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FEET OF FLAMES IGNITES LONDON

by Nelson Hoodwinkle

Come on, Michael, light my fire.

This modified lyric surely was on the mind of every woman impatiently awaiting the start of Feet of Flames last Saturday night at Hyde Park. And Michael Flatley, ever the consummate showman, delivered the goods in rapturous style – his much anticipated finale turned out to be an inferno which he stoked to a white-hot brilliance that dazzled even the most seasoned of his fans. If Flatley wanted to finalise his phenomenal dancing career by going out in a blaze of glory, he couldn’t have done it any better.

Describing Feet of Flames to someone who wasn’t there is like describing the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling to a blind man – no matter how conscientious and facile the teller, words alone fail to do it justice. A mere rendering of every colour and movement and sound gives but a pale impression of the overall impact of this lavish and staggering production. Whilst a few outstanding moments existed in the show, Feet of Flames was a perfect example of synergy in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Nevertheless, we shall try to convey some of the delights in this unprecedented, once-in-a-lifetime event. Where better to start than at the beginning where Flatley and his production team showed they had style to burn. Since the show was presumably Flatley’s grand finale, how appropriate it was to set the stage with a recapitulation of his unbroken string of sold out performances throughout the world. As venues and cities flashed by at an accelerating tempo on the giant video screens, one had to feel a sense of both anticipation and sadness that this man’s incredible journey soon would come to an end.

Any twinges of melancholia were quickly dispelled, however, when The Man himself appeared on the screens entering the backstage area. Predictably, ecstatic screams filled the cool night air, and Flatley responded by leaping for a kick seemingly inches away from the camera. Like the prizefighter he aspires to be, Flatley pranced about as if to say: OK, guys, I’m here and ready to go the distance.

And go the distance he did. Feet of Flames carried on for two continuous hours, for the most part flowing by seamlessly. In a nutshell, the show was Lord of the Dance in overdrive, turbocharged with eight new routines (five songs and three dances), flashy costumes, stunning sets, touches of humour, and a helluva lot more of Michael Flatley than ever before.

The show started off with a bang. "Cry of the Celts" was a blockbuster opening which featured Flatley’s fittingly larger-than-life silhouette on a large translucent curtain. He was prancing like a boxer again, raring to start Round One and throw a few jabs at the complacent, predominantly British audience. Bolstered by his vibrant troupe, he succeeded in landing enough blows to soften up thousands of stiff upper lips. And he was just warming up.

Apparently, so was his arch nemesis, Don Dorcha, played by Daire Nolan. If Flatley was Evander Holyfield, Nolan was Mike Tyson. The Field Marshal of the Fascist Foot Stompers clearly relished his bad boy image – and his appalling wardrobe. Gaudily attired in silver, black and purple, he had the audacity to don a long, flowing cape which made him look like Batman’s evil twin. He even kept it on for "The Duel." Instead of compromising his aerodynamics, however, the cape seemed to confer added powers as Nolan scored a convincing and surprising knockdown of our heroic Lord (thankfully, without biting his ears).

The Dark Lord’s army of Warriors made a fashion statement of their own with indigo outfits highlighted by velour camouflage trousers. One would assume that such uniforms could come in handy for combat in a purple forest – perhaps to hunt down and kill Barney the Dinosaur. In a prelude to Steven Spielberg’s upcoming D-Day epic, "Saving Private Ryan," the Warriors did a fair imitation of the Big Red One’s invasion of Omaha Beach by disgorging from a pair of unicorn-panels-turned-ramps. Apparently, virtue is no prerequisite for flair, however dubious.

Not surprisingly, the Colleens made an even greater fashion statement with revolving-door wardrobe changes. Resplendent in bright blue over-one-shoulder dresses in "COTC," they switched to pastel-coloured chiffon gowns for "Celtic Dream," then to quasi-feis dresses for "Breakout," and finally to well-ventilated black and red numbers for "Lord of the Dance." And this was only during the first half.

Who says that dancers get to have all the fun? Soprano Anne Buckley, as Erin the Goddess, displayed her impossibly svelte figure with a spectacular trio of form-fitting gowns that would have made Diana proud. As it did for our late princess, a tiara perfectly complemented Buckley’s divine stature. While she sang on the runway in front of the stage, there was the obvious comparison to a beauty pageant – with Buckley as Miss Planet Ireland, perhaps?

Apparently deciding that Erin had grown a bit lonely, Flatley gave her some male company with an abbey-full of monks straight from the album cover of "Gregorian Chant." Fleshy, phlegmatic and completely lacking in sartorial imagination, these darkly brooding gentlemen were the perfect foil for Buckley’s glamour. They did, however, impress in "High Priests" – a sort of Druids-Meet-Dr. Dre hip-hop number – and "Hell’s Kitchen," where their background chanting would have spooked Satan himself.

Flatley’s two leading ladies, Bernadette Flynn (Saoirse the Good Girl) and Gillian Norris (Morrighan the Bad Girl), never looked so good or so bad, respectively. Flynn was mesmerizing in a black and white, two-piece, sequined, innocent-yet-sexy outfit in "Saoirse," an ethereally beautiful solo danced to a song performed by Flatley on the flute. Not to be outdone by her virtuously nubile counterpart, Norris slinked and slithered her way through "Fiery Nights" and into men’s hearts with a four alarm pink and black catsuit complete with arm length gloves and stiletto heels. At that point, Feet of Flames became unmistakably hotter.

The 84-strong troupe were at their very best in "Planet Ireland," the show’s pièce de resistance. It was time to pull out all the stops, utilise every trick in the book, go for all the gusto. Dressed in shimmering silver jumpsuits, the dancers looked as if they’d stepped out from a Flash Gordon movie. The coup de grâce was two elevating platforms behind Flatley’s chorus line – one higher than the other – that produced a kind of grand two-step stairway to heaven, with a giant Irish tricolour as background. With a long line of intrepid dancers on the catwalk, the troupe formed four tiers of the most adrenaline-pumping, foot-stomping, mind-boggling spectacle this side of Mercury. And you thought that planet was hot.

As both conductor and soloist of the concerto known as Lord of the Dance, Michael Flatley has shared his beautiful music with millions throughout the world. Despite the show’s brilliant ensemble work, however, what this reviewer will remember most from Saturday’s performance are Flatley’s two virtuoso cadenzas: "Whistling Wind" and "Feet of Flames." The latter, especially, echoes in the mind as loudly as his lightning-fast feet pounded on the runway in front of the stage. Dancing alone and with no music to accompany him, Michael Flatley showed us his soul – and gave us his dream.

After the final firecracker exploded and the last of the dancers had left, a single spotlight illuminated a small object on the stage. It was hard to see with the naked eye, but the video screens showed clearly what had been left behind as a poignant yet fitting farewell gesture. They were Michael’s shoes. Only this time, he wasn’t wearing them.
 

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