The Last Ship @ Liverpool Playhouse: We’ve Got Nowt Else

When you leave the Liverpool Playhouse and turn left, and walk down Church Street, onto Lord Street, and you keep walking down that road as it turns into James Street, pretty quickly you’ll end up on the waterfront. In your peripheral vision will be the King’s Dock, the Albert Dock, the new Museum and the ferry terminal on your side of the river, and as the coast bends round to your right you could walk to find the Canada dock or the Gladstone Dock and the Princes dock. Looking across the Mersey you can see Birkenhead and the Cammel Laird shipbuilding company in front of you, and New Brighton stretching away to your right. Behind you are the Three Graces; The Liver Building, The Cunard Building and the Port of Liverpool Building.

What I’m getting at, is that the second you leave The Last Ship, you can choose to see what happened after its end. Those docks are now home to hotels, and museums, Tate bloody Liverpool, bars, restaurants; businesses about as far from heavy industry as it’s possible to get in the capitalist world.

The shipbuilding company on the other side of the Mersey is currently building the RRS Sir David Attenborough in its hall, but that’s not to imply the business of shipbuilding has continued uninterrupted since time immemorial. It’s been rough for everyone involved, with long stretches of uncertainty since the 1970s. The fact they still build ships there is something of a miracle.


Why the hell is a sweeping introduction to the geography of Liverpool’s docklands relevant to a blog post about a musical written by Sting, I hear you complain. Quite a fucking lot, as it turns out.

The Last Ship is about a man called Gideon, who left his hometown 17 years previously and is only now returning, as the shipyard that keeps the town’s men employed is being closed by the government. As Gideon comes to terms with this new landscape, and the mess he left behind, the town rallies behind the last ship under construction, determining to finish the job. Sounds tidy, right? WRONG.

There’s a lot going on in The Last Ship. There’s the Gideon story, and there’s the Meg – the girl he left behind, now with something of a business empire – story, there’s the story of Ellen, their daughter, and then there’s the story of Peggy and Jackie White, an older married couple. And all the ship yard stuff. And it’s a musical which means every couple of minutes they start singing. THERE’S A LOT GOING ON AND IT’S MESSY.

The fact that The Last Ship is, at its heart, the story of a community, massively helps to cohere all of that. Most of the cast are on stage most of the time, the set doesn’t change (a sort of iron framework onto which smoky images are projected) and the score constantly relies on multiple voices. The very performing of The Last Ship is an act of solidarity and community, an idea that reverberates continuously throughout. Its power comes from the lack of apology that comes with this; it wears its politics on its sleeves.

Shipbuilding isn’t a job, it’s way beyond that. It’s life. When you close a shipyard – or a mine, for that matter – you’re not making someone redundant, you are stripping them of everything they have ever known and therefore everything they associate with their self-worth. When you do that without providing an alternative, you destroy a community. It’s as simple as that. There’s something in The Last Ship that makes it seem utterly modern; it’s set in the 1980s, I guess, but it never feels overt. It could be happening yesterday, or tomorrow.

Unusually, for a piece with these politics, it’s optimistic – not mournful. One of the saddest images on any stage of the twenty-first century was the miners sinking into the stage at the end of Billy Elliot – none of that here. As the music swells and the ship is launched, it feels triumphant, it feels utterly possible. The fact that it’s accompanied by an epilogue, reminding us of others taking their lives into the own hands; the kids at Parkland, the workers at the Brukman factory in Buenos Aires, every time someone stands up for the NHS – it feels like the most hopeful thing you could hear at a time when every meaningful but of infrastructure seems to be under threat, if not well on its way to collapsing.


The show accelerates in its second act. It has the reverse problem to most musicals; it has a first act problem, not a second act problem. With so much set-up to do to allow for the emotional payoff, it just lacks momentum in the same way as the second. Once they’ve resolved to continue building the ship anyway, the show becomes unstoppable. It hurtles down the slipway into the sea and you’re pulled along with it.

Much of that pull is down to the music. By Sting. STING.

It’s genuinely beautiful music, probably one of the strongest scores in musical theatre of the last 20 years. Blending folk and drinking-song and rock and hymn, it swells and soars on the voices of the cast. Melodically it’s gorgeously simple, but the surprise is in the lyrics, and the density of them. This is my favourite bit from the end of the title song:

“Oh the roar of the chains and the cracking of timbers,

The noise at the end of the world in your ears,

As a mountain of steel makes its way to the sea,

And the last ship sails.

