-•✦—✦—✦•-
Next month I spent each free day like a man with a mission. I drafted myself a simple plan, the first of which involved everything music. These had the advantage where I could listen to new music anytime I was home, on days I performed, and even on busy days. I just needed to spent few minutes to listen to a song. Music was the lowest effort I needed to put in and very relaxing. Hardest to make time for were the plays I attended all over London's West End.
So it was no wonder that my figure darkened the doors of every theatre from Hyde Park to Victoria Palace, from the London Palladium across Shaftesbury Avenue to the River Thames and beyond. West End alone had over forty theatres, and the only reason I couldn't go to them all was that there wasn't always a production on. Not at the times I worked anyway. Turns out that it's difficult to attend musicals if you yourself were a performer who worked those exact hours. Seven thirty was such a common time for plays that I had no choice but to watch matinees when I could find time and even go off West End for shows with less than hundred seats.
With just three free days each week to explore music or musical theatre, I ended up sacrificing other parts of my life. My playing and practice time dwindled, I drifted away from the few friends I'd made in the Oval, and I spent less and less time auditioning — mostly because it had started to feel too depressing. More on that later.
The first show I attended was the rival to Doctor Dolittle, Whistle Down the Wind. It had opened two weeks before us, and unlike our production, it was actually established in the West End at the Aldwych Theatre, right across from King's College. The theatre was packed to the brim the day I went.
Aldwych was a gorgeous Edwardian baroque building, every corner detailed with care. The balconies were just as pretentious as the Lyceum's, yet the ceiling — with its dome reminiscent of the Pantheon — felt surprisingly modest. The colours were warmer, more earthy, and somehow more welcoming than the Lyceum. Tiny touches, perhaps, but together they made the theatre feel homely.
The reason the media kept comparing Doctor Dolittle with Whistle Down the Wind was clear. For one, the target audience was children, and the main three roles were all kids who had recently lost their mother. I particularly liked the names of the children: the lead was a teenager called Swallow, and the two smaller kids were Brat and Poor Baby. The posters outside the theatre spelled out a name that made it obvious why it was likely packed every single day, just like today.
Andrew Lloyd Webber.
The man I had seen perform a lovely number with Sondheim back in June. He was the writer of Whistle Down the Wind. The media compared the two shows because both writers had Academy Awards — but that's where the similarities between the writers ended. Leslie had never won a Tony; Andrew had six to his name so far.
It seemed that the man could only make classics because he won the award for Cats, Phantom of the Opera, and Sunset Boulevard. I knew that he would also go on to make the musical for School of Rock, a film that I would love to be in. It was a shame that I would be too old by the time it started to film.
I had read an article while we were in rehearsals that spoke about how Leslie was hoping to have four shows running at the same time on Broadway. Leslie's words in that article had jinxed his future, for his shows were canceled one after another. Andrew, on the other hand, had three shows running in both West End and Broadway for well over a decade. Cats had been on for twice as long as I'd been alive, Phantom had celebrated its ten-year anniversary when I was celebrating my seventh.
So, needless to say, my expectations were incredibly high. At the end of it, though, I was disappointed. The plot revolved around children trying to come to terms with their mother's death. Then through misunderstanding, believe that an escaped murderer was, in fact, Jesus Christ. The way it happened was perhaps the dumbest miscommunication I had seen. But from there it went onto themes that my Granddad both loved and hated. Nain liked the songs but didn't speak anything too kind about it. For a children's show, it had a surprisingly thought-provoking theme: Swallow, the lead's belief in "Jesus," was so strong that at times it made me question if the convict was, in fact, Jesus Christ.
Technically, there were many things to talk about. The first act ended with one of the most beautiful songs I'd heard. No Matter What was a great ensemble song that gave the spotlight to every children in the musical, but what made it truly memorable was the staging. The police chasing the convicted murderer stood on a platform on top of the barn the children were in. The staging literally divided the theatre stage like a TV screen bewing split in two. The effect was jarring because of how close the platform was to the proscenium. Choice and creativity in there was so radical and made me go, "You can do that?" many times.
