Review of ‘Gerry & Sewell’: “This purely belter adventure belts ‘purely undercooked’”

Following the success in the fringe and regional circuit, the stage adaptation of Jonathan Tullock’s coming-of-age novel arrives in the West End for an exclusive two-week run. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if its story of friendship, resilience, and football devotion has a real kick to it.

Nessun dorma, nessun dorma… Puccini’s signature string arpeggios break in out of nowhere. So does the man singing perhaps the most iconic male aria ever written. And by singing, I mean butchering. He’s aware of his skills, however. Two bars later, he quits and leaves the stage with a resounding “F*ck it”.

For your information, this is not an operatic song. Nor is it a musical. To be fair, I’m not entirely sure what it was at times. Still, that particular (and rather pointless) moment accurately summarizes the approach — lots of raw ideas and barely any efforts to carry them through.

There is a book. There is a film. And now, there is a play. From its pub theatre origins to the stage of the West End’s Aldwych Theatre, the show’s history might serve as a beautiful parallel to its own plot. Sadly, though, the end of this journey lies closer to obscurity than a shining beacon of hope.

The premise is simple — two Geordie lads from a marginalized background dream of a better life. And that comes in the way of season football tickets. They are not reaching for the stars. And neither is the script, whose ability to make a potentially compelling coming-of-age tale is as lost as the hooligans it portrays.

It’s not a difficult story to tell. On the surface, their goal might not seem like the most moving one. Yet, it’s the struggles of their everyday lives that make that tiny bundle of joy so beautifully touching. Or at least, it should. Wistfully, it never does.

An interesting paradox arises from the script’s complete lack of pathos. It tries too hard to bring as much drama as it can. However, it never tries hard enough to delve into any of those dramatic elements. And when it does, the best outcome is a shallow, confusing, and rarely original execution. And for the most part, it doesn’t make sense.

Tragedy over tragedy is shoved down our throats with no concern for measurement. Every possible subplot known to the young-adult genre is shoehorned into the recount, with as many cliched traits as one could imagine. There’s the abusive, alcoholic father; the tough-loving, super-trooper mum; premature pregnancy; teenage homelessness; street violence… You name it.

It would appear that, to the writers, these are just a few boxes to tick from a formula that will inevitably work — at least, in their minds. Their intention seems to be no other than taking a bit from everything that did well in the past and replicating it in a lower definition. And that appeals to both content and form.

Too many styles collide instead of coexisting. None of them thrives, though — quite the opposite. We don’t care for the random musical numbers (especially the Northern Eastern equivalent to Miss Saigon’s The American Dream), the purposeless poetic transitions, the unnecessary metatheatrical banter, or the excruciatingly dated and predictable slapstick and toilet humour.

All the arcs and roles are painfully sketchy. Most of them don’t go anywhere. And when they do, it’s difficult to know where we’ve been taken. Some story lines are relegated to a mere mention, although their emotional cargo is supposed to be overwhelmingly heavy. As a result, the text’s mechanical energy tones with the audience’s languid response — much like robots, we can feel absolutely nothing.

No production aspects act as redeeming features. The staging is clunky and unimaginative. The script’s cinematic pacing (probably another issue next to the overall heavy-handed dialogue) calls for a more dynamic and minimal design. Instead, the set’s naturalistic essence makes many scenes look cluttered and filled with distractions. And far too often, they fail to depict what they’re aiming for.

Although the company’s rapport is undeniable, their aptitude as performers raises a few questions. No rendition feels powerful enough — they are usually flat, occasionally histrionic, and constantly empty. There’s no internalization of the characters, and hardly ever do they come across as sincere.

I won’t say that theatre and football don’t match. They do, as does every tale that manages to entice, entertain, grip, and touch. Unfortunately, Gerry & Sewell does nothing of the sort. And predominantly, it doesn’t get even close. As the two friends gather downstage for their closing existential conversation, Gerry vehemently defends how Northern stories deserve to be told. I agree. This one, however, I have my doubts.

This site is proudly sponsored by

All pictures credit to Von Fox Promotions.

Gerry & Sewell plays at London’s Aldwych Theatre until 24 January. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara