Ihave to say something exciting-

–quiet, Maggots, when I’m writing!

…Something, I’m scarcely wont to do.

Even the finest shows don’t get it,

but I give when its due,

It is the odour of exception,

It’s the rare, six star review!

And you may bet for sure,

This review-er,

Finds nothing de rigeuer,

Giving such a great score willy nilly.

And so stop the cries of scorn,

A fuller review has been born,

To show six stars for ‘Tildy isn’t silly…

Attempting to come within even a country mile of mimicking the lyrical gymnastics, rhythmic playfulness and boundless whimsy of Tim Minchin’s music for Matilda only makes you appreciate its brilliance even more. It underpins just how much lightning-in-a-bottle genius he and the other creatives behind the show captured.

The RSC‘s Olivier-gobbling smash hit, Matilda the Musical returns to the Birmingham Hippodrome for a Summer engagement this week, and it has lost precisely none of its magic, charm and potency.

On the contrary, the fizzing, boundless imagination that continues to be on display in this gorgeous, spirited touring production not only honours the seminal Roald Dahl classic off which it is based, but in many ways surpasses it. And, in delightfully Dahl fashion, it is suitably nasty, unsanitised, mean and joyful all at once. These ‘revolting’, ‘naughty’ children have it rough, and the real villains (clue: most of the adults) are despicable, and even dangerous. It’s what Dahl always managed to capture in his writings (IRL red flags aside) – to care for your protagonist and their plight, there have to be stakes.

For the remarkably talented – possibly even gifted – bookish, sweet-natured but determined Matilda, the ‘stakes’ come in the form of truly horrible, neglectful and abusive parents and the tyrannical Olympian headmistress of her new school, Agatha Trunchbull (truly a musical theatre creation for the ages). Thankfully, amidst the hardships and abuse, she has friends in the form of an encouraging librarian (Esther Niles), her newfound school friends, and her kindly, supportive teacher, Miss Honey (Tessa Kadler).

“…in delightfully Dahl fashion, it is suitably nasty, unsanitised, mean and joyful all at once.”

Those familiar with the book (or even the transatlantic 1996 Danny DeVito film adaptation) will know the broad strokes of Matilda’s tale. But on stage, Dennis Kelly’s witty, heartfelt book gives it new places to go and things to say. Matilda’s library visits as she gradually recounts a new story about an Escapologist and Gymnast ties in to both her burgeoning abilities and another major character, all the while reflecting this little girl’s own desire to be seen, wanted and loved. The villainous Trunchbull’s backstory as a hammer-throwing medalist isn’t just exposition, it informs everything from her hilarious, intimidating, top-heavy character design through to her idiosyncratic musical numbers.

What’s perhaps most remarkable about Matilda the Musical is, for all of its flights of fancy and genuinely amazing set pieces (see: an early exquisite and dextrous number revolving around the alphabet, or any time the full classroom of kids are allowed to go full throttle), it’s also a genuinely excellent piece of musical theatre. Minchin’s music has wit, wordplay and character to spare, with the soundtrack stuffed with everything from the hilarious, up-tempo samba stylings of ‘Loud’ to the instantly hummable earworm of ‘When I Grow Up’ right through to thumping, anthematic triumph of ‘Revolting Children’. Even the more conventional musical theatre fare, such as the I Want of Miss Honey’s ‘My House’, is beautiful and searing.

Front and centre of leading the charge of all this revolting excellence are a core company of incredibly talented young performers. The central role of Matilda herself is shared across the tour by Madison Davis, Mollie Hutton, Olivia Ironmonger and Sanna Kurihara, with the latter putting on a beautiful, confident leading turn in the performance reviewed. The irrepressible Bruce Bogtrotter, meanwhile, is played by one of Oison-Luca Pegg, Carter-J Murphy, Brodie Robson and Takunda Khumalo. Pegg sung, danced and sassed up an absolute storm as Bruce for press night, giving some brilliant vocals and joyous character beats.

Of the grown-ups, Tessa Kadler is the perfect Miss Honey, embodying the gentle timidity, but unleashing one hell of a belt when needed. It’s a beautiful supporting turn, perfectly contrasted by the broader, comedic strokes of Rebecca Thornhill and Samuel Leon as Matilda’s odious, yet undeniably funny, parents.

And standing padded shoulders, pleated skirts and knee-high socks over them all is the indomitable presence of Richard Hurst’s looming, almost Frankenstein-esque Agatha Trunchbull. At once both terrifying and ridiculous, towering and snivelling, Hurst’s booming, idiosyncratic turn as the Headmistress from Hell is worth the admission alone. Like Matilda’s parents, this Trunchbull is truly awful, hurling children around by their pigtails (in one – of several – of the show’s extraordinary bits of visual trickery) and it pulls no punches in her cruelty and malice. And yet, as with all great villains, there’s no denying how utterly infectious and hilarious she is to watch.

“At once both terrifying and ridiculous, towering and snivelling, Hurst’s booming, idiosyncratic turn as the Headmistress from Hell is worth the admission alone.”

As mentioned, this touring production is a stunning piece of craftsmanship. Very little, if anything, from the decorated West End production, is dialled down here, and the show’s realisation of Peter Darling’s choreography seamlessly weaving in, out of, and even swinging from, Rob Howell’s gorgeous, rich staging, feels as authentic (and even occasionally shocking – are they really swinging that far?) as ever. This feels like rich, immediate and boundless theatre.

So what more do you little squits need to be told before you convince yourselves to go and catch Matilda the Musical? Don’t make this reviewer do a riff on more of Minchin’s music… it is too damned clever to try. I’ll end up in the chokey for sure.

But thematic flourishes aside, here is a gorgeous, funny, witty and endlessly charming tale about righting wrongs, being true to yourself and the virtues of even sometimes being a little bit naughty. It’s a deliciously individual musical, with performances, songs and characters for the ages and enough flights of imagination to keep even the biggest kids enthralled.

So hopscotch, scooter or swing your way along to the Hippodrome this month for what is, measure for measure, newt for newt, one of the greatest musicals of the 21st Century.

Either that, or spend the Summer in the Chokey.

The choice is yours, Maggots.

Within the few gaps left by a rampaging horde of musicals, the good old fashioned thriller on stage still gets a relatively fair crack of the whip when it comes to the UK touring scene.

