Lying on my floor, bundled up in quilts, sipping from an extra value bottle of fake Martini, my eighteen year old eyes scanned the screen and my heart missed a beat as Billy Zane stole the scene in Titanic. His floppy brown barnet… his dark, piercing eyes… that mean, chiselled jaw just begging to be grabbed as Celine hit the high notes of that heart-wrenching theme and Cal surrendered Rose to the arms of her true love, Jack. It was all too much for my hormones. As that ship sank, so too did my heart, in the knowledge that such a treasure could never be mine.
That was a while ago now, but it all came flooding back when I heard my first love was hitting the London stage in a new play. Could it be that the hands of fate had, at last, delivered us both to exactly the same room? As I took my seat in the Theatre Royal Haymarket last night, I remained the cool, calm, (if badly in need of a haircut and nicer shoes) representation of my company. But on the inside I was screaming his name. “Billlleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Shame that when he swaggered in, he was gay. Well, a gay character. We all know that in reality this heartthrob has signed himself off to fat, ugly, unsuccessful Kelly Brook, (oh whatever, it makes me feel better) so I wasn’t expecting such a homosexual sashay. But in an instant, he had totally stolen the stage, just as he steals the screen in his movies. Just as he stole my teenage heart. Charm, confidence and pure American sex appeal oozes from every pore as Zane makes this troubled, solicitous, yet playful character his own.
Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks has just two characters - Zane and Claire Bloom, best known for various roles in British television and theatre. There’s just one set too, the somewhat Ikea-in-style Floridian living room of Bloom’s character, Lily - a minister’s wife with more than a few secrets bottled up inside. The lonely retiree hires a dance instructor, (Zane) who we soon learn is not entirely necessary. But as the unlikely couple spar and bicker through the tango, foxtrot, cha cha and waltz, a friendship forms that although unacknowledged with words, is silently cherished by both.
The script, by Richard Alfieri, is full of fabulous one-liners that take your emotions on a rollercoaster of ups and downs. Just when you want to dislike Bloom for lashing out at the (albeit) insensitive Michael, the roles are reversed and we see each person in a brand new light as another aspect of their past is revealed. Lines such as “He had the kind of lips you just wanted to kiss, or to keep on talking - anything to stay connected to, you know”, are delivered by Zane with such passion, intensity and honesty that they catch in his throat and it’s hard to believe he’s not drawing it all from a real, personal experience. Quips such as “Only my ass can hear you now” as he struts towards the door get you laughing out loud and the vulnerable Lily is conveyed by Bloom as the kind of huggable grandparent we all want to become as we dance through our winter years without regret.
The only downfalls of this wicked play are Claire Bloom’s inconsistency in remaining a retiree from South Carolina – she spent most of the production sounding like an upper-class Brit, before apparently remembering she was supposed to have an accent - and the excessively long scene changes. At times an entire song was playe
d between acts. Perhaps the idea was to portray the transcendence of the characters’ thoughts and feelings towards each other after every song and dance, but the stage hands moving about against a ‘sunset’ in a giant window really just comes off as clumsy and as a result, the audience grew fidgety. For a play in which only minor props are moved around the same set, this seemed an unnecessary hindrance in what was otherwise a very smooth production.
All in all, it’s Zane who steals the show. In spite of equal stage time its impossible to imagine the play with another man in the lead, although we could perhaps replace Bloom without losing any of its magnetism. Still, we defy you not to shed a tear as the couple take their final dance to God Only Knows, by the Beach Boys – their unlikely friendship firmly cemented by the events of their brief encounter.
It’s true that whilst Billy might not have the full head of hair, availability factor, or sparkling assets aplenty that my eighteen year old imagination allowed him, he’s sure as hell gonna sell some theatre tickets.
Get your tickets for Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks here
Some might say hearing about other people’s work parties is only marginally less yawn-inspiring than watching someone else’s child perform in a school nativity play. But we don’t think most work parties include Brenda from the X-Factor (and Chicago, obviously) performing in Wetherspoons, or a waiter who’s idea of silver-service is to hover over your shoulder for fifteen minutes as he scoops each carrot up with a spoon.
where no one could hear us. Luckily, chucking the obligatory corks off the balcony into the crowds made sure people knew of our presence. Hey, it wasn’t our fault – if they didn’t feed us so much Wolf Blatt with our chocolate bombs, we wouldn’t have had a problem. Probably.
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