Review of ‘Trainspotting, The Musical’: “H-themed show appropriately scores below an F”

Ignore the negativity. It’s probably sugarcoated. Nothing you have heard or read can prepare you for this show’s deplorable quality. And that concerns every single aspect of it. If you value your time and, most importantly, your well-being, I must urge you not to watch it. It is that bad. You won’t be touched —  or entertained. And the only resonance it will have on you is that sitting through it (even if it’s just for the first act) can actually compare to junkie limbo — with no support except for a sluggishly moving watch.

Just to clarify, I stayed for the entire thing — clearly, for my part in it. That’s how I spotted so many empty seats behind me during the second half. And unlike Irving Welsh, who is pretty much responsible for turning his 1996 cinematic masterwork into an absolute monstrosity, I can’t blame them for that. In the end, nothing is compelling, relevant, or hooking in this dull, lifeless stage counterpart with no redeemable features whatsoever. Everything about it is wrong. And forgettable. However, it has a strong chance of being forever remembered as one of the biggest embarrassments in London’s mainstream scene.

What is so terrible about it? In all fairness, it would take pages to dissect every flaw. But hopefully, a condensed analysis will do just fine. Let’s start from the very beginning. And I’m only making that reference to underline the creatives’ ineptitude when structuring musicals. And about the art form as a whole. Before any defenders- I assume fans would be a bit of a stretch -jump down my throat, I’m perfectly aware that not every musical needs to follow the same structure, nor do they need the same song archetypes. But it’s helpful to know why you include or omit something. And why you decide on a particular approach. Sadly, Trainspotting doesn’t have a clue what it wants to do or how it wants to do it.

A conventional collective number opens the show. For some reason, there’s no singing. At least, not for the first 3 or 4 minutes (maybe less, but everything in it comes off as excruciatingly long). The most pedestrian vamp accompanies some endless rambling — similar, if not directly taken from, Ewan McGregor’s voice-over speech. But contrary to the movie’s intimate feeling, a sense of distance begins to materialise between the viewer and the characters. And by the time the exposition is over, our apathy has fully cemented — to the point of no return.

When the personages finally break into song, our disappointment can only grow larger. This must be the most banal score musical theatre has encountered in a long, long time. That’s impressive. Unexpected, even. There are original songs, all of which are exceedingly uninspired, but all the pre-existing rock anthems sound just as dreary. It’s like the arrangements have drained all their sentiment and musicality, leading to their overall lack of appeal.

The numbers serve the narrative, which is also problematic, but in a very formulaic manner. There is no instinct or understanding of why somebody is transitioning from words to melody. Consequently, they have no impact. They fail to enhance the character’s journey. And listening to them becomes so painfully tedious that you’ll be tempted to open your programme and check how many more songs are left before you’re allowed to leave — and you’ll be relieved to see everybody around you doing the same.

The plot has been sanitised by omitting some of the film’s most shocking elements, such as Renton’s relationship with an underage girl. That’s absolutely ridiculous. What’s the point of telling a story about heroin addicts if you can’t show the ugly and the filthy? It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Or vanilla. It’s supposed to be raw, blunt, and unapologetic while still making us care for its protagonists. Ultimately, that’s the essence of good writing, which this version fails miserably to demonstrate.

As a result, or perhaps because of it, none of the characters has a convincing arc. It doesn’t matter how catastrophic their situation is — there is no pathos to be found in the entire recount. Despite the comedy, which this adaptation makes remarkably unfunny, we’re witnessing extremely disadvantaged people experiencing the roughest consequences of drug abuse (that involves stealing, AIDS transmission, and infant death). That should stir us on some level. But it doesn’t — even in the slightest. There’s no dramatic potency, simply because the piece isn’t injected with anything remotely stimulant.

The production is almost as appalling. Although the design effectively conveys a spirit of dodginess, its execution is lazy and unimaginative. There’s nothing in it apart from some occasional props- basically tables and chairs -and a set of screens displaying hideous MTV-inspired video animations. Not every musical needs to be a grand spectacle, but it should exhibit some visual power. This one is cheap at best and confusing at worst.

The cast is adequate but hardly brilliant. Their commitment to the piece is undeniable, but their prowess isn’t that noticeable. There is no rapport or flair. Most portrayals don’t feel genuine- the need to sound Scottish and the writing, especially, might have something to do with it -as they come across as somebody playing someone else rather than letting the character solidify and take over. And despite their competent vocal technique, many ensemble numbers are slightly off-pitch.

We could also mention its clueless choreographies, which often look as if the company were making them up as they go. But there’s no point in mauling a creature that’s dead from the very beginning. And so, it’s unlikely for audiences to get addicted to Trainspotting, The Musical, which is all paraphernalia and no real substance. And a cold, cold turkey of a show.

All pictures credit to Matt Crockett.

Trainspotting, The Musical plays at London’s Theatre Royal Haymarket until 5 September, followed by an UK tour. Tickets and venue information are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara