Oxford Circus has been having a major overhaul and in their excavations and steam-cleaning they have uncovered a whole load of posters from the early to mid 90s.

How nice to see the 4-sheet for Boy George's cover of FUNTIME from 1995 again.

Some art director would charge a fortune for this 'distressed' look now!

Oooo it's Harry Potter in the nip! Daniel Radcliffe publicising his role in EQUUS at the Gielgud Theatre soon... I hope he doesn't get put off by the binoculars catching the lights...

A new wonderful Madonna dvd/cd of her Confessions Tour from London was released today so I was there this morning to buy it.

As a fan must, on the morning of the day of release... I do so love being a fan. There are traditions that just Must be upheld. Luckily Owen was there to record the event - and to make sure I didn't faint in HMV when I saw them on the rack.

Speaking of which... here I am last week at the Madonna night at Vauxhallville..

DREAMGIRLS - from stage to screen

This is going to be a long blog... I will allow you Constant Reader to go for a drink/pee/shaving break if needs be.

I first became aware of DREAMGIRLS when I watched the 1982 Tony Awards – oh for the days when theatre award shows were shown on tv – and was totally blown away by the clip of the show which culminated in Jennifer Holliday justifying her award for Best Featured Actress with a mind-blowing performance of the song “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going”.  A few weeks later, while queuing early in the morning for tickets to that night’s GUYS AND DOLLS at the National Theatre with fellow front-row regulars, we got chatting to a New Yorker next to us in the queue. He fully understood our G&D obsession as he was a DREAMGIRLS regular and his enthusing for the show made me buy the cast recording and it was love at first hearing. So much energy, such great songs and of course.. that song and that singer. I patiently waited.. no London production. Jennifer Holliday launched a solo recording career and I got her to sign my DREAMGIRLS poster after an appearance on “Wogan” but still no London production. The theatre agent I later worked for tried with a guy who worked at the Society of West End Theatre to get the rights to stage the show for an AIDS charity performance here and finally we found out why there had been no London production… the woman who handled the rights felt there wasn’t enough good black British talent to carry the show.   Cow.

So I have never seen it on stage but I have HEARD it on stage! Paul in New York had a recording of the original cast taped through the theatre’s sound desk which he gave me a copy of *note to self… find tapes *! So just as I was reconciling myself to never seeing it I heard it was definitely being adapted for the screen which of course threw up the problem – how could I possibly enjoy it when I loved and knew every single note of the original? So well in fact that 5 years ago I got up on stage at the Piano Bar in Sitges and mimed the title song *note to self… burn photos*

So yesterday, 25 years after falling under the score’s spell, I saw the film with Owen at a special preview at the National Film Theatre. I tried, I really tried… but after about 5 minutes I gave in… and loved it! Bill Condon wrote the screenplay for CHICAGO which I never really warmed to but here he also directs and he does it with a wonderful sweep and élan which glides you through the story of Effie, Deena and Lorrell (Jennifer Hudson, Beyonce Knowles, Anika Noni Rose) and their rise from the humble Dreamettes to the glamorous and chart-topping Dreams. Starting out as backing singers for the ‘wildest man in show business’ James Thunder Early (Eddie Murphy) they are slowly groomed for stardom by their unscrupulous manager Curtis (Jamie Foxx) who realises they have what it takes to cross over into the lucrative pop market of the 1960s.

The Motown inference is bolder in the film – the location is changed from New York to Detroit, the visual references for Deena and The Dreams are blatant steals from both Diana Ross and The Supremes photo shoots and album art while Curtis also later manages a boy band who even Stevie Wonder would recognise as The Jackson 5. Of course the main area where the storyline veers from the Motown source is that the ousted Effie – based on Florence Ballard –after an initial struggle becomes a successful solo singer. For Flo there was no second act, forbidden by Motown to mention The Supremes in any solo publicity material and paid off with hardly any royalties, she struggled with a failing career, depression and addiction problems only to die from a heart attack at the tragically young age of 33. Indeed in one of the early workshops of the show, Effie’s character died but this was dropped when the production team saw what a star-in-the-making they had with Jennifer Holliday.

