Reviews

Review: How Does London's Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812 Stack Up to Broadway's?

Dave Malloy’s musical is swaddled in anachronisms in Timothy Sheader’s new production.

Alex Wood

Alex Wood

| London |

December 18, 2024

Declan Bennett front and the company of NATASHA PIERRE THE GREAT COMET OF 1812 Donmar photo by Johan Persson 1
Declan Bennett (front) and the company of Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812
(© Johan Persson)

Tim Sheader has wowed all four corners of North America with his heavily toured new take on Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s Jesus Christ Superstar, and he’s similarly iconoclastic with his first production at London’s intimate powerhouse producing venue, the Donmar Warehouse.

After a baffling number of years’ wait, Dave Malloy’s Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 has finally sailed across the Atlantic, though in a remarkably different form to its Broadway iteration. Taking a sliver of Tolstoy’s War and Peace and charting Natasha Rostova’s romantic entanglements in Moscow high society, as well as the disillusionment of cuckolded aristocrat Pierre Bezukhov, Malloy blends every musical style going to create a contemporary Muscovite melodrama. 

With set largely non-existent save a series of scaffolds and the scattered letters M-O-S-C-O-W (the first “O” starts the show lying face down on stage, where Declan Bennett’s alcoholic Pierre also spends a fair amount of time), Sheader builds his Russia with gyrating bodies (great work from choreographer Ellen Kane), and kaleidoscopic lighting courtesy of Howard Hudson. Gone are the lavish ballroom gowns and paisley waistcoats – this Moscow is grunge and gauche – Jamie Muscato’s lascivious Anatole, who bowls into Moscow and causes quite the ruckus, feels like he’s taken stye tips from My Chemical Romance. Most of the cast would have no trouble getting into Berghain with what costume designer Evie Gurney has given them.

It could have all fallen flat if not for the brilliant performances and sense of assured chaos. Like a twisted take on Bridgerton, this is a city ruled by scandal and desire. Chumisa Dornford-May’s naif Natasha is ebullient to the point of entitled (with a gorgeous singing voice, she’s got a brilliant future ahead of her, and she’s already signed onto the National’s transfer of Sondheim’s Here We Are), while Cat Simmons plays Pierre’s wandering wife Hélène like social sandpaper: coarse, yet always leaving an impression. Bennett’s Pierre is a man all at sea, swimming through waves of disillusion until finding inspiration in the most unexpected places.

Importantly, the company tackle Malloy’s work with verve. Dornford-May and Chloe Saracco’s Mary revel in their semitone disharmony during “Natasha and Bolkonskys,” while the show’s true highpoint emerges early in act two, when Cedric Neal’s Balaga kickstarts an all-encompassing, vodka-fuelled piss-up in “The Abduction” as Anatole prepares to elope with the young and enchanted Natasha.

In the 250-seat Donmar, Anatole’s lustful exploits feel visceral, their effects on the helpless Natasha  almost tangible. I doubt Tolstoy has ever been so aggressively moving.

Malloy is quickly becoming one of the most prolific composers of his time, and it is telling that this show still feels fresh after 12 years of life. Perhaps Malloy’s contemporaries have something to learn about audacity and experimentation – audiences may be more willing to embrace the unorthodox than you might expect.

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