The quality, as ever, proves variable. For every prestige Christie (Murder on the Orient Express) or satisfying new chill (Paranormal Activity) there are the campy, screaming duds (Picture You Dead, anyone?).

And with pulpier churners such as Harlan Coben and Peter James doing more than their fair share of monopolising stage and screen with their conveyer belt ‘thrills’, it ironically sees the likes of a sturdy, old-fashioned John le Carré arrive feeling somehow fresh and inviting.

Based on le Carré’s breakthrough 1963 Cold War hit, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold comes to the stage courtesy of this handsome and polished David Eldridge and Jeremy Herrin adaptation. It follows weary intelligence officer, Alec Leamas (Ralf Little) as he embarks on one risky, final operation; a fake defection that hopes to ensnare a sinister German counterpart, responsible for the death of one of Leamas’ best and closest agents.

For starters, it certainly looks the part – Max Jones’ sets and costumes and Azusa Ono’s pulsing, foreboding lighting casting a gloomy, almost discomforting environ that is quite literally overshadowed by an effigy of the Berlin Wall. It’s visually arresting, for sure, perfectly striking the cold, oppressive reality of espionage of the era.

Perhaps owing to a combination of le Carré having been himself an operative for the security and intelligence forces, coupled with its age, Spy certainly carries some trappings for mordern audiences to be aware of. For one, it’s very talky, with an exposition-heavy first half in particular occasionally languishing. Similarly, with its abundance of characters, agencies, titles, pseudonyms and subterfuges, it can occasionally be thick on information and a little light on any sort of kinetic incident.

“…eye-watering (quite literally) interrogation scenes and high-stakes tribunals giving Herrin the opportunity to inject some palpable danger and propulsion to the production.”

A tighter, tenser second Act alleviates things considerably, with eye-watering (quite literally) interrogation scenes and high-stakes tribunals giving Herrin the opportunity to inject some palpable danger and propulsion to the production. And simmering beneath it all, threads of uncertainty and accusation will leave those unfamiliar with the source material likely second-guessing themselves right up to the powerful, poignant finale.

TV favourite Ralf Little is a strong centre around which the paranoia and danger can pulse. His Leamas is world-weary and suitably sardonic, yet still displays flashes of former youthful vigour and cheekiness. If it isn’t as gnarly or uncompromising a portrayal as some have gone for in the past, the odd beats of levity or comedic frankness that Little injects throughout being a welcome, sporadic puncture to a rather bleak whole.

Little is bolstered by an impressive supporting company about him, too. Peter Losasso is suitably odious as the enigmatic target of Leamas’ operation, whilst Eddie Toll commands much of the second half with an engrossing and impassioned turn as the communist deputy willing to take on his sinister superior. Tony Turner and Nicholas Murchie, meanwhile, give dignified and grounded turns as Leamas’ British seniors, never quite escaping the encroaching shadow of suspicion and uncertainty themselves.

Turner also gets to grandstand up a storm as a bloviating German defence attorney. Gráinne Dromgoole, meanwhile, is earnest and likeable as potential love interest, Liz, though her ties to the communist party and parallels with Alec’s recently-deceased agent hover ominously over her, too.

“…administers a dose of gnawing, biting cold war tension and paranoia that culminates in a devilishly tangled net of double and triple crosses, surprises and tragedy.”

As opposed to being a breakneck, rollicking thrill-ride, The Spy Who Came In From the Cold administers a dose of gnawing, biting cold war tension and paranoia that culminates in a devilishly tangled net of double and triple crosses, surprises and tragedy.

A classy, sophisticated and supremely polished piece of theatre, if it may be a little too talky or expository in places for some, stay at the very least for the finely observed performances and rich, intricate drama that leaves no great mystery as to why this is a story that remains as popular – and welcome – as ever some six decades on.

In the two decades plus since its release, Tina Fey’s breakout teen comedy has garnished us all with a healthy supply of now staples memes and cultural fodder.

We know that it’s pink on Wednesdays. Always ask the date on October 3rd.

And for heaven’s sake, Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen.

Given its lasting power, and once its spiritual predecessor (and, whisper it – superior) Heathers got the musical treatment, it was perhaps inevitable that Mean Girls would receive its time in the stagey sun.

With Fey returning for book duties, alongside hubby (and long-time 30 Rock collaborator) Jeff Richmond taking on the tunes, with a splash of Olivier-winning flair from lyricist Nell Benjamin, the most pressing question of all is; does Mean Girls as a musical smash the limits, or elicit little more than a ‘Boo, you whore’?

Following a fairly short-lived run in the West End, Casey Nicholaw’s spirited, bubblegum pop production is currently touring, arriving at the Wolverhampton Grand this week.

And it has to be said from the outset, as the UK swelters under a record-breaking heatwave, kudos to the phenomenally talented and spritely ensemble for the tireless energy and hutzpah with which they performed the show’s demanding, hyper-kinetic choreography throughout. Beads of sweat flung out across the stage, and ‘Damian’, Max Gill, even gave a cheeky characterful nod to the oppressive hit during the curtain call, but no ‘burn book’ needed – these consummate professionals put on one hell of a show.

Stamina and professional admiration aside, there’s a fun time to be had with Mean Girls on stage. Sure, much like its filmic forebear, it’s fairly tame when compared with the nihilism and black comedy of, say, Heathers, and it wears its teen-friendly vibes proudly on its fuchsia sleeves. Homeschooled, socially-awkward Cady (Emily Lane) arrives from Kenya into the scariest habitat this side of the Serengeti – the American High School.

“…fairly atypical teen movie fare, but it’s punctured by Fey’s witty and characterful writing and barbed dialogue.”

In attempting to find her footing and crowd, she befriends two fellow outcasts, Damian (Max Gill) and Janis (Georgie Buckland) whilst also catching the eye of the trio of fearsome ‘Plastics’ – neurotic Gretchen (Kiara Dario), delightfully ditzy Karen (Sophie Pourret) and ultimate ‘It’ girl and alpha female (there’s literally a track about her called ‘Apex Predator’), Regina George (Vivian Panka).

