A trip to the English National Opera's production of Chess proves too much for Garageland theatre reviewer, Lisa Duffy.
Chess is one of those shows that bestows a certain status onto
musical theatre fans. The original concept album was something of a cult recording
for the genre’s devotees in the 1990s, passed around with reverence at high
school cast parties and amateur theatre rehearsals. Knowledge of the show
separated casual enthusiasts from hardcore nerds and being able to perform “One
Night in Bangkok” without missing a word was akin to a superpower. (Though this
is perhaps truer in America, where the 1988 Broadway transfer lasted less than
three months, as opposed to the original London version’s more impressive three-year
stint).
After an absence of
over thirty years from the West End boards, the time certainly feels right for
a revival. There is an increasing trend of throwback, pulsing, synthesised
music throughout the Theatre District—in addition to fellow 1980s stalwart
megamusicals The Phantom of the Opera
and Les Miserables, Bat Out of Hell is currently cranking
out the tunes of Meatloaf eight times a week and the upcoming Knights of the Rose will be giving a
Shakespearean backdrop to the songs of performers like Bon Jovi and Bonnie
Tyler. But more importantly, Chess’
story of Cold War politics told through an American and a Russian battling for
supremacy in the World Chess Championship seems poised to be able to offer
commentary on the contemporary world. (The American is a brash narcissist named
Trumper, just increasing the potential relevance).
But alas, the current
revival playing a limited run at the London Coliseum does not seem interested
in presenting a thoughtful treatment of this material. The book of Chess is notoriously an unfixable mess,
with a needlessly complicated plot, gaping narrative holes and confusing shifts
of character motivation. All of this could be glossed over in the right
production, one that brings out the broader themes and centres its focus on the
lush score. However, director Laurence Connor goes in a completely different
direction, opting instead for an all-out assault on the senses with a
more-is-more attitude to justify ticket prices.
The entire stage is
taken over by giant screens, projecting cheesy backgrounds (like the Alpine
town of Merano, which includes footage of a plane flying around the mountains
before it lands in the stage left screen for characters to then clumsily emerge
from a hole signifying the plane door) and providing narrative exposition
through filmed packages (like the Lotte Reiniger-esque animated “Story of
Chess” depicting the game’s Arabian origins).
Camera operators roam
the stage to film close-ups of the actors which are projected on both sides of
the stage, as if this were a concert in a giant stadium as opposed to a
relatively confined theatre. While the audience’s attention is trained onto
these screens, group choreography continues to unfold unnoticed on the stage. The
various types of videos converge when Freddie and Anatoly play chess, with the closeups
of their concentrating faces superimposed with images detailing the events of
the Cold War, clobbering the audience with the central metaphor of chess as
politics.
Incorporating film
into theatre is a delicate matter, one that rarely works (just look at the
divided opinion of the recent National Theatre production of Network). The two mediums operate on
fundamentally different wavelengths, with the liveness of theatre allowing for
a greater suspension of disbelief than the forensic intimacy of a camera lens.
The screens of Chess not only
distract from the work occurring on the stage but also employ no sense of
filmic knowledge, often breaking the golden cinematic 180-degree rule and
disorienting the viewer trying to follow the interactions between characters.
Perhaps worse than
the staging though is the actual music, the reason everyone in the audience is
there. Chess features a gorgeously
complex score by the ‘B’s of ABBA (Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus) and
tongue-tripping lyrics by Tim Rice, but is stripped of all beauty by the
decision to not utilise any dynamics throughout the show. Every song seems to
be shouted, matching the unnecessary largeness of the screens and devaluing the
impact of the song progression. Tim Howar’s “Pity the Child” and Michael Ball’s
“Anthem” are serviceable enough, but lack the showstopping qualities the songs
are known for by eschewing emotional interrogation in favour of constant
volume. The duet between Cassidy Janson and Alexandra Burke, “I Know Him So Well”,
fairs better and highlights that these ladies deserve to be in a much better
production than this.
The production is
part of the English National Opera’s yearly bid to make money off of a
limited-run musical to fund their operas for the rest of the year. As such, the
musicals are always billed as “semi-staged” as a way to maximise profits rather
than spend money on lavish sets and special effects. But there are much better
(and more rewarding) ways of presenting pared back musicals than what is on
display here. Throughout the production, I kept wondering what Chess would look like under Thom
Southerland’s direction, whose specialty is staging traditionally grandiose
musicals like Titanic and Ragtime in small venues, stripping them
down to their emotional cores to create moving and decidedly theatrical
experiences. With its screens and screams, Chess
fans are better off skipping this production and staying home to watch the 2008
filmed concert version for a more satisfying evening.
Lisa Duffy
Chess is playing at the London Coliseum
through 2 June 2018.
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