The performances on the whole are fine although Jamie Foxx is underwhelming as Curtis, his vocal on his song “When I First Saw You” isn’t a patch on Ben Harney in the stage version. Beyonce Knowles wasn’t as bad as I was expecting but the role of Deena is hardly the most dramatic as she reacts more to events than instigates them. She looks sensational though. I really enjoyed Anika Noni Rose as Lorrell who suffers from her one solo being the only song from the original score to be cut. She holds her own though with a feisty performance and Keith Robinson is fine as Effie’s songwriter brother who also becomes disenchanted with Curtis’ manipulations.

The two performances that shine out are in the best roles.

Eddie Murphy seizes the role of Jimmy, the wild and vain insecure star becoming more burnt-out and stifled by Curtis’ indifference and mines it for all it’s got. His response to Curtis’ dismissal of an obvious hit record is wonderful, his face etched with a pain beyond words. And then there is Jennifer Hudson. My love of the other Jennifer H made this the biggest hurdle for me but while not having the mighty church vocal of Holliday she is marvellous – an instant star and a natural on screen, even more amazing that this is her film debut. Her performance of “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” alone should guarantee her the Best Supporting Actress Oscar. At its conclusion the audience burst into spontaneous applause which it also did when her name appeared at the end. So few recent musicals allow you to concentrate on the performer – what I hated about MOULIN ROUGE and CHICAGO in particular was the way the busy editing ruined any chance of sitting back and just being able to enjoy the singer singing. Here Condon wisely lets nothing gets in the way of Hudson.

Sadly Jennifer Holliday has been getting a lot of press attention in the US bemoaning the fact that she was not asked to appear in the film – the stage ‘Lorrell’ Loretta Devine appears as a blues singer towards the end of the film – but I think this has been rather sad. There is no way she could play Effie now having lost all the weight she had back then and would probably have raised hell had she been offered a cameo. Down the years how many great stage originals have lost out when the film version is made?                                   

Most notably Ethel Merman in GYPSY, Chita Rivera in WEST SIDE STORY, Barbara Cook in THE MUSIC MAN or Angela Lansbury in MAME but those performances live on. It’s a shame she cannot see that the opportunity afforded Hudson is the same that Michael Bennett gave her in the original show. The film is dedicated to Bennett, the director/choreographer whose genius had already given Broadway A CHORUS LINE, who died 20 years ago this year aged 44 of an AIDS-related illness.

"Every man has his own special dream..."

Time to add my 2 Cents I guess....

over the Celebrity Big Brother implosion. When they all trooped in on that rainy night a week or so back I sat straining in eagerness for the housemate who would give us more bang for our buck. Amazing that this most dreary of line-ups has in fact given us 3 walk outs - damn even Jodie Marsh didn't flounce off last year despite the set-tos with Pete Burns, Michael Barrymore and George Galloway. So it trundled along it's samey little rut... until some bright spark decided to ship in Jade, her mother and toy boy. Now we have effigies being burnt in India and questions asked in the House of Commons.

Random thoughts:

Surely CBB should have been put to bed last year when we had the post-modern, HEAT-sent denouement of a non-celebrity winning the show by becoming famous just by being on it? But Channel 4 needs it's biggest cash cow... and I'm not talking about Jade.

For my part I don't think what's happening is racist, just nasty playground bullying of the worst order - oh for Richard from last year to be let in there to rename Jade, Danielle and Jo 'The Plastics'. It also makes for highly depressing and queasy viewing as it illustrates how vulgar, mean and debased the whole Celebrity/Chav culture has become and that is glorified in the yellow press that is HEAT, GRAZIA and any number of shite magazines which stoke and perpetuate this current breed of oxygen-thieves.

How strange that none of the other housemates - Jermaine, Ian, Dirk or Cleo - feel they can assert themselves in the face of the three-headed Hydra that is JadDanJo? Although I must say I am feeling kinder to Ian than even I could imagine.

