There were many happy incidents at the Shaftesbury last night, not least the huge overnight success of Leanne Jones from Romford, Essex, as Tracy Turnblad.

Romford and showbusiness? An unlikely connection, and Leanne certainly ups the ante on other famously dour Romfordians as playwright David Eldridge and snooker champ Steve “Mr Interesting” Davis.

In the interval, choreographer Anthony van Laast was happily reunited with old friend novelist Deborah Moggach; film director John “Shakespeare in Love” Madden told me that he was editing his new Elmore Leonard movie; playwright Mark Ravenhill bridled when I suggested his recent Guardian column seemed to advocate less critical space for fluffy stuff like Hairspray.

And producer Nick Allott — hobbling much better these days after his ski-ing accident — introduced me to his delightful PA Misty (she can PA Misty for me any time she likes) as a feminine version of AA Gill (I thought we had that one already). 
 
Great relief all round, I imagine, that the Times critic Benedict Nightingale’s more-or-less rave review (you never know with Ben: his “rave review” of Mark Ravenhill’s most famous play was really a case of “Shopping and Fence-Sitting”) corroborates the programme announcement that “The Times is proud to play the role of media partner for the wonderful stage show of Hairspray.”

Critics are always placed in an invidious position when their employers enter the backing show business. Whatsonstage itself was a partner in the recent Perfect Pitch festival at the Gatehouse in Highgate, and the organisers have taken exception to some of my disobliging remarks. I’m afraid they’ll just have to live with them.

The most acute example of conflicting interests was when the late, great Lord Drogheda was chairman of both Covent Garden and the Financial Times in its glory days. There used to be the most enormous ructions when the FT music critic Andrew Porter put the boot into a Royal Opera production — not helped by the fact that his sister used to be the ROH Press offficer, too — but Drogheda always stood by his FT man and so they all, somehow, rubbed along.

What was interesting about the Hairspray first night was how the entire aristocracy of British entertainment, across the board, seemed to be there, from Judi Dench to Cameron Mackintosh, from Arlene Phillips to novelist William Boyd.

A big show with a big future is often easy to gauge in this way on a first night. Griff Rhys Jones was there, of course, to support the revelatory performance of Mel Smith, and so was Ben Elton, touchingly sandwiched in the fifth row between Lord and Lady Lloyd-Webber.

Andrew only ever turns up in a shirt these days — a really nice shirt, natch — but a bit of a giveaway to the worrying likelihood of him never getting any fresh air in his hectic schedule. One of the touching things about the maestro (most of whose scores, incidentally, are ten times more daring and original than Hairspray’s) is that he seems to have forgotten how to walk; when he does so, he places one foot in front of another with the tentativeness of a man landing on the moon. 

The standing ovation was instant and unforced. Hairspray reminds you that going to the theatre should primarily be about having a really good time. And although Michael Ball must have had a few scary “Kismet” moments with all that pink going on around him, this really was one of his finest couple of hours. Hell, he even manages to turn the fat old laundry drudge into Ginger Rogers at the finale!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 31st, 2007 at 1:08 pm and is filed under Michael Coveney. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.