Just as the film of this most American
of tales was directed by a Scotsman (albeit an American-born one),
Alexander Mackendrick, so the 2002 Broadway première of the late Marvin
Hamlisch’s musical version was directed by another Brit, Nicholas
Hytner. Its British première, in contrast, has been helmed by the
native-Turkish Mehmet Ergen on the occasion of the reopening of his
Dalston venue, the Arcola. Ergen rightly finds as deep a vein of
cynicism in this story of media abuse as in
Chicago without the latter’s excuse
of satire.
New York, 1952, and gossip columnist JJ Hunsecker (a thinly disguised
Walter Winchell figure) makes and breaks reputations almost on a whim.
Having first taken under his wing the struggling press agent Sidney
Falcone (whom he renames Falco), Hunsecker then pressures Sidney to
break up the relationship between the columnist’s sister Susan and
aspiring singer Dallas. The tension in the story consists of the
fascinated horror with which we watch how far Sidney will go to oblige,
and our apprehension for the consequences of his final refusal.
Adrian der Gregorian lacks the edge for a consummate Sidney: he is by
nature sleek rather than hungry, and too assured to begin sweating with
desperation sufficiently early into Sidney’s Act Two machinations.
David Bamber, however, makes a beautifully abrasive Hunsecker, part-Leo
G. Carroll, part-Barry Goldwater, and leaves it as late as possible
before utilising his talent for opening a crack through which the livid
light of unfulfilment breaks.
Hamlisch’s score is an accomplished pastiche of the period’s jazz,
tending towards denser and more blaring compositions. In a small venue
such as the Arcola, however, this means that, despite as much Perspex
acoustic baffling as possible, Bob Broad’s seven-piece band is
sometimes so loud that the singers can only keep up by dint of
over-amplification. John Guare’s book lacks the defiant squalor of
Clifford Odets’ screenplay; with actors so often aware that they are
being aphoristically sardonic, more of the performances feel as if they
are inside quotation marks. Before the opening I overheard two of the
crew discussing where the venue’s backstage showers are; ideally, this
story should make us all feel the need to know this and avail ourselves
of them, though perhaps it’s just as well that Ergen’s staging stops
short of this extreme.
Written for the Financial
Times.