The director's vision elevated the music as the innocent and gentle song would get interrupted by the authoritarian and harsh number sung by the police. The back-and-forth shouldn't have worked, the contrast was too much. Yet it did—and so well. Though as I left the theatre with my grandparents, I decided that I didn't like the show.
"Did you like it?" Nain asked the two boys on either side of her.
"I'm not sure why Jesus' name must be dragged into it. But it was done rather, hmm, tastefully," Granddad reluctantly said.
"I liked the music, but not the story. You?" I asked.
"Jesus had a lovely voice," Nain said, then laughed, "Didn't think I'd ever say a phrase like that."
"It's the Man! That's what it says here, and you should call him that, instead of the Lord's name," Granddad said, pointing at the collectible programme that cost us a pound.
"Right," Nain said with an eye-roll meant exclusively for my pleasure.
"You know we could do this for fun!" I said in sudden excitement.
"Do what? Use the Lord's name in vain?" Granddad scoffed.
"No, I mean that we review the shows we watch. I'd be happy to spend all my wages to watch every show open in West End. I've learned so much today. So we can go watch shows and at the end, you both give it a star review! We can write it all down and everything!" I let out as quickly as the ideas popped up in my mind.
"God, how many shows are even there? My knees would kill me," Granddad complained.
"Don't use the Lord's name in vain," Nain said with a soft slap on Granddad's arm.
Clive only shook his head. Women always won that fight; I had seen it with my Father and now with my Granddad. If I married in the future, could I ever win an argument with my wife? Evidence seemed to point to a big fat no.
"Sounds like a good idea, what are the rules?" Granddad said.
"Hmm, we give star reviews, one to five stars on different categories like acting, singing for the cast, orchestra and the score, lyrics and more. Then everything technical, like the staging, set design, costumes, et cetera! I can get Mad-Eye Maddie to print us a score sheet!" I said even as more methods and solutions arose.
"If we have to go to more of these shows, might as well do it." Nain said.
"Do you not like going to musicals?" I asked, my shoulders sagging.
Bringing people to something they didn't enjoy doing was not my idea of fun.
"No! It's fine, dear, we can watch more. I was just not a big fan of this…" She gestured to the Aldwych Theatre.
"Maybe we'll get our reviews posted in the Guardian, huh? That'll teach them," Granddad chuckled.
"We don't have to, but this will be a fun memory for us to look back on," I suggested.
"You don't have to convince me, free shows, count me in!" Granddad patted my shoulders.
"I suppose that giving a low rating to a bad show could prove to be cathartic," Nain said, seemingly unconvinced.
"Right!" I said loudly. "First category, cast! 1–5, rate them, think of casting, singing, and acting abilities. Could be even how they look or how they fit the role. Say your rating and brief reasoning. Mr. Price, you first!" I mimed an imaginary microphone over at him.
Granddad screwed his face, like he was struggling to remember the cast from a play he'd seen just ten minutes ago.
"Four stars. I've got no issues with anyone. But I heard the girl playing Swallow feed a line to the Man. Very embarrassing, that." Granddad shook his head.
"Nain?" I extended my microphone over to her.
She fussed with her hair, even pretending to open her powder mirror to make sure she was camera-ready.
"Ahem, three stars. The music was excellent, and the kids sang wonderfully, but the acting was weak all around. I would've given it two stars if it weren't for the singing."
"Okay," I nodded, "How about the music? It can include the arrangement, orchestral band, lyrics maybe even pacing of the songs."
"Oh, you won't get out of this without telling your own opinion. Man is to be trusted only when they state their opinions," Nain pressed.
"Three stars, I mostly agree with you. Also, the American accents were really bad. It's weird that the original was set in England then the film changed it to America, so it's still U.S again. So weird…" I complained.
