London Palladium
The best thing about theatre is its ability to revive an esoteric hit. Do you remember fondly the 1988 film Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, starring Steve Martin and Michael Caine? If yes, how about the subsequent 2004 musical with a book by Jeffery Lane and lyrics and music by David Yazbek? If you answered affirmative to both those questions, then you were most likely in the audience for these concerts at the Palladium.
Thirty-six years after the film and 20 years after the musical, 2024 gets its own admittedly brief glimpse into the world of the dirty rotten crew. It is a classic late 1980s comedy romp, complete with hectic trajectory, flammable fabrics and very dated humour. Set in the luxury and unfiltered sunshine of the French Riviera we meet two despicable conmen: one classy and painfully British (Lawrence) and one gauche, rough around the edges and painfully American (Freddy). A bet is set to secure territory, a mark is picked, and the gentlemen set to work to seduce and steal from an American soap queen. Ludicrous disguises, violent slapstick and filthy fun follows.
Lambert Jackson and Positive Sum Productions brought together some dazzling stars, a massive orchestra and the Mountview Choir for an evening of badly rehearsed but amusing fun. Hadley Fraser played Lawrence, nailing the arch (false) aristocrat, all double-breasted suits and purring vocals. He enjoyed ricocheting between a suave gent and the comical Dr Emil Schaffhausen (who he must moonlight as to win the bet). Freddy, his anthesis, was taken by Ramin Karimloo, again enjoying the sleaze and silliness. They bounced off each other well, both being prolific musical theatre stars, doing their best with the stumbling music.
For the victims/ladies, there was the majestic Janie Dee, looking like Lauren Bacall in a gold lamé dress, again trying her best to liven up the two-dimensional Muriel. Carly Mercedes Dyer was the not-all-she-seems soap queen Christine and a highlight was Alex Young as an Oklahoma heiress with a bolshy bark. As you might imagine, the female roles languish in the starkest stereotypes of the era, either eye-twitchingly easily led or magnetically devious with no in-between.
Behind them were the Mountview Choir and a large orchestra giving so much overflowing energy and youth that you almost forgot that there was no set and very few costume changes. Almost. Director Rupert Hands did his best, highlighting the humour although clumsily updating some of the cultural references but not the clothes. Again, Adam Hoskins’ musical direction brought out the best in the stars but was hampered by a rushed feeling throughout, dropping mics and limited acoustic range.
The film is like a risky blue joke told by your uncle at Christmas. It produces both a cringe and a chuckle and everyone is secretly glad he got drunk on sherry and launched his stories over the table. The musical, however, is another story. The momentum of the film has subsided long ago and both the music and lyrics are mediocre at best. Concert evenings allow us musical theatre nerds to savour the performances of our favourite stars, to see them in roles they wouldn’t normally try, and sample musicals that have fallen by the wayside. Despite the evening’s guffaw-producing effect, I don’t think the Scoundrels need another West End run, one night, and one night only is all that is required.
