It’s a universal truth in the ebbing, organic flow of theatre making.

Just because one production is good, doesn’t mean they all will be.

Perhaps the reigning example of this creed is the wildly variable Ghost the Musical. The original West End production and subsequent tour remains one of the most technically dazzling and ambitious musicals ever put to stage. The barely watchable Bill Kenwright homunculus of it that followed a few years later, starring the late Sarah Harding, was a disaster. Its most recent reincarnation landed somewhere in between.

Of course, the reverse can be true, as well. One would rather pluck one’s own teeth than revisit the 2017 tour of Grease, whilst Nikolai Foster’s recent revisit gave it a much-needed MOT into a really exciting and vibrant piece of musical theatre.

Which brings us to Bat Out Of Hell, a show which, back in 2022 this very outlet called ‘one of the most gorgeous, vibrantly and innovatively realised productions you will see in any theatre.’

No prizes for guessing where this is going…

First, the good. This new, non-replica production at least gets its casting on point. Bringing back former cast members Glenn Adamson, Rob Fowler and Sharon Sexton alone makes for a compelling argument to see them do their thing. Katie Tonkinson, so great last year in the ill-fated Bonnie & Clyde, is equally impressive, and rounds out the central cast with gusto.

Bat continues to boast some of the best vocals you could wish for in a musical production, with Adamson and co routinely knocking raising the roofs with killer riffs and belts to what are, after all, seriously demanding sings in the discography or Meatloaf and Jim Steinman.

They’re enveloped by more excellence, too. Georgia Bradshaw, Luke Street and Ryan Carter are all seriously impressive, and a special shout out must go to local Wolverhampton talent Sophie-Rose Emery, who delivered a powerhouse understudy Valkyrie in the performance reviewed.

“The stage is almost literally set aflame with talent, and when you can just allow yourself to be swept along in the rock ’n roll of it all, there are moments of pure electricity.”

The stage is almost literally set aflame with talent, and when you can just allow yourself to be swept along in the rock ’n roll of it all, there are moments of pure electricity.

So give this company all their deserved plaudits; they give it their all and present some seriously commanding and soaring numbers masterfully.

The issue is, frankly, everything else. And the calibre of talent assembled for this production only makes its waste of them all the more glaring.

This is Bat Out Of Hell – the Ozempic years. Whilst never the most intricate or groundbreaking of narratives, Steinman’s original book presented a dystopian slant on Peter Pan, all drenched in lashings of punk rock anarchy. The bones of its story are just about intact: a powerful, corporate overlord (Rob Fowler) tries to prevent his ingenue daughter, Raven (Katie Tonkinson) from becoming entangled with Start (Glenn Adamson), the spunky leader of a group of rebellious youths who will never grow old.

For those familiar with the previous production, it’s impossible to not feel disappointed that so much of the plot and substance is either blitzed through or chopped out altogether. And yet, despite taking out entire numbers (three in total), it doesn’t seem to have any time for world or character-building, either. Spare a thought for those who are new to it all; interval murmurings had several people completely lost as to what on earth was supposed to be going on.

As well as being inexcusably rushed, rendering some of it almost incomprehensible, there’s precious little sense of character or motivation. The central love interest and Raven’s parents seem to separate and reunite every ten minutes. Good luck decoding why; there seems to be more time given to the reasons behind the will they, won’t they of Bradshaw and Carter’s Zahara and Jagwire. Someone says something about underground tunnels and ‘deep ends’ at some point. Answers on a postcard for the uninitiated.

Without context or breathing space, moments of humour fall flat or, in the case of what was formerly a raucous, show-stopping duet between Fowler and Sexton, feel uncomfortable and jarring here. 

“As well as being inexcusably rushed…. there’s precious little sense of character or motivation.”

And the choreography. It’s serviceable for some of the bigger set pieces – the company briefly bringing ‘Dead Ringer for Love’ to life as a song and dance interlude – but for the most part it’s bizarre, distracting and borderline parodic. Whenever our two leads are together they awkwardly bound about each other like a pair of agitated rabbits. It feels laden, awkward and at times even amateur.

