TIM RICE has a journalist's nose for a good story. His style is to encapsulate the  complexities  and  subtleties  of a vast  theme  in  a  short  and  snappy idiom, to render it instantly accessible to a mass-circulation audience.      It  is, therefore, both  bold and  courageous to make a musical out of the celebral  and  sedentary game of  chess  and  use it as  a metaphor  for the sinister brinkmanship that aflicts  the  East-West conflict.      But to the man who helped the british musical come  of  age  with  such unlikely sujects as Jesus Christ  and  a  half-remembered  Argentine  folk heroine,  such  a  robust  challenge  should  not surprise us.      And, given the media  hysteria  that now turns even chess into a gladiatorial contest between the superpowers,  Mr  Rice's  journalese  way with a lyric could not be more fitting.     Where others might struggle to  show off with a dazzling rhyming scheme, he  is quite  prepared to make  use  of  everyday  words  like "nice" and "nasty".                             Heroine      "Who  needs  dreams ?"  sings  one  of  his anguished  contestants. "Once  I  had  them, now they're  obsessions.  Hopes  became  needs  and lovers possessions."      I can  think  of  no  more  vivid  lament for the high price of fame and go-getting.      As hardly a word is spoken rather than sung, Mr Rice is, of course fortunate to have teamed up with Messrs Andersson and Ulvaeus, late of Abba, who have supplied music that is always tuneful and has occasional moments that are incandescent in the memory.
				Yet  for  all  its  virtues  there  is  a  swings  and roundabouts  feel to the  evening and  although  it wins on the strength of its ambition and some fine songs, there  are losers  too, some  of  them  quite needless.      If, for example, you have as a heroine a woman whose potent  personality is enough  to make the American lose his  game and the  Russian  to  lose his marbles, she must be  given  star  treatment in musical terms.      Elaine Piage, who  has  a  voice you  can  hear across  London, has  proved she  can  dominate a stage with the best of them. But she is not helped in her task here. Indeed, she  might  be a woman who has  just  parked  her  Tesco  trolley  in  the wings  and  popped out to check the meter for all the impact her entrance makes.      A firmer step from director Trevor Nunn might have helped else where. The show is far too lond and the quaintly Ruritanian revels which preceed the coming of the two champions belong to the era of the musical Mr Rice helped to bury.      I could have done without the silly rock and roll romp before they settled down to the serious business of the game. Speaking of which brings me to the battery of technology assembled on the stage.                          Triumph     To point up the media hype with banks of TV screens is fine. But any actor having to perform against dozens of blown-up images runs the unenviable risk of upstaging himself.      This happens all too often for Murray Head, the John McEnroe of chess. Tommy Korberg is luckier in having some lung-swelling solos to perform on a relatively empty stage.      The whoops of the star studded first night audience emphasised his triumph.
										Taken from the Daily Mail May 15th 1986  (by Jack Tinker p.3)