ABSTRACT
Whenever the English catch a whiff of the sewer, they’re in heaven. The excitingly revisionist, flawed, and appropriately sordid production of Cabaret, which comes to us via acclaim in London, is a case of nostalgie de la boue run riot. Its hot English director, Sam Mendes, takes no prisoners; his style here is Weimar Berlin in your face. And there are times when what’s in your face is quite surprising.
