London Road review: nasty, brutish and melodic...

Fans of The Simpsons may well recall the time when Mr Burns poured scorn on Smithers's dream of writing a musical based on a doll: "Why not write a musical about the common cat, or the King of Siam?" Who knows how he might have responded to London Road?

It would be wrong to call London Road the "Ipswich Ripper" musical. Rufus Norris's new film, in common with the award-winning 2011 National Theatre production, does indeed open as the police close in on the serial killer Steve Wright. The focus, however, for this verbatim musical is not the perpetrator but his neighbours.

Writer Alecky Blythe spent four years interviewing the residents of the eponymous street. Her superb book and Adam Cork’s clever music draw on dialect, intonation and the language of vox-pop: “Everyone is very, very nervous, um, and very unsure of everything,” goes one prominent refrain.

Writing an earworm-packed musical while preserving the meter and pitch of the original recordings is, in itself, a trick worth the admission price. But all the conversational asides and off-the-cuff remarks gradually coalesce into a work that has important and chilling things to say about journalism, prostitution and the pettiness of the petite bourgeoisie.

From the outset, the residents seem far more concerned that prostitutes are working in their area than about the five sex workers who have been murdered. “They’re foul- mouthed slags,” notes one. “I feel sorry for their families but not them,” says another.

One resident is cheered when the police cordon off the street four days before Christmas: after all, a bobby on every corner is a dream come true. “No one stole our festive wreath this year,” he marvels. A taxi driver (Tom Hardy) turned amateur profiler sketches out the killer’s biography before anyone has been arrested.

Elsewhere, in the storm of media attention, reporters attempt to find pre-watershed synonyms for “semen” and deliver trivial details (“wearing a white shirt”) in a sombre, salacious sing-song.

In the aftermath of the arrest and trial, the community responds with a hanging basket contest and street party. “We just wanted to share our flowers with everyone,” trills busybody-in-chief Julia (the wonderful Olivia Colman, who delivers the nastiest line you’ll hear all year). A lone sex worker wandering through the jubilant street trumpets the cognitive dissonance.

It’s a shame that such a sizable achievement has been given such a tiny theatrical release.

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