And whatever you’ve promised, whatever you’ve done,

And whatever the station in life you’ve become,

In the name of the Father, in the name of the Son,

And whatever the weave of this life that you’ve spun,

On the Earth or in Heaven, or under the Sun.

When the last ship sails.”

Typing that out, it’s lost a lot of its character. Obviously. You have to imagine the vowels, stretched out and slackened, and the Ts all flattened out, giving those last lines their incessant rhythm. One of the gorgeous things about the lyrics is the way they marry dialect to the melody – “I cannae be missing, the lads’ll expect me,” “We’ve got nowt, we’ve got nowt else,” – the characters sing exactly how they’d talk.

And because the characters sing exactly how they’d talk, the lyrics have such a fascinating referential character. The sheer bloody amount of religious allusion is striking, but the way that moves in parallel with concrete life is more so. I couldn’t decide whether Father and Son should be capitalised in those lyrics. If they are, the religious stuff is fairly obvious, and The Last Ship becomes a prayer. If they’re not, then it’s a dedication. It’s a pledge to the past and the future, in a way that religion doesn’t seem to allow for – at least in my experience. And the absolutism in the egalitarian ideals, the idea that the christening of the ship is also the baptism of those aboard it. Just bloody listen to the album – the Sting one, at least until we have a British cast album (please, please, please.)

And I love that image of “the noise at the end of the world in your ears.” The idea of that last ship being the end of the world, I’m not sure why I find that so moving.

The show is touring to theatres of various sizes, from the 700-odd seats at Northern stage and the Playhouse, to the bloody cavernous Lyric Theatre at the Lowry, that seats 1700. It’s a score that can expand and contract in space; it will no doubt feel more operatic and cathedral-like on that stage in Salford, and feels very intimate and chapel-like in an old playhouse. They’ll also probably be able to fit more set on the stage at the Lowry, to be honest.


And thank GOD for casting actors in musicals. Joe McGann and Charlie Hardwick are giving brilliant performances in this show, but it’s not because they can sing prettily. They’re both good singers, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the steel underneath, and the ferocity you sense in them that makes them exciting to watch. Hardwick in particular, with her delicate head voice that seems to stretch for the top notes, can switch instantly into sheer bloody determination. She has a speech in front of the shipyard in the second act – pretty much the moment I decided I loved this show – that is delivered with such a conviction that it would render any opposition impotent. It’s defiant and aggressive, eplicitly referencing the Battle of Orgreave (you could feel the Scouse audience breathing in,) BBC bias, police brutality… the works. It’s seared onto my brain.

McGann – and I mean this is the nicest possible way – looks like he’s spent his life at work. There is a solidity to his physical presence that grants him an immediate authority, you know immediately why the men trust him, why he is the spokesman as well as the foreman, and why his wife will go along with just about anything he suggests. Wait, no. Not fair. His wife believes in ‘it’ as strongly as he does, but while her husband is physically building the ships, she has to deal with the physical fallout, nursing their injuries. She too, has worked too hard to see the shipyard dismissed in the name of so-called economic progression. They’re a formidable pair.

There’s a reason they get the last bows, put it that way.


The rather gorgeous artwork for The Last Ship is actually a real stained-glass window, it turns out, in St Mary’s Cathedral in Newcastle. Religion and work are utterly entwined. Religion and life are utterly entwined.

I was thinking about where The Last Ship is touring to; nowhere in England further South than Birmingham. Mostly coastal towns and cities, ones with shipbuilding heritage or docklands. An audience that looks like the people in the show. It’s only the second time I’ve ever seen the Liverpool Playhouse totally packed out. Maybe that’s what happens when the top price of a ticket is 32 quid.

I wondered how that epilogue, which essentially encourages the audience to wrench back the means of production, would play south of Watford. I don’t know. My instinct was ‘badly,’ but I’m not so sure. Though you can’t leave a theatre on Shaftesbury avenue and be in the heart of the city’s heavy industry in 10 minutes. There’s an imaginative leap required.

If you’re lucky to be North enough (or Welsh, or Irish, or Scottish,) to be able to see The Last Ship, do. And take your family.