"My dwtty bachgen has good taste and great observation!" Nain said sweeping me in a hug that made it difficult to walk straight.
"Okay — that's enough!" I said, pushing away from Gladys. "Ahem… next up, music! I'll go first this time since I went last before."
We walked quietly, my mind replaying the music from the show.
"Four stars, but there was a weird moment with the first song. Melody was straight from Jurassic Park!" I pointed out.
"Bloody hell, you might be right. It sounded so familiar, huh…" Granddad said in wonder.
"Of course I'm right. I'm great at the whole music thing," I said, puffing up my chest.
"Are you still doing this proud little song-and-dance? What did that record shop bloke even tell you?" Nain asked, incredulous.
"Just called him talented, that's all. Wilf's quick to pride, he is. God gave you a gift, but a bit of humbling wouldn't go amiss," Granddad advised.
"Because PRIDE is a SIN!" I said, at the same time as Granddad.
"You're a cheeky little sod," Granddad chuckled.
"Give me just this one thing, I won't ever brag about acting or anything else," I pleaded.
"Because you're not talented at those," Grandad muttered.
"What was that?" I asked sharply.
"Okay! My turn!" Nain cut us both off. "Four stars, really good songs. I love how romantic they are, even though I hate a love story with a teenager and an adult man. It's very pure though, you don't see that ever. Even in the bible." Nain laughed.
"Hmm… for me, it was a two-star performance. The way the first act ended and the second began — something went wrong there. Can't say what, though," Grandad said, much to my shock.
He had a point, I realized. Was it that the second act opened in such a forgettable way? A great song followed by a really basic song… It then made sense—the first act ended on a big number; it built up so much energy, just to be wasted by the intermission and then by how jarring the change of emotion that followed after was.
"Huh…" I said.
"Next is, technicals?" Nain asked.
"Five stars!" all three of us said at the same time.
"Well, that's as conclusive as that gets," Grandad laughed.
Choreography could've been better, but this show blew Dolittle out of the water by how creative the staging was. Seeing how great of an asset, a simple staging could be as a storytelling device was eye-opening. Thinking outside the box by doing horizontal and vertical splits of the stage was great, but the music and lyrics matched it perfectly to make it a whole experience.
"Right. We are the Wilfred Price Guardians, and we'll sell a critic review for a pound!" Grandad shouted at the night street.
"I know two customers," Nain said with a smile.
I committed everything to memory so I could write it all down later. As I looked back at the disappearing theatres of West End, I couldn't help but feel jealous of the cast of Whistle Down the Wind. There was more room for acting if I had joined that production instead of Dolittle, and there being so many child actors my age also intrigued me. I wondered what I would rate Dolittle in terms of it's musical numbers—would four stars be too much?
—✦—
Price's House of Critics, One Word Reviews:
Whistle Down the Wind (Aldwych Theatre)
Eliza: Forgettable ★★★★☆
Mr. Editor: Act-One! ★★★★☆
Cliff: BelieveInGodLikeSwallowDoes! ★★★☆☆
—✦—
Next up was Oklahoma!, playing at the Royal National Theatre across the Thames from the West End. I suggested we stroll along Waterloo Bridge from Shaftesbury Avenue, but my grandparents vetoed that idea. Instead, we took the tube to Waterloo Station and walked the rest of the way — though they still grumbled about the "long" walk.
The theatre itself reminded me of Hammersmith Apollo because the bridge loomed over it like the Hammersmith Flyover did over the Apollo. That was where all comparisons died—where the Apollo had the art deco style, the National Theatre was a concrete collection of rectangles built for brutal function.
The inside felt completely different from any other theatre we'd been to. No lavish Victorian or Edwardian décor, no classical pillars — nothing Greek or Roman. Instead, it resembled a futuristic amphitheatre. There was no proscenium arch, only a simple curved half-wall as the backdrop. Even stranger were the ceiling tiles: enormous modern rectangles tilted at odd angles. Supposedly it improved the acoustics, but I found it so distracting that it felt more like a flaw than a feature.