The ‘cautionary tale’ that follows – intermittently narrated by Damian and Janis – is fairly atypical teen movie fare, but it’s punctured by Fey’s witty and characterful writing and barbed dialogue. As Cady ventures into the Plastics’ sphere of influence to sabotage them from within, she finds the allure of their power, position and privilege irresistible to resist.

And, naturally, she develops a thing for class heartthrob – and Regina’s ex – Aaron (Ben Oatley).

Anyone familiar with the film will be pleased to know all the fan favourite lines and quips are present and accounted for. Benjamin and Richmond do a solid job repurposing it as a musical, with some fun pop tracks peppered throughout. It doesn’t succeed in its transition to the extent that the likes of Benjamin’s work on Legally Blonde did (adapting similar material), but there are enough bangers, winningly performed, and Nicholaw keeps it all moving at a punchy enough pace that it never lags.

“Anyone familiar with the film will be pleased to know all the fan favourite lines and quips are present and accounted for.”

Helping the touring production immeasurably is a terrific cast assembled for the year book. Sure, Faye Tozer (of Steps fame) feels horribly underutilised despite playing three roles, but she at least gets to have fun as Regina’s ersatz, gin-swigging wannabe influencer mom. Gill whips up loads of laughs and characterful hijinks, too, as a suitably flamboyant Damian – his ‘Where Do You Belong’ song and dance number an early highlight.

But perhaps unsurprisingly, it is Cady and the ladies who command the stage and really deliver on the promise of Mean Girls as a musical outing. Emily Lane is a confident and engaging leading lady, and tackles some of the big sings with real relish. Kiara Dario and Sophie Pourret are a scream as Regina’s doting disciples; Dario bringing nuance to her paranoid, needy Gretchen, and Pourret absolutely hilarious as the somehow knowingly clueless Karen.

Vivian Panka, meanwhile, knows the assignment only too well when it comes to playing such an iconic role as Regina George, devouring the stage as the ruthless, conniving leader of the pack. She belts for the back rows and beyond, but is just as intoxicating in George’s quieter or more sultry moments. And she is perfectly met by former bestie and complete yin to her yang, Janis – a quite sensational Georgie Buckland, who continues to prove herself a formidable musical theatre talent to watch with a soaring, powerhouse and giddily punk take on the scorned outsider.

So, come for the quotes about heavy menstruation and sizeable vaginas, stay for the electric performances, terrific ensemble, a bus load of pop bangers and overall a zesty, high-energy musical that is even more fetch than Spring Fling.

Sorry, we’ll stop trying to make that happen.

Anyway… get in, loser, we’re going touring.

As we hunker down for another season of (somewhat controversial) Eurovision madness, Birmingham welcomes back the enduring stamp of one of its most notable and beloved alumni. Don your sunhats and snorkels, dust off those Super Trouper stomps and poses, and dig out a fresh pair of flares – the sun, sea and songs of Mamma Mia! are back.

A consummate crowd-pleaser, here is a show that audiences continue to flock to, on brand and name recognition along. Of course, a certain 2008 Meryl Streep-led Hollywood adaptation can’t have hurt.

It’s enduring popularity is no real mystery – here is a gloriously sunny, funny and uplifting tonic of a show, a story and stage experience built on good ‘bones’ and winning ideas, even before you throw Benny and Björn’s instantly recognisable earworms in. Landing in grim times of fractious politics, international conflict and such delights as cost of living crises, its unapologetic escapism and buoyancy are more welcome and infectious than perhaps ever.

For those unfamiliar with its premise, Mamma Mia! deftly weaves some of the biggest pop hits of ABBA into a fun jukebox romp that sees young Sophie (Lydia Hunt), on the eve of her wedding, attempting to discover who her father is, out of three potential candidates from mom Donna’s (Jenn Griffin) past. When all three turn up to the idyll that Donna has made for her and Sophie on a remote Greek Island, shenanigans ensue and a cluster bomb of old feelings explodes.

“…a breezy, effortlessly entertaining evening of crossed purposes, lost loves and burgeoning attractions, all hanging off of the ABBA bangers we all know and (most of us) adore.

It’s a breezy, effortlessly entertaining evening of crossed purposes, lost loves and burgeoning attractions, all hanging off of the ABBA bangers we all know and (most of us) adore. Sure, there’s the odd bit of mental gymnastics required to reframe, say, ‘The Name of the Game’ into something other than a romantic challenge, but even where the songs are almost entirely ancillary or something of a reach, they are always fun and wittily staged.

Sequences such as ‘Does Your Mother Know’ and ‘Dancing Queen’, for instance, technically do very little to advance the plot, amounting to little more than a battle of sexual wits and free spirited nostalgia, respectively. Yet they’re so energetically performed and characterfully staged, they end up being some of the best sequences of the night. It’s in the moments of unabashed fun with its colourful cadre of characters that the infectious joy of the show truly sings.

Full disclosure, though – on the basis of the performance reviewed, this isn’t quite Mamma Mia! fully firing on all cylinders. That isn’t to say it is bad, not by any stretch of the imagination (you’re practically guaranteed a fun night with any incarnation of this show). But for a production that has always delivered megawatt energy and talent, some of the key numbers and performances felt a little underwhelming. The toe-tapping titular ditty, for instance, came across a little too plodding and hesitant, whilst a later rendition of ‘SOS’ sadly felt a little too close to actually being one itself.

Similarly, some pitchy sound and even tempo issues, with members of the company momentarily lagging behind the score, leant a slight flabbiness to what has always previously been such a slick and polished evening of musical theatre.

With that all being said, there is still plenty of incredible talent on stage who more than smooth over the rough edges. Lydia Hunt is a sensational Sophie, comfortably one of the best to date, and is superb in terms of vocals and performance throughout. Rosie Glossop and Sarah Earnshaw, meanwhile, threaten to steal the whole thing as Donna’s good time gals, Rosie and Tanya, singing and dancing up a storm and imbibing their numbers with so much of the vocal oomph and character chops that other parts of the show occasionally lack. Elsewhere, Richard Meek, Mark Goldthorp and Joseph Vella all keep the energy and charisma high with great, spirited supporting turns.

Ultimately, niggles and shortfalls aside , the irrepressible bonhomie and delights of Mamma Mia! still make it an easy recommendation. Mark Thompson’s wheeling, transforming taverna set, bathed in Howard Harrison’s scene-setting, tranquil lighting still scream Aegean summer escapism in all the best ways.

