Strictly Ballroom, Piccadilly Theatre, London, review: This gleefully garish musical of Baz Luhrmann's film is loads of fun

This overblown dance-led show sweeps you up with its sequins and silliness

Jonny Labey, Lauren Stroud, Will Young, Michelle Bishop and Gary Watson in 'Strictly Ballroom' (Johan Persson)

Baz Luhrmann seems to have done the Baz Luhrmann treatment on his own material: that is, take a love story, twist in mildly incongruous pop songs, and shower it with sequins.

Admittedly, his 1992 film Strictly Ballroom was hardly lacking in the latter to be begin with – but this stage version is even more spangly and silly in every way.

The entire confection is as garish as the bubblegum-hued ostrich-trimmed ballgowns the cast swirl about in. The world of competitive ‘dance sport’ is rendered gleefully and grotesquely ghastly; grins plastered in place even as the plastic competitors swear viciously mid-competition. The Australian accents are as fake as the tans.

But if you get on board with its outrageous camp and gurning humour, the tale of the maverick ballroom dancer who just wants to do his own steps – and the shy young Spanish dancer he takes on as his rookie partner – is also loads of fun.

A moustachioed Will Young trots about in a flared, sequined jumpsuit singing all the numbers as our MC. Actually, he could be made more of, for while his role intentionally ups the theatricality of the evening (much welcome in a faithful film-to-stage musical), in terms of narrative it is hardly necessary. This story isn’t exactly surprising, or subtle, after all.

Under Drew McOnie’s direction, the first half is drum-tight, however. The physical performances might seem buffoonishly large, but they’re precision tooled as lines and laughs hit their targets. And there’s some genuine slow-burn chemistry between Zizi Strallen’s dorky, adorable Fran and Jonny Labey’s driven, deadpan Scott.

The second half feels less focused – largely due to some lame attempts at political resonance that feel simultaneously strenuous and lazy. A dancing association president banging on about the rules becomes a Trump-like figure, and there’s a nonsense dream-sequence of political protest against him. The show is fully aware that equating the struggle to rumba with the fight against right-wing populism is absurd, but too much time is given to this nudge-nudge to topical resonance without it being either earned or interrogated.

And while most of the eclectic song selections are cute (you can probably guess which Bowie, Billy Idol, and Whitney Houston tracks with the word ‘dance’ in the title are parped out by a scorching live band), is there not an element of bad taste in invoking “Get Up, Stand Up” and “Fight the Power” in two white Australians’ struggle against the oppression of, er, regulation ballroom dancing moves?

Still, it’s not a show too take too seriously, and there is much to enjoy. McOnie’s choreography is totally glorious, whether sending up the silliness of cheesy routines or firing up flamenco. And this is a dance-driven show: Young leads us through the story with songs, but the main characters aren’t lumbered with jukeboxing emotion – they signal feeling with their hips, not their lips.

Soutra Gilmour’s fun set recalls Follies, if it were set in a Reflex Eighties bar. Here too are dancing girls in luscious costumes watching wistfully from fire escape staircases, in front of crumbling facades and exposed brickwork; just swap that Follies sign for a Coca Cola advert and add a helluva load of neon strip lighting. As with everything else in this musical, it is bright and garish. But it lit me up.

Until 20 October (strictlyballroomthemusical.com)