-•✦—✦—✦•-
Wednesday, July 15th, 1998, Hanover Gardens
I was already starting to hate having a job, whenever I woke up, it was the first thing. The need to go to Hammersmith lingered persistently in my mind, I tried to enjoy my time away from my workplace yet every attempt to prolong my stay only highlighted the time I needed to leave by. Rather than going down for breakfast, I did some vocal practice. Call me a baby, but whenever my mood was dark, I would do something I was exceptionally good at. Hearing myself nail the notes, just like I usually could, gave me comfort that food just couldn't.
Having cheered myself with the equivalent of patting myself on the back, I jumped down three steps at a time to the kitchen. At the table, I saw none other than Gilles, who—despite having partied hard yesterday—looked fresh and doe-eyed. He'd somehow managed to sleep later, wake earlier, and still make his way over to my house before I was even up. Where was he even staying? I narrowed my eyes at Gilles.
"Ah, that is lovely, Gladys," Gilles complimented wholeheartedly.
"Thank you, I found the recipe on a magazine. Might as well ask the only French person we know," Gladys replied.
"You mean, the only French person we're still friends with," Clive joked.
"Surely, zere must be more friends? We are very numerous, you know." Gilles laughed.
"We can only tolerate you because you haven't been rubbing it in our faces," Clive stated.
"About what?" Gilles asked, eyebrows raised.
"You keep saying that and you can stay here as long as you want," Clive beamed.
"He is staying here?!" I asked in shock.
"Course, he is love. Where'd you think he came from every morning?" Gladys asked me.
"I don't know, I just never saw him during— anyway." I cut myself off, sitting down.
I realized that I didn't care about it. Grandparents contended behavior with Gilles was self-explanatory. Three days ago France won the Football World Cup. England was out in the round of 16 on penalties, as usual. Wales was never in contention in the first place. So, Gilles having not spoken once about the World Cup meant he was in good graces of the Londoners. Once the dust had settled, I would buy a Brazil shirt to annoy Gilles. That would be when we were both back in Hammond, only I had no idea when that day would be. I had a contract until November, there could be an extension and I could stay in London for exactly one year. But by that time, there would be need to stay in London to raise my collection of works. Landing Harry Potter wouldn't be easy.
If everything went as I hoped, I could wind up living in London for at least a decade. My mood was ruined again because I started to miss my parents. For all the revelations I had received, being a child still had drawbacks. Quick to rise anger, sudden changes of mood, to name a few.
Gilles studied me as he ate his Cheddar Crepes, Nain and Granddad bickered at the table. French breakfast so soon after France trounced Brazil, it didn't suit the man and clearly ruined his mood. Then Gilles decided to ruin my day too.
"Here, Wilfred." Gilles handed me a pile of newspapers.
I saw Daily Telegraph, Daily Mail, Yorkshire Press, The Guardian and The Times. My mood turned sour when my eyes found the first review in one of the papers. Having to turn so many pages to reach the review soured my mood even further.
—✦—
The Times
Academy Award Winner Revealed to Lack Immortality
By John S. Muller
There was a time when Leslie Bricusse bestrode the musical stage like the colossi of the past. Scrooge, Jekyll & Hyde, Victor/Victoria — he seemed incapable of failure. His name adorned both Broadway and the West End; even Hollywood bent an ear to let him write music for the biggest films. Two years ago, I might have said he was untouchable. Now, it seems that everything he touches wilts away.
His latest project, Doctor Dolittle, is a work so bewilderingly misconceived that one wonders whether anyone involved actually likes the theatre. Steven Pimlott is a Shakespeare director clearly unfit to bring the whimsy wonders intended by Bricusse. Bricusse once boasted that he would have four shows running on both sides of the Atlantic. Judging from this, he will be fortunate to keep even one limping through its first fortnight.
Set "about a hundred years ago," the story is a stitched-together medley of Dolittle short tales by Hugh Lofting, all flung into the pot with the delicacy of a zookeeper feeding lions. The result is a lumbering hybrid — neither children's entertainment nor adult musical, but something awkwardly suspended in between. Scenes bump into one another with no rhythm or reason, giving the impression of several short plays forced into uneasy cohabitation. Alienating two types of viewers to come view this at the same time his only achievement. Atlantic is in Hammersmith with the ocean Bricusse draws between adults and children.
The only element approaching "never seen anything like it" comes courtesy of the Jim Henson Company, whose puppetry and animatronics occasionally trick the audience into believing they are watching something magical. A double-headed llama, an enormous sea snail, and the Doctor's parrot Polynesia — voiced, recorded, from Julie Andrews — all provide fleeting marvels. Yet even Andrews's once-elegant tones are nowhere to be found, her recorded performance reduced to pitter-patter of Rex Harrison. Is this your Fair Lady?