“Lydia Hunt is a sensational Sophie, comfortably one of the best to date.”

Sure, if you have a vehement distaste for anything ABBA then it may not be for you, but even then, the original story and beats that Mamma Mia! brings to the stage – not to mention its innate joie de vivre – may be enough to convert even the most cynical Europop naysayer.

Note: TWE reviewed  ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ earlier in its current tour. Given that this is the same touring production, what follows is a revised version of that same review, updated for its visit to the Wolverhampton Grand.

If there was ever to be a case made for there being such a thing as a review-proof show, surely Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show would be it.

Recent cultural juggernauts, such as Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss’ Six may nip at its (8 inch, blood-red stilettoed) heels, but those queens have almost half a Century of catching up to crack on with before they’re challenging Rocky.

The cult classic rolls around on what has become practically its annual strut into the West Midlands, this time via Wolverhampton, and the usual fan fervour, audience dress up and participation shows no signs of waning. And why would they? Crowds have been donning their suspenders, singing along and lovingly heckling all things Rocky since the seventies.

The current touring production is for all intents and purposes a re-wheeling of the same slick, technicolor iteration that has been doing the rounds for the past decade or so. Hugh Durrant’s inspired fusion of gothic-lite hunting lodge fused with lashings of fifties B-movie flavouring and sci-fi provide a playground for Sue Blane’s rhinestoned costumes and Nick Richings’ decadently unsubtle and disco-infused lighting to shine.

You’ve likely seen it all before, but that is no bad thing.

What Rocky‘s latest visit to Wolves boasts, however, is a spirited cast of faces old and new alike keeping things zesty.

When last reviewed, we spoke of the absence of fan favourite Kristian Lavercombe, who has appeared in show quite literally thousands of times, and continues to be missing from this particular picture show (he’s been busy donning his tome as the Narrator over in his native New Zealand…). Most audiences will instead be treated to the superb Ryan Carter-Wilson in the role, who is a fantastic and formidabble Riff Raff (having previously reviewed the show when, incidentally, Carter-Wilson was on understudying for Lavercombe at the time). In a curious flick of the sonic oscillator switch, in the performance reviewed this evening, we were again treated to an understudy Riff Raff, Jesse Chidera, putting on a fine show. Kudos that is to be shared with fellow understudy Bethany Amber Perrins who served up a brilliantly bonkers, hyper animated and ultimately heart-wrenching Columbia (Perrins’ take on Columbia’s eventual about-turn genuinely stirring). 

“In a curious flick of the sonic oscillator switch, in the performance reviewed, we were again treated to an understudy Riff Raff, Jesse Chidera, putting on a fine show.”

Chidera’s Riff Raff is a more sombre, brooding and occasionally even menacing take, and of course he sings – and time warps – a treat. It’s a testimony to the organic, living nature of Rocky Horror that you can take just one (admittedly iconic) role as Riff Raff and go on such a time warp of fun performances, legacies understudies, and never come out feeing short-changed.

Familiar faces abound as Haley Flaherty and Stephen Webb return to the roles of naive, hapless and repressed Janet, and the maniacal, freewheeling Dr. Frank ‘n Furter, respectively. Flaherty and Webb are both amongst the finest Janets and ‘Franks’ that the production has boasted over the past decade or so, and it’s a joy to have them back in these roles that fit them like taut, snapping rubber gloves. They each have plenty of fun alongside a perfectly cast James Bisp, who proves an inspired choice for Brad, and gives character to spare to the nervy, awkward yet occasionally soulful dweeb.

Morgan Jackson, similarly, stands comfortably amongst the best incarnations of the titular ‘Rocky’ creation to date. As well as acing the Charles Atlas’ seal of approval in terms of a mightily impressive physique, he also showcases killer vocals during his ‘Sword of Damocles’ solo and his portion of ‘Rose Tint My World’. And if his Rocky belts and poses for the gods, Laura Bird is equally perfect as the enigmatic and sultry Magenta.

Moments of invention and surprise are littered elsewhere, too. Jackie Clune’s female narrator does a great job with the usual schtick of injecting plenty of topical meta humour throughout (and three guesses as to which Farrage-stamped President and political party bear the brunt of these). But it is when Clune goes off on distinctly female tangents to some of the show’s trademark heckling and audience participation that we get yet newer wrinkles and spins on formula.

“…the same colourful, postmodern melange of mayhem and naughtiness that audiences have flocked to in cinemas and theatres alike for over fifty years.”

Being a fair way through this mega, globe-trotting tour,  there were a few spots where the energy felt as though it slightly lagged, or some of the apparent ad libs or physical comedy landed a touch de rigueur. But the leads are still giving it their all, and it’s particlarly impressive to see Webb still having fun and trying new things out with his Frank ‘n Furter (…leave it), not to mention the sheer heft he throws into the character’s mercurial bouts of passion, rage and even despair.

In all though, whether playing it safe or flirting with surprise like this current production, it’s generally very difficult to go wrong with The Rocky Horror Show. It is the same colourful, postmodern melange of mayhem and naughtiness that audiences have flocked to in cinemas and theatres alike for over fifty years.

O’Brien’s now-iconic numbers are as irresistible and entertaining as ever, and few shows can boast a toe-tapping, off-your-seat doublet as infectious as ‘Time Warp’ and ‘Sweet Transvestite’.

Whether it is your first trip over to the Frankenstein place, or your feather boas and fishnets are already weathered from their service to the pelvic thrusting of it all, The Rocky Horror Show remains a firm audience favourite, and deservedly so. This latest tour peppers itself with some fresh twists, faces new and old alike, but it’s still essentially the same beloved time warp that you’ll be having a ball of a time doing all over again.

Altogether now; it’s just a jump to the left…

It’s been over thirty years since Stephan Elliot’s The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert charted its outback road trip into cinematic history. Likewise, this year marks the 20th anniversary since its perhaps-inevitable stage musical adaptation (also co-helmed by Elliot) first debuted in Sydney.

And times, they be most certainly a-changing.

Bringing Priscilla the musical back to the stage in 2026 sees its central narrative – depicting a comedic cross-country journey for two drag queens and a trans woman – landing in a very different socio-political climate to even fairly recent productions of the same show. Mishandle its misrepresentation or fail to modernise some of its messaging and attitudes towards homophobia, trans awareness etc. and this is one particular show bus that could easily crash and burn.

