Piaf

***
Elena Roger gives an remarkably intense performance; a living echo of Piaf from with her street wise feistiness, mirrored in the unbelievably intimidating voice that emerges from a woman with her tiny wraith like figure. This strength carries her through her self inflicted, turbulent life of drugs, illness and lust for men that come and go, showing that singers like Amy Winehouse weren‘t the first of their kind.
Pam Gems crams Piaf’s life into 1 hour and 30 minutes worth of fleeting scenes that cause the audience to fail to build any connection with the characters. Despite the outstanding performances by the cast, a feeling of dissatisfaction lingers amongst the audience at the fault of it’s soulless script that doesn’t know whether it’s a play or musical. The only time I felt a small pang in the heart for any of the characters, was when Owen Sharpe as Charles Aznavour, who charms the audience with his Irish lilt, is cast off in one of Piaf’s moods and his heart breaks before our eyes. The ensemble mostly play 3 characters each - it’s difficult to differentiate them, and appears confusing and cheap. Somehow the talent of the actors propels us open mouthed through the story. One fault is that Roger is the only one with an (unintelligible) French accent so that we miss a lot of the script that is necessary if you know nothing about Piaf’s life, amid the pronounced spitting and swearing.
Soutra Gilmour’s set is barren and makes for awkward exits and entrances, although the cobbles of the Paris streets present throughout the play as a clever physical representation of where Piaf came from that you are constantly reminded of in the grit of her songs. The majority of songs are French, and the ballads lacking in familiarity bore the audience occasionally and leave this generation wondering why Piaf was so popular in her prime. However Neil Austin’s creative lighting builds an atmosphere beneath these songs we don’t understand.
Jamie Lloyds direction of the actors is infallible, and copes with the fleeting scenes with puppetry of pace that influences the mood. The meeting of Piaf and her greatest love Marcel is illustrated beautifully, time slowing down around her as she is enraptured at the sight of the gigantic boxer celebrating his win.
I left the theatre in awe of the actors but let down by the feeling of emptiness and confusion, the script does not do justice to a legendary singer. I looked, but was not touched.

Veronica Grubb