Review: DORIAN: THE MUSICAL, Southwark Playhouse

“The artist is the creator of beautiful things,” that’s how the preface of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray begins. The author knew what he was doing with a plot of pure aestheticism and thinly veiled homosexuality wrapped up in hefty superficiality, but his contemporaries didn’t see past their own prejudice, going as far as calling it “perverted” during Wilde’s trials. The critical opinion of the novel started to change only towards the end of the 20th century, 80 years after Wilde’s death in 1900. Today, the book is considered a masterpiece and, as we’re all aware, it has influenced and inspired an inordinate amount of projects. The latest is a musical that transports the story into the world of rock music. In a society that sees fame as the utmost achievement, it should be an impressively fitting shift. 

However, penned by Joe Evans (score and lyrics) and Linnie Reedman (book and direction), Dorian is an awkward production that’s supposedly adapting the mores and morals of the time for a social media-obsessed audience. They reimagine the protagonist as a lonely rocker who gains overnight popularity after producer Harry Wotton takes him under his wing. Basil Hallward becomes Baz, a celebrity photographer charmed by the young star, while Sibyl Vane is a besotted opera singer. We wish we could say it works, but the team desecrates the original material - and not in a good way. Sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll have never looked so dull and unappealing.

Between the unengaging songs that all cover the same themes (how sad and unloved Dorian is, how cursed his nonexistent passion is), it features the same three predictable rhymes mixed with an inconsistent script that, at times, fails its own logic. On paper, Dorian is a stunning concept: a glam rock musical that brings one of the most attractive and charming stories ever written into the dark realm of groupies and sin. It not only comes off as if it was conceived by a total stranger to glam rock, but it also looks like they’ve never seen a rock idol in action. 

They introduce a skewed idea of debauchery, mostly made of overly loud snorts of cocaine and feeble homosexual touching. The piece desperately wants to be edgy, but it misses the mark entirely and flops into a caricature of every single element it offers. If the generalised emotions and vague points of view weren’t enough, there are only a few convincing performances in the company and Dorian’s isn’t one of them. Ending each sentence in upspeak is utterly cringeworthy for a character such as Dorian Gray, Alfie Friedman’s delivery shows an appalling dearth of magnetism and charm. This isn’t his fault, he was most unfortunately miscast.

While the main performer leaves much to be desired, a handful of others are entirely responsible for the added star we’ve awarded to this otherwise one-star review: George Renshaw and Megan Hill. They are compelling throughout, but it’s a shame they’re not given the necessary means to shine. Renshaw has a devilish grasp on the bland manager with gracious vocals and an intriguing glint in his eyes, while Hill’s stunning voice and quirky turn in the second act are a complete surprise. They’re a pair to watch for sure. The writing expands the role of Harry’s wife, who appears for a few pages in Wilde’s chef-d’œuvre but becomes a successful stylist here. Gabrielle Lewis-Dodson’s approach is OTT and boisterous with a shouty, annoying posh trill in her sentences that animates the scene. The trio do their best, but it’s not enough to save the show.

Evans and Reedman desperately crave to make a big statement about fame and decadence combined with the spellbinding powers of music. We can see where they want to go and wish they’d get there, but they don’t. Their musical lacks longing, intensity, urgency, and intelligence too. With scenes that are rushed and absurd, their ideas don’t have a chance to linger and fester - not even in its overwrought 145 minutes. Clichéd turns of phrase during empty conversations alternate eye-rolling and predictable lyrics plagued with obnoxious and repetitive phrases. Everything is so deeply unsexy that the production edges towards secondhand embarrassment most of the time. It’s not just Baz rising from the dead Dracula-style to exit stage left in plain sight that follows their unwatchable tango, it’s also the blatant absence of chemistry and beauty that permeates every component of the piece.

About bad artists, Wilde says that “The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look.” He would have had a field day at Southwark Playhouse

Dorian: The Musical runs at Southwark Playhouse Borough until 10 August.

Photo credit: Danny Kaan

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