Famous for many things, not least Carol Channing playing the title role more than 5,000 times, “Hello, Dolly!” is, happily, one of Broadway’s brashest, splashiest star vehicles whose relative lack of subtlety is heralded by the title’s exclamation point. Purists seeking yet another rehash of Gower Champion’s original blueprint may consider London’s hotly anticipated revival as more of a case of “Hello, Dolly?” No-one expected plush glamor to be replaced by honesty and sincerity but that’s what a strikingly tender cast, led by a marvelously no-nonsense Imelda Staunton, delivers in director Dominic Cooke’s increasingly joy-filled rethink.
The production’s scale is immediately evident in the gleam of the overture as played by Nicholas Skilbeck’s lustrous, 21-piece band, the largest — by some distance — currently being heard in London. That’s followed by a stage filled with townsfolk. The production boasts an eye-widening cast of 31, not including swings, and here they all are racing around, powered by Dolly’s opening number. But instead of “I Put My Hand In,” Imelda Staunton is hurling herself into the movie’s opener “Just Leave Everything To Me.”
It’s a signal of Cooke’s approach. He’s adding to Michael Stewart’s book by raiding not just the movie but dialogue from Thornton Wilder’s 1954 play “The Matchmaker.” This is clearly less an attempt to “improve” the show than a way of deepening the characters’ dimensions to make it work in a fresh approach in a town far less wedded to the original since the show has far less performance history here. And given that composer-lyricist Jerry Herman himself meddled with it, swapping in songs when Ethel Merman took over (and more), it’s hardly a case of desecrating a sacred text.
Not that the changes affect the actual story. The differences are mostly tonal, and Cooke’s cast feasts upon the added texture. That’s clearest of all in the relationship between Jenna Russell’s beautifully played Irene Molloy and Harry Hepple’s wonderfully light-touch Cornelius Hackl. Russell is Rolls Royce casting. Ever alive to comedy potential, her truthful open-heartedness makes “Ribbons Down My Back” a portrait of an older woman’s banked-down hope finding release that’s startlingly moving.
Lean, bright-eyed Hepple can, and does, cut capers but he never overplays Cornelius’ youthful exuberance. His vocal assurance means he’s winningly relaxed so audiences lean into him. He never resorts to over-display in order to show his character’s comic desperation. As a result, the nicely directed farcical comedy in the hat shop is fun but, crucially, his May-December relationship with Irene makes unusual sense.
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With its hugely wide and but narrow performing area — the Palladium has London’s second largest seating capacity but was built as a variety house, not a theater with a deep stage — designer Rae Smith has a tricky task. She finds ways to provide a streetcar like the trolley-car in “Meet Me In St. Louis,” and bringing on the train that everyone piles into to go to New York to delighted applause.
But her best solutions, alongside strictly period colors for the costumes — even the waiters are in austere maroon not modern scarlet — are Finn Ross’s rolling video backdrops of Yonkers’ town and sky and the travelator built into the floor. So much of the show is about traveling and walking, and Cooke and his choreographer Bill Deamer use the moving walkway to speedy comic and dramatic effect.
When the production is at full pelt, everything works in thrilling sync. The climax of the title number is a case in point. Typical of Cooke’s truthful dramatic approach, for the all-important waiters he has consciously cast not conspicuously fit chorus boys but dancers of varying ages who actually look like waiters. Deamer has them leaping for joy but at the peak, he plays with the diagonal to build tension and then, in synch with Skilbeck’s terrific orchestral arrangement, switches them into a kickline punched into place by Jon Clark’s chase on the lights framing the stage picture. There will never be a version of the title song that doesn’t receive a roar from the audience but this one feels fabulously earned.
At the heart of it, naturally, is the leading lady, the recently ennobled Dame Imelda Staunton. As she sings, “Look at the old girl now, fellas,” she beams and a tangible wave of pleasure floods the auditorium. Before she changed career gear and started playing musical milestone roles like Mrs. Lovett in “Sweeney Todd” and Rose in “Gypsy,” Dolly Levi was not immediately obvious casting for Staunton, but her wealth of acting experience yields big dividends.
In the first act closer “Before the Parade Passes By,” instead of merely reveling in a staging, her dramatic intent is unusually clear. Her Dolly means business in every sense and in dialogue she’s delightfully brisk, funny and pointed in her dealings with everyone. By contrast, when she finally opens up in “Love, Look In My Window,” her pathos is all the more affecting for being suggested rather than overplayed.
Her counterbalance and the object of her intentions, Horace, is given a welcome dose of more-than-grouch by a nicely restrained Andy Nyman so that when Dolly finally and carefully takes his hand, her shiver of tenderness is surprisingly touching.
With memories of Broadway’s love affair with Bette Midler’s version still green, the chances of a transfer are zero. But that has given the unusually well-meshed creative team a singular opportunity for reinvention. Some will miss the conscious lack of showbiz pizazz but Cooke and company have seized an old-fashioned show, unexpectedly provided vanishingly rare but hugely welcome genuine charm, and made it zing.