Theatre Paul Bailey
AN AMERICAN IN PARIS DON JUAN IN SOHO
An American in Paris, the spectacular musical at the Dominion Theatre until the end of September, is loosely based on the 1951 Hollywood film starring Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. It is in every way superior to that rather bland concoction of Gallic clichés – all beaming gendarmes, whistling onion-sellers on bikes, ever-sodecadent artists in berets and the latest in haute couture wherever you look.
Craig Lucas, who provided the book for this new version, sets the opening scenes towards the end of the war, with confusion in the streets of the French capital. The German occupation has at last come to an end and the Nazi flag is lowered and torn to pieces, the tricolour raised in its place. Here is a city where people are still suspicious of one another.
The plot remains very much the same as in the original, but with the difference that the principal characters are made substantially more interesting. Jerry Mulligan, the ex-gi with ambitions to be a painter, really does have to struggle to get his girl, young ballerina Lise Dassin, whose Jewishness is relevant to the story.
Adam Hochberg, the Gershwin-like figure who has studied under Nadia Boulanger (who receives a respectful mention), is also alert to the fact that Jews haven’t been welcome in Paris lately. It is he, the struggling composer, who provides the glorious music with which the title will be for ever associated. For two hours and forty minutes, Adam is a George Gershwin brought back from an early grave, testing his talent in a wartorn city he never knew. It’s a conceit that David Seadon-young, as Adam, relishes in his very good performance.
This new, revitalised An American in Paris had its premiere at the Théâtre du Châtelet in 2014. It transferred to Broadway, where it picked up several Tony nominations and awards. Robert Fairchild, a leading dancer with New York City Ballet, and Leanne Cope, a former member of the Royal Ballet, were Jerry and Lise in America, and are now playing and dancing and singing the roles in London to dazzling effect.
Christopher Wheeldon, the director and choreographer, has created something magical, with the assistance of Bob Crowley, whose sets and costumes are a constant surprise. Wheeldon has included several songs by Gershwin and his brother Ira which aren’t in the movie, such as ‘I’ve Got Beginner’s Luck’ and
‘Who cares?’ The latter contains two lines I have cherished for years: ‘Who cares if banks fail in Yonkers/long as you’ve got the kiss that conquers’. Unfortunately, the stylish Zoë Rainey, as the wealthy American socialite Milo, was denied the pleasure of singing them.
What is remarkable about this show, which contains an entire ballet in its second half, is that the action is dependent as much on movement as it is on speech and song. It is as beautiful to watch as it is to listen to.
And that’s enough hyperbole for one theatre review. Don Juan in Soho, Patrick Marber’s updating of Molière’s Don Juan at Wyndham’s Theatre, stars David Tennant as the arch seducer, called DJ.
It’s with Tennant that my problems start, because his appeal to a vast public is something I can’t even begin to understand. I find his acting chilly and full of calculation. He has a habit, or mannerism, of staring at his fellow actors, as if he’s challenging them to retract what they just said. He nods a lot. I know that seducers on the Don Juan scale are not always prepossessing, but they do have a certain charm, that most dubious of human qualities.
Tennant conveys the reptilian side of DJ’S character, which is right, but he is completely charmless. Marber, who also directs, has encouraged him to prance about the stage in a dressing gown, for a reason that eludes me.
Why Soho? Anna Fleischle’s set seems to represent some decayed mansion with a view of the statue of Charles II in Soho Square. That’s it. There are references in the text to Dean Street and the fleshpots of yesteryear, but the programme, with its mini-profiles of Jeffrey Bernard, Francis Bacon and Muriel Belcher, promises more detail than the play offers. Marber has added topical jokes – ‘I’m not a rapist. I don’t grab pussy’ – and DJ’S rant against the horrors of modern life has its telling moments (Tennant is good at shouting), but the evening is rescued by Adrian Scarborough, DJ’S put-upon servant. He is a skilful actor of comedy, with a delicious line in self-deprecation. Don Juan in Soho should be played without an interval. It isn’t. The second act runs for 25 minutes. I resented the fact that my escape was unnecessarily delayed.