In the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890), Oscar Wilde wrote: “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.”
The same might apply to contemporary musical adaptations of well-known literary classics where the book and the score are key to the success of the creative endeavour. Sadly, in Dorian the Musical, the book and the score are just too badly written to engage the audience.
The show is the latest offering from theatre company Ruby in the Dust. Written and directed by Linnie Reedman, with music and lyrics by Joe Evans, the company reframe Wilde’s deeply philosophical take on the relationship between art, life and morality, as a rock musical. In their take, Dorian becomes a young rock star struggling with the pressures of fame and social media.
As a concept this was always going to be a challenge to pull off.
There is some talent in the cast – notably strong singing from Megan Hill and Gabrielle Lewis-Dodson. The latter also delivers moments of nuance and depth in the beefed-up role of the disillusioned wife of self-proclaimed hedonist Lord Henry Wootton, here renamed Harry. But the production is ultimately doomed by a muddled script and mediocre music.
The decision to shift Dorian into the role of artist rather than artist’s muse does nothing to bring the character’s internal conflict into focus. Rendering Dorian as a more dynamic character weakens the fatal narcissism of the protaganist which ultimately leads to his downfall.
In the original novel, the stakes are high. Despite its dark gothic humour, there is a tragic momentum at the heart of the work which compels the action forward to its inevitable conclusion. This contemporary reset repositions Dorian’s struggle to reconcile his individual desires with society’s moral expectations as little more than a quest for social media popularity. Consequently Alfie Friedman, who plays Dorian, portrays him merely as a petulant youth, rather than the tortured, guilt-stricken figure of Wilde’s novel.
Like the rest of the performers, Friedman is hampered by a production that can’t make up its mind on what it wants to be. The script swings between a laboured formality that poorly imitates Wilde’s original language and a modern informality that is reminiscent of a soap opera. This results in odd moments where Wilde’s wittiest epigrams such as “there is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about” are juxtaposed with throw away lines like “do you think I’m weird?”. It’s jarring, to say the least.
Sadly, the music does little to aid the struggling cast. We are only five minutes in when a power ballad strikes up, but the exposition has a long way to go, so it feels entirely out of place. This is followed by a series of instantly forgettable “rock” numbers which nod to Cabaret and The Greatest Showman, but utterly fail to convey any of the emotion they hint at.
Characters appear from nowhere and are almost instantly killed off. The relationship between Dorian and Sybil Vane, the young actress he loves and brutally discards, lasts all of five minutes from her first entrance to her death. Basil Hallward (the painter of the titular portrait), is strangled by Dorian, only to get up and walk off as the devil appears to answer Dorian’s crucial question, “have I sold my soul?”, with an inscrutable wave of his hand.
The overall impression is less an exploration of a descent into debauchery and decadence, and more stage school musical. But perhaps what is most missing is wit or humour. Given that we are, after all, in the orbit of perhaps the most well-known wit of all, Oscar Wilde, one might reasonably expect a touch of sparkle. But at Southwark Playhouse we were all in the gutter, staring bleakly down the drain.
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Gill Foster does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
