McQueen

I basically know about as much about fashion as I do about quantum physics, and this maddeningly opaque biographical drama about the late Lee Alexander McQueen has done nothing to change that.

James Phillips’s ‘McQueen’ got stinking reviews when it premiered at the St James Theatre earlier this year, but has proved bulletproof, scoring itself a West End transfer. That’s no surprise: ‘Savage Beauty’, the V&A’s recently concluded show about the designer, was its most successful exhibition of all time, ever – McQueen is hot right now, and no shabby arts journalist is going to change that.

I was primed for a total howler, but in its defence I'd say that if somebody really dramaturg’d the living crap out of this play you might end up with something decent. John Caird’s production is stylish – full of lithe, asexual dancers, with great, moody lighting from David Howe. And from my limited knowledge of the subject, Stephen Wight would seem to be very convincing in the title role, a fragile but garrulous genius with a heart of darkness.

The basic problem is that it has no plot, or only the most half-arsed vestiges of one. At the start, Lee is pacing his house, holding the belt that he will hang himself with. But uh oh! Dahlia (Carly Bawden), a kooky American (and probable figment of Lee’s imagination), has broken in, looking to steal a dress. Before you know it, the two of them have embarked upon a magical voyage through his memories.

With a few glasses of bubbly and a lot of goodwill, the conceit might have worked if it took you on any sort of meaningful journey. Instead the pair just randomly vogue through a mismatched box of reminiscence: the Saville Row tailors where Lee learned his craft; a smart-arsed interview with an uptight fashion journalist; a heartfelt encounter with his mentor Isabella Blow.

Accepting the clodhopping clunkiness of Dahlia as a device, some of these scenes are pretty solid, in isolation (Tracy-Ann Oberman is great as Blow). But there’s absolutely no trajectory or momentum to the whole. It doesn’t explore why he killed himself other than in the waffliest of ways. And it doen’t tell his life story. It feels like a series of fanboyish fantasy scenarios, each loudly bellowing: HE WAS A TORTURED GENIIIIIUUUUUSSSSSS.

It’s heartfelt enough that McQueen fans who, er, don’t like theatre much will probably find something to love about it, but really it’s not great, a wonky high-street knockoff of a life that deserves the haute couture treatment.