Developments in audio-visual technology
mean that a tribute musical can now be staged with a live band
accompanying archive clips of the original star; this is how Frank
Sinatra, after a fashion, is currently wowing ’em at the London
Palladium. It is also the backbone of
Dusty,
except that in this case the celluloid/vinyl Dusty Springfield shares
centre stage with Alison Arnopp portraying her in the dramatic
component of the show.
Not that there is all that much drama. Like the Carole King musical
Beautiful,
Dusty decides to go out on a high
note, in this case the album
Dusty
In Memphis, released in 1969, some 30 years before the blue-eyed
soul queen’s death. There is no climax to the story, barely a
perfunctory tie-up of its main strand, the relationship between
Springfield and her childhood friend Nancy (Francesca Jackson), a
fictitious character created to function as narrator and foil. The
show’s thesis is that Springfield’s (at the time) closeted lesbianism,
and in particular her feelings for Nancy, are the root of the
unhappiness which dogged her career. This is a little problematic when
the script is too coy to mention the L-word or even explicate
Springfield’s affair with songwriter Norma Tanega (although they get a
fine romantic duet on “I Close My Eyes And Count To Ten”). When the
whole notion rests on a figure who didn’t in fact exist, it moves
beyond speculative and into fantastical.
Another risk is putting the singing voice of your lead actress up for
direct comparison with that of the star herself. Arnopp is more nasal
and “yippy” than Springfield, although strong and assured, as are
Jackson and also Witney White as Martha Reeves of the Vandellas. Jason
Kealer has produced a multitude of period costume designs from beatnik
leotards to a fringes-a-go-go minidress. The production has been dogged
by misfortune: after beginning previews in May, its opening night
finally took place some three months after originally scheduled, and
even Arnopp is not the Dusty originally cast. The end product is far
from a disaster, but still, in the words of la Springfield’s final
major hit in 1989, nothing has been proved.
Written for the Financial
Times.