There’s some professionalism to the way Zorro the Musical, a spoofy version of the Californian swordsman’s story is executed. But how something so conceptually stupid and wrong-headed got this far is a mystery.
Sure, the Gipsy Kings’ music has already been traduced by a bazillion buskers. They still didn’t have to choose to give permission for hits like Bamboleo and Djobi Djoba to be crowbarred into John Cameron’s soapy “co-composition”, with its fridge-magnet lyrics by writer Stephen Clark. The estimable Helen Edmundson shares a credit with Clark for the story. Unless this could earn her serious cash in some way, she should have it taken off.
A young cast of actor-musician-flamenco dancers clatter enthusiastically through a tale that’s jokily slapdash one minute, breast-beatingly po-faced the next. They bring more polish to the show than it deserves. There are more Hispanic clichés than you can shake a castanet at. Everyone uses clotted, terrible accents.
The swordfights – apart from a final, ambidextrous duel – are scanty and scrappy, even though the programme lists a “flaming sword designer”, a job title I now seriously crave. Rosa Maggiora, who is responsible for set and costumes, and fight director Renny Krupinski, both have solid track records and reputations. Producer John Gertz has worked on many Zorro projects including the Antonio Banderas films of 1998 and 2005. Why didn’t he, or someone, rein in director Christian Durham long before this mess blundered into contact with an audience? Why?
Created in 1919 but located in Spanish Los Angeles between 1781 and 1821, dashing vigilante Zorro was a pulpy predecessor to later masked heroes, his story adapted and altered countless times. Clark’s version is set in 1805 and imagines brothers Diego and Ramon as rivals for the affection of their father – the mayor, Don Alejandro - and their childhood friend Luisa. When Ramon seizes brutal control of the LA Pueblo in adulthood, the feckless, prodigal Diego becomes Zorro with the help of his picturesque gypsy friends. He wants a red cape but is advised: “Black is more slimming.”
What this set-up means in practice is a lot of absurd scampering among sword blades, lots of scenes of peasants jubilantly hoiking grain sacks and crates around before they’re inevitably whipped into submission, and lots of operatically thwarted love. Benjamin Purkiss is simperingly unimpressive as Diego/Zorro, while Alex Gibson-Giorgio’s Ramon is a roaring psychopath, apparently unconcerned whether he gets to marry or murder Paige Fenlon’s full-throated but two-dimensional Luisa. Whatever.
Meanwhile, Phoebe Panaretos saunters effectively through the action, flashing eyes and thighs as Roma temptress Inez. She delivers the Gipsy King earworms with aplomb and has some funny scenes with Marc Pickering’s comically spineless Sergeant Garcia. These moments aren’t great in themselves. They’re overacted and overblown. But still better than the mix of triviality and honking self-importance that makes up the rest of the show. Zorro? Zero, more like.