This Bat Out Of Hell is directed in a fashion that seems, if anything, annoyingly burdened by the whole musical theatre inconvenience, when it really just wants to be a staged rock concert. For most shows of this ilk, that would acceptable (enjoyable, even). Yet there’s no denying this Bat has had its wings, logic and much of its compelling uniqueness clipped altogether. So much of what made it a fun, quirky and original piece of musical theatre storytelling has been binned in favour of a rushed, confusing mess.

The legitimately superb cast do their absolute best to salvage it, and the vocals and performances remain arguably worth the price of admission alone, but as the pendulum of production quality swings, the former great version of this show is All Coming Back to Me Now.

And I guess, with that in mind, Two out of Five Stars ain’t bad…

With its vivid flushes of neon pink and striking sans serif scene-setters, Tinuke Craig’s funky, punky and oh-so-camp The School for Scandal certainly lands its visual impact. Between Alex Lowde’s heightened, 18th century-via-Warhol aesthetic, Ravi Deepres’ video portraits and ripples of modernity injected into Brinsley Sheridan’s classic comedy of errors with mentions of super-injunctions, political disgrace and the like, it’s a decidedly post-modern affair. Think of it as Bridgerton by way of Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, with a splash of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette thrown in for good period measure.

Like Shonda Rhimes’ wildly successful Netflix period romp, scandal, gossip and social intrigue form the crux of School’s tale. Following a vogue-lite hybrid of high fashion runway and drag ball open, this stylish production flies out of the gate with a brand new preface. Siubhan Harrison’s delectably snide Lady Sneerwell, the grand dame of gossip mongering, seductively invites us in amongst her court of conspirers and malcontents, and for good measure instructs the audience to withhold their judgement.

We may all be about to witness a rabble of bitches and backstabbers, lies and deception, but we bloody love it.

Like many a Shakespeare farce, Richard Brinkley Sheridan’s romp is a melting pot of crossed purposes and collapsing ruses. Harrison’s Sneerwell relishes her role in architecting social scandal and disgrace, and has thrown her lot in with Joseph (Stefan Adegbola), one half of the Surface brotherhood, due to inherit a fortune from their formerly absentee uncle, Sir Oliver (Wil Johnson). His brother, Charles (John Leader) is a flamboyant, freewheeling playboy, yet shows flairs of kindness and joie de vivre by comparison to his more cunning, sentiment-preaching kin. Feisty, freewheeling young Lady Teazle (Tara Tijani), meanwhile, is slowly driving her kindly, older husband, Sir Peter (Geoffrey Streatfield) to despair, despite the duo having only recently been wed.

Confusion, paranoia and frustration all explode into a melange of plotting and subterfuge as this colourful group of characters begin to fall foul of their own ambitions, desires and machinations.

As mentioned, there are moments where Craig intercuts the classic piece with more contemporary comedy or perspective. They have great, knowing fun getting their characters to clumsily dodge the source of Sir Oliver’s fortunes, for instance, born of his history with a rather problematic merchant company of old. The fourth wall is routinely broken, with characters opining or darting commentary at the audience directly throughout. Joseph’s penchant for waxing lyrical is given angelic, almost revelatory accompaniment from above, and always gets its laughs.

It’s a bright, colourful jolt of fun, carried on performances that are writ as large as any of Lowde’s grand, decadent costumes. Adegbola is a standout as the charming, manipulative Joseph, though he is well met by his on-stage brother, a wonderful animated and buoyant John Leader, who injects Charles with an elastic and infectious exuberance. Streatfeild and Tijani are great fun as the warring Teazles, each in their own way lending the piece its few glimpses of real heart and growth.

“…a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids.”

Amongst the rest of the cast, Wil Johnson leans into the nudge nudge, wink winkery as his returning Sir Oliver adopts a variety of disguises to test the mettle and quality of his heirs, whilst Tadeo Martinez is every inch the odious bootlick as a transatlantic Mr Snake. And particular credit must also go to a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids. Houghton once again proves herself a formidable character actress, and her expressions and facial tics alone will lhave you yearning for more than her handful of appearances.