Industrial Heritage_7801-2a -w1024.jpg
Aforementioned stained glass window. The middle window is the artwork for The Last Ship.

Photo by Pamela Raith.


Girl From the North Country @ Noël Coward Theatre: How Does it Feel?

I’m sure I’ve written a version of this paragraph before, but it’s true so I’ll write it again. Sometimes, you just have a feeling you’re gonna like something, well before you actually experience it. With Girl from the North Country, I had been promised excellent acting, I had been promised a story that doesn’t entirely make sense, I had been promised a distinctive Mood, and I had been promised the music of Bob Dylan sung by people who are distinctly not Bob Dylan. Essentially, I had been promised everything I look for in the theatre.

But that’s never quite enough. Second-hand love isn’t sufficient. You have to have a response yourself, ultimately.


But oh lordy did I love Girl From the North Country. Really. Properly loved it. From the minute the music from that excellent 4-piece band struck up to those final, heartbreaking vocals as the lights faded.


(Sorry. Had to get it out of my system.)

Look, Girl from the North Country is a musical. It just is, so stop with the play-with-music bullshit. This isn’t Pam Gems’ Piaf, because it follows the rule that governs all musicals: when the characters run out of things to say, they start to sing. Music doesn’t have to further plot, or develop character, or do anything other than extend the emotion into a realm beyond dialogue. And therefore, Girl from the North Country is a musical, because that is what it does.

A strange musical, though. One that is sure of its unsureness, the way it sits between forms. I’ve been trying to work out why it feels strange, and I think it’s possibly because the emotions it extends into song are simultaneously more volatile and violent, and more subtle and nuanced than are traditionally treated in musicals. It is both completely natural and weirdly jarring; the songs sit so deeply in the fabric of the piece, but the piece itself is strange. When Elizabeth Laine starts to sing Like a Rolling Stone, it comes out of nowhere and it so shouldn’t work, but it does; it’s a sudden injection of something, of something that moves so quickly – the perfect representation of what’s happening in her head.

But we’re not in her head, are we? It’s the doctor that bookends the story; it’s his version of events that we get to hear. But even saying that, he’s hardly the central figure, or a central figure. It’s a collage of fragments of lives, the only one who seems to loom particularly, or at least physically large is Nick Laine, the manager of the bed and breakfast that the show fills. The rest of the story just passes through the space, people coming and going. Even the building doesn’t stick around, replaced with landscapes, or just the blackness of the rear of the stage. The band is the only thing that lingers.


(Sorry. Won’t happen again.)

But if Nick is the central figure – if that even matters – why doesn’t he sing? Why does the central figure of a musical not sing? If we suppose the show is happening to him, then I guess it makes sense that his character is the most solid, the most stable, the most grounded in reality – even as everything else is happening. He sits at the centre of the hurricane that is invoked in several of the songs, as this whirl of music and noise and the chaos of the lives of other people happens around him. There’s something pretty insoluble about Girl from the North Country, and I have a feeling this is the root of it.


But there is plenty I understand about it. I understand great acting even when I don’t understand it. And this company is as good as any I can think of in London right now. And it’s a true ensemble piece; they all get their moments behind the microphone to sing a bit of Dylan. But there are people that stand out.

The first is Sheila Atim, as the Laine’s adopted daughter, pregnant and needing to be married off. I first saw her, completely wordless in Les Blancs, then saw her speak Shakespeare in the Donmar’s Trilogy at King’s Cross, and now I’ve heard her sing full-voiced one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. She damn near stops the show cold before it’s barely got going with Tight Connection to My Heart – and if you’ve never seen the video that accompanied its initial release, do, it makes Atim’s work all the more striking. She has the clearest voice in the world, with a really subtle sort of movement to it. It probably plants the character in a solidity not given to the character by the text, presumably because McPherson trusts the music and the actor to do the job, and they do.

And Christ, that music. The work of Simon Hale, the orchestrator and arranger has utterly transformed some of Dylan’s lesser known work, stripped it right back to the words and the voice, and then McPherson has done the absolute minimum to get in the way of that, it seems to me. They never allow anything to get in the way of the actor.

