ajhlovestheatre

DINA MARTINA: SUB-STANDARDS

Soho Theatre, London – until 24 February 2024

https://sohotheatre.com/events/dina-martina-sub-standards/

When they commemorate the great chanteuses of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries – Barbra, Liza, Bette, Cher, Madonna, Gaga, and so on – the name Dina Martina probably won’t be on the list ….and that’s a bit of a shame. For her, mainly.

Anyway, moving swiftly along, Seattle (she pronounces it “Seettle”) resident Martina is currently wow-ing (using that term loosely) London audiences in the basement space of Soho Theatre with a residency of her barbarically poignant new show, Sub-Standards. Ignore it at your peril.

Although now Seattle-based, Dina Martina originally hails from Vegas and there is undeniably something of the Glitter Gulch in her sparkling insensitivity and irrepressible good humour in the face of technical issues, wardrobe malfunctions and an audience that seems hell bent on laughing hysterically at some of her most heartfelt anecdotes. Dina’s equal parts inspiration, desperation and perspiration.

Blessed with a sound that is somewhere between a comforting caress and a cat that’s just had its tail trodden on, her vocal stylings have the kookie panache of Carol Channing and the brassy assurance of Bette Midler, with just a pinch of Walter Cronkite and somebody in the midst of having a very loud nervous breakdown. With dance moves that would alarm St Vitus, a face like a heavily made-up cement mixer, and wardrobe choices that suggest a collision between a small tank and a large pile of sequins, Martina would be a lounge singer… if said lounge was in a lunatic asylum, and what she lacks in dignity she makes up for in enthusiasm.

Her vocal range may be limited but commendably she doesn’t let that compromise her song options, resulting in renditions of such modern classics as Janet Jackson’s ‘When I Think Of You’ and Duran Duran’s ‘Girls On Film’ that feature notes and phrasing that the lyricists and composers could never have envisioned. Being the consummate artist that she is, Martina frequently rewrites the original lyrics, uncovering the dread, awkwardness and sheer misery that you may not have realised was lurking just beneath the surface of these bouncy pop favourites. What she does with Vanessa Williams’s signature ballad ‘Save The Best For Last’ really needs to be heard to be believed but suffice it to say that it’s probably just as well that Dina will be safely back in Seettle before the Grammy-nominated star arrives in the West End for The Devil Wears Prada.

Whether talking about her now defunct (due to lack of interest) charity, the Dina Martina Foundation for Conjunctivitis, or bestowing the admirable mantra that you should never regret what you didn’t do in life, only what you actually did, or regaling us with stories from the sunny car crash of her existence, including one about finding her long lost daughter in her own house while filming a documentary about hoarders for American TV, Martina is beguiling company. She’s a fragrant performer and a seasoned human: she’s lived, she’s travelled (she knows a handful of words in French), she embraces Steampunk, she’s unfeasibly triggered by audience members lying about having been to Niagara…

Every aspect of Grady West’s creation, from the cheeky bastardisations of scenes from movies, all doctored to include La Martina, that punctuate, or stem the flow of, songs and anecdotes that are really more extended non sequiturs, to the maquillage that looks like it’s been done by a beautician with severe psychological problems, is objectively terrible, and that is where the genius comes in. Dina is so exuberantly un-self aware, so caught up in her own showbiz maelstrom and determined to sweep us all along, that resistance is futile. A couple of the songs slightly outstay their welcome, but the twisted joy and glitter-spattered unease of the performance carries it through.

Who knew angst and jollity could co-exist so harmoniously? Ok, maybe more cacophonously than harmoniously, but you get my drift. At times, Dina Martina reminded me a little of Dame Edna, and at others of Justin Vivian Bond’s Kiki (of Kiki & Herb), but mainly she’s just bracingly original, biliously funny, and as unexpectedly lovable as she’s inept. This is 75 minutes of comic bliss and musical hell. I’d like to go back, once I’ve recovered.