Billy Elliot the Musical
Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, Dublin
★★★
By now, everybody knows what Billy Elliot the Musical is all about. It is the story of a remarkable individual who overcomes restrictive ideas about which genders can pursue which dreams. It follows the journey of a hero who stands fast against mounting choruses of disbelief and criticism. It is the tale of one person, propelled sometimes by self-belief alone, who ultimately prevails against staggering odds. It is, in short, the stirring story of how Margaret Thatcher bravely crushed the 1980s miners' strike.
We have to appreciate this through metaphor, of course. Adapting his own screenplay, writer Lee Hall follows the fortunes of a 12-year-old boy, Billy Elliot (played by the charming Adam Abbou on my showing, although with three alternates, your Billies may vary). The son of a Durham miner who is on the picket line and the breadline, Billy secretly pursues his singular talent for ballet, which he discovers under the tutelage of Mrs Wilkinson (a stentorian and lithe Annette McLaughin). His individualism is announced with the song Shine, in which utilitarian props such as electric fans and pallet trucks are co-opted into a display of razzmatazz, just as the Stakhanovite hymns and bolshie placards of the workers are here used to grease the cogs of a multi-million pound West End musical.
With similar irony, director Stephen Daldry presents the clash between these workers and a baton-wielding riot squad as a spectacle of high camp, where miners and policemen leap over each other, throwing shapes and high kicks, turning yesterday's butch solidarity into today's knowing kitsch.
For much the same reason, composer Elton John's score refers to as many other musicals as possible. At times McLaughlin could double as the emcee out of Cabaret. An angry dance, for a song pithily entitled Angry Dance, has Billy railing in his cage-like bedroom as though auditioning for the lead role in Flashdance. Leg-warming references to Fame fly hither and yon. Thatcher, who is affectionately mocked throughout with puppets and pinatas, would adore this. When criticised by another pesky union of theatre artists for slashing their subsidy, she retorted: "Look at Andrew Lloyd Webber! " She was this lucrative genre's greatest patron: Neoliberalism - The Musical!
If there is a fault here – and I fear there are several – it is that the story has been padded out to a needless three hours (what is this, Brecht?); the tunes are derivative yet somehow still forgettable; and Peter Darling’s choreography is so workmanlike that at one point they resort to flying poor Billy around on a cord. But, the money – the money is spectacular. You’ll love every shiny penny of it: dry ice cascades, a live orchestra, a cast of dancing dozens, and a huge fake brick backdrop that provides a very expensive emulation of deep poverty.
Now, some will find the whole thing ideologically incoherent, as when scenes of galvanising socialism judder into yet another reappearance by the ghost of Billy’s mother to remind him how uniquely special he is. Others will marvel at how capitalism blithely cannibalises its own critique and sells it back to us at a handsomely inflated price.
Ignore such joyless, Marxist poseurs. Remember, instead, the words of Mrs Wilkinson, who tells Billy that there are two kinds of dance: one that is mercilessly imposed on us from the outside; and one that comes sincerely from deep down within. Which of those dances animates this commercial juggernaut of a mega-musical is up to you to decide.
Runs until Sep 3
