Dreamgirls in Phili, Wicked in New York….

The original production of Dreamgirls — a fictional account of the rise and fall of a Motown-type singing trio, a thinly disguised version of the story of Diana Ross and the Supremes with names changed to protect the guilty consciences involved — was one of the first Broadway shows I ever saw, on my very first trip over here in 1983; and Michael Bennett’s staging of it still remains indelible, staged with a cinematic fluidity against a back lightwall and shifting light pillars that constantly redefined space. I have come to think that this is one of the greatest of Broadway musicals never to have been performed in London; but after the usual excuses have been trotted out — about the expense of bringing it there, the lack of support for black-themed musicals etc — isn’t it time someone finally tried?

Yesterday morning I bused down to Philadelphia, where a small theatre company devoted to musicals — working from their own handsome purpose-built auditorium, the Prince Musical Theatre — are currently staging a knock-out revival. And they’ve done it with a stripped-back design aesthetic but a full-on attack on what makes this such a great show that demonstrates how it works beyond Bennett’s own original astonishing production. Henry Krieger’s score — the only substantial Broadway success he has had — is a freshly minted tribute to the period that comes up with one stonking tune after another. It feels altogether more authentic and real than Dancing in the Streets, though the success of that show in the West End proves that there could be a ready audience for it.

Talking of shows that audiences — if not critics — have made into hits, I returned to New York last night in time to see Wicked again at the Gershwin Theatre (heading to London’s Apollo Victoria in October). I saw it first during previews back in October 2003, and it was clear even then that this was a solid crowd-pleaser with an unstoppable word-of-mouth, but I had my doubts about the show itself. And when it opened, the New York critics did, too. But the show triumphed in spite of them, and is now probably Broadway’s most solid and consistent sell-out, in Broadway’s largest theatre, the Gershwin.

Staged like a Cirque du Soleil meets Harry Potter re-interpretation of The Wizard of Oz’s back-story, it sets off lots of cultural echoes but seldom seems to be its own animal. Buried within the overblown spectacle of an amazingly lavish production is an intricate and layered deconstruction of elements of the Oz story. But like the Tin Man, it’s difficult to find its heart (though you discover, amongst other things, precisely how that character came to be without one). But the show at least doesn’t have a tin ear: Stephen Schwartz’s contemporary pop score is full of instant appeal.