Fortunately, whilst some of the axels and rivets do occasionally creak and groan under their age, for the most part director Ian Talbot steers the good ship (see: bus) Priscilla confidently with this energised, vibrant reimagined take that, for those keenly looking, does indeed do some deft and sensitive repurposing of its central character in particular.

“…director Ian Talbot steers the good ship Priscilla confidently with this energised, vibrant reimagined take…”

Nowhere is this more evident than in the casting of Adèle Anderson as Bernadette. Prior productions have seen cis male performers such as Richard Grieve and Simon Green take on the role made famous by Terrence Stamp in the OG film. And whilst Grieve and Green each gave perfectly enjoyable and characterful turns, it feels egregious to even consider anything other than a trans woman in the role now.

That isn’t to be reductive about Anderson (a highly experienced singer and stage performer herself) nor pigeonhole her; on the contrary, her sardonic, dry, slightly world-weary turn as Bernadette is the classy, dignified core around which all the glitter and camp can swirl. It’s perhaps little surprise that Anderson’s Bernadette feels more grounded and authentic than the broader strokes of past takes on the role.

That’s not to say this is in any way a subdued or pared back Priscilla, though. Andrew Exeter’s set and lighting, Talbot’s punchy direction and some really high-kicking and kinetic choreo from Olivier Award-winner Matt Cole make for a supremely vibrant, rhinestoned and eye-popping trip across the outback. Exter’s use of an almost War Horse-esque wraparound projection is particularly snazzy; accentuating many of the set pieces and big dance numbers with splashes of colourful, or helping create a sense of place for the quieter character beats.

The only (slightly surprising) misfire here are with some of Vicky Gill’s costumes. When sticking closer to the wheelhouse of Tim Chappel’s original, iconic, Oscar-winning creations, Gill does a great job, but some of the more minimalist frocks the three leads get decked in occasionally come across as drab, boxy or uninspiring compared to their more show-stopping pink paint, polka-dot or pluming peers. Thankfully, most of the looks also have Craig Forrest-Thomas’ fantastic wigs and inventive make-up applications to help further elevate the spectacle.

“…Leah Vassell, Bernadette Bangura and Jessie May sass, strut and sing up an absolute storm throughout as the three ‘divas’.”

Credit also have to go to the impressive cast and company who infuse the production with so much of its charisma, uniqueness… well, you know the rest. Peter Duncan, Isabella Glanznig Santos and Billie Hardy all offer up great supporting turns, and Leah Vassell, Bernadette Bangura and Jessie May sass, strut and sing up an absolute storm throughout as the three ‘divas’. Gone are the days of the red-headed songstresses flying about above stage; here, they stomp and shimmy their way upstage from the off, looking like gloriously realised incarnations of Jennifer Saunders’ similarly disco-belting fairy godmother from Shrek 2. It’s a choice that absolutely works – not only do they go to town vocally with a whole host of disco classics from Donna Summer, The Weather Girls to Cyndi Lauper, here they are shaking their groove thing on down to Cole’s spunky choreography with gusto, too.

Adèle Anderson, as mentioned, proves a great choice for Bernadette, and is handsomely met by Strictly favourite Kevin Clifton as Tick/‘Mitzi’ and musical theatre pro Nick Hayes returning to the role of Adam/‘Felicia’. Clifton is in great voice and proves an earnest, likeable Tick, and of course he’s delivered some fun chances to show off his fancy footwork – not least of all in a bonkers, giddily fun take on ‘MacArthur Park’.

“Clifton is in great voice and proves an earnest, likeable Tick, and of course he’s delivered some fun chances to show off his fancy footwork…”

But it’s perhaps Hayes, as the feisty, seemingly fearless Felicia who routinely threatens to steal the whole show. Hayes’ commanding physicality, vocals and muscularity serve up a real tour-de-force Adam/Felicia, but he’s equally affecting when the bravura and barriers break down, too. It’s a terrific performance that only solidifies this as one of the strongest central line-ups brand Priscilla has had to date.

Decadent, dazzling and still fizzing with the heart and humour of Elliot’s original outing, Priscilla the Queen of the Desert the Musical returns for 2026 in glitzy, larger-than-life style. Sure, some of its sartorial choices are, well, choices, and there are occasional moments where the storytelling gives flashes of its age (do we really need to be having conversations about ‘toning it down’ in 2026?), but in other places Talbot and co have clearly, sensitively given her a bit of work. One big laugh from previous productions, for instance, where a character gives another the middle finger after comments about how well they pass as their gender, has been shrewdly excised altogether.

In all, with a bursting jukebox of disco classics and some truly show-stopping staging, choreography and performances, this latest journey with Priscilla is a joyful, rhinestoned, feathered, funny and utterly fabulous road trip well worth taking all over again.

Next stop – Ayers Rock.

Don’t forget the Kylie.

Applauding the Nazis? …really?

“Whose side are you guys on?”

It’s a cheeky, fourth-wall breaking dig that Operation Mincemeat throws at the audience early into its second act. A wry example of a musical that has a great deal of fun playing with the medium of theatre to tell its irreverent – yet often deeply human – account of a titular, real life intelligence operation toward the end of World War II.

“Well at least it’s not a musical” follows a little later. The nudge, nudge, wink winkery on full display.

In truth, Mincemeat barnstorms its way through a whirlwind of characters, set pieces, exposition and about-turns with such kinetic vim and theatrical invention that it brings to mind great, madcap British capers like One Man, Two Guv’nors, The Play That Goes Wrong and Noises Off. Throw on top a dizzyingly eclectic score that cycles through rap, dance, more conventional musical theatre fare and even some Minchin and Miranda-esque sing-speak, and surely it’s a briefing for an absolute cluster bomb of a misfire?

Miraculously, Operation Mincemeat not only succeeds in spinning so many disparate plates, but it positively soars in doing so. David Cumming, Felix Hagan, Natasha Hodgson and Zoë Roberts’ bayonet-sharp book and lyrics not only keep things moving at a relentless pace, but also launch a veritable artillery of physical comedy, slapstick, farce, satire, historical illumination, song and dance and somehow, just somehow, underpin the whole thing with real poignancy and emotional clout.

