan hipster, an ambitious student, a Syrian immigrant, all wheeling around the pastel-coloured workbenches topped with obligatory KitchenAids. The icing on top is a love story that plays out between Damian Humbley’s kindly Ben and Charlotte Wakefield’s self-doubting Gemma, both of whom are coping with bereavement.
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Meanwhile, Scott Paige and Zoe Birkett play hosts Jim and Kim – Paige is a particular delight, with a couple of hilarious asides – while Paul-and-Prue-alikes come in the form of Phil and Pam, played as sharp caricatures by John Owen-Jones and Haydn Gwynne (taking over from Rosemary Ashe since Cheltenham). It is almost worth the whole endeavour just to see Gwynne do a cartwheel across the stage in a spangly leotard.
All the ingredients are here for fans of the series, and Brunger and Cleary’s songs are good. Amid the poppy, piano-led numbers, which insistently weave in the familiar strains of Tom Howe’s TV music, are a couple of great pastiches, with the standouts a 1990s boyband ballad and a vaudevillian kick-line for Pam and Phil. Wakefield in particular nails her standout moments and the ensemble’s voices coalesce powerfully. But none of the contestants gets enough stage time to become fully formed, and there are some awkward choices, notably giving the young Syrian immigrant a terrible rap to perform.
It is also an extraordinarily bloated show, with very little plot and about 10 songs too many. And the skill of everyone involved could have been put to better effect: tonally, the show is all over the place, unsure what to do with a television programme that has already become its own biggest parodist. It wobbles between affectionate mockery, knowing in-jokes, faithful reproduction, over-egged send-up and slightly nauseating earnestness.
Presented in association with the TV production company Love Productions, the show has a commercial veneer that is at odds with its scrappy, home-baked vibe. It is too knowing, yet at the same time too uncertain about its purpose – and ultimately, a bit too vanilla.
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