The person who benefits most from this, it seems to me (and everyone else that’s seen this, let’s be serious,) is SHIRLEY FUCKING HENDERSON. She is just extraordinary. She rarely leaves the stage and when she’s there you don’t really want to look anywhere else, because you just want to watch the tars track down her face, or watch the way she twists the blanket as she throws it off herself. Her Elizabeth has succumbed to some sort of dementia, and is prone to making passes at the guests. She behaves like a randy five-year-old, basically. She darts around and fidgets and messes with her cardigan, and doesn’t actually say that much. In fact, she doesn’t sing by herself until about an hour into the show.

I’m trying to think of a single moment of theatre recently that brought me as much joy as Shirley Henderson’s rendition of Like a Rolling Stone did, and I can’t think of one. I’d have been happy with another 5 hours of that. Come on McPherson, Roman Tragedies style anthology of all Bob Dylan’s weird albums. Anyway. Considering she’s such a tiny person, Henderson certainly has a considerable set of lungs, it’s not a belt she uses, as much as it’s just like she has a microphone built into her voice box. It’s the sheer volume she can produce as well as her infuriatingly perfect placement that distinguishes Elizabeth’s singing moments so completely from her frail, slurred speaking scenes. You get a sense of the woman Nick fell in love with, and you completely see the woman that told him she didn’t love him any more shortly before the dementia set in.

The way the music then falls into a minor key as she sings the reprise a cappella is equally stunning. The repeated ‘how does it feel’ over and over, a howl from someone that’s lost that kind of sensation. And Forever Young. Christ, Forever Young. It’s just stunning, and unbearably moving. Elizabeth finally gets to talk, and she does so at length, but so very quickly, and she manages to upend everything. Henderson is fucking astonishing, have I made that clear?


In short: more musicals like this please. More acting like this please. More Shirley Henderson in great parts on the stage please. Ta.

Photo by Tristram Kenton

Follies @ National Theatre: An Essay from Five Songs

cheer them / in their glory / diamonds and pearls

Stephen Sondheim, for all his genius, is not generally considered a consistent writer in terms of tone. Only in one case (Sweeney Todd) do I think that the tone encompasses the whole world of the show, and in almost every other case there is a significant problem in either structure (he loves a two-act structure (Sunday in the Park with Feckin’ George)) or massively inconsistent tone (Company/Into the Woods (which has the distinction of being two-acts and wildly inconsistent.)) Sondheim also has a penchant for wildly unsympathetic characters (case in point: Passion) – not necessarily a bad thing, but when his lyrics are as complex and superficially unemotional in the first place, it can lead to problems when the shows are staged as pageants, as they so often are.

Follies has all of these problems. It’s one act, not particularly common in a musical, and careers wildly from high drama to high comedy. The great success of Dominic Cooke’s production is that it coheres these elements into a single, glorious whole; it finds a centre of the world and plants itself there, inhabited by people who are deeply unlikeable but nonetheless understandable.

Cooke’s production, through Vicki Mortimer’s designs, chooses not to revel in spectacle and grandeur as other previous productions have, but instead it chooses to explore the thinness of the realities we construct as people. The set, while completely evocative of an old, crumbling theatre is basically a single wall and a staircase on a revolve. Even when Loveland invades the space, it’s not total and solid, the illusion remains exactly that; thin billowing drapes that cascade from the flies, translucent, retaining the architecture of the theatre behind.

Similarly, Mortimer’s costumes are rather pedestrian, even the ghostly showgirls that haunt the space are not ridiculously extravagant. The idea of colour and cut is emphasised, Sally and Phyllis in the same sea foam green that eventually bleeds into Loveland – but Sally is dressed up, her self-consciousness clearly visible, whereas Phyllis looks effortlessly cool, collected and chic. Then there’s Carlotta in bright red, drawing all the attention in the room, but it’s still not horrendously over the top. The level of simplicity, the cleanness of the lines serves to frame the actors within the space. These are people that ‘do’ stuff, they don’t just show up to a reunion party.

What I’m getting at, is that Cooke treats Follies like drama, not like a musical. And yes, there’s a difference, and it’s to do with psychology. This Follies completely lacks pageantry; everything is on stage because it would be there, not because the conventions of musical theatre dictate that it should be there.

