From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads continues at the Waterloo East Theatre, London until 6 November, before touring.
Star rating: four stars ★ ★ ★ ★ ✩
After the death of David Bowie early this year, the fear was that Theatreland would soon become awash with hastily put together, predictable productions attempting to pay some kind of tacky, box office takings-motivated homage to the legendary star.
Even now, quite possibly, there’s a group of people huddled over a script entitled ‘Aladdin Sane – the Bowie Pantomime’.
Thankfully, From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads, running from Waterloo East to Jacksons Lane in North London between now and early December, is an astute piece of work, which credits Bowie’s work and almost incomparable reputation in an unexpected, inventive and subtly incisive manner.
Writer and director Adrian Berry hones in on two generations’ (father and son) adoration of the star, mixing in a whole cocktail of personal emotions and, some almost essential, carefully selected tracks and authentic Bowie quotes, read by comedian Rob Newman, sounding eerily like ‘The Man Who Fell To Earth’.
One brilliant quote reveals that, when he was decidedly unimpressed with something or someone, Bowie described it as, “so fucking Croydon”. The uninspiring, urban and soul destroying concrete sprawl, he explains, epitomised everything he despised when young.
The show’s sole character, Martin, played with total conviction by Alex Walton, is a complex, tortured, troubled and vulnerable young man. As if having an eating disorder and a tendency to self harm isn’t enough to deal with, his mother’s an alcoholic and his father left home when he was just two years old. His only salvation is his total infatuation and love he has for Bowie, just like the father he never really knew.
It’s when Martin embarks on a personal pilgrimage to trace Bowie’s London roots in the footsteps of his dad, who many years later has left him a heartfelt letter and a roughly drawn map as a birthday present, that the production really moves up a gear.
Evocative, retrospective monochrome images along with nicely observed scenarios create a heady nostalgic mix, while Martin murdering Bowie’s ‘Starman’ during an impromptu karaoke session in the very south London pub (now renamed) where David Robert Jones played one of his first ever gigs, is a real highlight.
There’s a lovely, but haunting moment when reading his father’s letter to himself towards the end of his cathartic journey. “I’m glad we eventually got to spend the day together,” writes his father. You could hear the proverbial pin drop.
Almost a year after Bowie’s death, it’s quite obvious that, compared to him, many of the artists performing today are, as he would say…‘just so bloody Croydon’. Walton’s unsettling and finely balanced performance is anything but.
Derek Smith
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