Sadly, the human performers fare worse. Phillip Schofield, plucked from morning television, plays the eponymous Doctor with all the charisma of a weather forecast. His Dolittle is not so much a man who talks to animals as one who mumbles at them. Whatever charm he might possess on Going Live! evaporates the moment the singing stops and he has to speak. Opposite him, Sarah Jane Hassell's Emma Fairfax tries gamely to inject life into their scenes, but chemistry is so lacking that one might wonder if Phillip has touched a woman.
The casting reeks of marketing rather than merit. On opening night, Mr Schofield was seen obligingly posing for photographs with hundreds of children — a publicity exercise as desperate as it was transparent. One suspects that the producers are relying on pestering offspring to drag their parents to this lifeless pageant of animatronics.
Doctor Dolittle is a curious creature indeed: lavishly designed, woefully written, and fatally miscast. It has all the warmth of a laboratory specimen with as much pulse. For a composer once celebrated for breathing new life into the musical form, Bricusse has here produced something that feels uncommonly close to its death. If this is what we can feed the lions to receive The Lion King, perhaps it is a worthy sacrifice.
—✦—
I could only stare at the paper with rage hoping that it would catch fire and burn. The critic had undressed the production thoroughly, threw tomatoes all over us and then shone the spotlight at the mess. What hurt the most was that the critic only focused on three of the people that he felt responsible for it all. He'd never even considered the rest of the cast. Were we so bad and forgettable that he couldn't even care to comment?
I reached for the next paper but Gilles kept his hands on it.
"Let go!" I said harshly.
"No, I have bought zis with my money. Say the magic word and you can read."
"May I have this? Please." I said through my teeth.
"No, you may not. Magic word is something else. Tell me how zis makes you feel." Gilles tapped on the Times article.
I closed my eyes trying to relax my roiling rage but found there to be a better avenue. Playing along with him would let me rant about the issue and calm down, I started to speak.
"Awful, this John Baloney guy has no respect for all our hard work. He only complains to hear himself speak! He didn't even mention me or the rest of the cast other than Phillip and Sarah. Maybe he hates Leslie or something. That would explain it! Yes." I said, opening my eyes as if I found the secret.
Gilles shook his head at me.
"You are foolish boy, Theatre industry is not for ze small hearted. More ridiculous and more pompous— the better it is for critics, you see! Moulin Rouge is regarded highly! But ze same could be said for it, like Dolittle, it's all glamour and no glam." Gilles explained.
"So you think he's right?" I asked, defeated.
"Yes…" he said.
My eyes fell down to earth.
"Also, no." Gilles added. "Take it." He said, sliding a newspaper over.
—✦—
The Spectator
Theatre Weekly
By Sheridan Morley
In a week of big musicals I have, as they sing in another one, never seen anything like it in my life. From a purely scenic point of view, and it is dazzling, there has never been in London theatre a production as rich in special effects as Dr Dolittle at the Apollo in Hammersmith. It could well take at least three years for the many producers to get their money back on a show which effectively stars the late Jim Henson, whose Muppet Workshop has now provided larger-than-life performing seals, hippos, pink sea-snails that fly around the auditorium, and all manner of other eccentric beasts.
What's wrong with Dolittle is still what was wrong when Rex Harrison made the movie all of 30 years ago; Hugh Lofting's original short stories resolutely refuse to bind themselves into a coherent narrative, and Leslie Bricusse's score, though possibly his best, is so close to Lerner & Loewe (who were originally meant to write it) that it often sounds like a parody of My Fair Lady, with Dolittle and Emma Fairfax instead of Higgins and Doolittle.
But no stage musical, not even the Disney Lion King or Beauty and the Beast, can match the spectacle on offer here in some truly baroque and bizarre moments, not least the one where a sextet of life-size seals tap-dance a tribute to Hello Dolly! Aletta Collins's choreography elsewhere only verges on the adequate, but Steven Pimlott's production is agile in a 1950s Palladium pantomime kind of way, and Julie Andrews is back in fine voice as the parrot, while in the title role Phillip Schofield is ageing into a much better leading man than I would have forecast.
—✦—
"This is better. But it doesn't make me feel better." I pointed out,
"Yes, because she say ze same thing as ze other guy! But she say it more, how you put it— nicely!" Gilles said,
"Nicely how?" I asked,
"Both are the same review, but one reads like a positive review because it is very hopeful. See how she says Steven is directing like it's the 1950s, but it's pantomime. Compliment, critise and compliment. It's like sandwich! I am brilliant, my brain comes up with zis enlightened stuff. You better keep listening!" He said proudly, I knew that he meant it too.
"So even though it sounds nice, zis is a negative review. This John guy will not be liked by Hammersmith or Bricusse anymore, hated perhaps. This Morley will be liked even with his bad review. But you must read between ze lines!" Gilles taught.
