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Deane’s zeal for showmanship is rarely in doubt in any of his productions, and there is a white-jacketed orchestra in a glow of soft lights energetically playing Gershwin for a hyperactive conductor, who demands your attention by smacking his own bottom with his baton. The ballet dancers wear unstinted costumes, dazzlingly trimmed by Swarovski (you can never have too many sequins at ENB), and one of the two extremely cheesy tap dancers turns out to sing rather better than the singers. Take a bow, Paul Robinson.