Message from housemate after seeing Follies.

first you’re another slow eyed vamp / then someone’s mother / then you’re camp

Even on its own terms, Follies is an interesting creature. Set in 1971, it’s about the first and last reunion of the ‘Weismann Girls,’ the stars of a musical revue that played in the theatre between the First and Second World Wars. It focuses on two couples, Sally and Buddy and Phyllis and Ben. Both couples are deeply unhappy. Obviously. And there’s history there. Obviously. Sally (Imelda Staunton) seems to still be deeply in love with Ben, (Philip Quast) a love which may or may not have been reciprocated in the past, and this question re-emerges over the reunion as Phyllis (Janie Dee) and Buddy (Peter Forbes) wrestle with the fallout.

The original production notoriously flopped; it was incredibly extravagant, with something like a cast of 50 and apparently spectacle the likes of which had never been seen on Broadway before. None of that spectacle hides the fact the Follies is at its heart an incredibly bleak, upsetting study of marriage and the collapse of relationships over time. American audiences don’t – or at least didn’t – like watching their marriages vivisected in front of their eyes, apparently Brits don’t care because the whole run has sold out. Or maybe we’re all just masochists.

The idea of 1971 is an interesting one to me. Specifically, it’s the year Charles Manson was sentenced, the Pentagon Papers were published in the press, the War on Drugs is launched, Vietnamization is in full swing… American culture seems to be fraying at the edges. But more broadly, the 1970s seems to be a period of real shift. It’s not defined by a culture the way that the 1960s or the 1980s are, in fact it feels comparably… dead? It seems more marked by what fades away in the period, the death of New Deal socialism in America, the aging of whole generations that fought and survived the World Wars, a loss of a sense of American optimism. There’s a major sense of existential crisis – what the hell is America’s role in the world?


The sign that lights up the back of the stage reads ‘Weismann’s Follies: Glorifying the American Girl.’ The follies are from a period of hope, where beauty and glamour ruled – but those girls are older now. Some of them are mothers, some of them have had failed marriages, and it does feel, I don’t know, tragic, that they’re descending on this theatre for a last glimpse at the past, having their old numbers coaxed out of them, hoping and praying they’ve retained some of that poise and composure. Most of them haven’t.

Carlotta’s song, I’m Still Here is a tour de force. She charts her life through the social history of America checking off significant cultural markers as she goes, from Beebe’s Bathysphere, five Dionne babies, to Hoovers J. Edgar and Herbert, via Shirley Temple. She’s a Hollywood actress that clawed her way up from the follies, through the bitterness of the McCarthy era to stardom – although now she’s on television (apparently, it’s based on the life of Joan Crawford.) Tracie Bennett tears into and through the song, it’s a real gift to an actress and she stops the show cold with it. There’s a triumph to it, the sheer matter of survival is worth celebrating, and for Carlotta what comes next is irrelevant, because she’s made it this far.


Are you now or have you ever been… etc.

you said you loved me / or were you just being kind?

I mentioned the psychology of this production before. What I think is distinctive about this production is that Cooke has (at least how it seems to me,) cast actors rather than musical actors. This means that the production has a psychological realism and depth that you do not get when all you’re waiting for is the next song. The intent and the thought is more important than the note.

THIS IS NOT TO SAY THAT THE SCORE IS NOT GORGEOUSLY SUNG. Because it is. Imelda Staunton may not be known primarily is a singer but you’d be fooled for thinking she is, because her vocals – particularly in Too Many Mornings – are stunning. Sounding beautiful remains secondary, however, to having it make actual sense, and quite rightly too. I mean, this company. It’s one of the finest I can recall seeing. Every part is cast to the top of its class, every single one. Thankfully, none of them seek to hog the limelight, and the ensemble works brilliantly as a result.

Staunton is clearly one of the very best actors working today in any medium. I didn’t – dammit – see her Mama Rose, but she is clearly in her element with Sondheim. She just sinks into the lyrics, every word becomes her’s. Torch song after torch song she sings, none with more devastating impact than what might be Sondheim’s greatest song, Losing My Mind. Cooke ignores James Goldman’s stage direction, or perhaps he just sidesteps it, and instead of having Sally be a figure of glamourous beauty, she sits, unfinished at her dressing table in a robe. She sings incredibly simple lyrics, ‘The sun comes up / I think about you / the coffee cup / I think about you…’ but she can evoke so much pain in the gaps between the words, and just how she holds herself. It’s as though Sally doesn’t know what her body is doing the way that Phyllis does, forgetting that she’s clinging to her glass of something like it’s the only constant in her life – which it probably is. But in that simplicity, is where the genius of the music unfurls itself; as she sings of dimming the lights ‘to think about you,’ there’s that ascending scale in the background, just heightening the tension, just making Sally’s instability feel tangible. As her voice cracks on that final, sustained ‘mind…’ you know the damage has been done. You presume the worst for her when they eventually leave the party.

