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Lord of the Dance? Michael Flatley is more like a flashy hairdresser backed by jumping seals, writes QUENTIN LETTS

Published: 19:46 EST, 4 September 2014 | Updated: 04:15 EST, 5 September 2014

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Lord Of The Dance: Dangerous Games (London Palladium)

Verdict: Quickstep out of there

Rating:

Some loved it, I concede. Michael Flatley’s Irish dance shows have filled theatres around the world and no doubt the Palladium will do strong business at the box office and at the Flatley souvenir stand and those sweaty, ill-staffed bars the lazy Palladium has.

The fans voicing their delight seemed mainly to be women in their 30s. I am happy for them.

But count me out. The Flatley production values are low-grade. His show isn’t even particularly Irish these days; just a globalised, sugary pulp.

Crushed by cliche: Michael Flatley with his troupe of dancers take the stage at the Palladium in London

His large troupe of dancers may be brilliantly fit and nimble, but they perform with no more soul than circus seals, pasting to their faces smiles of such sickliness you deduce they must have eaten gippy shrimps for lunch.

Their feet tap at rare speed. Crossing a stage, they take 60 steps where a normal gait would use ten. At times it was like watching people in bare feet hopping over a burningly hot beach.

Their calf muscles are as thick as hamsters and their lower legs keep corkscrewing, twisting, unroping. It is deft, athletic, impressive in the way of a Guinness Book of Records feat. But art?

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A tedious start. It was more than ten minutes before the first hoof was lifting, the first knee-joint whipping to and fro on its hinges. By that time we had been subjected to an out-of-focus, computer-generated image of Mr Flatley emerging from behind a large clock and giving his child a couple of soupy hugs.

A voiceover boasted about Mr Flatley’s success. Up to this point — allegedly his farewell to the West End — he had worked for 20 years of ‘blisters, blood and broken bones’ but that showed, he said, that if you have a dream and if you work hard, ‘nothing is impossible’. Yeah. Tell that to nurses or soldiers or sewage workers or priests.

There is some vague plot about a baddie — helmeted, red-lit, with a strange eye and normally accompanied by flames — chasing a small figure in a jewelled skinsuit and bath-hat.

Heartthrob: The fans voicing their delight seemed mainly to be women in their 30s, writes Quentin Letts

The programme told us this character was Little Spirit (played by Alice Upcott, until recently a gymnast).

She kept pretending to play a tin whistle, the music in fact arising from the deafening sound system. The villain at one point ‘snapped’ (in fact, dismantled) the tin whistle in two. That was the one moment I felt like cheering.

Little Spirit is eventually saved by the Lord Of The Dance. Is that Mr Flatley? Er, no. He made only a fleeting appearance at the very end, sashaying on like a prosperous hairdresser.

The real lead man is Mancunian James Keegan — nifty set of heels and an expression of the most irritating self-satisfaction. At the end of big numbers he did a ta-ra gesture with his arms, cornier than a pantomime matador.

A routine of genuine, gawp-inducing elan was an all- male tap dance, almost a tap stomp. Mr Keegan spoiled it at the end with this ‘ain’t we great?’ gesture. How much better it would have been if he had simply walked off to applause.

Unlovely voice: Nadine Coyle, once of Girl's Aloud, provides contrast in the show with moments of song

Moments of contrast are provided by a singer, Erin the Goddess. This is Nadine Coyle, once of Girls Aloud: a blunt, unlovely voice, muddy in the lower register. I’ve heard better at a Brittany Ferries cabaret.

Back projections show unicorns and fairy-book images of some emeraldish isle with ruined castles and candy-coloured rainbows. They are of a standard found in late-Nineties computer games.

Two violinists in evening dresses suddenly leap on stage and start sawing away while jiving. Real or mimed? The volume was so ear-bruisingly high, I was beyond caring.

Heaven knows how she did it, but across the stalls my chum Vanessa Feltz seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness. Coshed by cliche, perhaps.

Jigs invade every dance. Cyber-dancers appear in robot costumes. They do yet more Irish dancing — Paddy Android.

The Lord Of The Dance takes Little Spirit’s ‘broken’ tin whistle, puts it behind his back, and ‘repairs’ it (i.e., sticks the top back on). Wails of weepy delight from the Flatley aficionados.

First to leave was Lord Lloyd-Webber. I was hot on his heels and we were moving almost as fast as those dancers, I tell ye.