Where do these people come from for a spontaneous effigy burning in front of the television cameras? Is there a 24 hour shop open which just sells old Guy Fawkes figures ready to be immolated at the drop of a hat? Likewise is there a shop in Muslim cities that sell Western flags for the weekly demonstration with the Swan Vestas?

How likely is it for Endemol to perceive Jade as the spanner in the works - when she has the same agent as Davina McColl, Dermot O'Leary and Russell Brand? Can't wait to see Davina's jokey "Oh Jade you are a one" interview when she is hopefully voted out... and now it's revealed Cleo Roccas is with the same agent which throws her role as 'peacemaker' into question.

I have been that knackered since Thursday I have been remiss in posting about the extravaganza that was Bearlesque at the Vauxhalla Taverna.

This was the third time I had seen Freddy's troupe there and this time they had the run of the whole show. The place was crowded - I wonder what Nathan who runs the regular Thurday evening Vauxhallville felt - and the beary lads had a rousing reception. I must say that I had my usual last-minute thoughts about going... yes I am getting old... but it was a fun night in the company of O, Lady Miss Coates, Poor Posh Paul and Don (who had forgotten to take his unimpressed medication before he came out) and college friend.

Yes their material was over-stretched to fit the time-slot and a little more rehearsal time would definately not go amiss - not all vaudeville should be Amateur Hour in Dixie - but they invariably leave one feeling hugely entertained and transported into their parallel bear universe. I must say watching Freddy command the stage and work the audience filled me with a fraternal glow... I burped the bitch after all.

So here are a few snatched shots of Bears Fred, Luke (who needs some proper plumes for his fandance... that pigeon must was well-rid of those ratty feathers), Justin (like a fat Tim Curry... oh...) and Ben in all their overripe glory:

and finally.... My Top 10 Reads of 2006!

My Top 5 Theatre Drama of 2006

and Equity? You need tremble no more... click here to see the winners of this year's Chrissie Awards!

My Top 5 Theatre Musicals of 2006

SWALADDIN LAKE












It usually takes me longer to get some theatre visits under my belt for a new year but here we are, 7 January and 2 programmes on the coffee table already.

On Thursday Owen and I made a return visit to Sadlers Wells to see the tenth anniversary production of Matthew Bourne's SWAN LAKE. Despite the familiarity of the piece it was still received rapturously by the audience.

The performances were of the high standard expected to live up to the originals of Scott Ambler and Adam Cooper. Simon Williams, although lacking Ambler's neurotic intensity, made the Prince suitably tortured and Thomas Whitehead although shorter and more solid than previous incumbents of the dual role of The Swan and The Stranger delivered a powerful performance. The Queen was played by Nina Goldman with a light regal disdain while Agnes Vandrepote was suitably toe-curling as the luckless Girlfriend. Ashley Bain as the calculating Prime Minister actually provoked boos at the curtain call - nice to see the spirit of panto alive and well at the ballet!

I never tire of Bourne's choreography and the great design by Lez Brotherston. So many great moments... Bourne's nod to "The Birds" when the Prince's huge bed is quickly covered with flapping menacing swans is a great coup-de-theatre. The re-imagined story works for me every time and yes Constant Reader... when the Queen grieved over the dead Prince and The Swan appeared above them cradling the Prince in his arms I got a bit sparkle-eyed. If you have never experienced this before in a theatre, rush to Sadlers Wells before January 21st.

After such emotional high-flying it was time for more booing the villain. I had promised myself after quitting the Actors Agency never again to sit through a pantomime. Trust my dear close personal friend Nicola Blackman to appear in one in possibly her farewell performance to the English stage before chancing her arm in New York. So Friday night found me and Owen in the windswept mean streets of Watford to see ALADDIN at the Palace Theatre.