I have a suspicion that Phyllis may well be the better part though. She has the humour, the assurance, and she has the benefit of growth instead of disintegration. Phyllis is the only character that isn’t deluding herself, and she manages to deal with her present by removing herself, by detaching herself from emotion. She speaks practically in a monotone, always with a dry, sarcastic edge. She always suggests aggression, instead of being open, capable of coarseness but electing to be cool. Janie Dee navigates all this by always suggesting Phyllis is in on the joke, she knows who she is and she realises very quickly what she wants to change – and how to do it. During ‘Who’s That Woman,’ as Phyllis dances with the other girls, her face is a mask of cool collected assurance, she doesn’t break a sweat, she doesn’t put a foot wrong. It’s as if once she’s done something, it’s embedded. We see a little more of this in Loveland, when she radiates pure joy as she recounts ‘The Story of Lucy and Jessie.’ She lights up that stage with a precision and a relish and sheer sexiness. She truly knows who she is, and she knows that if Ben can’t see that, or if Ben doesn’t want that, then I think she’ll still be fine.

As for Ben himself, he’s an interesting case. A man who clawed himself up to politics and power, and has a gravity and a dignity that Sally threatens to undermine. His music is possibly the richest, with the greatest musical heft, so it’s a good job he’s played by Philip Quast who has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. But, just like everyone else, this assurance is a façade, it’s all overcompensation for the fact that Ben absolutely hates himself. He’s bitter and a sense of inferiority, without any sense of what his actions might be doing to Sally, or how his ambiguity might be interpreted in a very dangerous way. Quast’s assuredness on the stage makes Ben’s eventual fragmentation all the more shocking, and all the more believable because of its suddenness. On both occasions I saw Follies I heard mutterings as to whether ‘it’ was part of the show or if Quast had drawn some sort of blank.

This level of integrity in the acting company is true for every role, including Peter Forbes’ charming but-slightly-desperate Buddy, whose very existence seems to repel Sally. He’s trying so hard it hurts, but he’s still not good enough, and he knows it. There’s also Josephine Barstow as Heidi, the oldest of the Follies girls, who seems to have had a relationship with Weismann himself, still hurting after all these years, depending on her younger self to finish her song. There’s a fragility and a bird-like quality to her, but with a voice-box that rings clear still.

Lucy wants to be dressy / Jessie wants to be juicy / Lucy wants to be Jessie / and Jessie, Lucy

I think that Stephen Sondheim is almost definitely a psychopath. I cannot think that anyone completely sane would come up with the stuff he comes up with. By starting with the lyrics and building the music around them, rather than writing a tune and fitting a story around it, Sondheim builds entire interior landscapes for the characters. The songs consequently function as insights, as speeches rather than interruptions in the narrative. They emerge as the emotion in the scene reaches its peak, when the only noise a character can make is a musical note. And, I should add, the score is played wonderfully by the orchestra – it only sucks we don’t actually get to see them. The sound has also been designed and mixed in an impressive way given that the Olivier isn’t particularly sympathetic to musicals, as long as you’re not too far over to the side the noise that the orchestra makes is really quite something.

The last 30 minutes of Follies are flawless. When every relationship seems damaged beyond feasible repair, when the past cannot help but occupy the same space as the present, when the emotion has reached such a pitch that it cannot be sustained in real life, Loveland crashes in. It’s neither real nor fake, modern nor ancient, beautiful nor ugly. It flips the piece on its head, making delusion literal. We get 5 numbers; one from the Young Versions of Ben, Buddy, Sally and Phyllis, and one each from their older selves. Each is a riff on the tone of the old follies numbers, the vaudeville slapstick of ‘Buddy’s Blues,’ the haunting torch song of ‘Losing My Mind,’ the big band swagger of ‘The Story of Lucy and Jessie,’ and the ultimate collapse of it all in ‘Live, Laugh, Love.’