“Despite the excellent humour, the stakes feel real, and there’s plenty of pathos tucked away throughout.”

As mentioned, it tells the story of the ‘you couldn’t write it’ (James Bond scribe Ian Fleming is in there, don’t you know) IRL mission undertaken by British intelligence to deceive Hitler into moving troops out of Sicily for the subsequent invasion by the Allied Forces.

Despite the excellent humour, the stakes feel real, and there’s plenty of pathos tucked away throughout. It takes time to highlight the unsung contribution of the secretaries and women of the era. It asks questions of the dehumanising choices made out of wartime necessity.

And, in what is one of the show’s standout and celebrated sequences, gradually ripples back the deception and artifice to shine a light on those left behind when their loved ones go to war.

But it never feels laden or heavy-handed. For every sombre, singular spotlight of ‘Dear Bill’ there is the europop, clubland silliness of ‘Das Übermensch’ (“goose-step to the left, jump to the far right”). It’s no minor miracle in and of itself that the show avoids feeling like a complete tonal haywire, and serves up its silly and funny just as effortlessly as it does its history and heart.

It is in no small part thanks to a terrific company on multi-role, gender-flipping duty throughout that the current tour of Mincemeat is such a resoundingly successful operation. Five talented performers carry the entirety of this frenetic beast on their backs, sometimes switching out characters live on stage with a yank of a suit or a drop of a pair of glasses. Resident director David Firas-Robles keeps the transitions and movement slick and punchy, and again his cast come up aces here.

All five are fantastic, though Jamie-Rose Monk and Christian Andrews get some of the meatiest chameleonic work. Monk tackles some of the toughest, rapid-fire wordplay with gusto as the no-nonsense Colonel overseeing the whole affair, and elsewhere is hilarious as our slightly hapless, profusely sweaty man in Spain. Andrews is side-splitting in a number of terrifically colourful supporting parts, including a ridiculously odious pathologist (a personal favourite) and a dim-witted American pilot who unwittingly threatens to upend the whole affair.

“…it’s in his measured, gradually disarming turn as administrative matron Hester that Andrews threatens to steal the whole show.”

But it’s in his measured, gradually disarming turn as administrative matron Hester that Andrews threatens to steal the whole show and delivers a real show-stopper of a supporting turn. The aforementioned ‘Dear Bill’ will surely become a seminal example of character study and storytelling through song, and the uniqueness with which musical theatre can run the full gamut of exposition and emotion all at once.

Visually and technically, this touring production is a showy beast. There are flashier set pieces and stagecraft littered throughout, but designer Ben Stones and lighting chief Mark Henderson truly go to town in a show-stopping finale that features one of the single best set design gags of recent memory. The only slight quibble in the performance reviewed was some occasionally inconsistent sound, including at a fairly pivotal plot point involving a submarine where key chunks of dialogue dipped in and out of audibility.

As a live combat exercise in utilising the unique strengths and opportunities of musical theatre to tell a wholly original take on a very real story, Operation Mincemeat is a triumph and deserves all the medals, statues and plaques. Marketing for the show proudly boasts is as being ‘the best reviewed show in West End history’, and it isn’t difficult to see why. Regularly hilarious, crammed with witty, cutting, satirical and honest storytelling that shines a light on its history and humanity both, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take some shore leave to catch Operation Mincemeat, post-haste.

Divorced. Beheaded. Died. Divorced. Beheaded. Survived.

Six the Musical can comfortably afford to do pretty much any and all of the above to any theatre reviewer that may dare to come for it. Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss’ rampaging, seventy-five minute cultural juggernaut is a thing of such surefire demand and adoration that it’s one of the few surefire bets in musical theatre you can safely call ‘critic proof’. It’s hard to recall a show with such a fervent, dedicated fanbase. Wicked? Or do we have to go back as far as Rocky Horror, perhaps? Of course, it’s helped immeasurably by its instant earworm of a soundtrack, one that has rippled out beyond the usual stagey crowds.

The elusive secret of the Six formula lies, it seems, in its comparative simplicity, with a smattering of almost Spice Girls–ian ‘girl power’ thrown in for good measure. The short, single-act blitz through the six wives of Henry VIII as they set their stories and struggles to pop tributes is light on story, big on character and simple yet effective in staging. It wears its streamlined, focused Fringe origins as a sparkling, rhinestoned badge of honour, and admirably none of the creatives have allowed its success to seduce them into stuffing and padding it out beyond recognition or efficiency.

Six is a smart, lean, and whippet-fast jaunt of a show. A funny, charismatic and infectious hybrid of pop concert and musical theatre that laces itself with just enough pathos and even historical insight – not to mention a crowd-pleasing undercurrent of feminine empowerment and positivity throughout – to make those bangers of songs just further icing on an already royally pleasing cake.

“…to suggest the music is somehow an afterthought would surely warrant a beheading.”

Though to suggest the music is somehow an afterthought would surely warrant a beheading. Marlow and Moss demonstrate an uncanny ear for a breadth of genre and style, not to mention setting that to witty wordplay and storytelling through song. From the hip-hop stylings of Anna of Cleve’s (Jodie Knight) ‘Get Down’ as she bombastically flaunts her freewheeling royal lifestyle, the power ballad majesty of Jane Seymour’s (Emily Dawson) wrenching, bittersweet ‘Heart of Stone’ through to the Euro-electro pulse of ‘Haus of Holbein’, each Queen gets their own signature number, perfectly attuned to the tale they have to tell.

See, for instance, the gradual degradation of Katherine Howard’s (Abi Atchison) sultry ‘All You Wanna Do’. Initially starting out as a seductive anthem in the vein of a Britney or Ariana Grande A-side, over the course of the number the spectre of predatory impulses and objectification creep in to the staging, lyrics and performance all, until eventually Howard, shaking and dehumanised, is quite literally being pulled and grasped at from every corner.

It’s just one of many masterclasses Six delivers in doing an awful lot with evidentially quite little.

Between the solo pieces and peppy ensemble numbers, the sextet engage in zippy banter and jovial oneupmanship, with the meta-narrative of a fictional contest to determine who was worse done by old Henry VIII ratcheting up toward conclusion. Lucia Valentina’s hilariously brattish Anne Boleyn habitually reminds her competitors that, despite their woes, she has this thing all sewn up by dint of, you know, losing her head. 