Actually I enjoyed it a lot more than I was expecting. True, the pace occasionally threatened to flag at times - none more so than in the obligatory Get The Kids On Stage routine - but on the whole it bounced along merrily and when in doubt bung in a song! Someone had fun shoe-horning DOWNTOWN, IT'S RAINING MEN, COME FLY WITH ME and most bizarrely The Soup Dragons' I'M FREE into Joe Graham's jolly script. The cast certainly performed with gusto (or possibly drugs) - Nicola was great fun in her two roles of a Jamaican Spirit of The Ring and as Lotusblossom, the Princess' security guard; Howard Coggins was an agreeably grumpy Genie and Dale Superville worked the stage and the audience without getting too annoying as Wishee Washee. Peter Shorey's rather muted Widow Twankey was a bit of a surprise as was the Abanazar of John Alistair who could have been a bit more scarey for the wee uns. Stefan Butler and Rachel Grimshaw were suitably gauche romantic leads. Keith Orton's eye-popping designs contributed to a surprisingly fun night out - withstanding the travel hell!

They think THEY had a bad start to the New Year!!

Miss Nicola Blackman - doyenne of the West End stage and soon to be departing these shores for New York - is currently appearing in the well-received ALADDIN at the Palace Theatre, Watford. This evening there was the offer of comps for the 7pm show so after double-checking the Transport For London and Silverlink Trains websites for train times and possible hold-ups we turned up at Euston in good time for any of the 3 trains leaving around 6pm.

Well there was to be no BEHIND YOUs or OH YES IT IS!! for us.
All local Silverlink trains were cancelled out of Euston due to a signal failure at Watford Junction. More like some shagger not turning up for his shift.

*cue rant about London holding the Olympic Games etc etc.*

My Top 10 Films seen in 2006

My Top 10 Music Events of 2006

They are coming.... and I have tickets for an advance screening at the National Film Theatre at the end of January. I had a nice American woman in the shop today while I was playing my beloved Broadway cast recording cd. She had seen the original production on Broadway and says the film is great. I am getting quietly excited.

MOMENTS OF BEING

One afternoon this Spring I was looking through Owen's books and found he had Hermione Lee's masterly biography of my favourite author Virginia Woolf. Opening it my eyes fell on the book's publication date, 1996. I was gobsmacked. Could it really be ten years since I read it? And more importantly could it really be ten years since two of my closest friends, Martin Taylor and Steve O'Connor died? Since then I have been thinking about them a lot. If I had been asked before this memory-jog I could not have told you actually when they died - a few years ago would have been my best reply. But ten years? It seems like yesterday but as well of course, it seems like years and years ago.

Martin died in the summer as I recall and Steve died, we found out later, on Christmas Eve. Over that Christmas I was reading the Woolf biography and had reached the time when she was hit by the death of her sister Vanessa's lover Roger Fry following soon after the death of close friend Lytton Strachey as well as the suicide of Dora Carrington. I found the thoughts of Virginia at this time in her and my life strangely comforting... as if someone knew what I was going through and was expressing the particular loss I felt in a far more eloquent way than I ever could. In essence, Virginia likened the deaths of longtime friends to a walk on a clifftop which one takes every day. One day you turn around to find that your familiar path, so often walked, has crumbled into the sea and you are stranded on a promentary that you have to precariously edge along to get back to where you feel secure again. The loss of friends - particularly those you have known for a long time - robs you of your context and a whole shared history is gone. I felt this about Martin and Steve and I still feel it to this day. After ten years I still sometimes see a play or film and think "I would love to talk to Martin about that" or wonder would Steve still be crazy for Oasis and LOUIE LOUIE by The Kingsmen? How would he have responded to my Type II Diabetes diagnosis when he had always refused to talk about his Type I that he had known of since an early age?

