The Daily Telegraph
Friday, February 5, 1993, p15
The Arts: The stinker of Sherwood THEATRE Charles Spencer on a doomed farrago of a musical based on the legend of Robin Hood
By CHARLES SPENCER
THE producer Bill Kenwright is charging adults a tenner and children a fiver for the new "family" musical Robin - Prince of Sherwood at the Piccadilly Theatre. This seems generous until you actually sit through the show. Then you realise that it is the management that ought to be paying the audience. A hundred pounds wouldn't persuade me to visit this doomed farrago for a second time. Kenwright is usually the canniest of impresarios and, as the show's relentlessly pappy pop assaults the eardrums, you find yourself wondering what strange aberration led him to present this show to the West End after trying it out not once (which should have been enough for anyone) but twice in the regions. Only the most elaborate conspiracy theory will do. It's my belief that Kenwright was kidnapped by a dangerous group of Norwegian nationalists who put him into a hypnotic trance, during which he was told that he must bring Robin - Prince of Sherwood to the Piccadilly. Only in this way could Norway's honour be saved, for Robin is, incredibly, even worse than the notorious Norwegian fiasco Which Witch that caused so much unnecessary grief at the same theatre before Christmas. As Robin Hood himself repeatedly reminds us in his theme song, "There's a hero that lives in us all" and large reserves of courage are indeed needed to survive the show. The pre-publicity promised a cross between the Mad Max films and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which sounded an entertaining prospect. The reality is glummer - the production values put one in mind of a second-rate provincial pantomime, with a drab little set and costumes straight out of The Art of Coarse Acting. Kenwright is also directing - this may be another cunning ploy by the Norwegian hypnotists, or perhaps he couldn't find anyone else rash enough to take on the job. At all events, inspiration appears to have failed him. You'd think it would be hard to go far wrong with an exciting story like Robin Hood, but buckle and swash are conspicuous by their absence, the stage looks underpopulated even with the addition of picturesquely ragged urchins from the Sylvia Young Theatre School, and dramatic tension and even dramatic clarity are at a premium. At times the show seems like little more than a pop concert in fancy dress. As rock-pop musicals go, I suppose the songs - by Rick Fenn and Peter Howarth - aren't too terrible but originality is in woefully short supply. Almost every number sounds like crude pastiche, ranging from heavy metal to power ballads, from Beach Boys harmonies to Madonna-like disco. Occasionally, the lyrics take a plucky shot at humour, but they usually miss it: "I'm the Sheriff of Nottingham / What a rat I am / And I don't give a damn" is about as close as this show gets to verbal sophistication. As Robin Hood and Maid Marion, Mike Holoway and Liz Curnick are blessed with strong voices, though both seem to have undergone a personality bypass operation. Anne Smith is quite fun in her conical-Madonnical bondage gear as the wicked witch Morgana, though the show's obsession with witchcraft, devilry and kinky sex (there's even a trio of blonde punkettes called the Sisters of Sodom) make this a distasteful show for children. The co-author of the songs, Peter Howarth, does at least have the decency to put them over with energy as the Sheriff of Nottingham. It's just a shame that with his lank hair and silly little beard he looks more like a Seventies pomp-rock star than a malevolent villain. The best performances of the evening come with the curtain calls, however, when a beaming, triumphant cast act as if they have a huge hit on their hands. In this I fear they are mistaken, but their pluck in presenting so lamentable a show with every appearance of good humour proves that Robin is right about one thing - there's a hero that lives in them all.
(Article courtesy of Heidi Tandy)