Lasasha Aldridge’s commanding Catherine of Aragon comes out victorious in a game of maternity misery top trumps, whilst Emily Dawson’s Jane Seymour is quick to remind the other ladies that she was the only one the infamous monarch ever truly loved and that she was robbed of seeing her child grow up. Whilst it may all sound frightfully dour and grim, it’s written with such verve and delivered with such mischievous buoyancy – tongues planted firmly in cheeks – that it all proves great, tireless fun. Jodie Knight‘s utterly infectious and audacious Anna of Cleves is the outlier, but the sheer relish and ass-shaking, fist-pumping bombacity with which she sings about how she landed on her feet is an absolute gem, with Knight giving one of the most charismatic and irrepressible Cleves’ to date.

“…it’s written with such verve and delivered with such mischievous buoyancy – tongues planted firmly in cheeks – that it all proves great, tireless fun.”

And ultimately, it leaves things to Eve Kitchingman’s freethinking survivor (and bonafide vocal powerhouse), Catherine Parr, to take a step back from her own heartbreak and appraise all the misery and schadenfreude so that Six can partake in its final, wonderfully cathartic about-turn.

Emma Bailey’s staging and Gabriella Slade’s costumes have certainly been leant some extra sparkle and pizazz since the show’s earlier outings, but once again the core essence of their simple yet showy pop concert vibes haven’t been lost. The illusion is merely amplified, and in no small part thanks to Tim Deiling’s dynamic, dramatic lighting. It looks, sounds and feels like something akin to a bottled arena spectacle, with some ruffles and threading of Tudor flavouring punched in for good measure.

The cast assembled for this latest touring are a royally scintillating and talented troupe. The performance reviewed featured a number of alternates and swings, but you’d sooner find a forgery in the Haus of Holbein before spotting a weak link in this royal chain. They’re all genuinely great, and just know whichever member of the royal court of twenty-twenty-SIX you get to experience, you’re in fantastic hands… and heels.

All six – not to mention their always-on-stage ‘ladies in waiting’ band – keep the energy levels high from the off, and practically never falter.

But we’re not about to commit the ultimate Six taboo of pitting any of these fierce, fabulous ladies against one another. Not only would it go against the entire vibe and raison d’être of this joyous, affirming ode to individuality and sisterhood both, but it would also be utterly pointless.

After all, I could say this was a theatrical atrocity beyond measure or comprehension, and it would still do precisely nothing to dampen the box office and love for brand Six. And thank Henry…. sorry, thank Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anna, Katherine and Catherine (again) for that, because Six is not only here to stay, not only is it pretty much a perfectly-formed package of poppy musical theatre brilliance, but it’s also fundamentally an empowering, vibrant and utterly original showcase of theatrical magic that wears its well-deserved crown with vim, sass, pride and utterly regal fabulousness.

At the close of Robin Hood – this year’s festive offering from the Birmingham Hippodrome – fan favourite Matt Slack informs the crowd of a genuinely impressive benchmark. It just so happens to be bonafide legend – and ‘special guest’ star – Christopher Biggins’ sixtieth panto outing.

It’s a crowd-pleasing denouement to what has been a legitimately inspired and hilarious running gag throughout, as Biggins is repeatedly wheeled out (sometimes literally) throughout the show for a brief few moments, only to be chastised and kicked straight back off stage, as it isn’t yet time for his King Richard’s return. It’s just one of many wrinkles that makes this production so fresh, fun and gleefully silly, and just you wait to see what they do with him in ‘If I Were Not Upon the Stage’.

Back to panto Top Trumps though, and it isn’t as though Slack himself is, well… slacking. Hood marks his own twenty-third pantomime production, and an impressive twelfth consecutive year in Brum. It’s clear from the moment he first comically struts onto the stage that the audiences clearly still eat him up, and from this red letter outing, it isn’t difficult to see why. Nipping at his heels with an eye-popping assemblage of utterly genius frocks and get ups is the wonderful Andrew Ryan, chalking up his ninth consecutive visit to the Hippodrome and once again proving there really is nothing like a great dame (yes, I said dame).

“It’s clear from the moment he first comically struts onto the stage that the audiences clearly still eat him up…”

The highly successful model of QDOS migrating last year’s London Palladium offering to the Hippodrome continues this year with Hood. If you paid a visit to Julian Clary and Jane McDonald’s iteration in 2024 you’ll already be familiar with the lavish production values, stunning costumes and general narrative bent (hint: it’s utter nonsense, but joyfully so), and yet there’s undoubtedly more than enough here that is fresh and new to make it a comfortable must-see.

Slack is, as mentioned, one of the major draws. It almost goes without saying now, but he is effortlessly entertaining and wheels out a host of materials, gags and routines old and new. We get the human jukebox hijinks and aforementioned ‘Not Upon the Stage’, in addition to new flourishes such as a spirited acrobatic interlude with The Acromaniacs and a genuinely jaw-dropping and side-splitting about-turn in one of his late show staples (hint: it involves younger members of the audiences). It’s a joy, and seriously impressive, to consider he’s been gracing the Hippodrome stage for over a decade and he feels as spritely, animated and irrepressible as ever.

Ryan is once again a delicious panto dame, this time as Robin’s mother, Henrietta, and although past years have offered stiff competition and set an astronomically high and elaborate bar, Teresa Nalton’s costumes and concoctions this time round have to surely be the best to date. From a mushroom masterpiece to practically an entire gazebo – trimmed bush and all – the invention and whimsy is off the scale.

But, as is par for the course with the Hippodrome, the wider cast and production fire on plenty of cylinders of their own, too. TV favourite Gok Wan returns and is an ebullient gem, with the genuine rapport he shares with Slack completely palpable and utterly infectious. They somehow even manage to make the frequent planned corpsing feel completely naturalistic and quite the hoot, when it can so easily feel grating. The two make a formidable comic pairing, as Gok Scarlett and the titular hero dabble about in heroics, slapstick and even a spot of bedroom mischief.

“TV favourite Gok Wan returns and is an ebullient gem, with the genuine rapport he shares with Slack completely palpable and utterly infectious.”