I looked over to see my grandparents quietly observing me, I wondered if they knew the play was terrible from the beginning and had just been indulging me all this while.
Another paper was thrust into my hands.
—✦—
The Daily Telegraph
Moments of Pure Jaw Dropping Pleasure
By Charles Spencer
My favorite musical play ever is My Fair Lady.
Away from the highly travelled Covent Gardens is the well-driven Great West Road that thousands of cars travel each hour, under that road resides the Labatt's Apollo Theatre. Being so close to the motorway, you might imagine an uncomfortable experience, besotted and noisy. Fear not, for this is a warm and winning family show, and having expected to like Dolittle very little, I actually enjoyed it quite a lotlle!
The musical opens with a dreamy boy wishing for greener pastures, and through his eyes you get to meet the wonderful and eccentric Doctor Dolittle. He may not like people much, but people seemed to like him a lot. The massive theatre, with a 3,487-seat capacity, was full to bursting. It is indeed a family show, as there were crying babies and giggling children on every row. When the musical started, all the cries or worries seemed forgotten, as children and parents were all amazed by the puppet-driven animals by the Jim Henson Company—ninety-two animals that seemed fantastically enchanted yet grounded in reality.
Schofield is inspiring as the eccentric Doctor with sideburns and seems to work perfectly with Steven Pimlott, who directed Schofield's very first foray into theatre with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Bryan Smyth is as Irish as they come, and Sarah Jane Hassell portrays the frustrated noble lady accurately. Music is as good as the first time Bricusse took away an Academy Award!
—✦—
I looked up to see all the adults around me studying my reaction. I tried to act as if none of it had affected me. I lasted only a few moments because a smile blossomed on my face.
"What did I say?" Gilles demanded from my grandparents.
"You were right, he's got an ego!" Nain chortled.
"I don't have an ego!" I challenged.
"Sure, Wilf, sure." Clive said.
"Ugh—" I grumbled.
Left with no other choice to save my dignity, I decided to dive into more reading.
The rest of the papers didn't do as deep of a review to the musical, instead giving a short review that would later be expanded on a bigger column or on a magazine that accepted such long form material.
"This may look like a low-rent Lion King, but it has its own wacky, very English charm." - Michael Coveney of The Daily Mail
"If you have got kids - grab them and go." David Benedict of The Independent
"Don't go expecting Chicago or Pal Joey. But, on its own terms, Doctor Dolittle is a wholly delightful family musical: ecologically sound, visually ravishing and genuinely charming." - Michael Billington of The Guardian.
"Animal magic makes the Doctor a winner." Max Bell of The Evening Standard
"There's lashings of special effects plus an impressive airborne finale. It doesn't really deserve it, but I've no doubt this show will become this summer's unmissable family outing." - Robert Gore-Langton of The Daily Express
Four negative reviews and five positive reviews. It was mixed as far as the reviews went. By the end, even I felt mixed about my own feelings. Three positive reviews in a row had lifted my mood up after such a dreadful reading experience. But the last review was negative and there was that famous saying about last expressions. Or was it first impression? I didn't care, I just felt empty.
"So?" Gilles asked me pointedly,
"So what?" I replied, all casual.
"You know what, spill it! Mon dieu!" Gilles said in frustration.
I studied his face more closely for the first time today. His eyes had dark bags underneath, cheeks and face ever so slightly bloated. But the biggest tell was that his moustache wasn't as sharp, he even had a shadow coming in.
"Have you slept last night?" I interrogated him,
"Not sure how zat is relevant." He gestured at the reviews as if I was the one avoiding the topic.
"I think it does, you have partied with all of my colleagues after all." I accused him.
"Yes. I also hid my thoughts perfectly! Kept my mouth shut, best way to keep a friendly relationship is to not bring up what you think. Don't you agree?" Gilles lifted his chin up at Granddad.
Clive seemed to sputter over his tea but agreed wholeheartedly.
I took Gilles for who he truly was, he was a theatre man. A dancer, a singer but he had said it before. He liked the drama, he liked the excitement, the lifeblood in conflict. There was only one other thing that could qualify. He was a football fan and he was holding the fact he never spoke about it over my Granddad. By not saying it, he was already torturing my Granddad who could only act the gracious host.
"Heh," I laughed in close parody of my Granddad. I tried to telepathically let Gilles know that I was onto him.
Gilles gave me a smirk in return.
"I'm not a fan." I concluded, "I have a show tonight and all my motivation is gone after reading this review." I lifted up John S. Muller's article.
"But then I realize that for every bitter man inside the theatre, there are three thousand parents and children who are happier for having watched the show. So I can perform just as I did without any issue." I said, smiling.
Everyone else at the table burst out laughing, I had to wait with a red face until they could explain the joke. Of course, I was the joke.
"He said it exactly like you predicted it!" Granddad guffawed.
