AFTER some rocky previews, marred by a sluggish hydraulic set and overly thick accents, “Billy Elliot” opened last night, proving itself the best gift from Britain since Harry Potter.
This tale of a motherless coal miner’s son who was born to dance (ballet, no less) was written, directed and choreographed by the same team behind the 2000 film. But unlike so many shows that plod from screen to stage, “Billy Elliot: The Musical” makes the leap from reheated adaptation to reimagined creation.
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For that we can thank not only director Stephen Daldry, writer Lee Hall and a wonderful cast – but also Elton John, whose idea it was to make it a musical in the first place.
This is his best stage score yet, though given his lackluster “Aida” and the bloodless mess that was “Lestat,” that’s not saying much. Here he’s given us memorable music – by turns anthemic, folksy and rock-and-roll rousing – that serve Hall’s lyrics well. You’ll probably wake the next day humming their raucous “Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher” – the Cruella de Vil of the coal miners’ union.
But “Billy Elliot” is less about music than dance, and Peter Darling’s choreography is easily as thrilling as Twyla Tharp’s, when she rocked Billy Joel in “Movin’ Out.”
Whether it’s ballet, modern or tap – or, in one case, tap-dancing while jumping rope – dance is the show’s single best special effect. When Billy partners with his older self (Stephen Hanna) to the strains of “Swan Lake,” he literally soars to the ceiling.
Nothing would fly, of course, if the show hadn’t found its Billy – a boy of about 12 who can sing, act and dance. Here, as in London and Australia, three boys alternate in the role. Having seen Kiril Kulish – his reedy voice tinged with longing, his dancing sublime – I can only wonder how David Alvarez and Trent Kowalik play the part.
Britain’s Haydn Gwynne is terrific as the tart-tongued, chain-smoking dance teacher who tutors Billy on the sly. Frank Dolce and David Bologna, seen in separate performances as Michael, Billy’s cross-dressing best friend, steal every scene they’re in, helped by some of the script’s funniest exchanges.
“Ah,” Michael murmurs, squeezing into a tutu. “No wonder they call it ‘The Nutcracker’!”
Kudos, too, to Gregory Jbara’s Dad, a beaten man who finally sees his son for who he is; Carole Shelley’s flighty Grandma; and Leah Hocking, whose scenes as Billy’s lost Mum are enough to test anyone’s mascara. Manipulative? Of course, but it helps to be manipulated by a master.
Granted, “Billy Elliot” isn’t perfect – a scene with giant dancing dresses might have gone AWOL from some Disney show on ice – but it’s still head and toe-shoes above every other show this season.
So thanks, Maggie Thatcher, for giving us something to sing about.
Clive Barnes is on leave.
BILLY ELLIOT: THE MUSICAL Imperial Theatre, 249 W. 45th St.; 212-239-6200.