David Jays — Theater Critic

This show gives good value to Larson the composer – the band gunning through the score up on a gantry, the cast unleashing some rib-shaking vocals. Larson the lyricist emerges less well, engulfed by a wall of sound. The revival is produced with devotion but, nudging three hours, also needs dramaturgical tough love. Some lachrymose ballads don’t earn their stage time, while Maureen’s dairy-based activism (“Moo for me!”) has lost its bite. Keeping eight principal characters in play is tricky – Mark too often fades from his own story.

Gordon Greenberg’s affectionate production is soggy-bottomed in the weaker second half. Glazed in Paul Anderson’s yolk-gold lighting, the characterful ensemble includes Josefina Gabrielle’s knowing cafe owner and Finty Williams as a worm-turning wife: the musical’s unsatisfied women are far better company than their boorish menfolk, and cut loose in a tango. Holding the story is the baker. Clive Rowe is built for optimism – round eyes shining with merriment, voice rich with adoration. It’s horrible to see him reduced to misery – the light leaves his eyes like an oven turned cold.

Broadway’s Stephanie J Block and Line of Duty’s Adrian Dunbar play the leads. But wonderfully, the ensemble bangers showcase backstage staff. A stentorian Josie Benson kicks off Another Op’nin’, Another Show (“another pain where the ulcers grow”). And the second half ignites the languorously horny Too Darn Hot, sassily choreographed by Anthony Van Laast. Jack Butterworth’s dresser leads a dance of dirty-minded shoulders and hips, until the band rips into the score and Butterworth and Charlie Stemp have a bravura spin-off. Hot in all the good ways.

Broadway’s Stephanie J Block and Line of Duty’s Adrian Dunbar play the leads. But wonderfully, the ensemble bangers showcase backstage staff. A stentorian Josie Benson kicks off Another Op’nin’, Another Show (“another pain where the ulcers grow”). And the second half ignites the languorously horny Too Darn Hot, sassily choreographed by Anthony Van Laast. Jack Butterworth’s dresser leads a dance of dirty-minded shoulders and hips, until the band rips into the score and Butterworth and Charlie Stemp have a bravura spin-off. Hot in all the good ways.