Funny, sassy and spirited, with high camp to spare, it’s nevertheless difficult to shake the sense that Craig’s adaptation isn’t perhaps quite as pacy or taut as it ought be. There’s an abundance of repetition and reacquainting the audience with key threads and relationships within Sheridan’s text that could quite easily be truncated, or excised altogether, here. For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.

“For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.”

And, whilst there are plenty of laughs along the way, it never quite hits the same uproarious levels of frenetic chaos or frequency of hilarity as its current counterpart, The Merry Wives of Windsor, which it plays in rep with at the RSC this summer.

With a new epilogue bolted on that juxtaposes Sneerwell’s salacious open, and ends the evening on a pleasant and affirming note, chances are you will walk away from School for Scandal suitably entertained and amused. Craig’s production is lavish and certainly eye-opening to look at, but much like Bridgerton before it, is never quite as revelatory or original as it may first appear.

And that, for some, may be perhaps the greatest scandal of all; rather than leaving one feel thoroughly debauched or invigorated as its optics and name may suggest, audiences of this light, frothy jolt of neon fun will have to settle for simply being tickled rather pink, instead.

Dreamscapes and the fae are commonplace, almost the point of mundanity, within Shakespeare. Be it the servile Ariel and fellow island spirits of The Tempest, the foreboding misdirection of dreams in Romeo and Juliet, or the outward supernatural malevolence of Macbeth’s witchery, the Bard’s offerings are replete with the fantastical and otherworldly.

Yet nowhere are they more intertwined with the whinnying of character and narrative than A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This celebrated fool’s playground of mistaken identities, unrequited loves and fairytale mischief is the latest offering from the RSC, in a boisterous and kinetic production steered by Eleanor Rhode (a RSC returnee, after her 2019 production of the rarely-seen King John).

Given the whimsy and heightened nature of Dream’s fable, coursing through realms and concepts of high fantasy that even Tolkien and Carroll would likely balk at, anything resembling the words ‘stripped back’ as an approach might (understandably) alarm even non-purists.

And yes, to strictly label Rhode and designer Lucy Osborne’s take on the great romp as such would be unfair. For whilst this Dream may not be bursting at the seams with intrusive set decoration or any overt on-stage busyness, it still commands attention and offers up a colourful, inventive style all of its own. From its overhanging canvas of rose-like paper lanterns, its glitching, flickering projections of analog transmissions (complete with flashes of the iconic ‘Test Card F’), its not-quite-Eighties-but-the-shoulder-pads-are-close-enough costume design, through to at one point literally dropping a technicolor ball pit onto its company member’s heads, there’s a tangible retro vibrancy to where (and when) Rhodes pitches her ‘Athens’.

“…this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain.”

It’s a distinctive and interesting approach, and for a brief moment, one that almost makes the slightly more traditional depictions of Dream’s fairy folk that follow feel a little more de rigeuer, perhaps even staid, as a consequence. Fortunately, Osborne’s spunky costume design carries through (with Bally Gill’s decadently punk Oberon making a vivid, immediate impact), and some splendid illusory and lighting work from John Bulleid and Matt Daw keeping things suitably ethereal. Levitating floral macguffins, micro poi balls dancing about as enchanted fairy folk, a cascade of neon pink petals to consummate a consummation, and even a pair of animatronic donkey ears offering up perfectly timed comedic droops – this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain. One that fuses technology and theatricality, whilst shrewdly managing to avoid overreaching or stuffing itself silly on needless, excessive spectacle.

As the impending marriage of a nervy duke (Bally Gill, again) to his unenthused betrothed (Sirine Saba, also on multi-role duty) approaches, four young wannabe lovers flee into neighbouring woodlands to pursue their heart’s desires. Feisty Hermia (Dawn Sievewright) longs to abscond with the object of her affections, young Lysander (Ryan Hutton). The only catch is, she’s already been promised to strapping Demetrius (Nicholas Armfield), who himself commands the affections of envious Helena (Boadicea Ricketts).

