The Wild Party

Andrew Lloyd Webber has acquired the St James Theatre in Victoria and rebranded it the other Palace (HM the Queen is just up the road) with the declared intention of making it ‘the London space where writers and producers can try out and refine new work’.

So it seems a little odd to launch the new regime with a revival of a musical, based on a poem by Joseph Moncure March, that closed after a short run on Broadway in 2000. There’s no shortage of energy on stage, and there’s a terrific eight-piece jazz band under theo Jamieson’s baton (although he could have dialled down the volume a tad in the first half). But the reluctant conclusion is that it might have been better to let sleeping dogs lie.

We’re in prohibition America in the late 1920s and decadence is the name of the game. To quote lyricist Michael John Lachiusa (he also wrote the book and music), ‘Queenie was a blonde and her age stood still and she danced twice a day in Vaudeville.’ She’s played by Frances Ruffelle, best known for originating the role of Eponine in Les Misérables in London and on Broadway – and very good she is too, almost literally throwing herself into the role.

I was less persuaded by her brutish lover, Burrs (John Owen-Jones), on the grounds that I never believed they’d once been a functioning couple and was anyway mystified as to why he’d been so keen to throw this wild party in the first place and then stood back in some surprise as Queenie strutted her stuff with the rather Wet Black (Simon Thomas).

Under Drew Mconie’s direction, the relentless first half is a pretty one-note affair, a succession of noisy songs that meld into one another and fail to stay in the memory. But he’s also in charge of the high-octane choreography as well as the considerably more nuanced second half which at last allows a little light and shade into proceedings.

Donna McKechnie, cassie in the original Broadway production of A Chorus Line, is on hand as a fading musical star desperate to get back on the boards. Ako Mitchell, after a memorable turn in the recent Ragtime, is in fine voice again. But it is the sinuous double act of singing brothers (or are they?), Phil and Oscar, who serve up this strange evening’s most lasting impression. Sorry, but I just wasn’t wild about this particular party.

Until 1 April at The Other Palace, Palace Street, London SW1: 0844-264 2121, www.theotherpalace.co.uk