I met Steve at secondary school and was indeed the only school friend I still kept in contact with, having moved away from the area the same summer as having left St. Edmunds. In 1978 I met Martin when he too started work at Claude Gill Books in Piccadilly. I was on the shop floor and he was the goods-in clerk and we soon struck up a friendship based on our love of film, a friendship that was shared too with a fellow-Geordie school friend of his, Judith who also worked there. I remember being vaguely jealous of him, his assured personality and unabashed gayness were traits I always aspired to. Steve had a strained family life, living with his Asian stepfather who he couldn't abide so would often invite himself up to Enfield for the weekend to escape that environment. This soon also included Christmas where we could run amock as my Ma used to go back to Ireland. The ritual was I get the food, Steve get the drink.

Down the years and changes occured to us all - I started work for Flashbacks and bounced along happily enough living for films, music and by then theatre. Martin worked in the Department of Printed Books at the Imperial War Museum and met and moved in with Peter, a gay policeman which dwindled into a marriage until he met and moved in with David an actor. He started working with me on Saturdays at the shop where we would yapp away all day - when he wasn't bobbing about at Marshall Street Baths. In 1989 he achieved a long-held dream when Constable published his anthology of love poems by the trench poets of WWI. Steve worked in various jobs until finally working literally around the corner from his block of flats on North End Road market on a stall selling bags. Occasionally a girlfriend would be on the scene but invariably that would peter out. Things didn't improve on the family front when he found out through an aunt that his mother who had died when he was young had been married before and he had a father and two step-sisters he had never met. Steve also became an occasional fixture at Flashbacks working the odd day - cash in hand of course. But through it all there they were: Martin for theatre and films, Steve for film and concerts, countless phone calls talking about everything and nothing. Misunderstandings would lead to a few weeks of not-speaking then we'd pick up where we left off. You know... friend stuff.

At the start of 1990 Steve had a bad motorbike crash about 5 minutes after dropping me off at Andrew and Freddy's flat in Abbey Road which took him a long time to recover from. A few years later Martin appeared one afternoon at Marble Arch where I was helping a friend run her actors agency and told me he was HIV+. Strangely I cannot remember how I reacted - I think I hugged him while trying not to cry in front of him. However he seemed to work out a way of living with it.

One day I got a call from Steve's aunt telling me that Steve was in hospital. He had taken tablets and tried to cut his arms when his latest girlfriend said she just wanted to be friends. I went to see him and found him in fine form - retelling the incident and laughing over the stupidity of it all. As I was leaving the girl turned up and looked genuinely distressed at what he had done. The job with my friend was slowly driving me mad through inertia and the unacknowledged stagnation of our friendship. Then a few months after our last theatre visit to see the National Theatre's A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC with Judi Dench, Martin was admitted to hospital for pneumonia. He seemed to get better then had a relapse. He died aged 39. Andrew accompanied me to the touching humanist service held for his cremation where I had an emotional reunion with Judith.

Things went from bad to worse with the friend and after a blazing early-hours row I quit and started back at the shop again. In December Steve asked to borrow some money which of course I agreed to but told him I needed it by the next week for presents etc. A week went by and no money and no answer when I rang. Finally he called to apologise and to tell me he was in trouble. He had helped another stallholder chase a black guy who had robbed off his stall. They caught him and beat him up. The police were called, Steve was charged with assault and was due to appear in court in January. I told him he was a stupid bugger but that I was sure it wouldn't be so bad. I asked him if he was still coming up for Christmas and he said he would ring me nearer the day. Steve turned up at the shop on my last day off before Christmas and left the money that was owed but I never heard from him. I bought extra food in case and waited at the shop on Christmas Eve for the call. Nothing and no reply when I rang him.

Late on December 27th the phone rang. It was Steve's aunt telling me through tears that he had been found dead in the flat. The step-father had found him that afternoon when he had returned from the friends he spent Christmas with. It appeared he had gone into a diabetic coma before he could inject himself with his Insulin. He was 36.

