ajhlovestheatre

SUNSET BLVD

Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber

Book and Lyrics by Don Black and Christopher Hampton 

Based upon the film by Billy Wilder

Directed by Jamie Lloyd for the Jamie Lloyd Company

St James Theatre, New York City – open ended run

https://sunsetblvdbroadway.com

The transformation of Sunset Boulevard, the overblown, scenery-heavy Andrew Lloyd Webber extravaganza that burned through money and leading ladies on both sides of the Atlantic in the 90s, into Jamie Lloyd’s Sunset Blvd (nowhere in any of the promotional or advertising material is the full word ‘boulevard’ ever used now), a sleek, edgy tranche of Regietheater, completes with this Broadway transfer. When this sensorily overloaded onslaught of monochrome multimedia, bravura staging, lush musicianship and thrillingly unhinged performances premiered at the Savoy last year it was an experiment and a risk, eschewing the lavish spectacle that made the original so compelling and presenting in Nicole Scherzinger a Norma Desmond so different from the screen incarnation of Gloria Swanson and the bejewelled divas who succeeded her on stage as to be unrecognisable. Although fundamentally the same show, it now swaggers into New York on a cloud of awards and critical hosannas and American audiences are going expecting An Event, whereas initial London audiences went in wondering what the hell was going to happen.

Does it deliver? Well of course it does, especially in Scherzinger’s feral yet captivating star turn, which has become even more wildly eccentric in its fusion of camp, panicky hysteria and silky, feline sensuality. Vocally, she remains truly extraordinary, finding a guttural growl in the lower notes then a roof-raising high belt that seems exhilaratingly as though it might go on forever. Dramatically, she’s a broken goddess, equal parts imperious, impetuous and pathetically needy. This is the very definition of “leaving it all on stage” and unquestionably one of the defining musical theatre performances of our age, one that ought to presage a golden new chapter in Scherzinger’s career (provided she can refrain in future from apparently supporting MAGA lunatics on social media). When she gasps “I. Am. The. Greatest. Star. Of. Them. All”, like something demonically possessed, each word spat out in isolation from all the others, it’s impossible to disagree…or look away.

Broadway’s St James Theatre is considerably larger than the Savoy and the drastic alteration in scale has its pros and cons. Scherzinger, whose enthralling grandstanding could probably fill Madison Square Garden if required, is unaffected but the only other one of the four imported London principals whose work seems undiminished by the cavernous new space is David Thaxton’s glowering, compellingly grim Max (“I was the first husband”), his near operatic voice soaring spectacularly and his saturnine presence retaining its original impact. Tom Francis’s opportunistic writer Joe Gillis, in thrall to this Norma’s sexuality as well as her money, is still a fine performance but is so laid back that it’s only when his face is beamed up huge on the pivoting screens of Soutra Gilmour’s austere set that it registers how nuanced he is, and that he’s actually working really hard. He has a haunted quality that’s very effective, and the role has never been sung as well as this. Grace Hodgett-Young’s smitten but gritty Betty suffers similarly in terms of projecting much personality in a house this big, apart from on screen, but she’s likeable and vocally pleasing.

The chief beneficiary of the bigger stage appears to be Fabian Aloise’s brilliant choreography, owing more to contemporary dance than traditional musical theatre, which has the youthful, leisure wear-clad ensemble hurtling, tumbling and gyrating through the space to genuinely exciting effect. He also gives the young Norma (Hannah Yun Chamberlain recreating her outstanding London work) a unique physical language that expresses a child-like wonder and beauty while hinting at darker distress. The idea that Hollywood is a machine that chews up then spits out the young and vulnerable is a constant in Lloyd’s overall vision. The moments in Nathan Amzi and Joe Ransom’s game-changing video design where young Norma’s flawless features morph into older Norma’s still gorgeous but more mature visage remain heartstoppingly affecting and effective.

The much ballyhoo-ed act two opening which sees Francis’s Joe backstage then out on the street before marching down the length of the auditorium to finish the title song on stage, all relayed in real time on the gigantic screen, is still a thrill but isn’t quite as effective as it was in London, the geography of West 44th Street and nearby Shubert Alley meaning that he has to double back on himself, and now accompanied by most of the company. In all honesty it was only ever about the sensationalism anyway, but the underground layout of the Savoy worked better. Jack Knowles’s moody, sculptural lighting design retains its power, but Adam Fisher’s booming sound design now has a tendency to sometimes favour Alan Williams’s (undeniably magnificent) orchestra over the singers voices, although Scherzinger’s instrument can cut through anything. 

Lloyd Webber’s seductive, memorable Puccini-meets-Hollywood with pop and jazz overtones has never sounded so persuasive, but it’s a shame Don Black and Christopher Hampton’s deft, sometimes acidic lyrics are no longer fully intelligible. Ultimately though, Lloyd’s deconstruction both of the story and of the musical itself is astonishingly effective, if inevitably divisive. Sunset Blvd remains a night of dark, unsettling magic and a production that will be talked about for decades. The word stunning gets bandied around a lot when discussing theatre, but here is a show that truly lives up to the description.