Lyceum and even the Aldwych had the similar wrap-around audience seats, but the National Theatre took it to the next level by only having two levels of seats in a more aggressive and wider curve. From where I was seated, it felt like the stage was in the completely wrong place and I was watching the show from a side angle.
All my complaints about the theatre vanished the moment the nonexistent curtains, projected onto the stage by a light, opened. The circular stage was set up so perfectly that it felt like peering into a snow globe containing a wheat field. A lone woman churned butter until Hugh Jackman walked in, radiating a cheery energy that could tire any British person. He sang about the beauty of the morning, and the joy in his voice — his infectious, happy-go-lucky mood — spread fully to the audience. I knew then that the song would be stuck in my head for weeks to come. It was better than coffee or sugar at shaking off laziness — that was how powerful it was.
The play seemed to walk towards a tragedy every single number after that, but most characters kept their happy and almost cartoonish attitude even through those moments. In fact, the only person on stage that captured the common dour Englishman was one of the only American actors on stage, Shuler Hensley. His character, Jud Fry, was portrayed as the villain who creepily longed for Laurey, the love interest. The love triangle played out on the stage in a more convincing way than it did with John Dolittle, Matthew Mugg, and Emma Fairfax. Unrequited love trope was turned on it's head by the unhealthy obsession that the creepy Jud had for Laurey. Photos he kept in his dark room showed a character so reprehensible yet one could pity.
The show had parts that made my grandparents laugh to no end. There were so many innuendos and jokes that an adult could enjoy while a child remained clueless. I got most of them thanks to the revelations, but it disgusted me more than made me laugh. Maybe I needed to hit puberty for it all to turn funny.
Oklahoma was simply so much better than Doctor Dolittle that I was ashamed the longer I watched. But even for how good it was, it had some frustrating things. I hated Laurey, the main love interest, because she was what you would call a gold digger—the comical way she shifted her interests just because of economic class infuriated me. It made me even more pissed off when she wanted to go back to Curly (Hugh Jackman) after discovering how bad Jud was. Yet, I couldn't even hate her that much because Curly wasn't all that good a character either. There was a number where Curly convinced Jud to commit suicide because it would make the townspeople appreciate him—if not in life, at least in death. That part was disturbing, comical, and intriguing all at the same time. Hensley's only solo, Lonely Room, was easily the best villain song I'd heard.
I knew everyone would love Hugh Jackman's performance, but the real standout for me was Hensley. His character was intriguing, despite his simplicity. Two other interesting characters were the Peddler and Aunt Eller — seemingly the only sane people in the show, who never made ridiculous mistakes. The comedy of the conman Peddler being utterly disgusted by the townspeople's chaotic and cartoonish behavior kept a silly grin on my face every time he appeared.
Wonders never stopped because the three lead actors ascended even more (literally) when they danced ballet in a dream/nightmare section. I had no idea Hugh Jackman could dance like that.Laurey's actress hadn't been a great singer and her casting made sense when she danced. She was a dancer and her pointe shoes had been put to good use.
I could already guess where the ratings would go, and I had no complaints other than how drawn out the ending was. It wasn't normal to sing the reprise three times, but I could forgive it.
—✦—
Price, Professional Critics, One Word, One Review:
Oklahoma! (Royal National Theatre)
Beth: Tasty! ★★★★★
Potter: Huge! ★★★★★
Clayton: BloodyHellNothingCanTopThat! ★★★★★
—✦—
We were wrong. Because we went to more shows after that, we had to start with the classics—the shows with the long staying power. The Cats and the Phantoms of the West End. Each time we saw the classic shows, we were taken aback and surprised. Every new musical I watched seemed to contextualize why Doctor Dolittle had mixed reviews. It made even more sense why it was set up in Hammersmith Apollo—a place more known for concerts than musical theatre. I was starting to doubt if I was even in a musical.
