Behind the Iron Mask
Duchess Theatre, London

Austin Williams
posted 5 August 2005

The preview performance of Behind the Iron Mask promised 'a dramatic new musical… a powerful tale of confinement, passion and freedom.' All three were much in evidence, however they were predominantly the preserve of the audience. Our sense of freedom from our tortured confinement in the Duchess Theatre led to passionate debate afterwards, with bemused theatregoers ready to talk with strangers to try to come to terms with what we had all witnessed. Ironically, the huge billboard of The Producers smiled down on us from across the street - a play about a catastrophically bad theatre production that is saved by intermittent moments of unintentional hilarity.

Loosely base on the Dumas novel, the scene for most of the play is a jail in which a man, condemned to captive life in an iron mask, spends his remaining days. Surrounded by luxury items from his previous life - that we learn nothing about - he is nonetheless a little peeved that his freedom of movement is hampered by the prison bars and the iron contraption around his bonce. His only companion, a drunken servant who shows fraternal compassion for his charge's plight, reminds us that he is still under a higher duty to execute the masked man if word should ever get out about his existence.

Enter a gypsy girl, played by ex-Three Degrees lead-singer and anglophile American, Sheila Ferguson. She plays a Carmen Jones-style character who walks a fine line between inciting lust and rage in her admirers. Ferguson's moments on stage introduce some acting ability and much needed vocal professionalism - albeit cabaret-style - into the proceedings. She has a powerful voice, but needs to use it sparingly. Similarly, her 'featured' gypsy dance, while adequate, never went beyond the uncomfortable impression of drunken aunties dancing to Shakin' Stevens at Christmas family get-togethers.

This review relates to the production during 'preview' week but what I witnessed was one of the most aimless, tuneless, thoughtless musical experiences of recent times, and subsequent developments indicate that things did not improve. It was announced today that the show will close on 20 August, after less than a month. Not a moment too soon.

The stage-set design, the overall production values, the acting and the dialogue, are verging on the laughable. When one's opening number is sung by a man with his head in a bucket, one has to win the audience's sympathies pretty quickly to quickly allow them to suspend belief. However, Robert Fardell (the masked man) fails to compensate for the inability of the audience to see his facial expressions by a more physical performance. His drama tends to be expressed by walking round and round the bed. His vocal performance is wooden and is conducted for a large part of the time with his back to the audience, singing in a Michael Crawford-esque falsetto, presumably as homage to the Phantom - that other masked musical star. On two occasions, Sheila Ferguson is obliged to change costume, and the remaining two actors - as well as the audience - sit uncomfortably waiting for her to return. If this were on the Edinburgh fringe, things would have been thrown.

Different musical styles are used with abandon; some more in keeping with the 17th century period piece, some to cater for Sheila Ferguson's strong pop vocals. But suffice to say that not having one single memorable tune doesn't bode well for the longevity of this West End musical. Indeed, the music is wantonly tuneless. The lyrics are embarrassingly repetitive and Mark McKerracher (the servant) gets the only decent song of the night. It was the same song that the masked man had sung, indicating that the mask is a metaphor for hidden lives and ambiguous emotions. Geddit?

There are certain rules to this genre that have served it well over the years: minor key emotionalism, gradual crescendos, key-change bridges, dramatic duets, the show-stopper, etc, each one gratuitously absent from this production. For example, ending a duet in a West End theatre on a discordant chord, rather than the classically emotional high C suggests, to be kind, a little bit of over-ambition. At worst, it is comical. Audience members were shuffling uneasily and smiling - or smirking - as yet another un-hummable 'tune' drifted out from under the tin hat.

As I lost interest in proceedings, I contented myself with recognising that Fardell's vocal inflections reminded me of the young Rodney Bewes and I mused about how he kept the bucket on when it clearly was held on with a strap and Velcro (which actually came undone in this performance, raising a titter.) More disconcertingly, when he turned sideways, the iron mask reminded me of Guy the Gorilla. Love songs sung by a metal monkey destroyed the last vestige of compassion I had for the characters - and the actors.

John Robinson, credited with the music lyrics and original idea, shows little regard for the conventions of musical theatre. Obviously, there is something to be said for subverting conventions, but here, it has clearly not been done in a conscious, structured and purposeful manner and ends up with all the artistic merit of a Crackerjack finale.

Till 20 August 2005