McQueen - Review

Haymarket Theatre, London


****

Written by James Phillips
Directed by John Caird

Carly Bawden

Making its West End transfer from the St James Theatre, James Phillips’ McQueen, a semi-biopic exploration into the psyche of fashion icon Alexander McQueen, hangs in composite parts. Just like the brown paper sizing charts we see when McQueen brings the waifish and mysterious Dahlia to his old tailors on Saville Row, Phillips has constructed a series slightly uneven vignettes, and strung them up together without stitching them into a cohesive whole. It makes for an undulating evening, that at some points is fascinating, and at others is achingly slow. However, even if seen only in glimpses, the window into McQueen's tortured mind is worth every peep.

The play is a journey, taking us through the crushing spectre of depression, right through to the euphoric discovery of inspiration. The stage is often constructed as a dream scape, with lucid video designs  by Timothy Bird latching on to the melting fragmentations of McQueen's mind, demonstrating how his fragile thoughts project not only those around him, but the very walls of his surroundings. Stephen Wight's Lee McQueen starts the show before the audience have even taken their seats, pacing relentlessly, muttering and clutching a belt with foreboding animosity. There is an edgy restlessness to the proceedings before the lights even go down, and it creates a sense of dramatic anticipation that unfortunately is never again matched during the night. Scenes leap through unspecified gaps in time, and the dreamy hallucinogenic atmosphere undercuts any kind of narrative tension as the stakes drop from beneath the characters feet. John Caird's direction shows a keen eye for the visual, and has a forceful specificity, but lacks nuance in the pacing. Some scenes linger far beyond their welcome, whilst other sections come to a dissatisfying halt just as they were building some intrigue. The humour of the opening exchanges between McQueen and his unexpected intruder, Dahlia (Carly Bawden), is a delight, but is never again revisited. There is a light tone to their banter, a dance of verbal one one-upmanship, intrigue laced with fear, fascination mixed with trepidation. It's an enticing tone to begin the show, but it falls by the wayside as the play progresses and becomes bogged down with the darker harbinger of suicide.

Wight is tasked with the exploration of these macabre themes and does fantastic work. His is a central performance of tremendous skill, investing Lee McQueen with the right amount of sensitivity, whilst also hinting at an untapped well of visceral anger towards a world that will always expect more. There's a real empathetic power to his speeches on the constant pressure to deliver  whatever is 'next', as Wight constructs an unflinchingly relatable portrait of a man waving to the expectant crowd with a fake smile and a shaking hand. Bawden also shows some impressive chops with her take on the murky girl from the tree. There is a spirited intensity and confidence to her scenes, but she also shows a knowing physicality that belies inescapable vulnerability.

What elevates the piece though, is the stunning choreography by Christopher Marney, expertly conducted by an ensemble of ghoulishly beautiful dancers. These balletic interludes both transition and invade scenes and are breathtaking whenever they feature. Dressed both as mannequins and runway models, the dancers are both nightmarish in their grotesque inhumanity and angelic in their perfection. Their movements can be stilted at one moment, and lyrical in the next, effectively echoing both the frustration and beauty of human thought and inspiration.

The meandering pace and lack of narrative focus threaten to undo McQueen at certain points, however, it succeeds with excellent performances and a sumptuous design in keeping with the artistic genius at its centre. When Caird is freed from the lightweight plot and able to examine visually the psychosis of creativity, and the abject terror of failure; the piece soars on great golden wings.

Runs until 7th November
Guest reviewer: Will Clarkson

McQueen - Review

St James Theatre, London

***

Written by James Phillips

Directed by John Caird

Tracy-Ann Oberman and Steven Wight

James Phillips’ new play McQueen offers a lavish tribute to one of Britain’s most acclaimed fashion designers. That Alexander McQueen was to tragically take his own life at 40 only (ghoulishly?) adds to his iconic mystique – though as the play opens with McQueen contemplating his own mortality and then proceeds to take us through what is suggested to be his last night alive, the narrative’s structure at times suggests a re-branded Arthur Miller. In place of Salesman, think Death Of A Designer.

In the title role Stephen Wight is a marvel. The accomplished performer literally becomes McQueen in a relentless performance that never sees him off stage. Wight masters the cocky, cockney genius that so defined McQueen – and when the dialog offers his character profound moments of reflection, Wight’s delivery is scorching. During a dialogue with journalist Arabella (a perfectly weighted performance from Laura Rees), McQueen offers his explanation of what makes a woman feel valued and there is an analysis in his words that is both relevant and recognisable, as Wight speaks with a touching and convincing resonance. 

But if McQueen was haute-couture, Phillips choice of dramatic vehicle to portray the man is last seasons Primark. Dahlia, a fan and stranger has let herself into his home, providing the designer to re-tell his flashback tableaux.

Dianna Agron, star of the US TV series Glee plays Dahlia and one has to conclude that she has been “stunt-cast” based upon a Twitter following of two million, rather than ability. Her biography offers no hint of stage experience and it shows. Performing in close up to camera and with the safety net of re-takes is one thing but live theatre is a cruel master, demanding that an actor communicates at all times with voice and presence in a way that makes the audience suspend their disbelief. Agron tries valiantly, but her performance never gets above mediocre. John Caird is one of our leading directors and he should know better than this. His performer needs to be coached into filling the auditorium with her persona and one hopes that Agron will find her feet as the run matures.

David Shaw-Parker is a flawless delight as John Hitchcock, the master tailor under whose tutelage McQueen mastered the art of cutting fabrics. When Shaw-Parker speaks, it is though he has walked in from Savile Row. Tracy-Ann Oberman plays the complex role of Isabella Blow a style icon/muse to the designer, whose own suicide three years before his, hit him hard. Oberman delivers a trademark classy turn, though in a show that’s all about style, if her costume is to hint at décolletage, then it needs to be tightened up to conceal the actor’s underwear. McQueen would spin in his grave…

An imaginative twist sees a soundtrack of music selected by McQueen that accompanied a number of his collection launches, with tracks ranging from Handel to Bjork and Marilyn Manson. Set to the music, Christopher Marney’s choreography is electric, with a company of androgynous mannequins drilled into a perfect graceful poise. Particularly striking are Carrie Willis and Eloise Hymas’ shock-headed twins, en-pointe in unison throughout. A chic, bravura touch.

Timothy Bird’s ingenious video projections and Linda McKnight’s stunning wig design go a long way to suggesting the ascetic élan that McQueen became a part of, though Phillips stops short of offering too close an explanation of why McQueen chose to kill himself.

In what is largely a celebration of style over substance, McQueen offers a highly charged look at a very contemporary era in British fashion. Flawed for sure, but there is content here that makes for stimulating and sometimes exhilarating theatre.

Runs until 27th June 2015