Our next review of 'That Day We Sang' comes from 'The Telegraph' and was written by Dominic Cavendish.
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Victoria Wood's story of the enduring power of music is moving and delightful
“Nymphs and shepherds, come away, come away…” trilled the Manchester School
Children’s Choir that long-ago day of June 18 1929. Those 250 working-class
kids, accompanied by the Hallé
Orchestra and recorded for posterity at the Free Trade Hall, could
hardly guess at the bacchanalian subtext of those bucolic lines – written by
the poet Thomas Shadwell and set to music by Henry Purcell in 1692. More
than that, though, they could hardly realise what that moment might mean to
them in later years, transported far from the Arcadian land of early youth.
Victoria
Wood’s play with music – first
seen as part of the Manchester International Festival in 2011 and
revived by director Sarah Frankcom in a fine new production – should come
with an advisory: you may need a stiff drink and a good sob afterwards.
The structure of the evening is rudimentary but effective. A 1969 TV
documentary covering the 40th anniversary reunion of the surviving members
of the choir acts as an opportunity for two diffident unfulfilled loners –
Tubby and Enid - to hook up, and intrudes the past upon the present. The
show offers a spot of romantic fairy-tale uplift while urging the virtues of
reconnecting with your younger self. Echoing Dean Andrews’ forlorn insurance
salesman, Anna Francolini’s pent-up secretary sings over a restless
undulation of piano music: “Did I sing? Where is that bright-eyed child?”
As you’d expect from Wood, there are chirpy jokes at the expense of passing
fads and social pretensions. An early scene features a marital spat about a
box of Matchmakers and there’s a whole song devoted to Berni Inn
steakhouses. Her turn of phrase remains a delight: “We don’t wear hobnail
boots to a party”, advises the choir-mistress Gertrude (Kelly Price),
insisting the children (brought to gambolling life by means of three
rotated, 25-strong choirs of locals) sing with an RP accent. “It’s not
exactly Roman Holiday, is it?” remark the awkward, almost-courting couple as
they meet in Piccadilly Gardens.
The humour reinforces the poignancy, though, rather than diminishing it. The
star of the night is a scampish lad called Jimmy, played at the opening
performance by the winning William Haresceugh (one of three to take the
juvenile-lead role). He dodges his furiously disapproving mother, cheeks the
conductor and generally brims over with boyish euphoria. Hold on to that
spirit, kid, you think with a sigh. Hold on to it.
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