There’s a density to the intelligence and complexity of the piece that is unmatched by any other composer, and only finds its equals among a handful of Sondheim’s other work. It can feel overwhelming, but instead of this distancing you the emotional heft of the acting, as well as the use of the Olivier stage make it infinitely more devastating. It’s been said that when going to a Sondheim show you can leave the tissues at home, but that’s certainly not the case with Follies – it had a higher my-housemate-cried rate than Amadeus, and that was quite a tearful spectacle.

This Follies absolutely makes the case that the staging of musicals absolutely has to shift in the years to come. If the presentational pageantry that all too often rears its head in the west end, and which corrupted the work of Rogers and Hammerstein for too long gets its claws on Sondheim, we’re screwed. It must be treated from the word out, not from the image in. That can manifest itself in many ways, but it means that the stand-on-the-edge-of-the-stage-and-belt school of thought just isn’t going to cut it any more – not if we want the musical to be treated as a serious form of theatre, which it is. This is only likely to come from the subsidised theatre, where the risk can be taken, where directors with experience directing straight plays can use their methods on musicals (sidenote: I cannot believe this is Cooke’s first musical. Show-off.)

The girls upstairs.

some climbers get their kicks / from social politics / me, I like to live

So, why Follies? Why is the National Theatre, at this time of national – well, I don’t know – disaster? Crisis? National sense-of-imminent-doom? Why is the National Theatre staging a splashy musical about aging chorus girls?

Well, because it can, first of all. There’s no other theatre in the country that could put this show on to the standard it probably requires, with a cast and an orchestra and a stage that could do the piece justice. It’s a significant piece in the American theatre canon, just like Ma Rainey – and I don’t remember complaints about that. It’s accepted philosophy that plays take on the character of their context, but such sentiment remains apart from musicals in many places.

But if Follies must be Topical, then it can be. It’s about the passing of an age, a whole generation, a whole idea of what life could be and the sheer disappointment when it all starts to collapse around you. It’s about relationships you thought you understood starting to atomise, and people you thought you remembered clearly actually being completely different.

It’s about the lies we tell ourselves to get to sleep at night and the sheer terror when the veil slips and the real world bleeds onto your retina. The terror of growing old and realising your life might have been an act of total self-delusion.

There’s almost nothing more contemporary.



Photo by Johan Persson.


Carousel @ London Coliseum: The Use of Wond’rin’

Great art always makes me feel like the bottom has dropped out of my stomach. Those occasions where I’ve gone “Jesus Christ,” after a curtain call, or been shocked still in a gallery, or those occasions I’ve found myself swallowing unusually hard listening to a certain song. Great art doesn’t have to elicit this kind of response of course, but the things that stick in my mind tend to have physically struck me in this way

One of those moments was the first time I heard You’ll Never Walk Alone sung in full voice, stood on the Kop with my Dad, when I was probably nine years old. Seemingly every Scouser – at least every Liverpool supporter – knows the words by heart, without context, just via an emotional response and association. It wasn’t until years later I discovered You’ll Never Walk Alone was from Carousel, a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. I was dismissive, those musicals seemed stuffy and the movies went on for hours. No thanks. I’ll stick with the Gerry and the Pacemakers version for now, I thought.

It wasn’t until I became aware of Kelli O’Hara and her glorious vocal chords that I took R+H seriously; I listened to the Lincoln Center recording of South Pacific to hear her sing Ensign Nellie Forbush. The overture began to play, and I had one of those bottom-dropped-out-of-my-stomach moments. It’s an absolute stunning piece of music, one that needs to be played by a full orchestra to have maximum impact. I subsequently discovered that South Pacific is not only the greatest musical ever written, it’s one of the most significant pieces of American drama in the canon. Lacerating in its examination of race during the Second World War, parts were deemed too controversial for staging in 1949; the word ‘coloured’ was excised, for instance, as was a song that lamented the transmission of racism down the generations: ‘You’ve Got to be Carefully Taught.’


The prospect then of hearing the first seven minutes of Carousel, the Prologue/Carousel Waltz, played by the orchestra of the English National Opera was a thrilling one, let alone the rest of the score. Carousel is an earlier, less-perfect R+H work, but one which nevertheless massively challenged contemporary musical convention, most notably with the 10-minute-long bench scene, ‘If I Loved You,’ which intertwines the text and music so tightly they become completely inseparable. It also has Alfie Boe in it, which meant my Grandmother could come down to London for an afternoon and see it with me, it being her fault I’m hooked on the theatre in the first place (but that’s another blog post.) We hadn’t been to the theatre together in years.

