Whatever happened to West End musicals
that were so bad they were good?
Which
Witch,
Bernadette, the
legendary
The Fields Of Ambrosia…
we shall not see their like again. More recently we have had to settle
for shows which are simply so bad they’re very bad, such as John
Robinson’s turgid 2005 offering
Behind
The Iron Mask. That was supposedly a once-in-a-lifetime project
for the aeronautical engineer turned composer and lyricist, but he has
evidently found a new lease of life, since here he is with an imagined
account of Ernest Hemingway’s last days. “It had been predicted by some
literary observers that this successful but troubled writer would die
in eccentric seclusion on his ranch near Ketchum, Idaho,” announces a
radio newscaster in possibly the most extreme “whoops-exposition” line
I have ever heard on a West End stage.
The plot, such as it is: Papa (James Graeme) is past it, wife Mary
jealously guards him, not least from ambitious secretary Louella; enter
old friend Rex, who wants to persuade Ernesto to authorise a biopic.
Drink is consumed, guns are discharged, songs are sung. Well, I say
“songs”… Robinson’s earlier show came in for some stick for its
doggerel lyrics. Not so here: one single number excepted, there is only
one rhyme in the entire evening, and that clearly inadvertent. And I
know I have declared many a musical’s tunes to be unmemorable, but they
did have tunes. The songs here simply sound like bad recitative with
periodic, random climaxes. Even the performers sometimes have
difficulty finding their note. When a programme’s song list reveals
that the opening number has been cut before opening night, desperation
is in the air. The first number we now hear is called “Do I Make A
Certain Kind Of Sense?”, a title which is just doing the job of
uncharitable critics for us. One of the four performers has also been
replaced since the programme was printed: Rex is now played by
Christopher Howell, who exhibits the classic Englishman-doing-American
intrusive “r” when he recalls his time in Havaner, in Cuber.
There is simply nothing here to maintain the interest for more than a
very few minutes. The team seem to know it: rumour has it that closure
notices may be posted even before this review can be published. On
leaving the theatre I heard one couple reflecting: “What do you think,
nought or one?” – “No stars.” But I’m a generous chap, so…
Written for the Financial
Times.