House of Flamenka review ★★★★★

As you take your seat in the theatre you’re faced with a heavily decorated stage which, all deep red and purple ruched velvet curtains framing a chaise-longue and various other bits of rococo furniture, the whole topped by a red neon sign that reads House of Flamenka, which immediately puts you in mind of a tart’s boudoir in an 18th-century Paris brothel.

Intriguing? Ominous, rather.

The lights go down, nondescript recorded music blares out and a collection of grotesquely costumed figures amble into the twilight. Hips wiggling, crotches foremost, they are – I think – supposed to be louche and sexy. Instead they put me in mind of refugees from some third-rate 1930s Weimar cabaret, now plying their trade in a hard-core leather dive.

House of Flamenka is billed as a brand-new fusion of flamenco and contemporary dance, ‘a lavish, extravagant and sexy spectacular’. If only.

It boasts the name of theatreland royalty Arlene Phillips, DBE – veteran choreographer, director, Strictly judge – as co-creator and choreographer, a 20-strong ensemble of male dancers from Madrid and London, and as producer and co-creator the self-described 'multi-disciplinarian' Karen Ruimy.

A full page of the glossy programme outlines a plot that somehow never finds representation on stage. Instead what you are given is a collection of unrelated numbers, performed by Spanish dancers in singularly unflattering costumes that nod towards the typical garb of matadors (Spain, flamenco, bullfights, geddit?), and contemporary dancers from the UK kitted out in an increasingly absurd collection of costumes, including lilac tulle skirts, shocking pink feathered pillbox hats and various other grotesqueries. What costume designer Jasmine Swan was thinking is unfathomable.

All this could perhaps be forgiven if the choreography was more than just basic stomping for the Spanish contingent, and generic prancing for the British; but it never rose above that, instead borrowing shamelessly from better dance makers… It’s to be hoped the litigious Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker doesn’t feel inclined to sue over one particular number involving chairs; Pina Bausch’s famous parades made it onto this stage too, more theft than homage.

It soon became clear that all the ‘dance’ numbers were just meant to frame appearances by Ruimy, showing off a vast collection of glittering costumes.

Presented as a diva of song and flamenco, Ruimy is neither. Her average voice can hold a tune, but communicates nothing; her flamenco dancing is reduced to elementary foot-stomping, her back stiff and unbending, her arms somehow never fully unfolding.

The musical score, blending live and recorded music is as senseless as the rest of it, a meddle of Latin pop and traditional hits, such as Quizas, and covers of Leonard Cohen songs: a near-hysterical Spanish rendition of Take this Waltz, and Dance Me to the End of Love.

In short, this is a truly dispiriting affair, unworthy of the West End and certainly undeserving of West End ticket prices.

The sole star of this review goes to the dancers, who never stinted on effort and, one feels, could have done a lot better with more promising material.