The X Factor champion Matt Cardle is suitably boo-hiss-able as a wolf-corralling Sheriff of Nottingham, whilst Steps’ Faye Tozer is a feisty and no-nonsense Maid Marian. Naturally, she riffs off a bit of ‘Tragedy’ and ‘Afraid of the Dark’, too, and sounds damn good doing so, to boot. And if that weren’t enough belting and heavy hitting for you, Robin Hood rounds out its vocal artillery with musical theatre veteran and powerhouse Sandra Marvin as the Spirit of Sherwood Forest.

Transmogrifying the already acclaimed spectacle and bombast of the Palladium’s serving last year (gigantic animatronic wolf and all) and infusing it with a great new cast, local favourites and a host of original ideas and unrelenting silliness has proven a recipe success at the Hippodrome for several years now. But even by that metric and expectation, Robin Hood is an especially joyful and colourful beast.

Grab your ‘old longbow’ and steal from the rich to nab yourself a ticket if you must. In over a decade of anticipating and reviewing the Hippodrome’s annual pantomime offering, Slack and his band of merry men and women may have just conjured up their finest hour to date, and the funniest, most glamorous pantomime this side of Gilly Gilly Ossenfegger Katzenellen Bogen by the Sea.

It surely goes without saying that shadow of the spectral or supernatural is no niche thing at Christmastime in jolly old London Town.

Dickens and the obvious cornucopia of Christmas Carols aside, the West End has often played host to things that go bump in the night over the season. 2023 notably saw the critically derided clunker that was The Enfield Haunting run at the very same theatre that now welcomes Levi Holloway’s Paranormal Activity for a crack at the festive fright whip.

Whilst the Catherine Tate and David Threfall-led Haunting was loosely based on titular ‘true’ events, Holloway’s ‘new story’ here shares only broad thematic brushstrokes and concepts with the smash Hollywood franchise with which it borrows a name. It is an original story penned and conceived of for the stage, shrewdly removed from the sprawling mass of sequelitis that quickly consumed Oren Peli’s 2007 indie hit.

Still, brand recognition will likely help get those bums in seats and itching for a good fright, but have Holloway and director Felix Barrett been able to summon up a meaningful, original and, crucially, scary outing in a climate of 2:22s and women in black?

“It isn’t difficult to envisage a world in which a rudimentary cash grab on name recognition alone gorged itself on jump scares and cheap gimmicks”

What’s perhaps most striking about Paranormal Activity – which debuted at Leeds Playhouse last Summer – is both how classy and confidently restrained it is. It isn’t difficult to envisage a world in which a rudimentary cash grab on name recognition alone gorged itself on jump scares and cheap gimmicks.

Instead, Holloway has penned a character-centric piece which, whilst never particularly groundbreaking, still has far more to say and ponder than you’d maybe suppose.

Loved up husband and wife duo, James (Patrick Heusigner) and Lou (Melissa James) have recently relocated to rain-soaked London from Chicago. They’re getting their heads around the local lingo (it’s a bin, not a trash can), battling with temperamental plumbing and electrics, and James’ opinionated, god-feathering mother is perhaps little more than one or two FaceTimes away from making herself a real nuisance. Oh, and there’s that small matter of medication for Lou’s constant existential dread and the sensing of something more sinister, but surely there’s nothing to worry about there…

“…Holloway and Barrett understand that implication and anticipation are far more gnawing than cheap jump scares ad nauseum…”

So far, so formula. But though its first act is relatively light on incident and frights, the dynamic between Huesinger and James is so authentic and earnest that it’s hard not to root for them. Here, Holloway and Barrett understand that implication and anticipation are far more gnawing than cheap jump scares ad nauseum, and the fact we like the duo so much only amplifies the dread as the screws begin to tighten. If anything, it makes the more exposition-heavy second act and finale in particular a little jarring, as everything beforehand touches upon ominous backstory and trauma so deftly and implicitly.

When it does decide to get its spook on, Paranormal Activity sits comfortably alongside the best of its peers in terms of polish and execution. From a deeply unsettling open through to a handful of deceptively ingenious and technically faultless scares, the measured way in which the show approaches its frights make them all the more impacting when they do come along. Kudos to illusions designer for Chris Fisher for pulling off one of the most simple yet deviously effective illusions this particular reviewer has seen in a show of this ilk.

So yes, it is frequently unsettling and ratchets up the tension to deliver some knock out moments of toe-curling creepiness. But it never loses sight of its characters either, even as some of the more bonkers set pieces and narrative deviations throw in the likes of podcasting mediums and unexpected home visits with a twist.

Heusinger and James are great anchors around which the scares pivot. James sensitively navigates a character and plot that offers up some neat things to say about the belittlement and misunderstanding of mental health issues, as well as, of course, that old genre staple, gaslighting. A rather hulking Heusinger imbues his James with just the right level of sincerity and relatability, alongside a soupcon of almost douchebag solipsism that stops the character from feeling too cookie cutter.

“…some of the audiovisual flourishes at pivotal moments are exceptional.”

The pair’s shifting, conflicting and complementary dynamic never stops feeling real, even when beset with late exposition dumps as mentioned. Jackie Morrison and Pippa Winslow bring some levity to things in supporting roles, with Winslow in particular something of a scene-stealer as the overbearing, coddling Midwestern matriarch.

It’s a handsome production, to boot. Fly Davis’ bisected household never feels stagey or composited, and even as Barret keeps things taut and punchy, it’s impossible not to feel yourself glancing about the household for ‘what ifs’. Anna Watson’s moody, evocative lighting and Gareth Fry’s mix of diegetic and auditorium-swamping sound keep even the quieter moments faintly unsettling or downright chilling. To disclose too much would be to spoil things, but some of the audiovisual flourishes at pivotal moments are exceptional.

Anyone going in expecting a pulsing, jump scare packed scream-a-minute might find Paranormal Activity a slower beast than anticipated. For everyone else, here is an impressively measured and lovingly crafted piece of thrilling theatre that takes its time, and pitches its frights with precision and polish. A far classier and more thoughtful presence than its title alone would perhaps suggest, and one that earns those eventual scares all the more for being so. And, when the gloves finally do come off and the titular supernatural hijinks go down, Paranormal Activity offers up some of the most effective and jaw-clenching frights the good old City of London has seen.