"We've come a long way backwards" This ISN'T a review of Sunny Afternoon

By JBR

Why are you reading this? Are you thinking about gong to see Sunny Afternoon and wondering what I thought of it? Are you about to pay money for your ticket and want to be reassured it's worth it?

This is the plot of Sunny Afternoon. These are my thoughts on the the direction, the lighting, the set, the acting. Here is my subjective opinion. Take it, heed it or ignore it. What does it matter? I saw the show for free, I scratched my ideas out into a spiral bound notebook using a Parker pen. My thoughts matter.

Except they don't. Not unless I can be bothered to make them matter. If I make no attempt to comprehened a production, my thoughts are as pointless as if I wrote them on water. The purpose of a review used to be clearly defined. Depending on your political viewpoint, you read a review in your newspaper of choice. Shaped and influenced by the opinions of the establishment who own the paper, critics defined art and the proletariat either agreed and felt smug, or disagreed and felt stupid. Some critics at least had the wit and intelligence to be artists themselves. Read the cerebral musings of Tynan and compare those to the semi-literate scribblings of some of what passes for reviewing on _____________ (insert name of pretty much any theatre blogging site). We've come a long way backwards. The ancien régime is dying and the new one can't be bothered to spell check. This is how we write about art? We offer ill -informed opinion and call ourselves critics. We comment on art without bothering to create any. The breathtaking ignorance of theatre bloggers debases us. Some producers will be rubbing their hands with glee as now they can put on any old excrement as the bloggers fall over themselves to shower it in five star reviews. Art has been sold down the river for the price of a free ticket and a voucher for an interval drink. Welcome to the age of hyperbole, where the illiterate and uninformed reign. An alien arriving in Theatreland would be forgiven for believing we are living through a golden age of theatre - while all the while theatres sit half-empty, companies are going bust and artists are starving in their rented room in Clapton. We had the chance to reinvent the way we write about theatre and we squandered it. Who now cares anymore?

Great theatre makes you feel; great theatre writing should have the same effect.

Sunny Afternoon made me, as you can tell, angry. Angry that we have not yet come up with a new way to describe its sheer brilliance. Angry that we continue to place it into boxes whose definitions have ceased to have any meaning. Sunny Afternoon is subversive, dangerous. It operates on so many levels. It is political propaganda dressed up as musical theatre. Counter-culture served as mainstream. Like Urinetown on the other side of Shaftesbury Avenue Sunny Afternoon rejects categorisation as a musical - so why continue to review it as if it is one?

The phrase 'jukebox musical' has been bandied around casually as if Sunny Afternoon is, or isn't one. The phrase is chucked out with scant understanding of what it means. A collection of previously unconnected songs by one composer (or composing entity) linked together by a narrative? That's pretty much how most of the Golden Age of musicals were written. What is the difference between diegetic and non-diegetic music? Do you recognise how skilfully Sunny Afternoon has been structured to weave the music into the plot? Can you see how it explores the fundamental problem of how to value art? How it fuses drama, and physical theatre, and Brecht and dance? Why it breaks the fourthwall? Intelligence seeps from this piece. Or, given the confusion that most bloggers seem to have had, perhaps it weeps from it.

Sunny Afternoon is not a play, nor a musical, nor a concert. It is all of these and it is none. It is theatre; it is art. It speaks to the socialist and the angry young man. To the ageing baby boomer relieving their halcyon days. To those who appreciate virtuosic singing and dazzling lyrics. It appeals to those who want to party and those who want to ponder.

Three casting companies had a hand in Sunny Afternoon. Sam Jones, who primarily works in tv and film, Crowley Poole, who primarily work in theatre, and Natalie Gallacher for Pippa Ailion, who primarily works in musicals. Drawing on their skills has enriched this show as it has brought together an on and off-stage company of creatives who work across all genres. It shows. Rarely have I seen a West End musical so detailed. Edward Hall's blisteringly adept direction wrenches every last nuance from the text and score. The cast are outstanding - triple threats? What a pointless expression. These are actors. They dance, they sing, they play instruments, they act, they tell stories, the move the audience. When did we decide actors could only work in one field? Sunny Afternoon finally blows that insulting preconception out of the water. George Maguire and John Dagleish deserve particular mention, but there is nary a weak link on the stage.

Elliott Ware's musical direction is superlative. Are you listening WhatsOnStage? Yes, audiences care about musical direction. Perhaps, in the week that WhatsOnStage announced "we had a chat in the office and decided no-one cares about musical direction" (I'm paraphrasing, but the sentiment is right), maybe Sunny Afternoon will change your mind? It's unlikely though because most award ceremonies are about generating visitors to websites for advertising revenue, and they can't yet see a way to spin musical direction into ad sales. They haven't yet worked out how to commodify art. You can't sell what you can't comprehend.

And this is what Sunny Afternoon is about. It is about the commodification of art. It is about how much value can be leeched from the artist and into the pocket of the businessman. Theatre should make you feel. Sunny Afternoon made me angry. See it. Get angry. Ask yourself - what price art?

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