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‘LET IT BE’: The Savoy Theatre: Review

Kat Pope July 1, 2013

Let It Be

“Is it like Jersey Boys?” I asked the usherette. “Does it have a story?”

“Not really,” was the dispiriting reply. “It’s just the greatest hits and a bit of gab between songs.”

And so it was. No gritty ‘how the band got together’ tale in this tourist-trap of a Beatles show now playing in the incongruous Art Deco surrounds of the Savoy Theatre. No torrid tales of love between John and Cynthia, or band members clashing over artistic differences. Instead, there’s this strange concert, running the gamut of emotions from Ringo to Ringo. So none at all really. And that’s my main quibble. I’ve seen a couple of shows before where bootleg Beatles (it may actually have been THE Bootleg Beatles, I just can’t remember) have run through either the greatest hits or a specific album. No chat, no story, just music, and I’ve been won over by their charm and enthusiasm, but not so with this cavernous, heartless show. It did nearly get there a couple of times, but pulled back from the emotional brink just too quickly.

It begins with the programme, a huge, hernia-inducing, glossy souvenir thing with very little substance, that won’t fit in anyone’s bag on their way home. On the cover is an all-encompassing Union Jack, just so the tourists have no doubt where they are: BeatleLand, or more specifically, Swinging Britain in the 60s. No, not now. Now is drab and dull and grey, but the 60s….well, that was were it was at….man.

Entering the Savoy, you’re confronted by giant set-ups of old wirelesses and Rediffusion TVs in place of a curtain. Projected onto the TVs are 1960s clips, some of which are pretty fun. There’s Alf Garnett flogging Findus Fish Fingers, and a wedding where everyone lights up a Capstan after they say ‘I do’. The point made that this was a different era with different sensibilities, my hopes rose that the show might be a little tongue in cheek, a little subversive in its outlook, but this didn’t last long: five minutes later we were in the smoky Cavern, all brickwork arches and dim lighting. Yes, they do look passably like the Moptops, and yes, they do sound like them too. Two boxes ticked. Ringo drummed through the early numbers with a fag hanging from his mouth. Yes, a different era indeed.

My earplugs came out at this point. It’s not that I dislike Beatles tunes – I can sing along to most – but I am getting on a bit and the speakers were groaning under the volume. Strangely, the vocals came through clear as a bell, but the instruments made a right old not-nice racket. Even my teenage son commented on the din.

Middle aged women began to clap out of time as only middle aged women can. The Brazilian quartet seated below us began to rave, mistaking a theatre show for a gig. They continued in this vein throughout, talking as loudly as they could, downing pint after pint, struggling out of their row to the loo, and that most unforgivable sin of all – standing up and dancing. The bastards. They were duly told off by the usherettes but continued on their merry little Brazilian way, despite the British tuts engulfing them.

The Beatles were a pretty static band on stage with no great dancers, no guitar-smashing antics, just standing and singing, and so it’s difficult to criticize this show for not being a roller-coaster of frenetic movement. Realising this, director and musical supervisor John Maher has tried to bring the whole thing to life with a series of animations projected onto the backdrop, and also visible on large monitors to the sides of the stage. Unfortunately they were the worst animations I’d seen in a long time, using Beatles’ imagery but not keeping strictly enough to period fonts and photos, and they ended up being as uninteresting as seeing fake Paul, John, George and Ringos on stage.

Chronologically true, we go from the Cavern to the conquest of America to Shea Stadium to the Sergeant Pepper era to 70s psychedelia to Vietnam protests to…well, you get the picture. It’s basically a run-through, with some of the most minimal staging I’ve ever seen in the West End (I’m looking at you, A Chorus Line). The backgrounds change, the hair and moustaches gets longer, the clothes get more colourful, but that’s it. The projections on the large TVs are fuzzy and unreadable while the ones at the sides of the stage, giving us close-ups of singing faces, are 2 seconds out of synch. It all looks terribly cheap.

The modern voiceover which makes very little attempt to even pretend to be ‘of the age’ adds to this shoddiness, as do the stagehands who whip on between songs. Neutral black clothes just don’t cut the mustard in a piece like this.

And this is the fundamental problem with this show. It’s neither one thing nor another. It races through periods but doesn’t keep up the pretence with the peripherals, so you can’t become absorbed in any of the music without some jarring experience waking you from your reverie (and I include a tourist audience in the list of ‘jarring experiences’). And did George sing quite so many lead vocals? And did John clone himself for Lucy in the Sky as I’m pretty sure there were two on stage at the same time (or perhaps it was the hallucinogenic effects of the song)? Odd, very odd.

I did become a little more engaged once they all sat on stools and ran through Blackbird, which was ironic in one way as the staging became even more static, but the intimacy of the songs began to work their magic as the crap gimmicks disappeared for a little while.

It didn’t last. I found myself looking at the audience rather than the stage, trying to get a grip on who this show appealed to. Tourists, mostly, as you’d imagine, but there was quite a swathe of grey as couples in their 60’s relived their youth. Families with teenage children also made up quite a proportion. Half were clapping, singing, swaying their arms: half were sitting with a look of utter blankness as if totally bemused by the whole spectacle. When ‘John’ enjoined the crowd to get on their feet, half did so with gusto while the other half sighed at the prospect of spending the next five minutes staring at someone else’s swaying bum.

By the time the encore was in full swing with, of course, Let It Be, and that obligatory dirge Hey Jude, the audience was on its feet and swaying unrhymically. Arthritic arms were in the air, cameraphones were blinking, confetti was pouring from the Savoy ceiling, and I gently took my earplugs out and dreampt longingly of my bed. I mean, listening to The Beatles back catalogue is never a wholly unpleasant experience by its very nature, but I did expect more of a show than I got with Let It Be. Given the choice of Jersey Boys and this lazy excuse for a show, I know which one I’d plump for every time.

Event:  Let It Be

Where: The Savoy Theatre, The Strand, London

When: booking till next year

Cost:  Tickets: £15-£90

For more information, CLICK HERE:    www.letitbelondon.com

Let it be has now transfered to the Garrick Theatre.

For more information, click here:

 

 

 

 

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