Review: [TITLE OF SHOW], Southwark Playhouse

If you’re a Broadway aficionado, you will know [title of show] and all its lore. If you don’t, this is your chance to be introduced to the quirkiness of musical theatre lovers and makers.

First premiered in 2004, the romp retells its creation, following authors Jeff (Bowen) and Hunter (Bell) as they race against time to deliver their application to a festival (in real life, that was the New York Musical Theatre Festival). With only three weeks to come up with an original idea and quite literally nothing to lose, they come together with their friends Susan (originally Blackwell) and Heidi (the one and only Blickenstaff, back then). It’s been a fan-favourite ever since, with plenty of iterations and other media attached to it due to the enterprising spirit of its company.

Director Christopher D. Clegg assembles Jacob Fowler (Hunter), Abbie Budden (Heidi), Mary Moore (Susan), and Thomas Oxley (Jeff) as the quartet, while Tom Chippendale is their accompanying pianist Larry. New casts will never have that je-ne-sais-quoi of the artists playing themselves, but, if the chemistry is there (and here it is indeed), the material is a boisterous enough journey through music and stressful deadlines bolstered up by meaningful friendships. Mind you, the piece is already anything but grand and here, it regrettably comes off as a filler production to tide the venue over. 

Catchy tunes (that largely sound the same) and fastidious (but fairly outdated after two decades) in-jokes and references make this a theatre kid’s meta-theatrical wet dream. It’s a curiosity more than anything else. Once you go past the American saccharine energy and relentless exuberance of it all, it's a story of ambition and sheer belief in someone’s art. The almost proud lack of subtlety of the 90, very long, unbroken minutes feeds the general artificiality of the dialogues and plain brand of humour. It’s unfortunate that we end up echoing some of the discrediting critics that the character of Hunter suggests they don’t read. 

Clegg’s direction leans into the joyous support of fellow theatremakers (we’re not saying this is a Ponzi scheme of a show, but we could…). It’s just that there have been so many [title of show]s with different names and genres in the last 20 years that even the one classic that broke the mould of the American musical feels a bit overdone at this point. The actors, however, are a delight if we don’t mind the rather arbitrary vision of it all. They do a lot of sitting down and standing up and climbing over and getting down four raised platforms-cum-chair so that movement can be added to an otherwise static set, while sometimes struggling to find their spotlight.

Moore and Fowler are easily the highlights; one with an impressive vocal range and the other with his complex nuance. At last, once they’re faced with the commercial and financial strifes of trying to take their show on Broadway, the tension briefly rises. It dissipates quickly, but it’s there, finally upping the stakes so that the production gives us a reason to pay attention.

As a whole, it’s a silly, warm revival of one of the forefathers of all those “little shows that could." It gives a loud belt inside its echo chamber.

[title of show] runs at Southwark Playhouse until 30 November.

Photo Credits: Danny Kaan