She asked me what I knew of his movements so I told her I had expected him but I assumed he didn't contact me because he thought I would still be pissed about the money. She then dropped a bombshell. He had worked the stall on Christmas Eve morning and had double-checked before leaving that the step-father was definately spending the next 2 days with friends. He later told the other stallholders he was finishing early to go up to Enfield to stay a few days with his mate Chris so not to try and call him. The aunt was inconsolable that Steve should die as he did especially as he was always so careful with his injections. I remember putting the phone down and just sitting and staring at the wall, knowing Steve had done it deliberatly.

Unlike the celebration of Martin's life at his cremation, Steve's was utter vile. A stupid old bastard of a priest who I swear was drunk, dropping the pages from his prayer book and stumbling through a religious service that was totally redundant of any humanity or soul. The only consolation I had on that dark, dank depressing late winter afternoon was that Steve would have been pissing himself laughing had he been watching it. I had been collared by the aunt outside who told me that the official gathering afterwards was being held back at the house but she and all Steve's workmates were having an unofficial one at a pub in Earls Court. Amazingly I attended neither. I did however manage to have a few words with the girl he had once tried to top himself over and who had become, along with her mother, good friends to him. She told me that Steve had been scared he would be sent to prison at the hearing in January and she would never believe he had died through an accident. That makes two of us.

Some people are surprised when I tell them I don't mind spending Christmas alone. I explain it away as having something to do with once working on Christmas Day at First Call and that this had robbed the day of any particular mystique. But maybe it is because I remember when ten years ago my familiar clifftop walk was altered forever.

PLUS CA CHANGE, PLUS CA MEME CHOSE

From The Grauniad:

A gay man who was set to make legal history by becoming one of the first people to "divorce" by dissolving a civil partnership yesterday decided to delay proceedings to avoid entering the record books.

Darryl Bullock had planned to go to court today, the 12-month anniversary of the ceremony and the earliest possible date he could legally dissolve his civil partnership with Mark Godfrey.

But Mr Bullock, 42, has instructed his solicitor to hold off until new year. "I don't want to be the face in the Guinness Book of Records," he said. "I don't want to be the poster boy for the divorce generation. I am trying to end an unpleasant period in my life and move forward, and obviously that means I have had to instruct a solicitor to deal with my dissolution, but I am not trying to break any records."

Mr Bullock, who celebrated his union with Mr Godfrey in an 8am ceremony at Bath Guildhall before honeymooning in Torquay, said that, far from being put off civil partnership by his split, he is intending to tie the knot a second time.

But he and his new partner would not be "rushing" into anything, said the freelance writer and self-confessed "serial monogamist", who was with Mr Godfrey for three years before their legal partnership.

Not the Poster Boy for the divorce generation but possibly for something else...

Ever wondered what Martin Scorsese's SESAME STREETS would look like? Here you go... brilliant!

A KING, A QUEEN AND THE POOR FOLK

I have been remiss Constant Reader in not posting for a while - the shock of returning to work after a week off threw me totally. So here is a recap of the cultural events seen. Seen?

On the last day of the vacance O and I went to Tate Britain to see the Hans Holbein exhibition.

It was just the right size, only 9 smallish rooms to meander through and each room contained at least one portrait I would happily have made a beeline for if they allowed me to do a 2 minute dash around with a shopping trolley. I would definately make off with a masterly chalk drawing of Sir Thomas More, an arresting Portrait of A Lady which is assumed to be Anne Boleyn, a saucy looking Herman von Wedigh a German merchant, the majestic small portrait of Henry VIII - looking not unlike Gordon Kaye - and a lovely drawing of an unknown woman who stares out at you from the portrait where Holbein immortalised her 466 years ago. I am sure a few of his sitters imagined they would be remembered for one thing or another but it is only through the artistry of a man destined to die aged only 46 that they managed it.



















Then it was back to work. Absolute Hell. I think the next time I want a break from work I should follow Owen's advice and be off for two rather than a measly one week.

Sunday saw us in the wilds of Brick Lane in the former Trumans Brewery which is the temporary home for The Reindeer, a restaurant and cabaret space all done up in fake snow covered fir trees and log cabins surrounding the dining space. All very clever but a few signs showing the entrance and even more importantly the exit wouldn't have gone amiss. Still Justin Bond is worth seeing in any location.