Elsewhere, a performing troupe are making ready to perform for the Duke at his wedding, led by self-assured Bottom (Mathew Baynton) who is beyond confident that he can deliver a performance for the ages.

“Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory.”

As its colourful cast of characters intrude upon the realms of the fantastical by venturing into the glen, they fall foul of mischievous sprites and scorned fairy folk, leading to farce, silliness, switched desires and oscillating loyalties par excellence.

Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory. Rhode’s taut direction keeps things punchy and regularly injects invention and flourish. See a forest of ladders in Act II which the cast clamber up, thrust upon and slide down amidst a hilariously charged four-way verbal fracas. Bask in the gloriously melodramatic, ludicrous and even occasionally bawdy spot of late game metafiction.

It’s charged, kinetic and utterly entertaining stuff. Buoyed immeasurably by Rhode clearly letting the instincts and talents of a wonderful assembled company not only breathe, but run rampant.

Boadicea Ricketts’ brash, frustrated Helena crackles with some deliciously contemporary sensibilities and ticks, her gradual descent into exasperation and neurosis sublimely pitched. She’s handsomely met by Dawn Sievewright and Nicholas Armfield, both excellent and characterful as Hermia and Demetrius, respectively. But it’s perhaps a side-splitting, animated Ryan Hutton, a leaping bundle of comic and physical elasticity as Lysander, who gets amongst the most consistent and effortless laughs of the evening.

Not that he’s without stiff competition, mind. This is a uniformly fantastic company, with even smaller roles such as Emily Cundick’s Snout, Helen Monks’ fraught troupe leader Peter/Rita Quince, and Mitesh Soni’s Flute all amongst those getting laugh-out-loud moments to shine, particularly come the show’s closing scenes.

Bally Gill starts out strong and sets the tone from the off with his quirky, giggle-inducing Theseus, and if Sirine Saba is initially given little to work with as Hippolyta, she positively springs to life by the time she’s slinking, strutting and even boogying her way through the woods as Queen of Fairies, Titania. Credit must go, too, to an impressive Premi Tamang, stepping in to cover the role of Puck and giving a lively, winning turn (on press night no less).

Which brings us to Bottom. In what turns out to be an unsurprisingly inspired spot of casting, Ghosts and Horrible Histories’ Mathew Baynton is perfect as a heightened, grandstanding iteration of one of Shakespeare’s silliest creations. Where past productions may pitch their Bottom as courageous or fearlessly assertive, here he is hilariously self-important and pompous. And whether dialling up the melodrama and absurdity of his luvvies’ performative chops to the stratosphere, or sinking into the jackassery (quite literally) and physical lampoonery of the character post-transformation (just you wait for those ears and gnashers…) or even just daintily prancing about on stage in skimpy attire, Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass in the role throughout, lighting up the stage with every inch of his spindly, wide-eyed, hyper expressive and giddily farcical turn.

“…Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass…”

There will doubtless have been – and likely continue to be – visits to the whimsical farscapes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that carry even more showy spectacle and grandeur than this latest outing from the RSC. It is after all, by some measure, Shakespeare’s most heightened and outlandish hour, and for some that means big production value and stage wizardry dialled up to the nines.

And still, as pretty, colourful and occasionally otherwordly as Bulleid and Daw’s work confidently keep things here, no amount of aesthetic distraction or set pieces can compensate for the true magic of the Bard’s high fantasy hijinks. It’s a code that Rhode and company seem to have quite effortlessly cracked; a frisson they have plucked, bottled and ebbed into every beat and pulse of this giddy, winning and, yes, magical production.

Tirelessly funny, effortlessly vibrant in performance and character both, and a razor-sharp, immaculately performed evening of comedy and jollification, here is a Dream of a show that deserves adoration from top to scantily-clad Bottom.

A rare vision, indeed.

“Maybe… maybe this show doesn’t need a plot!” RuPaul’s Drag Race legend Jinkx Monsoon wryly exclaims towards the latter end of Together Again, Again!  “This is our only marketable skill!”, follows shortly after, this time in unison with long-time collaborator, Major Scales, with whom Monsoon, real name Jerick Hoffer, shares the stage for this, their fifth UK touring cabaret production.

