Dusty

The British soulstress deserves far better than this weak tribute show that lacks polish and panache
Richard-Barber-colour-176Elton John, never a man to do things by halves, described her as ‘the best white British female singer’ of her time. According to peerless pop composer Burt Bacharach: ‘Within the first three notes of a song you could tell it was Dusty.’ Personally, I bow to no one in my admiration of the talent of the chronically insecure Irish Catholic girl from Ealing.

So Dusty Springfield deserves rather better than this tribute show. That said, it’s not the grade-A clunker of which you may have read but, after at least two postponed first nights and 14 weeks of fine-tuning, you could have hoped for something a little more polished than this.

It’s patently possible to put together a successful jukebox musical, as they’re called. Look at Beautiful, in which Carole King’s songs and life are brought so vividly to the stage. Indeed, look at the recent tribute to Bacharach himself at the Menier Chocolate Factory, which breathed new life into his songbook for a contemporary audience. The trouble with Dusty – well, one of them, anyway – is that it’s neither fish nor fowl. The show opens with a piece of vintage film footage of Dusty herself singing her only British number one, You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me and, instantly your spine is tingling.

But then we embark on her story, acted out via a leaden script. I’ve no idea whether she had a lifelong friend called Nancy (adequately played by Francesca Jackson) who pops up throughout proceedings being interviewed for a radio show about Dusty’s life and career. It’s a clunky device, though, which slows down the action. And there’s nothing wrong with Alison Arnopp’s recreation of our eponymous heroine. She has a strong, pleasing voice but, when you cut from that to the real thing, it merely serves to illustrate that Dusty was a one-off.

Elsewhere, Witney White makes her mark as a chirpy Martha Reeves. Sienna Sebek catches the eye as Dusty’s lover, Norma Tanega. But the dancing is perfunctory, Chris Cowey’s direction is less than slick and there are some woeful holograms of Dusty in performance that look like they’ve been channelled through a Ouija board. Rumour has it, meanwhile, that Sandi Toksvig is polishing her version of Dusty’s story. Yes, please!

Until 21 November at the Charing Cross Theatre, The Arches, Villiers Street, London WC2: 0844-493 0650, www.charingcrosstheatre.co.uk