This is my third time seeing him with his trio The Freudian Slippers and they get better with each show. The piano, flute and cello background work so well with this unique performer that one can only hope that the cd he might record next year will come to fruition. Justin's banter between songs is getting even more revelatory and out-there but the tales of his exs - the female-to-male transgender, the gigolo etc. - all just make you want to hear more from his life. While I am happy to stick on the three times I've seen his lounge-singing diva alter-ego in Kiki and Herb I look forward to seeing him again in performance soon. Let's put it this way... it's a rare talent that could make me forget I was sitting at the next table to Boy George.

Tuesday night found me and O at the Savoy Theatre for Trevor Nunn's musical theatre staging of the Gershwin masterpiece PORGY AND BESS.

I had been looking forward to finally seeing this landmark show having never seen it on stage or Otto Preminger's 1959 screen adaptation with four of the same actors from his CARMEN JONES. Trevor Nunn is to be applauded - not something I would say ordinarily! - for bringing the show into the west end as a musical rather than it's usual operatic form. This show deserves to be seen not only as a tribute to the awesome score by George and Ira Gershwin but also as a showcase for the richly talented cast of black British performers.

The story could not be simpler - the black workers of Catfish Row, South Carolina are hard-working and God-fearing. A drunken fight during a crap-game leaves one of the men stabbed to death, The killer Crown (Cornell S. John) flees before the police arrive but the community are left with his mistress Bess (Nicola Hughes), a good-time girl with a liking for the packets of 'happy dust' supplied by the oily pusher Sportin' Life (played by the bizarrely named O.T. Fagbenle). The only person willing to take her in is the neighbourhood cripple Porgy (Clarke Peters). Porgy, used to a life of rejection by women has admired Bess from afar but now falls for her completely and she too warms to this man who truly loves her, The others warily accept her but during a community picnic on a nearby island, she is confronted by Crown who has been hiding out there. He forces himself on her and she returns to the town a troubled woman, aware that her love for Porgy may not be enough to resist Crown's power over her. The community faces a hurricaine which ends several lives but when Crown arrives in the aftermath to take Bess, Porgy stabs him. The police arrive and want Porgy to identify the body but Sportin' Life - who witnessed Porgy's act - plays on his and Bess' fear that a murdered body bleeds afresh if looked on by the killer. The police force him to come with them leaving the way clear for Sportin' Life to work on Bess, supplying her again with 'happy dust' and convincing her the police will never let Porgy go. Porgy returns to find her gone to far-off New York. He sets off after her determined to win her back.

Yes there are a few faults - as striking a performer as Hughes is, she doesn't fully succeed in drawing your attention away from the contrivances the script forces on her - indeed most of her big scenes happen offstage - and occasionally the score could do with some of the musical largess an opera would give it - Porgy's final song "I'm On My Way" seemed to end too quickly, not so much starting a long journey as a couple of steps to the back of the set and occasionally the over-active singing made the lyrics a bit undecypherable but on the whole I really enjoyed it, it was great to finally be able to put those classic songs "Summertime", "It Ain't Necessarily So", "I Loves You Porgy" and "I Got Plenty o' Nuttin'" into their proper context. The show is also illuminated by some very fine performances - the oddly named O-T Fagbenle makes a wonderfully serpentine Sportin' Life, Melanie Marshall gives Maria the shopkeeper real presence, my LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS friend Dawn Hope is a bit of a revelation as Serena, the religious woman made a widow by Crown's drunken violence and there is fine support from Lorraine Velez and Edward Baruwa as the married couple who are victims of the hurricaine. The ensemble sound great in the choral parts of the score.

The star of the show, and rightly so, is Clarke Peters as Porgy. It's so good to see this veteran of many shows being given such a showcase for his glorious voice and being so loudly cheered at the end. His unsentimental performance is nicely played against any obvious sympathy so his happiness in loving Bess is even more winning.