Tell Me On A Sunday review, Duchess Theatre

So long ago I can't actually remember, I used to be a size 12. I know this because my bestie still has, for reasons that are neither abundant nor apparent, the cream, button-fronted, loons I bought in Kensington Market with the money from my Saturday job. Around the same time, Marti Webb was receiving rave reviews as the star of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Don Black's, Tell Me On A Sunday. I know this because it's all on record. Reel forwards... Today, there's too much slack for me to ever fit a 14, let alone a 12, and for Marti there's too much slack for her to hit the low notes, let alone the high.

Never on a Sunday

The only way her decision to reprise the role would make sense, singing favourite showstoppers like Take That Look Off Your Face or Tell Me On A Sunday, is by bringing a new passion and a mature energy to the role, but it's too much like karaoke. Webb doesn't appear to make any effort at all - the polar opposite of being effortless.

Halfway through the one hour show, my companion, whose private asides had been transformed into stage whispers by a last minute glass of wine, announced "I think I could sing better than this. Actually, I don't think it, I know it." Certainly, I know bathroom singers who could have matched the performance. That's why the lack of direction - there is no director's credit - is unforgivable, because a little clever acting and action could have made the difference - viz James Dreyfuss, reviewed last week in Candide, whose singing is basic at best, but who oozes charisma so you don't care.

In conclusion: Having said all this, this tale of a young, single woman in New York, working her way through affairs, will have a resonance with older audiences. There was one lady who cackled at every witticism, of which there are plenty. It's just that after a while, the lacklustre presentation and delivery makes even good tunes sound samey.

References
Duchess Theatre, Tickets
Photograph, Mike Eddowes