"Satire," said George S Kaufman, "is what closes on Saturday night." Not true since this jovial attack on American politics, which he co-wrote with Morrie Ryskind and which boasts music and lyrics by George and Ira Gershwin, ran for 441 performances on Broadway and became the first musical to win a Pulitzer prize. Lauded in 1931, it still provides a lively night out in 1999.
Why is no one writing musical satire today? Partly, I guess, because of media saturation: what would be the point of lampooning the Clintons when they've already been carved up by press and television? More to the point, musicals now aspire to the condition of opera seria: being through-composed, bookless and sombre.
Of Thee I Sing belongs to a different tradition. It starts from a comic idea: a satire on the inanity of American presidential campaigns. Looking for an issue on which to launch as candidate an amiable nonentity, John P Wintergreen, his party strategists seize on love. They stage a beauty contest to elect the president's future wife. But, when Wintergreen falls for his muffin-making secretary, the discarded pageant winner sues him, leading to an impeachment trial and, since she has Gallic blood, bombastic war-threats from the French.
As satire, it's not exactly Lenny Bruce. But the impeachment trial, delayed by procedural wrangles, has a wan topicality and there is one excellent running gag concerning the ubiquitous anonymity of the vice-president whose name no one can remember and who can gain access to the White House only by taking a guided tour.
Ira Gershwin's lyrics supply some of the tartness lacking in the book. Of the issueless Wintergreen we are told that "he's the man the people choose, loves the Irish and the Jews". His love life is even compared, eruditely, to Dante and Beatrice and Damon and Pithias. Influenced by WS Gilbert, Ira Gershwin emerges as a lyricist who combines rhyming ingenuity with acerbity. Brother George - who was omitted from the Pulitzer citation - also comes up with a perfect theatrical score: one that adds its own element of satire. The title song takes a patriotic anthem and gives it an ironic twist through the additional word, "baby". Some Girls Can Bake A Pie is a toe-tapping serenade. And the ambassador's plea on behalf of "the illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate son of an illegitimate nephew of Napoleon" matches Sullivanesque music to Gilbertian lyrics.
The show proves you can write a musical comedy on a serious issue. It is miles away from the self-importance of today's musicals, which seek to address us on Vietnam or social deprivation. It is also finely staged at the Bridewell by a team - Jonathan Best as director, Stephen Mear as choreographer and Mark W Dorrell as musical director - who were all involved with the National's Oklahoma! and who here seem even better employed.
The show has it weaknesses: it loses its thrust once Wintergreen is elected, and his cornball wife is a cipher. But Gavin Lee has exactly the right insouciant charm as the voter-friendly hero, Sarah Redmond vamps it up as the rejected Miss America, and there is neat support from Michael Winsor as a brown-suited, Dan Quayle-like vice-president and from Peter Gale as the militant French ambassador. London's big lavish musicals stun you into submission: this one reminds you of an era when shows conquered through wit and charm.
