The highs and lows of brotherly love
This tale of twin boys separated at birth is undeniably brilliant
Twenty-four years and more than 10,000 performances in London’s West End, and countless others in touring productions round the world. Willy Russell’s musical is a phenomenon, a politically simplistic story, that succeeds because it appeals straight to the heart.
It’s an unsentimental melodrama about a working class Liverpool family in the Sixties, an emotional epic with no dazzling scenery or dancing, that could have come straight out of Greek tragedy. Twins separated at birth, one brought up in his poor home, the other by a wealthy family. There’s even a narrator who acts as a kind of Greek chorus commenting on the story as it develops, an eternal prophet of doom.
It’s based on the old argument about what’s most important in life: nature or nurture, your genetic make-up or your family background. And the danger of explosive secrets.
That could all imply that Blood Brothers is heavy going, but it’s written with the lightest of touches that can swing in a few phrases from gloom to bawdy humour. And it’s a great piece of theatrical stagecraft, using neatly manipulated scenery, clever direction and snappy lyrics to switch place, time, character and situation in a matter of seconds.
Mrs Johnstone, mid-20s, seven kids, twins on the way and a disappearing husband lives in a run-down area that has the word Everton scrawled on a wall. Without religion even being mentioned you know you’re in Catholic Liverpool even before you see the picture of Pope Paul VI. Her Faustian pact is to hand over one of her twins to be brought up by wealthy Mrs Lyons as her own child. From the word go the narrator sings the ominous prophecy that ‘the Devil’s got your number’. And Rebecca Storm is back in full voice as the gutsy, loving, vulnerable Mrs Johnstone, ‘living on the never, never’, who despite her circumstances, has an undiminished love for her family who constantly make her life difficult.
The songs are not classic big numbers but they’re beautifully integrated and have a haunting melancholy that gets stuck in your head long after you’ve left the theatre. It’s impossible not to be moved by that whopping emotional finale, Tell Me It’s Not True. And throughout, she sings variations on the melancholy Marilyn Monroe song that gradually go from light-hearted fun to a tragic parallel with the lives of her own boys.
The first half has most of the slapstick and childish humour, but the second act half piles on the tragedy of her lone twin Mickey, condemned to poverty by fate, his failures and drugs, and, according to the narrator, by class.
I’ve just two complaints: The first half is at least 10 minutes too long, and I kept asking myself what’s the point of having clever lyrics to sing if the drums and percussion section are doing their best to drown them.
Dean Chisnall is a chilling presence as the unavoidable voice of fate, and Sean Jones captures the many moods of Mickey from childish simplicity, through teenage diffidence and adult rebellion, with Mark Hutchinson as wellheeled second twin Eddie. There’s all-round polished ensemble work from the large cast.
‘It’s written with the lightest of touches that can swing from gloom to bawdy humour’