Michael Moynihan: Cork needs to muster up musical magic with our own Leeside Story

A member of the household has gone to see a musical in London, a highly-praised staging of Guys And Dolls (music and lyrics by Frank Loesser and book by Jo Swerling and Abe Burrows, fact fans) and the ‘let’s put the show on right here’ energy is very strong at present chez Moynihan.

No surprise there. Musicals are stubborn creatures, difficult to put away once seen: they stick in the memory. Some readers may remember Guys And Dolls through the nineteen-fifties film version with Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra, though it also lives on in my memory mainly because it provided an immortal putdown at the bar counter of Glen Rovers hurling club about thirty years ago.

(One gent calling a pint at the counter took off his coat to reveal a suit featuring an eye-catching dark shirt and contrasting light-coloured tie.

“I like the look,” said one nearby wit, who may have been known to your columnist. “Very Nathan Detroit.”

The coat came back on and the tie was retired from competitive action on the spot, never to be seen again.)

The fact that Nathan Detroit — one of the main characters in Guys and Dolls — lived on as an example of florid dressing proves my point. Guys and Dolls is of course based upon the short stories of Damon Runyon, legendary reporter and master of the bewildering mix of tenses (sample opening: “It is maybe eleven-thirty of a Wednesday night, and I am standing at the corner of Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, thinking: about my blood pressure, which is a proposition I never before think much about.”)

Runyon’s accounts of the likes of Nicely Nicely Johnson and the Seldom Seen Kid were mashed together in Guys and Dolls, thus immortalising a cadre of New Yorkers who may never have existed in reality, though that’s hardly the point. The musical itself is the point, living on as it does for decades, burnishing a city’s notions of itself, giving particular locations a glamorous sheen. 

The temptation is to suggest musicals create an alternative reality that can never be contradicted, but which preserves a notional time forever

Before I got existential, though, something began to nag at me. Why isn’t there a great Cork musical that coats some part of the city in everlasting glamour?

My Fair Lady does a good job of making London, or a version of London, immortal; presumably nobody really speaks like Eliza Doolittle apart from the cast of Eastenders, but the character has played her part in putting another layer of magic on London, the sheen of dreamy hyperreality that comes from association with a much-loved musical.

The power of the genre can also be seen in the French capital. On the Public Broadcasting Service website, Paris is described as “City of light, city of love, and city of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables”, but clearly the musical of the same name is now a more potent symbol of Paris than the novel.

(Slight detour. When Hugo published the novel in 1862 he sent his publisher a telegram with one character — ?; the book was selling like hotcakes, and the publisher responded in kind: !)

It’s the same with Chicago, made eternal by the shenanigans of Roxie Hart in the musical of the same name. The same with Miss Saigon, made eternal, etc etc.

Could we come up with something to identify Cork and musical theatre once and for all? 

I am no Cameron MacKintosh, but that doesn’t mean I have no ideas.

South Side Story: an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the city is divided and all of the major facilities are located on one side rather than the other. She crosses swords with a handsome and idealistic politician until — spoiler — they both realise they’re in love ahead of the big closing number, ‘Sit Down (You’re Rocking The Boat)’.

Builder on the Roof: an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the city is full of derelict properties in the middle of a housing crisis. She makes strong arguments with a handsome and idealistic landlord until — spoiler — they both realise they’re in love ahead of the big closing number, ‘If I Were A Rich Man (I’d Keep The Cash In Vacant Buildings)’.

The Sound of Musing (On an event centre): an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the whole city is still waiting for an event centre to be built, years after the sod was turned on a site for the venue; she argues with a handsome and idealistic town planner until — spoiler — they both realise they’re in love ahead of the big closing number, ‘People Will Say We’re In Love (With Having A Big Vacant Space In Town)’.

Merries, Not Carousel: an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the funfair in Crosshaven is referred to as the Merries and not as a funfair, arguing with a handsome and idealistic professor of etymology until — spoiler — they discover they’re actually in love ahead of the big closing number: ‘Why Can’t Crosshaven Be More Like Kinsale?’

Little Shop of Vapes: an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the city is chock full of temporary shops all selling the same goods, arguing with a handsome and idealistic planning enforcement officer until — spoiler — they discover they’re actually in love ahead of the big closing number: ‘I Could Have Vaped All Night (And Still Come Back For More)’.

Mary Pop-Ins (For A Minute To Get Something, That’s All, Back In A Sec): an ingénue comes to Cork and wonders aloud why the city is so lawless when it comes to parking, with abandoned cars perched crossways on pavements everywhere. She argues with a handsome but bewildered traffic warden until — spoiler — they discover they’re actually in love ahead of the big closing number: ‘On The Street Where You Park (Forever)’.

That’s the secret of the musical’s staying power. It isn’t just the catchy singalong numbers that make the evening, but the grit that makes the pearl: picking out the issue or challenge that can be articulated with a rollicking tune and some wordplay in the lyrics. West Side Story was based on gang warfare in New York; 50 years later Hamilton made a subtle case for immigrants. Anyway, I’m available if needed.

If nothing else the theatrical life is great for the anecdotes. One of Neil Simon’s plays wasn’t going well in early shows back in the sixties, so Simon and director Mike Nichols ended up brainstorming changes.

“I’ve got to get some air,” said Simon eventually.

“Will you bring back some ice cream?” said Nichols.

“How can you eat ice cream at a time like this?” screamed Simon.

“What, if I eat ice cream I won’t think of a solution?”

Gotta sing! Gotta dance!