The Witches of Eastwick
Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London
* * *
After a string of truly diabolical musicals, it good to find one that deals wittily and engagingly with the Devil. Based on the John Updike novel and the 1987 George Miller movie, this is an upbeat sexual fantasy about three smalltown women who sup and tup with an imagined Satan, and thereby find themselves strangely empowered.
What is most surprising is that this is really an old- fashioned book musical, in which Dana P Rowe's tunes grow logically out of John Dempsey's story. In fact, Dempsey and Rowe take some care to establish Eastwick as a gossip-ridden Rhode Island town seething with female sexual frustration. A sculptor, a cellist and a journalist are all longing for a man and find their prayers answered by Darryl Van Horne. But, though they fall under his spell and turn to witchcraft, they end up despatching the diabolical Darryl and discovering themselves anew.
A wild first half, which climaxes with the three women flying out over the heads of the audience like a trio of delirious Peter Pans, turns a touch mushy later on: lyrics like "Now I see everything I needed was inside of me" have a right-on correctness that sits oddly with the story's satirical verve. But, at their best, Dempsey's book and lyrics have a nice snap and crackle that evoke the lost art of musical comedy. "Jennifer Gabriel is a virgin," one of the Eastwick wives remarks of a local goody-goody. "I imagine her mother is too," comes the retort.
It may not be Oscar Wilde but it is a hundred times better than the verbal Polyfilla we have lately had to endure in musicals. But what really gives this show its style are Bob Crowley's superb designs and Eric Schaeffer's crisp direction. Crowley has created an American pastoral in the style of Saturday Evening Post, full of diminutive white houses and picket fences. Into this he inserts Horne's diabolical mansion - painted Rhode Island red and replete with Hugh Hefnerish fantasy beds.
And the ultimate collapse of the steepled church is in the great tradition of Drury Lane spectacle dating back to the Novello musicals and beyond.
The performances also possess the right buoyancy. Ian McShane as the devil may not have all the best tunes but, after a long absence from the stage, he overflows with energy and a leering, saloon bar smuttiness. And, amongst the three sex-hungry women, Maria Friedman is outstanding as the shy journo who finds her tongue unlocked by Darryl and who delivers her big number with the staccato speed of Danny Kaye. Joanna Riding is also sharply funny as the liberated cellist and Lucie Arnaz cracks wise as the leggy sculptor.
Rowe's music may be amiable rather than instantly memorable. But, in a genre that has become top heavy with portentous spectacle, this show gaily reminds us of the musical's traditional mission to delight and divert. Though it may fall off a bit in the second half, it is the best devil invoking musical since Damn Yankees.
Booking to March 2001. Box office: 020-7494 5000.
* * * * * Unmissable * * * * Recommended * * * Enjoyable * * Mediocre * Terrible
