Whisper it, but West Yorkshire Playhouse might just be making a case for the much-maligned jukebox musical. Knotting together 18 Proclaimers songs, Sunshine on Leith is refreshingly uncynical, resisting the easy wins and clunky contrivances that characterise most shows banking on a recognisable soundtrack. Even remounted after its success on the big screen in 2013, it feels like a thing of real joy, not a ploy to cash in.
For James Brining, this revival of his original 2007 production is a return and an ending. It’s an opportunity to revisit the greatest hit of his time as artistic director of Dundee Rep, while concluding one chapter of the Playhouse’s story before it closes for refurbishment. In coming back to the show, he marries the strengths of the piece with the strengths of the space. In this version, an on-stage boozer spills out into the stalls of the Quarry theatre, creating a sense of lager-scented community in an auditorium that can so often feel cavernous and impersonal.
Community is also central to the show itself. Stephen Greenhorn’s plot springs from some of the recurring concerns of the Proclaimers’ back catalogue: home, identity, love and Scottishness. In many ways it’s a tale of homecoming, opening as old mates Davy (Steven Miller) and Ally (Paul-James Corrigan) return from war to their beloved Leith and the relationships – both familial and romantic – of civilian life. The more politicised strain of the Proclaimers’ songwriting is briefly reflected in swipes at NHS cuts and nods to gentrification.
There’s no escaping the sentimentality at the exposed, beating heart of this show. While skilfully braiding in various Proclaimers tracks, its narrative ticks all the big emotional boxes: love, loss, parenthood. In aiming squarely for the universal, though, Greenhorn’s script often lacks specificity. His characters are foremost daughters or sons, fathers or mothers, husbands or wives – defined by their relationships with one another rather than by any quirks or idiosyncrasies.
The detail is instead supplied by Brining’s production, which teems with the stuff of everyday life. In an early Edinburgh street scene, as returning squaddies Davy and Ally weave past joggers, leaflet-pushers, buskers and coffee-guzzlers, Emily-Jane Boyle’s choreography brilliantly evokes the bustle of city pavements – real city pavements, not the high-kicking sidewalks of Broadway. Colin Richmond’s set, meanwhile, is crammed with the minutiae of the mundane, from Asda signs to wellies atop bus shelters. And while the on-stage bar inevitably recalls Once – the Musical, it’s more working men’s club than romanticised tavern. You can almost taste the Tennent’s.
The real masterstroke is bringing the band on to the stage and among the actors. It’s not an original thought, but it’s perfect for the spirit of this piece. Guitar players pop up from behind bars and reception desks, as though the Proclaimers’ music has seeped irresistibly into the city. When a drinking session turns into a singsong (Over and Done With) or a pub full of Hibs fans offer marriage proposal advice (Let’s Get Married), the tunes somehow burst organically from the action rather than feeling imposed on to it. And while the biggest hits are used with admirable restraint, by the opening riff of I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles), resistance is futile.