by The months of kitschy poster campaign for this Broadway musical, which was adapted from Scott Fitzgerald’s novel of the wealthy amorality in the 1920s, had feared me from the worst. In performance, this gatsby, as a slim, enthusiastic ocean liner of a show, turns out to be sufficient musical oophe and vocal power to distract it from the hollowness in his heart.
Jason Howland’s score combines pop power anthems with jazz times and even a little ragtime. Nathan Tysen’s texts are cleverly funny, although Kait Kerrigan’s book tends to the characteristics.
It is staged with Pizzaz by the original Broadway director/choreographer team by Marc Bruni and Dominique Kelley. Strong achievements by Frances Mayli McCanns Daisy Buchanan and Jordan Baker from Amber Davies make up the supervision of Jamie Muscato as title anti -Antiheld and Corbin Bleu as our narrator Nick Carraway.
Fitzgerald’s criticism of the targetless, careless rich here becomes a romantic imagination of lost love that is almost recaptured. Bleus amiable stupid of a Caraway fills into the Monied Milieu of Long Island, a short roller trip from Manhattan. At one end of an idyllic bay, his cousin Daisy is concerned with the brutal, unfaithful Tom Buchanan. On the other side of the water, the mysterious Jay Gatsby throws orgiastic parties, in which he never participates in the hope of regaining the attention of Daisy, which he knew as a poor young officer who sent to the First World War.
Rarely has this action, and Gatsby’s miraculous self -prevention seemed to be more fantastic. The millionaire’s villa, a mixture of Art -deco and intimidating metropolis modernism, seems to have been conjured up from the air like a Disney palace. The same applies to his personality outside the PEG, all smooth tailoring and “old sport”. Muscato’s voice has a great depth and powerful preservation, but it is difficult to play a spaces. It does not help that the choir of its Signature Love song sounds a bit like Barry Manilows Mandy for your sound.
The subtle study of the novel about moral and power weight weights, especially between the sexes, is flattened and enlarged. Nevertheless, the show rolls over itself like a juggernach. The design is really dazzling, from the cinematic rear projection to the automobiles that bend and turn, to the flapper dresses: If there is a lack of sequins this year, we know why. (The costumes come from Linda Cho, who won a Tony on Broadway, and the set design of Paul Tate Depoo III: I really hope that his mother was called Winnie.)
Kelley’s choreography gives Charleston and Foxtrot a hectic lead as if these people are really dancing on the edge of an abyss, and he delivers a great tap routine for the blithly flirtackious show tunes lah dee DaH. However, the second routine for the opening, in which swirling trench coats shady, which are sung by the Gangster boat legger Wolfsheim, is confusing.
Wolfsheim is played by Les Mis Alumnus John Owen-Jones with malignant relish, one of many strong voices that are available. Mayli McCann fits Moscato in wealth and sails with violent contradictions of Daisy’s contradictions until her devastating final number of beautiful little fool. Rachel Tucker brings both fire and crushed dignity to Tom Buchan’s side piece, Mechanics Ms. Myrtle.
Davies gives the whole thing as Nick’s independent love interest, amateur golfer Jordan Baker, who injects urgently needed acidic writeness. She also looks good in pants with wide legs. Bleu is too teddy-bear like Nick, but has fun with the Archly Funny Texts of the Met, in which Nick is fantasized about a museum visit while listening to Tom and Myrtle Schtupping.
This is a big, three -end show that fills the cavernous colossus. Even if it is a bit empty under the Razzmatazz, it may not matter.
Until September 7, Londoncoliseum.org.
