Legend has it that when the Romantic ballerina Marie Taglioni gave her farewell performance in St Petersburg a group of wealthy fans bought a pair of her slippers, and cooked and ate them as a token of their admiration. Shoe-fetishism has since reached new heights, thanks to Sex — on heels — in the City. Indeed, Sarah Jessica Parker/Carrie Bradshaw’s canonisation of one of the most idealised items of clothing plays a significant part in Shoes, which makes a welcome comeback to the West End. Although it is labelled a musical, Shoes draws upon the long-forgotten tradition of the old review, namely a series of almost independent song-and-dance numbers held together by a thematic pretext.
Dance dominates, thanks to the collaboration of musical supremo Stephen Mear with some of the most prestigious modern and postmodern dance-makers of the moment: Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui, Aletta Collins, Kate Prince and Mark Smith. This is not, however, one of those ill-fated attempts by revered dance gurus to have a go at something different — which, traditionally, is a recipe for disaster. Although interesting ideas and directorial traits are discernible in the choreographic layout, the dancing in Shoes is never pedantically ‘arty’. And neither is anything too trite or predictable, not even when the artists start tap dancing or launch themselves into a parody of an Italian tarantella. And, in my view, some of the best choreographic and theatrical inventions are found in the brief solo episodes that separate one number from the next.
Although dance is predominant, fizzy music, by the writer and composer Richard Thomas, complements and supports the action, as does some terrific singing. The pleasant madness of the various situations, together with the often irreverent lyrics and a substantial dose of very welcome campness — after all, this is a review — are likely to turn this show into a cult one.
Quotations abound: from the token Red Shoes reference to a hilarious quote from Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring; from a revisitation of Charlie Chaplin’s dancing boots to a Hammer Horror-like number on accursed bridal shoes; from Fellini’s skipping actors to the Bathing Beauties; from Pina Bausch’s men on stilettos to Stephen Petronio’s use of the corset for the male body. These are all intentionally light-hearted references, which spice things up without ever forcing the viewer to engage in the mentally demanding games that modern performances seem to be all about.
Interestingly, female footwear — the quintessential fetish— is celebrated together with its masculine counterpart, moving from Jagger’s platforms to those trendy flip-flops which only supermodels with perfectly chiselled feet should wear. Not to mention the omnipresent sneakers and the never-so-sexy sandals, religiously praised by a Jesus lookalike character who had me in stitches.
I only wish the second half were as dynamically spirited and inventive as the first one, which ends on a high note with an hysterically funny number with nuns. Alas, at times the second act looks choreographically tired and lacks that overall non-stop dramatic madness that captivates the audience in the first part. But things can still be easily adjusted.
It might not have the sparkle and the grandeur of a Las Vegas review, but Shoes has enough steam to make you forget your worries for a couple of hours. And you do not need to be a shoe fetishist.
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