It is rare that, as a reviewer, to see a show that struggles even to reach the praise of a single star. Golden Gloves, however, makes a very good case for the absence of any rating at all. What I saw was enough for one to take a wide birth of The Bongo Club around 7-8pm.
Golden Gloves consists of four vignettes involving boxers at various points in their career. Whether it be the fresh-faced newbie, the aspiring champion, the seasoned veteran caught in a fixed match or the tired stalwart looking for a final blaze of glory, Golden Gloves takes traditional tropes and doesn’t do anything new with them at all. The fresh-faced newbie is beaten about and finally uses a unique technique to succeed. The aspiring champion moves up through the ranks even against his overbearing parents’ wishes. The seasoned veteran has a big dilemma and a seedy lifestyle and the tired stalwart has an epiphany involving a painfully long dream sequence with inflatable gloves and an a cappella rendition of ‘My Way’. Even describing all this does not spoil the plot for it is safe to say there is nothing of the sort present. Jokes are crafted out of thin air and find no place in the story; the script relies on quick scenes and easy laughs from swear words to ever get a chance to be anything more than a brainstorm of relevant words, and the performances are so poorly directed towards any semblance of humanity, or any well-constructed absurdism, that we are left wondering who cast these four in the first place.
The cast grips onto live music and squeezes it for all it’s worth, often without discretion. It is always there and often a bit messy. The same can be said for the lighting design, which has inspired ideas that just do not work in the way you imagine they were designed to, but at least it tries to make a silk purse of an otherwise particularly hairy sow’s ear.
This is not a show to see if you want a ‘so bad its good’ production. Golden Gloves is so awkwardly juvenile in its structure and lack of restraint that it leads to a general feeling of wanting to look away, finally cemented in the quite frankly racist stereotypes that parade through the world championships. I sort of wish the painful audience participation had extended far enough to include us being knocked unconscious instead, for even that would have been more enjoyable.
