But the garlands belong to the ensemble, dancing on the spot as if gliding on ice, wind-milling arms furiously yet gracefully. An American classic right royally revived.
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...the razzmatazz of the staging is so preposterous that it makes you smile, especially when it is delivered by a chorus drilled with pure precision in choreography remounted by Randy Skinner from Gower Champion's original.
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Indeed, while memory can be a tricky thing, I'm tempted to think of this as the best 42nd Street in my experience since the fabled Broadway original that I saw as a theatre-mad teen in 1980.
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What keeps the show alive are the dances, and Bramble as director and Randy Skinner as choreographer stage them with well-drilled exactitude.
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But most of all, this show socks you over the head with good old-fashioned spectacle. In an era where most homegrown musicals rely on a couple of all-purpose sets and some moody lighting, it’s dazzlingly lavish and bright.
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When that army of dancers gets going, when the rows of lights start twinkling and tap shoes hit the bleachers extending towards the audience from the back of the stage, it’s simply, overwhelmingly, stunning.
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We get lengthy, drifting excerpts from this seemingly entirely logic-free piece and, despite the tapping, our spirits begin to flag.
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The dancing is the star of this show but Easton, Halse and Tom Lister, solidly good as Julian Marsh, impress.
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