Las Vegas (Confidential)

13 November 2008 The Sydney Morning Herald LAS VEGAS (CONFIDENTIAL) - THE MUSICAL State Theatre, November 11 Until November 23 THE new century is still young, but here is its funniest show so far. Nothing else has doubled me up like this, a mirth vociferously shared by those around me. The problem, confidentially, is that Las Vegas - The Musical is not intended as a comedy. We all have ideas that, on sober reflection, we promptly dismiss. This show was such an idea, minus the dismissal. It was dreamed up by James Karp, who wrote the script - if that's the word for dialogue devoid of wit, plot or characterisation. Mr Karp is usually a magician, and this may be his ultimate trick. Caught in the illusion is Alexander "The Great" Dean (Tamlyn Henderson), a gambling-addicted magician employed by a mobster (Tony Nikolakopoulos) in a Las Vegas casino. He's advised to clear out by Tyche, the Goddess of Fortune (Simone Karp) - no, seriously - and by the Latino barman (a rollicking Garry Scale). Meanwhile an FBI man (Alistair Toogood), hot on the scent of the Mob, is more or less raped by the predatory Tiffani (Tiffani Wood). Performance quality is an irrelevance. Alexander falls for chanteuse Francesca, which brings us to the night's only winner. That role was to have been played by Katrina Retallick, but Lady Luck stole her voice, so Diana Holt bravely faced the music. Ah, yes, the music. This was a jukebox mishmash, containing some of the worst songs ever penned - Las Vegas and, for variety, Dov'e L'Amore - and some others that had no business being so abused. To distract us from the dialogue and music there were a couple of cute magic tricks, and sparsely clad females cavorted leggily in all scenes, whether they had reason to be there or not. Christopher Hurrell had the job of directing, James Taylor of choreographing and Peter Casey and Michael Bartolomei of looking after the music. Mark Thompson and James Karp designed the set - basically a digital projection screen - which Nigel Levings lit, while James Ionnides and Karp came up with the flocks of feathers, other skimpy costume bits and more feathers. If you need a laugh . . . no, on second thoughts, read Hunter S. Thompson's Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. The Vegas he saw with a head full of LSD was, confidentially, infinitely less frightful.