Review of ‘Sinematic’: “Hollywood-themed burlesque is in a reely bad state”

London’s Emerald Theatre presents this debauched tribute to some of Tinsel Town’s greatest classics. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if this raucous parody is bound to make audiences’ final cut.

All that I’ll say is that you should definitely avoid the splash zone in this one. That is, unless you want to lick beer off a stranger’s foot, or be dragged in all fours across the stage by a conceited dominatrix. It may sound fun to some of you, but in the end, it gets messy (no double entendres). So does the show, which might be forged on a solid concept, but begins to quiver and, eventually, crumble the moment it unfolds.

They’ve named it Sinematic — a guilty pleasure themed after some of Hollywood’s greatest hits. That’s hardly the case, however. The more it progresses, the more we realise there’s no actual progress whatsoever. And although it might be amusing at the beginning, its increasing tediousness turns this allegedly sinful diversion into a rather dull experience we must endure for our sins.

The opening was promising, despite the technical glitches that forced it to start from the top. Frank ‘N’ Furter’s signature chords flooded the room, as its sassy impersonator made their high-heeled way downstage, singing an altered version of the iconic Sweet Transvestite.

Funny, inviting, and somewhat witty, this was arguably the show’s strongest section. Some undesired backstage chat sneaked into the sound system – I want to believe that was a mistake -but the pizzazz the rendition flaunted made up for all those otherwise fixable flaws.

Sadly, that’s the only time that we’re blessed by their magnetic presence. That absence is, in fact, an early sign of the production’s most critical fault — it underutilises its most valuable resources and overexploits its weaknesses with very little accountability.

They might call it a variety show, but there’s not that much variety to find in it. We can barely spot any numbers that do not follow the same bland, predictable formula of the stripping vedette. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a classy Marilyn Monroe tribute or a camp, faux pas Austin Powells reenactment; it’s the same outcome over and over again — a bit of dancing leads to full exposure, followed by a not-so-gentle swirl of nipple tassels.

At first, it has its charm. Three renditions later, it’s lost its appeal. After dealing with them for two whole acts, the term “tiresome” acquires a whole different meaning.

They are delivered with grace, nonetheless, though the praise is applicable to only half of them. That is the other main issue clouding the entire piece: while some choreographies are impeccably put together, some others teem with cluelessness, giving us too many reasons to believe that the show is heavily underrehearsed.

There’s no sense of structure either. Utimately, the show feels like a sloppy assortment where anything goes. A drag king serves as the Emcee and guiding thread that glues everything together. Yet, like much of the programming, many of her interventions come across as fillers with no other purpose than meeting the promise of a two-hour running time.

She does her best in the role, however. Her inviting energy contributes significantly to the performance’s palatability. Her arsenal is not the heftiest, as there’s not much of that malicious wit we should be relishing on. Still, she manages to make it work. And although some of the audience’s reactions might owe their credit to the cocktail menu rather what’s happening onstage, she can take credit for at least a couple of genuine roars.

Besides its highly competent but rarely featured live singing, there’s no more commendation to be expressed about this production. There is no wow factor in it. All that it offers has been seen before. And most of it, if not everything, in a much more polished, dexterous manner.

There is a bit of fire, a bit of aerial, and a confusing recreation of Jaws’s bather’s death scene, which makes no splash apart from the fabric-made blood at the end. Yet, none of those stunts can convince us against the notion that this piece needs work — and it’s not the kind that will suffice with a few tweaks here and there.

There are too many cuts to be made and so much action to be added to Sinematic. With a lacklustre execution that fails to impress on nearly every level, this is a picture of an unprepared product with no identity or relevant attributes. And although it’s set in a land of clappers, it’s not getting that much clapping from me.

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Sinematic plays at London’s Emerald Theatre until 24 March. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara