42nd Street

For America’s thesps Broadway is the destination. Amongst theatregoers it’s known as The Great White Way, a tradition rooted in the 19^th century. The sobriquet came from the fact the district was one of the first to embrace electricity. Years on, actors continue to dream of the day when their name appears in illumination. For British actors, conversely, the West End is the place to be. There’s no denying our friends across the pond trump us when it comes to razzle-dazzle, but Old Father Time remains on our side. Our theatres are as old as your dad’s jokes, and as hallowed as the Wembley Turf. What London lacks in box office receipts, it makes up for in historical (star)dust.

It can be argued which theatreland is best; what is inarguable, however, is that both provide a platform for talented artists. To reach either destination is a phenomenal achievement. How incredible then must it be to perform simultaneously in both? (Both: how is that possible, blogger? How can you be in two places at once?) Well, dear reader, I’ll tell you: through the magic of theatre. For the West End is now home to Broadway classic 42^nd Street. Whilst stood on the most English of stages the cast are performing the most American of musicals. Through the red curtain’s sleight of hand, these players transform London’s West End into Broadway, meaning you get the best of both worlds.

A sign.

One such actor is Clare Halse. She is the best mate of my girlfriend. (My girlfriend actually has three best friends, but if I said ‘She is one of the best mates of my girlfriend, it would appear less emphatic and therefore less interesting. Some would argue that this bracketed explanation is wholly unnecessary, keeping us from more important details, but I feel happier now that I’ve made a full disclosure. Effectively what I’m saying is I’d rather this blog be honest than entertaining.) The two girls went to school together and have stayed friends, which is a pretty strong indictment of people they have met since.

The Girl along with her two other bessies have followed Clare’s career closely, seeing her do panto in Grimsby all the way through to starring in Paris. (I’d like to apologise to Grimsby for the wording of that sentence. The syntactic implication of putting your town opposite the world’s most beautiful place is that your town is a place devoid of love, art and style. This was purely coincidental and never my intention.) Significantly, they’ve seen her perform at Drury Lane before as Tweedle Dee in Shrek and an Oompa Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Sam Mendes

Now it might seem I’ve highlighted these roles for comic effect, suggesting Clare was in danger of being typecast as a woman prepared to wear a fat suit; however, this is not the case. To get anywhere near The West End is astonishing, to do it in a box-office smash like Shrek, and a Sam Mendes directed Charlie is close to impossible. She is a woman that has put the hard graft in, shown determination at the back, worked the channels, all to get a shot at leading the line. Through all that hard work she has become a fantastic centre-forward. (I might now be a fan of musical theatre, but that extended metaphor means my heart still belongs to football.)

In a case of life imitating art, Clare stars as Peggy Sawyer, a woman thrust from the chorus line into the spotlight. Starring alongside Sheena Easton (Bond tunesmith) and Tom Lister (Emmerdale), Clare delivers a virtuosic performance that beggars belief. Actors always talk about how tiring it is playing Hamlet or Lear: you’re on stage for three hours, there’s a lot of lines to remember, it’s psychologically intense – boo bloody hoo! Clare has to dance around the stage at a hundred miles per hour; then she has to somehow summon the lung capacity to sing; and then, with the remaining airwaves, speak – all whilst smiling! Ian McKellen, you maybe 77, doing eight performances a week of emotionally intense drama, but you no longer impress me. Do it in some dancing shoes, then I’ll applaud you, Gandalf!

The cast lose concentration and start a conga line. Pic. Broadway World

The show 42^nd Street began life as a movie in 1933. Being as it was the Depression, the raison d’être of the picture was to raise spirits. Following the Wall Street Clash, America was plunged into financial black-out. People were out of work and struggling to feed their families. Only the cinema offered some sort of escapism from the hardship faced. Whilst life was a monochrome of unhappiness, the black and whites sang in Technicolor. This was the time of obscenely ambitious dance numbers, ridiculously huge set pieces, wildly excessive spending – and the audience lapped it up.

Like many good movies, the picture was translated into a 1980 Musical, which would go on to win a Tony for Best Musical. Its transfer to London saw the emergence of the now ubiquitous star Catherine Zeta-Jones, who as second understudy went on to impress in the lead role. Following in Zeta-Jones’ footsteps then is Clare. (I should probably inform her fiancée to keep her away from old men, just in case she imitates Jones’ fancies. Are these brackets getting annoying?) Sorry if they (are)?

Clare's future.

42^nd Street begins with the curtain only partially raised, given us a chance to see a chorus line of dancing feet. The speed of footwork is truly awe-inspiring, even more bewildering though is the control at play. As in the tale of the metaphorical swan, these ladies are smiling on top, but you know they are kicking so bloody hard for it. From there, we’re into the musical where we learn of a new musical being rehearsed, Pretty Lady, under the director of Julian Marsh. Marsh is on his last chance: he has won and lost at Broadway; this time he desperately needs his numbers to come up. Unfortunately, he’s saddled with a leading lady that, for all her singing ability, just can’t dance. Normally dancing is a pretty key component for musical theatre, but given Dorothy Brock’s sugar daddy is bankrolling the production he has no choice. For all of the money going into the production, the guys and dolls of the chorus line are on the breadline. They desperately need the work to stave off poverty. One such girl is Peggy Sawyer, who eventually impresses the director into hiring her. When she accidentally injures Brock, she is elevated to star billing – and as they say, ‘the rest is history.’

The first half of the production boasts a terrific vocal performance from Sheena Easton, yet I preferred the second. Here, there is the brilliantly witty ‘Sunny Side to Every Situation’ (You've no dough, so relax, You don't have to pay an income tax.
You've no job so just pretend it's your vacation) and the hauntingly beautifully ‘Lullaby of Broadway.’ There’s also a crazy-ass staircase tap routine, which is Stomp: The Musical put to shoes; further, Clare gets to dance on a piano, which must be every dancer’s dream. For all of the spectacular numbers, my favourite moment is where the musical goes small and Clare’s feet converse with her co-star’s; at this point, the syncopated shift from fast to slow is mesmerising, offering a wonderful counterpoint to the otherwise glorious frenzy.

Clare on a piano. Pic. Broadway World

After the show, we got to go backstage and congratulate Clare. As my friend Gareth said (he’s my friend, but really I know him through being my girlfriend’s friend’s boyfriend; if I put that though it would be a little wordy) … as my friend Gareth said, Clare’s dressing room could happily house a family. She had a bed, table and sink. Next door, a bathroom. Beyond that, a dressing room. I recommend that she sublets it on Sunday for a bit of extra dough. Joining us for popcorn and prosecco was co-star Tom Lister, who was as impossibly charming off-stage as he was on.

For the girls seeing their best friend star in a West End show was a very proud moment indeed. 

Towards the end of 42^nd Street, before Peggy’s debut, she is told: "You're going out there a chorus girl, but you've got to come back a star!" So it was with Clare. Keep going, lass!  

42nd Street is currently at Theatre Royal, Drury Lane