Self-deprecation is the order of the day here, then, and it rings true throughout Again!’s inspiredly bonkers 90-minute whirlwind of musical and comedic mayhem.

The year is 2065. The world has long since been conquered by reptilian overlords (who cross-bred, naturally, with the Kardashians). The sun has long since exploded. Drag Race has celebrated its 50th anniversary, and the Queer Eye cast have since amalgamated into one singular, all-seeing consciousness.

As per the duo’s previous ventures, such as The Ginger Snapped and The Vaudevillians, the (self-mocked) narrative stylings of Together Again, Again! are little more than a loose framework upon which to hang Monsoon and Scale’s trademark cabaret hijinks (hi-jinkx?). From the moment Scales hobbles out on stage as an aged take on his alter-ego, followed soon after by Monsoon shuffling out in the vein of a nigh-decrepit Gloria Swanson (set to a deliciously dry riff on Sunset Boulevard’s ‘The Greatest Star’, no less), it’s clear that any initial concerns set by a pulpy sci-fi opening video are assuaged pretty much immediately.

This show, after all, doesn’t need a plot.

That’s not to undersell some of the deceptively clever writing at play, though. The handful of original songs take aim at – or downright parody – the likes of Lloyd-webber, Sondheim and even Bond staples. Britishness – and indeed the British as a whole – frequently get sent up (a swipe at Come Dine With Me being particularly glorious). Parallels between the ‘collective trauma’ of alien invasion offer obvious echoes to COVID and the pandemic. Climate change gets a passing nod, with half of the UK of 2065 underwater. Even JK Rowling’s recent social media faux pas gets a scathing (see: well-deserved) strike.

But Monsoon and Scales aren’t here to preach or pontificate. The real raison d’être of Again! is to make an audience laugh, and it’s here where it succeeds most rousingly. It is tirelessly, relentlessly funny, both in its written, prepped material, as well as the masterful and effortless fashion in which Monsoon in particular commands the stage, ad-libs and rapid-fire jostles with their audience.

“…tirelessly, relentlessly funny, both in its written, prepped material, as well as the masterful and fashion in which Monsoon in particular commands the stage, ad-libs and rapid-fire jostles with their audience.”

The gloriously over-the-top, idiosyncratic relish of their dialled-up, almost vampiric elder incarnation is an absolute joy to watch throughout, and will have you giggling away even in the quieter beats and moments. Hoffer/Monsoon is a consummate pro, and this is absolutely the apex of their wheelhouse; belting big numbers and chewing up the stage with gusto.

Scales gets the less overtly showy, but equally important, role of the duo, and it’s his nervy, likeable energy opposite his at-times almost monstrous co-star, that help ground the show and offer some light to its sizzling, raucous shade. Both sing the everything out of their numbers, big and small, too.

As mentioned, the duo are more than comfortable making themselves and their personas the butt of much of the humour, but few are safe from the sight of their scopes. Fellow Drag Race alumni face the duo’s witty wrath, with everything from All Stars 2 winner Alaska being outed as an actual extraterrestrial (devouring judge Michelle Visage in the process) to Trixie Mattel opening a hotel on the moon, and even a celebratory acknowledgement of fan favourite Shangela finally being on time to a gig …some five decades after her career began.

By the time ‘Jinkx’ and ‘Major’ are prancing along to a revisited version of Marc Shaiman’s ‘Timeless to Me’ (if they were younger, the choreography would be lazy, you know) it’s hard not to wish for Together to carry on again, again! But in truth, at 90 minutes (with no interval), it is a perfectly paced, lean, laugh-out loud corker of cabaret campness, pulled off by two masters of their craft at the top of their game.

Their best outing yet – in and of itself high praise – this may be their only marketable skill, but, by the grace of our future reptilian overlords, let’s pray it isn’t forty-three years before we actually see them again.

A zany, infectious and irrepressible cream of the high-concept cabaret crop.