'Kiss Me, Kate' and the power of nostalgia

Or 'why I saw the same play three times in eight weeks'

In the summer of 1988, the Spanish teacher at a minor West Country public school chose Cole Porter’s masterpiece show Kiss Me, Kate for his traditional end of year musical production.

It did not seem especially significant at the time. Going ‘through a phase’, I auditioned for every play the school offered. Earlier that year I had already played Oberon badly enough to draw a rare critical review in the school magazine, ‘strange… tortured delivery’.

Undeterred by a lack of acting ability, I auditioned. And with a singing voice to match my stagecraft, was cast as stage manager Ralph, a largely mute role that consisted mostly of manifesting dismay as the chaos of Porter’s musical-within-a-musical unfolds.

I don’t remember a lot about our run, except that it was a lot of fun, as all the shows were back then when you were fooling around with mates and swigging Sheppey’s cider backstage. And that Jess and Holly, and Henry and Murray, were excellent as Lili, Lois, Bill and Fred. Oh and of course I also recall that one night I got a bollocking from the director after Act One for playing Ralph-from-Baltimore as Ralph-from-Brisbane. Fair enough.

But the show, and its incredible songs, have stuck with me.

Since those optimistic sixth form summer days I have seen three musicals on the stage. Matilda, in its original RSC run at Stratford for my daughter’s tenth birthday party in 2011; The London Tide, the National Theatre’s bold adaptation of Our Mutual Friend earlier this year; and Kiss Me, Kate five times.

I don’t like musicals. And I never go to see them other than in exceptional circumstances such as important birthdays or when my favourite Dickens novels have been adapted. (If directors contemplating putting Dickens to music are reading, other favourites include Little Dorrit and A Tale of Two Cities.

So I don’t like musicals. But I love Kiss Me, Kate, and I love it with my whole heart.

And so on a cool September evening, thirty-six years after the curtain closed on our enthusiastic Taunton production, I settled into my seat at the Barbican Theatre to watch a professional production of the show.

Ninety minutes earlier, on a train into London I still hadn’t decided whether to attend. My finger nervously hovered over one of the three remaining seats for the show as I wondered whether I could justify it. I’d already seen it in July with my wife as part of our readjustment to life in the UK program, and then in August with my daughter.

In the end, I couldn’t not go. There was an unexpected free evening, a ticket available, and what if the opportunity to see it would never come around again? The previous productions I saw were at the Old Vic in 2012 with the wonderful Hannah Waddingham. And prior to that it was at the Victoria Theatre in 2001. And I’m not getting any younger.

The compulsion to go is sheer joy. There are a great many things that make me happy, but there is an intensity to the joyfulness of Kiss Me, Kate that is all-encompassing. In the three hours it takes for Lili and Fred and to fall in and out of love, and in again, I cannot stop smiling - and almost cannot contain the joy.

I know every word to every song, retaining this knowledge in a mysterious section of my brain that could surely be put to better use. I have to stop myself singing along, because nobody came for that. But when the gangsters invite the audience to join in at teh conclusion of Brush Up Your Shakespeare, there is temporary release.

The show is full of great numbers that demand shouting to the rooftops. Cole’s score combined with the clever, witty and mischievous libretta from Sam and Bella Spewack is irresistible. In the Barbican Theatre I restrict my singing to the inside of my head. In the shower or alone in the car or kitchen, I am not so restrained.

It is gratifying that on each of the three occasions I go, the audience clearly shares my joy and enthusiasm. They love Katherine J Block belting out I Hate Men with a vigour that seems to come from the soul. Georgina Onuorah nails Always True to You Darling in My Fashion bringing the audience to its own climax with every passing beau, and Hammah Animashaun and Nigel Lindsay bring the house down with Brush Up - who doesn’t love a rhyme that includes Coriolanus. And there is a special love for Adrian Dunbar, braving musical theatre for the first time, and - thank Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey - more than holding his own in great style.

Ten days after this final viweing (the show closed the night after my third visit) this is still the playlist on shuffle loop in my head, an internal soundtrack to everything I do.

It is only during this run that it has occurred to me that it cannot be possible that I don’t like musicals if I love this one so much. While it may be the best musical in the history of theatre - I will not be taking questions on this - there must another that can deliver even half of the pleasure.

But Kiss Me, Kate is the only musical I know. It’s inextricably linked to a golden moment in the past - there was no better time for schoolkids in the 80s than the pressure-off summer term of the Lower Sixth - and the show has lodged itself in my concious and grown into what might be deemed an obsession, albeit a pretty harmless one.

This production has taught me three things. First, that we should do more of what makes us happy. Do you love Oklahoma!, Tottenham Hotspur (hard to imagine, I know) or collecting vintage match boxes? Then do it - again and again. Second, that there are likely other good musicals out there and I should go and see one - just to try. That’s not cheating on my true love, is it? And that there is no more powerful drug than nostalgia and it is running Too Darn Hot through my veins.