Review-Evita-Phoenix Theatre ****

Having never, before, seen a staging, of Evita, I can only compare this Bill Kenwright production with the 1998 film and other shows. The story is a part of history: impoverished girl, from rural Argentina, gains minor success, as an actress; before bagging the soon-to-be president and eclipsing him, with her saintly presence; and all the while, revolutionary Che lurks, nearby; anxious we should get the preposterousness of it all. Played, in this version, by Gian Marco Schiaretti, he is young and beret-wearing; less world-weary than Antonia Banderas; mocking, yet not so obviously sarcastic. Vocally, he is impressive, if somewhat nasal and belts out the big notes, splendidly. But he’s by no means alone, in that respect; for Emma Hatton raises the proverbial rafters. Very different from Madonna’s rendition, her Eva is less demanding, of our sympathy. Instead, we see an unfazed young woman climb and ‘sleep’ her way to the top, with no compunction. It has as much to do with the production as the acting. For example, Another Suitcase in Another Hall, is delivered not by Eva, apropos the ‘casting-couch’, but the maid, she has ruthlessly fired. Hatton cooks up a salsa, when addressing Buenos Aires (“stand back, ‘cos you don’t know what you’re gonna get in me!”) and tears up the stage, with her dancing. But much credit should be afforded to the cast, as a whole. Juan’s soldiers are scathingly dismissive, of Eva and their wives gloriously stuck-up, in their disgust, that anyone of ‘lower class’ would be accepted, into their world. It’s true that the set is quite basic, but it serves pretty well. The use of back- projection, though, might have helped to create a sense of enormity. Evita has, of course, a famous pinnacle. Audience members, perhaps without exception, will anticipate Don’t Cry for me Argentina. Abundant with platitudes it may be, but Rice and Lloyd Webber’s iconic song requires kid-glove treatment, from any performer who takes it on. So can Emma Hatton deliver, like great artists, before her? Well, I’m pleased to report that she can. Looking almost angelic, on that balcony, she performs every syllable with crystal-clarity and evident love, for the song. It can, though, seem enigmatic. Ostensibly, Don’t Cry for Me Argentina makes little sense, within its context; but if we accept Rice’s Eva as a game-player-extraordinaire, those inescapably evocative lines fall, neatly, into place. We audience members are the gathered populace and each sentiment is there, to tug, at our heart-strings. Moreover, Eva Duarte was impoverished and yearned for better, so it isn't difficult to feel for her. But what’s, I believe, most crucial is an acceptance that her nation could be charmed and with Hatton’s interpretation, I could easily believe it was. The most emotive scenes are toward the end. Eva’s eyes truly lose their shine and her pain seems unsettlingly real. The lament is delivered, by her spirit, to an auditorium seemingly spell-bound. “I could have burned with the splendour of the brightest fire” she sings. In my own view, Hatton, surely, does.