Liam dragged me along to the Theatre Royal to see Spirit of the Dance, a cross-cultural burlesque with a strong Celtic twist. It may be an international smash, seen by over ten million people, but I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly impressed. The enchantment of Irish country dancing is in the regimental coordination and parade ground precision. One wrong step and the spell is broken. Sadly, there was quite a lot of wrong footing going on by the mismatched little and large chorus line. The lighting was so poor, they might as well have been barn dancing and when they got to the fake Folies Bergère routine, I’d lost the will to live; more can’t can’t than Can Can. Added to this, the score sounded like it had been run up on a Roland in a shed. I didn’t see too many people shelling out for the CD during the mercifully long interval. A stout tenor with a Jagger-swagger was rolled on now and again. Why? His voice was fine but it added nothing to the show and just got in the way. And, hasn’t Nessun Dorma rather been done to death? Norwich audiences are very forgiving but, every time he strutted on stage, you could hear the groans from the herd of gray. His face didn’t fit and neither did his baggy tux. Riverdance it ain’t.
