Here’s a surprise: a show about casting
the dance company of a Broadway musical in 1975, a dozen and a half
hopefuls, yet nary a legwarmer in sight. There is a modest amount of
Spandex, but in general the more conservative elements of both that
period and this have been combined; most of the guys could have walked
in off the street (then or now) in what they’re wearing onstage.
Michael Bennett’s show bears more than a little resemblance to another
’70s phenomenon: the disaster movie. Not in respect of quality, but it
has the same kind of portmanteau structure, assiduously bestowing a
back-story on virtually every one of the auditionees. This pervades
even Marvin Hamlisch and Edward Kleban’s songs, which are intricately
and inextricably bound into the surrounding script with the twin
exceptions of “One” and “What I Did For Love”. The latter of these is
palpably conceived as a break-out number, perfunctorily cued in late in
Act Two as a kind of pre-finale; cleverly, though, we are shown “One”
being constructed as a routine step by step, which has the opposite
effect of
deconstructing our
sense of it.
James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante’s book, however, shares that
disaster-movie trait of simply having too much story. When everyone is
a viewpoint character, we end up focusing nowhere in particular; and
with so many tales to interweave, some are bound to clunk, which
unfortunately includes the anguished private exchange between the
director and his ex (played by the mandatory member of the Strallen
family, in this case Scarlett).
In some ways, the show needs precisely what it has gone out of its way
to eschew: the objectifying gaze. If we were to begin by considering
these hopefuls, in permissive ’70s fashion, as little more than
well-choreographed pieces of meat, their emergence as individuals would
be that much more pronounced; as it is, caring too much about them from
the beginning means that we do not care enough at the end two
interval-less hours later, because neither they nor we have been
afforded a significant journey. Odd as it may sound for the biggest
theatre in the West End, and a production directed by original
co-choreographer Bob Avian, this feels in Palladium terms rather like a
filler until the next
real
singular sensation comes along.
Written for the Financial
Times.