Sorry sisters, it’s blessed but not quite divine
Sister Act Eventim Apollo, London
Until August 28, 2hrs 30mins ★★★★★
Closer
Lyric Hammersmith, London
Until August 13, 2hrs 25mins ★★★★★
Sister Act was meant to have opened in London with Whoopi Goldberg – until
Covid hit. Now it’s back without Whoopi but with a cast that stars queen of soul Beverley Knight (late of the musical The Drifters Girl) as Deloris Van Cartier. On the run from her gangster boyfriend, Deloris is given witness protection in a strict, pretty much all-white convent.
Guess what? The steeplehanded nuns are soon shaking their buns as Deloris turns the tuneless sisters into a funky unit. Watching over them is Jennifer Saunders, dosing the proceedings with a batty sternness as the Mother Superior.
But the truth is that Sister Act is never going to stand as Alan Menken’s (a stalwart of Disney film-to-stage conversions such as Aladdin, Beauty And The Beast and
The Little Mermaid) greatest work. Partly, I think, because Cheri and Bill Steinkellner’s book is so painfully thin.
It works best as a gaudy pastiche of the sounds of the 1970s: Philly soul sound, gospel, disco funk and TV scores. If there was ever a musical of Starsky & Hutch, it might sound something like this.
Ms Knight – she’s getting on a bit to be a gangster’s moll – is in great voice: Take Me To Heaven is a blast.
Lesley Joseph as Sister Mary Lazarus adds comedy asides among these sisters of perpetual sorrow. As Eddie, the cuddly cop with a thing for Deloris,
Clive Rowe evokes lurve god Barry White in a fast-change number on top of a desk.
The gangsters – three idiot stooges – get across the hilarity of the generic 1970s Travolta strut.
Hairspray star Lizzie Bea’s rendition of The Life I Never Led is the one song that feels fully formed emotionally.
The in-built mockery of convent life is lazy, the production needs trimming and its overamplification is almost beyond endurance. There’s no shortage of talent here, but its joys are intermittent.
Blessed in moments, I’d say, but not divine.
Twenty-five years ago, Closer was the talk of the town. It featured an exchange of sexroom chat that came up on an electronic screen. It was utterly pervy and totally hilarious, back in the day when email was a novelty. Now the lines are spoken and it’s not quite the same.
Patrick Marber’s gift for snappy, shocking dialogue is, though, still thrilling. This is a searingly honest drama about sex. A quarter of a century on, and its caveman confessions will seem utterly appalling to a generation stuck in a gender identity crisis.
The action is a daisy chain. Dan, a writer, is dating a stripper called Alice but falls for Anna, a photographer. In the mix is Larry, a doctor who sleeps with both women. As partners are swapped, honesty and confession are used as a form of torture.
There are standout performances from Sam Troughton – brilliantly repugnant as a Neanderthal Larry, who keeps the evening fully X-rated in his blurted-out pornographic fantasies – and Ella Hunt as Alice, an elfin lapdancer whose soul is missing.
It’s a bleak but entertaining play, with terrific one-liners about people who are admittedly hard to care for. Clare Lizzimore’s production is rather complicated, with musicians and a chorus milling about and miming. What are they telling us the play doesn’t?
For a romantic date it’s not recommended, but its utter frankness about human desire makes it a juicy rare steak among today’s mostly vegan new plays.