A Chorus Line at Sadler’s Wells review: a glorious parade of scintillating songs and snappy dance numbers

Legwarmers ahoy! The quintessential 1970s Broadway musical returns to London in all its gutsy, schmaltzy glory.

A Chorus Line upholds the long tradition of metatheatrical self-love in the American musical but subverts the narrative of earlier shows like 42nd Street, focusing not on a rise to stardom but on the struggles of the supporting dance corps.

Director Nikolai Foster and choreographer Ellen Kane faithfully serve the democratic ideals of the writers, and lightly update the original vision of Michael Bennett, who conceived and directed the 1975 production with Bob Avian as his co-choreographer. It’s a glorious parade of scintillating songs and snappy dance numbers.

Though the book, by James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante, now sounds hackneyed, it was radical for its time as the melting-pot ensemble discuss sexuality, unhappy home lives and plastic surgery (“t*ts and ass” as the number Dance: Ten; Looks: Three has it).

Marvin Hamlisch’s score and Edward Kleban’s lyrics are richer than I remember from the last West End revival in 2013, though the high-stepping, hat-tipping signature number One does tend to dominate. I’ve had it in my head since I left the theatre.

We’re looking at the stage of a big Broadway theatre, bare apart from a bank of riser platforms, an arc of upstage mirrors, and a scaffold tower concealing the excellent band.

(Marc Brenner)

Here director Zach (Adam Cooper, looking like a member of the Malfoy clan who’s made bad life choices) puts a gaggle of wannabes through some gruelling paces. Not just dance steps: he asks them to tell him about their inner lives in a bid to become part of an eight-strong chorus.

A roving camera – increasingly the go-to tool for a director who wants to add a modern twist to a well-worn product – projects interior monologues and blurted confessions onto a screen. Some are comic: one young woman can’t sing, another is only four foot ten.

But sometimes dancerly swagger covers tougher stories: the double-life of gay Puerto Rican Paul (Manuel Pacific), the graft that slinky Sheila (Amy Thornton) puts into being a “chorus cutie” over the age of 30. A subplot, about the fraught prior relationship between Cassie (Carly Mercedes Dyer) and Zach feels unbelievably hokey.

The show is laced with bittersweetness, the sheer physical joy of dancing ranked against the brutality of auditions, injuries and unemployment. Where the opening number I Hope I Get It reeks of raw desperation, At the Ballet swooningly captures the escapist magic of dance.

Two numbers, Nothing and What I Did For Love, sew the two strands together, thanks in large part to the pristine voice of Jocasta Almgill as Diana.

There’s fine comic work from Chloe Saunders as Val, Toby Seddon as Bobby and Bradley Delarosbel as Gregory. But really, this is about the collective rather than the individuals, all working towards the gold-spangled, tailcoats-and-top-hats finale. Here we go again. “One…. Singular sensation…”