I arrived at Sadler’s Wells to see Matthew Bourne’s The Midnight Bell with no particular expectations, as I had not seen it before and had read no previous reviews. At first I concentrated on working out what was going on and who was who, until I realised that this show is not made around an over-arching storyline. Instead, there are vignettes showing the relationships among the clientele of a smoky pub in Soho and its immediate environs, and these are so compelling that one quickly stops noticing the absence of a narrative format.
Based (somewhat loosely) on Patrick Hamilton’s Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky trilogy, but moderating the dark bleakness of the novels with small glimmers of hope and sweetness, Bourne’s masterly theatrical eye and his genius for bringing together brilliant collaborators combine to create an atmospheric world in which we quickly become immersed. It’s the 1930s, times are hard, and our group of diverse characters have one thing in common: they drown their sorrows in drink. Each is looking for love, and each faces the equally thrilling and devastating effects of love.
Cole Porter’s lovely What is This Thing Called Love is part of the soundtrack (in a recording sung by Leslie Hutchinson and mimed, as are all the songs, by the dancers) and the lyrics sum up Bourne’s intentions to a tee. As the characters develop one sees in them people one knows, experiences one has had, novels one has read, films one has seen: a lonely spinster pairs with a cad, a waiter is loved by a barmaid but he is in love with a prostitute, a West-End chorus boy loves a fear-filled policeman, an out-of-work actress dangles an older man, and so on and so on, down the centuries of human experience.
There’s original music by Terry Davies, interspersed by much-loved classic songs performed (on record) by leading performers of the day. The dancers miming to these is a concept that works unexpectedly well. Lez Brotherston, as always, has designed a clever set that transitions smoothly, almost unnoticeably, from one location to the next, and it is all subtly lit by Paule Constable, darkness softened by shafts of light, reflecting the lives of the characters.
As for the cast, all the superlatives apply. They are all without exception top-class dance-actors, embodying their characters and projecting their inner emotions out into the auditorium so that we share every moment of tragedy or ecstasy. Dominic North as the waiter enlivened his yearning for Jenny the prostitute with sparky humour; Ashley Shaw brought pathos to Jenny the prostitute; Michela Meazza tugged at the heartstrings as the lonely spinster. Andrew Monaghan and Liam Mower, in their partnership as the homosexual couple tormented by the norms and laws of the time, were simply outstanding. It is all, too, immaculately rehearsed down to the last detail.
The Midnight Bell has, choreographically, more in common with Bourne’s early Play Without Words than with his later idiosyncratic versions of the classics, but it’s no less effective than those major successes, and without the need to follow a particular narrative Bourne has produced some of his best choreography, loose and free-flowing but tense with desire and mixed with dread. The dancers’ movements in and out of permutations and combinations work with lucid fluidity, and there some interesting lifts and arresting shapes. Bourne mixes the best elements of musical theatre with a film noir atmosphere; it’s like Casablanca mixed with Sweet Charity. I was reminded of a show I loved from the early 2000s, Susan Stroman’s Contact. Do go and see The Midnight Bell; I can’t imagine anyone finding nothing at all to relate to.
