You could say it was all about underwear, but that would be being too simplistic - not least because it was only the women who were undressed.
On Friday my wife and I trundled down to London to see a show. Following the principle of “Now that the kids have flown, let’s get some life while we can still stand before we die” (see Growing More Passionate), this is the second time we have managed such a feat in the last six months. We have become reckless and profligate (some would say desperate) as we approach the end of middle age. After the recent heart scare (see The Blood Donor) it seemed the only sensible thing to do. And on the basis of having seen two London musicals, I feel I have acquired the necessary expertise to become an authoritative critic.
It is difficult to sum up my response to Chicago. It was fast, dazzling, erotic, spectacular, impressive, witty, and yet at the same time, slightly unsatisfying. I suppose part of my problem was that we had seen Les Misérables about six months ago and I inevitably ended up comparing the two, although they were both very different ‘beasts’ and should really be judged on their own merits.
Les Mis had a story (ok, it went on for too long), it had memorable tunes that still sit in the brain, it had characters that you could identify with (I wanted to cry, and the guy in front of me actually did - much to his partner’s embarassment). The staging was brilliantly conceived with a variety of locations and dramatic effects - it was visually interesting and stimulating.
In comparison Chicago seemed much more contained and focused. But perhaps that was the point. There was a very thin story line - woman kills lover and gets off scot free; the characters never really engaged you emotionally - objectionable, selfish, lightheaded woman, married to dopy husband, kills unknown lover and is defended by money grabbing lawyer; others may differ, but apart from ‘All that jazz’ I can’t remember a single tune that I heard two days ago; there was the single backdrop of the band and only one or two dramatic staging effects; there were no costume changes and the underwear was all black.
The result of all that wasn’t in Chicago made what was there very intense and direct. If Les Mis reflected the complex lives of several people living in the world, Chicago reflected the energy, superficiality, vivacity, eroticism of a glimpse into a nightclub. And that nightclub was entertainingly energetic - even if, on reflection, it seemed superficial. Wave after wave of stunning song and dance routines hit your senses. Some times they were in unison so that you felt the perfect timing and power of the block effect. At other times it was like being in a circus tent trying to watch lots of individually enthralling acts all going on simultaneously. You didn’t dare let your eyes rest on one part of the stage for too long because you knew that something else equally compelling was going on only a few feet away. And for the exciting and energetic choreography, skilfully executed, Chicago is a success.
If you have struggle with accepting human sexuality, or if you have strong feminist views, don’t go to Chicago. The men occasionally bare athletic chests, but always keep their trousers on (on stage, at least) - though at least one of them must have been supported by a banana. The women, on the other hand, are either in lingerie, or wearing notional skirts that reveal their knickers. If nothing else, the underwear constantly makes a very powerful point - the sexuality is raw and up front. Many in the audience enjoyed the spectacle, while I suspect that some may have found the frequent legs apart, thighs akimbo, and pelvic thrusting slightly predictable.
If Les Mis conveys the world and time-frame of a classic novel, Chicago does an excellent job of capturing a shorter span in a seedy nightclub. Although Chicago does its job very well, it is not a nightclub that I would want to revisit - at least, not with the wife!
People often say to me “Living in London, you probably go to the theatre and to shows all the time, eh?” Well, no, actually; hardly ever.
When I was a kid living in Brighton, we came up to London twice to see musicals. The first was “South Pacific” and the second was “Oklahoma”. Since living in London, though, I have been to the theatre only a handful of times.
I like music and have been to a few concerts, though less lately because of hearing difficulties. Whether the hearing aids will improve matters remains to be seen.
So am I some sort of philistine? Maybe. I have to say that I don’t care for musicals. Plays, perhaps, but even there I am known to become irritated if they are too obvious or weakly plotted.
Perhaps this is connected with the fact that I rarely read fiction (Le Petit Prince by Saint-Exupéry and L’étranger by Camus being two recent exceptions), preferring history, philosophy and suchlike to the made-up. Fiction always seems a waste of time somehow (you can “prove” anything you like by making up a story) and fiction where people sing seems bizarre, to say the least. (Yes, all right, I did like The Singing Detective…[sigh].)
But I believe first and foremost in doing whatever you enjoy. As long as you enjoyed your shows, that’s what counts.
I wish I could appreciate musicals, but the premise of people breaking into random song and dance makes it impossible to suspend disbelief.
This is my failing, I know. But I’m working on it.