We duly took our seats in the gods of the London Coliseum – as far as I’m aware the only theatre in London with sculptures of gladiators either side of the proscenium. I’m used to being the youngest in a theatre by a considerable margin, but it’s never normally so severe. There was at least 30 years between me and the next youngest patron in the balcony. But I digress.

The moment the music sweeps into the auditorium is a gorgeous one. There really is nothing like the noise of a 40-piece orchestra, and the sound they make is physically overwhelming. The Carousel Waltz is stunningly played, as is the whole score, and yes, the moment when the carousel begins to spin took my breath away. (It perhaps didn’t get a reaction like this production’s, the opening 7 minutes of which are legendary and thankfully preserved on Youtube.) The staging that accompanies the music is essentially the show in reverse; the curtain rises on Billy (Boe) at the graduation ceremony of his daughter, then we are flung back through the notable moments of the play, including a part of the ballet played backwards. While this is a fascinating approach, it does rather distract from the trajectory of the music, and it is only when the timelines are restored that the production feels assured of itself.

Musically then, the show is sound. A gorgeous orchestra playing R+H’s favourite of their scores, with an ensemble and a chorus that match them in full voice. Boe and Katherine Jenkins (as Billy’s love interest, Julie Jordan,) are vocally completely in command. This being an opera house, this is the priority and rightly so.


Carousel is a musical that tells the story of Billy Bigelow, a carousel-barker, who turns to crime to support his relationship with Julie. He is a brute, and a thug. He beats her, and she will not leave him, despite the pleadings of her best friend, Carrie (Alex Young.) Julie is so smitten, and probably terrified, that she takes whatever treatment Billy throws at her. One of the final lines of the show, spoken by Julie, is, “It’s possible, dear – for someone to hit you – hit you hard and not hurt at all.” Now, I don’t for a second believe that this is a line meant to excuse Billy’s behaviour. I don’t think it’s a particularly great line, which is why both Julie and Billy need to be brilliantly acted; we need to know why we should care about Billy (largely facilitated by his Soliloquy,) and we need to know why Julie is saying what she says. It just doesn’t wash with a modern audience. I honestly believe there is a way to rehabilitate Carousel without changing a word. Have Billy show some remorse, for God’s sake. It needs to be acted. The piece is too full of pitfalls to be done on a purely aesthetic basis.


Soliloquy, Billy’s song upon discovering Julie is pregnant, is a feat of writing. It’s 8 minutes without let-up, with an arc worthy of a play itself. He goes from imagining his escapades with his son, to mourning his child possibly being a girl, to resolving himself to doing whatever is necessary to provide for his family – including murder. It’s the first time we can sympathise with him truly. Boe sings it with all due gravitas, but the staging gets in the way. James Noone’s set is a giant turntable with various small staircases and ramps wheeled onto it, that Boe clambers over during the first part of the song, removing the focus from the lyrics, pushing the piece further away from political reconciliation. If anything, it’s over-staged. The website may well say ‘semi-staged’ but what is on stage at the Coliseum is a bona-fide, fully staged musical, in the traditional sense. Spotlights, lots of pauses for applause, tap dancing chorus boys… the works. The trappings of a traditional musical.

I’d love to see it properly stripped back, exposing the bones of what R+H wrote. There’s a strong skeleton in there. I’ve come to recognise my issue with modern musicals is that they very rarely stimulate the cerebral as well as the emotional, but R+H can and do, but their work is hidden behind sentiment and a conflation of the production and the material. Bartlett Sher’s production of South Pacific in 2008 is to my knowledge the only recent production that tried to get rid of the dust. I hope someone does the same to the rest of the musicals canon soon.


Carousel is an excellent musical. Musicals may well be unfashionable, but so much of that is to do with conflation of historical productions and the material. There is no reason to not do a perfectly serviceable version with vocally solid stars to put the ENO in the black, but it feels like there is an artistic opportuning dangling here, waiting for someone to snatch it. Not every musical can be treated radically, they’d fall apart. But these ones can, and so they should.

And yes, You’ll Never Walk Alone still gives me goosebumps.


Photo by Tristram Kenton.