42nd Street, review: wildly outdated, but utterly fabulous
“Musical comedy – the two most wonderful words in the English language!” So says Julian Marsh, the whip cracking musical theatre director in this evanescent tap dancing caper set largely behind the scenes of a, yes, new musical comedy in Depression-era America. A crudely filleted and augmented version of the original Busby Berkeley-choreographed 1933 film, Mark Bramble and Mike Warren’s 1980 musical adaptation is a love letter to a fantasy Broadway that lives most vividly within its own glorious feather and toile-festooned show tunes. If any show could be nostalgic for itself, 42nd Street is it.
Jonathan Church’s revival, in association with Leicester Curve Theatre, follows fairly swiftly on the high kicking heels of Bramble’s 2017 production in Drury Lane yet cannot compete with that big budget staging in terms of sheer eye-bleeding spectacle. Instead, he brings a high definition clarity to the story of Peggy Sawyer (Nicole-Lily Baisden), an ingénue hoofer from Pennsylvania whose exquisite skill is proportional to her blundering enthusiasm, and who becomes an overnight star after Marsh’s tart tongued leading lady Dorothy Brock breaks her ankle. Baisden’s smile may be as dazzling as any neon light on Broadway, but she brings a joyful sincerity to Peggy that’s easily as infectious as the best bits of Harry Warren’s brass-bolted score.
It’s pointless to complain about the gossamer thin, outdated plot but all the same, it is a problem. Without a decent book to anchor them, the multiple song and dance routines seem to float free in their own ether. As the prima donna Brook, aware her best days are behind her, Ruthie Henshall finds the ache as well as the vinegar, delivering a particularly lovely a capella I Only Have Eyes for You in throaty, oaken tones, but other performers struggle to fill roles that are barely there. Les Dennis as the dufferish Bert is badly out-performed by his loud chequered suits. Adam Garcia could definitely dial up Marsh’s tyrannical charisma. What incident there is, particularly involving Michael Praed’s dreadfully insipid Pat Denning, Church glosses over it. One yearns for an Oklahoma-style radical makeover but Church, and arguably 42nd Street itself, dependent on its own period aspic, remain impervious.
It is, however, fabulous in the only regard that really matters. A 42nd Street without virtuoso routines is no 42nd Street at all, but Church’s production is a triumph of incandescent liquid choreography, the tap dancing sequences so mesmeric and weightless they induce a sort of trance. Classic tunes – We’re in the Money; Lullaby of Broadway; the noirish 42nd Street finale – send the soul soaring. If you want to feel the beat of the dancing feet, this really is the only show in town.
Until July 2 and then on tour. Tickets: 020 7863 8000; 42ndstreettour.com