Postcards From Across the Pond

Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs
What’s wrong with that…

I like musical theatre. I can say that because I am confident in my sexuality. And, for the record, I also like regular theatre. But the musicals! The singing, the choreography, the glitter…though, for me, it’s mostly the singing. I marvel at how anyone can flail around the stage, and yet produce such crisp, clear and consistent notes. I like to think I’m a pretty good singer, but the talent these people possess makes me realize I remain firmly in the PewWee League while they are consistently hitting home runs in the Majors. It’s not envy, it’s awe, and I never tire of it.

The stories, however, are a bit light. I realized this when I went to a Sing-A-Long with The Greatest Showman.

Dubious though I was (a musical about PT Barnum? Seriously?) I went to see the film, and came away uplifted and amazed. But on the second viewing—though thoroughly enjoying belting out all the familiar songs with a theatre full of fans—I realized the critics were right: it’s a rubbish movie with a thin and horribly clichéd plot. But stuff the critics. The songs—This is Me, A Million Dreams, Rewrite the Stars, Never Enough (well, maybe not that one)—are marvellous and can’t help but raise your spirits when you sing them at full volume.

The truth is, almost all musicals have thin plots, and that’s because it’s hard to shoehorn any amount of character development in between numbers. Even The Sound of Music. Take the music away, and you’re left with a failed nun, a randy teenager, an employer taking advantage of a vulnerable employee, and a sprinkling of Nazis. Not exactly a master class in subtlety. And if you remove the singing from Les Miserables you’re left with nothing. (Though, that’s cheating, because it’s all singing and, I must admit, there is a lot going on in that production.)

The point I am wavering toward, however, involves the play my wife and I, and my brother-in-law, recently went to London to see: The Great British Bake Off Musical. It was a joyful performance put on by non-A-List actors, who were nevertheless a hugely talented troupe, and who sang and danced their way through all the familiar GBBO tropes (though, sitting here now, I can’t recall a single song) and acted out a rather thin love story.

It was the classic two unlikely people meet, form an attachment, hit some rocks along the way, but end up together (and of which I am a complete sucker for) plot. Presenting the requisite three-acts of this timeless story in a two-act play, in between all the singing and dancing, is no easy feat, which is, I suppose, the impetus for pushing it along so quickly. From the get-go, there was no question that these two unlikely people were going to get together, and the rocky bit was just as predictable as the outcome, and this all took place in a relatively short slice of time.

And this got me thinking: my own love story—the meeting and subsequent happily-ever-after outcome of the encounter with the woman who was to become my wife—would make an excellent musical. We were two of the most Unlikely People to ever meet, we formed an attachment (and a bit less awkwardly than the couple in the GBBO Musical), had to part due to insurmountable circumstances, and yet managed to overcome them to be together. What’s not to like?

Unfortunately (or fortunately: you be the judge), I possess none of the skill-sets needed to write a musical, so there will be no Postcards—the Musical. At least not until Andrew Lloyd-Webber comes calling. And I think he should, because Postcards From Ireland has a USP that very few, if any, other love story can claim: it was written in real time.

The book was published in 2012, but it’s not like I thought, “Say, that week when I met my wife was pretty special. I should write a book about it.” The story, as it appears in the book, is mostly excerpts from the journal I wrote during that week. It’s a book I actually started, not knowing where it would go or how it would end, that became a love story interspersed with comical episodes of my travels, which is a perfect recipe for musical theatre.

But until I learn to write West End worthy songs, or Lord Webber accidentally stumbles into my flat, I think that idea is going to have to remain on the back burner.