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'Bali Ha'i'? Ballyhoo. To be sure, South Pacific has one of the most tuneful scores ever. And, with Trevor Nunn directing and Matthew Bourne as choreographer, the National's revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's 1949 show is twirling and swirling. But for all it's burnishments, it's a dinosaur.
It's particularly weird after 11 September to watch this story of American troops cavorting on tropical islands during the Second World War. True, there's supposed to be a dark undercurrent - and a liberal message - undermining the jollity and romance. A young white nurse, who is a self-declared hick, falls for a middle-aged expat ('You're a cultured Frenchman... you must read a lot of books') and goes off him when she discovers he once had a 'native' wife. She gets to know better.
But nothing in the production makes this disconcerting element seem central or important. John Napier's easy-on-the-eye, unsurprising design bathes the action in sumptuous ease: a terrace dripping with bougainvillaea, massive palm trees, some of them half-lopped-off (presumably with symbolic intent) as war ages. Running actual Second World War footage of troops between acts only emphasises the pervading atmosphere of summer-camp, sun-drenched cheeriness.
You couldn't exactly call this a betrayal of Rodgers and Hammerstein's musical, for the show never has seemed entirely convinced by its own progressive sentiments. The plot declares there's one law for white and one for black forks. The islanders have little to do but beam beautifully and talk in Pinky and Perky voices. The nurse and her beau are corseted by Fifties prudery, barely managing a smooch, but as soon as a lieutenant is confronted by a dusky beauty - said to be 17, but looking 14 (as she did in Joshua Logan's dreadful 1958 movie) - he starts stripping off. The soldier gets to justify what looks like paedophilia by crooning 'Younger Than Springtime'. His loved one remains almost entirely mute: the only musical number in which she features is one of the show's embarrassing excursions; "Happy Talk', is so babyish that it could as well be called 'Nappy Talk'? The lieutenant ends up dead, which begins to look like comeuppance for his intended miscegenation.
Hammerstein's book and lyrics are never sharp, and often ludicrous: 'I could say life is just a bowl of jello / And appear more intelligent and smart'. So dumb is the leading female character (well, of course, that doesn't matter so much in a woman) that she is here speaking no more than the simple truth. Lauren Kennedy's lively, though never touching portrayal endows this dope with an almost gruesome conviction? John Shrapnel is perfectly judged as a crusty, alluring Captain and Nick Holder supplies comic pizzazz. There are some energetic, snappy routines? But anyone hoping for a nostalgic swoon, which is surely the main reason for attendance, will be shaken by the appallingly brassy and blaring quality of the sound.
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