My journey through the West End opened my eyes to the golden standard by which theatre-goers judged every new musical. It calibrated my own barometer, allowing me to assess casts, productions, and arrangements in a more nuanced way. Even crowd reactions differed from place to place — one show could have people laughing at every line of dialogue or lyric, while another could be as silent as a graveyard.
I realized that I hadn't truly seen a crowd love a show until I saw Oklahoma!. Phantom and Cats only confirmed it further. Our reviews didn't exactly match the enthusiasm we felt for Oklahoma!, but I think that's because our tastes evolved and our standards changed. Yesterday's five-star review became today's four-star. I could see myself becoming a harsher critic the more great shows I watched.
And that was exactly as it should be.
—✦—
Reviews for Price, Charged per Word:
Rent (Shaftesbury Theatre)
Mary: Weird. ★★★★☆
Mr. Landlord: U.S.A! ★★★★☆
JustWriteCliveBecauseICantBeBothered: ChristiansDontWatch ★☆☆☆☆
—✦—
Welsh Society of Critics United:
The Phantom of the Opera (Her Majesty's Theatre)
Poppins: Chandelier! ★★★★★
Mr. English: Phantom! ★★★★☆
Clive!: ThatWasAlright. ★★★★☆
—✦—
After seeing so many good shows and classics, I had this nagging sensation that I just couldn't shake off. More plays I watched, more I couldn't put it off. So I spoke to Mad-Eye Maddie, who reluctantly went over to talk to the Front of House at Hammersmith to get me free tickets to my own show. I had spent a hundred pounds on each show I went to watch, and I received a lesson worth at least that much in return.
I had learned something and it kept repeating over and over in my mind—a fact that I simply couldn't deny anymore. Gilles had told me before he'd left for France. I had read the reviews, but before I had seen those shows, it was all just words to me. Words are but wind and all that.
In the same vein, theatre had just been a job to me. A place where I could learn the skills I could use for the real challenge, films. But somewhere in the last few weeks I had become a devotee of theatre, a fan of the greats. Oklahoma! was easily my favourite, yet every other show I'd seen was more tightly orchestrated, better staged, more finely composed and directed than Doctor Dolittle.
I had to find out for myself.
So I saw the show. The one I was in.
It was a matinee being performed by none other than James in my stead. Rest of the cast were all the principal actors for the role. It was as good as watching myself perform would be.
The next three hours were agonising. The experience opened my eyes to the truth, I kept refusing to accept. My breathing had hitched as I stayed in my seat watching the show—the musical numbers that seemed so simple and amateurish, the choreography so basic that Primary schoolers can perform. Worst of all was also the best thing about the show—the one that everyone kept gushing about when talking about Dolittle.
The animals stole the show, literally. Creature Shop by Jim Henson had built for us a menagerie of animatronic animals so lifelike in their movement. The show's true colour was revealed to me. The colour of plastic and synthetic fur; wires and radio signals inside. No human emotions or hidden depths—nothing that I could discuss in passion with my grandparents for hours on end after a show.
This time, I didn't ask my grandparents for their review. I knew they'd give it five stars, they were nice like that. But that wouldn't mean anything to me.
This review I had to write for myself.
This review, I would keep to myself.
Wilfred Ingrid Price's Review:
Doctor Dolittle (Labatt's Hammersmith Apollo)
Cast: ★★☆☆☆ Only John Rawnsley and Peter Gallagher can act convincingly.
Music: ★★☆☆☆ Leslie Bricusse hasn't learned anything in thirty years. As dull as music can be. Rex Harrison's spoken-through style is antiquated and wastes the cast's talent. You must change with the times or you'll be left behind.
Technicals: ★★☆☆☆ All the stars are for the late Jim Henson and the crew who doesn't deserve my harsh criticism.