"Ego is always ze same, people with ego always say ze same." Gilles informed me,
"What? I'm not being egotistical!" I denied the accusation.
"Narcissists and egomaniacs are all same, same. Zey attribute all feedback of surrounding people or things to zemselves. Like you did." Gilles pointed at me,
"You were angry with the review that attacked only the composer, director and the led actor because it paints you in a bad light. Good reviews speak nothing of you but you still take it as compliment of you. When you realised, the reviews are mixed, you rejected the bad reviews for ramblings of a lonely sad man and instead only listen to ze good guy with ze nice words." Gilles explained.
He then went through each newspaper, miming to read one throwing it dramatically away from the table. On some, he lifted up his eyebrows and with a fake smile kept it in a neat stack on the table. He raised a single eyebrow at me, I looked away in shame.
"I was watching, same as this man and that man or this woman." Gilles pointed to all the newspaper on the ground.
"Children next to me were crying, mum next to me was happy to get some sleep while her kids were distracted. Most parents were dozing off, most children only pay attention to ze puppets. Zis is not a good show!" Gilles let out the final statement harshly.
"Art is subjective— but quality is objective. What I saw, yesterday, was not a play or a musical. It was a farce presented as a showcase for zis Jim Henson's Creature Shop. Upstaged by puppets and plastics, outperformed by recorded voices and remote controlled apparatus!" Gilles said disdainfully, turning up his nose.
I saw some of myself in him, he was as egotistical as he was calling me to be.
"No, zis I don't call art. It is reprehensible and I hated it." Gilles said, finalising his review.
I wanted to leave, Gilles had always been a harsh teacher but well meaning, he had respect for me because of my talent and hard working attitude. But today he was dismantling me just as the reviews had dismantled the show. It was thousand times more hurtful than John S Muller's piece. After all, that was just an unknown name to me, a faceless shapeless blob. Gilles Albert Lagarde was my teacher who had seen my journey from a terrible dancer to an acceptable one (according to him), so his criticism was much more relevant to me. I wanted to go and hide in my blanket, all wrapped up and away from the judgement of others.
But, that was the problem. I couldn't do that anymore, James had a matinee that he would perform this afternoon and I had an evening show after him. Based on my dwindling mood I already knew my performance would be worse off. I could always start the drum machine and let my body move automatically. But was that acting or just more of that puppetry that Gilles was complaining about?
A hand reached over to my shoulder, it was Gilles' and he himself was leaning forward on the dining table. Our eyes locked.
"Zat is what I'm saying." He pointed at his brow.
"I hated Doctor Dolittle, I admit it proudly! Hey—" Gilles held my cheek up, not letting my head drop down.
"I hated the show but I didn't hate your performance. You did your part exceptionally well, I even went to go see that James Paul Bradley boy perform in your place. He was nowhere as good as you were, do you see? Direction was terrible, creatives behind ze show didn't understand what zey were doing! Zey forget that children watch this and ze only child in play hardly ever speak. Where are ze children? Plural! It does everything badly!" He cursed, in French.
"But individual actors can be good, Alberr Blossom was good!" He complimented, with a sigh.
"You're only saying that because he has the same name as you!" I accused him with a smile,
"Maybe, but he is good. He can hardly dance, his knee is gone. He is too old and too fat. But he has no need of dancing when he has singing. I can hardly sing, but I can dance! Everyone has different roles, he performed his to perfection! You did yours well. That is all that matters." Gilles advised.
"But I want the songs to make everyone laugh or cry!" I insisted,
"Then you need to compose and write lyrics!" Gilles answered,
"I also want it to be so good that everyone loves it!" I said,
"Then you need to direct it!" Gilles responded, "You can't keep everyone happy, that's where you're wrong. Art is art, good car is a good car. Subjectivity is built in to theatre. Don't try to make ze impossible happen. You did your role well, so take zat as my critic's review! Keep doing as you are, perform your duty perfectly and eventually zere be enough such people doing the same that you will be part of something legendary!" Gilles said with a dreamy expression.
"Then you will know that it was all worth it! Zis is only ze first step of grand adventre, you'll see." Gilles smiled.
I sat there silently but Gilles shook my shoulder again, I had forgotten his hand resting there. I looked up at him. He smiled at me sadly, the tiredness had finally caught up to him.
"Now, I must make you sad." Searching for my grandparents he added, "make all of you sad. For Gilles Alberr Lagarde now must leave for France. My home country awaits me and it weeps for me. So it is only fair that you will all weep for me once I am gone from zis shore." Gilles said dramatically,
I burst out laughing. This time my grandparents joined me, making up for how they mocked me before. Once I was done wheezing, I looked up to the man who hadn't slept a wink. My smile hardened, stiff upper lip in full force. Then I said what I've always wanted to say ever since I had first found him eating breakfast meant for me.
"Get out of my house."
* * *