Tackling one of musical theatre’s greatests well, greatest, can often prove a double-edged razor.

Pull it off, and the plaudit of ‘masterpiece’ is yours. Misfire – or even worse, miscast – and you risk a stagey hindenburg from audience expectation alone.

Of course, reviving Sondheim has never really been out of vogue. In recent years, the likes of Marianne Elliott’s gender-flipped Company, or Jordan Fein’s more sinister Into the Woods at the Bridge Theatre have scooped up audiences, critical acclaim and Oliviers alike.

Yet by any metric, a decadent, bombastic staging of one of his most ubiquitous hits, Sweeney Todd, is an ambitious undertaking as an in-house piece for the Birmingham Rep.

The first sign that Artistic Director Joe Murphy was onto a good thing came with the announcement of West End and Broadway favourite Ramin Karimloo as the titular antihero. Throw in an inspired but slightly out of left field choice for Mrs Lovett in international cabaret artist, Meow Meow, and multi-Olivier winner David Bedella poached as Judge Turpin, and if nothing else, audiences knew they were going to get vocals.

Perhaps the biggest and most welcome surprise then, is the grandiosity and sheer scale with which Murphy and his creative team have forged this Sweeney to meet the wattage of talent on stage.

Elin Steele’s imposing staging is a thing of stark, harsh monochrome majesty. A tapestry of Lucifer’s fall gives way to the ever-looming presence of a colossal Lady Justice, sitting centre in the Rep’s already sizeable stage. Here is a London akin to a grand, unyielding courtroom, with justice, revenge and judgement all bloodily intertwined. Morality is, naturally, various permeations of grey. And much of Rory Beaton’s haunting work underlights proceedings – not least of all the almost Brechtian chorus who intermittently chant Sondheim’s tale to the audience.

This is sweeping, operatic musical theatre of a scale and quality scarcely seen even in such established and excellent spaces as the Rep. The likes of which would not feel out of place in the likes of the London Coliseum.

“This is sweeping, operatic musical theatre of a scale and quality scarcely seen even in such established and excellent spaces as the Rep.”

For those unfamiliar with the broad strokes of Sweeney Todd’s tale, it is a ‘musical thriller’ following the thirst for revenge from a wrongly convicted barber (Ramin Karimloo), who returns to London in the hopes of reuniting with his family and righting those who wronged him. Unsurprisingly, things have changed during his fifteen years in the penal colonies, and the down-on-his-luck Todd ends up lodging, and later co-conspiring, with the eccentric Mrs Lovett (Meow Meow), proprietor of a shop selling ‘The Worst Pies in London’. Together, they settle upon a nefarious fusion of their purposes, as Todd begins providing customers with a barber’s visit so sharp they end up spiking the sales of Lovett’s baked horrors.

Widely regarded as one of Sondheim’s finest accomplishments – itself no faint praise – whilst many may be familiar with the 2007 Tim Burton film adaptation featuring Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, it is on the stage where Sweeney truly soars. Almost entirely musically underscored and featuring a bloody, funny lashing of complex characters, intricate storytelling and, naturally, fantastic songs, there’s no understating how good a quality production of Sweeney Todd can be.

The extra character beats afforded on stage (such as a truly repulsive solo number from Judge Turpin) are so viscerally leant into here by Murphy and the cast that it makes this iteration both lighter and darker at once. It is frequently funny, not least owing to some of the perfectly realised supporting turns such as Julius D’Silva’s scene-stealing, odious bootlick, Beadle Bamford, or Silas Wyatt-Barke as a venal rival barber. Jack Gibson delivers a beautiful renditon of young ‘Toby’s’ ‘Not Whilst I’m Around’, whilst Meow Meow is having tremendous fun throughout with a kaleidoscopic, whirlwind Mrs Lovett who runs the full gamut from eccentric to haunting and every shade in between. A quiet moment where she offers a glimpse at her true, pathetic self, hunched over and untangling her hairpiece, is masterful and unnerving in its simplicity and rawness; this opportunistic, manipulative devil exposed as just another broken shell pushed to ever more desperate measures.

At just shy of 3 hours, it’s a testimony to Murphy’s taut direction and the cast’s chemistry that the time flies by. For certain, there are places where sub-plots such as young sailor Anthony’s (a spirited Shem Omari Jones, in fine voice) longing for Todd’s stolen daughter Johanna (Jo Stephenson, also delivering beautiful vocals) can languish, or it serves up a reprise or incidental number that could probably be cut (pun intended) without the show suffering for it. But Murphy and company keep things moving (quite literally), with the excellent use of levels on Steele’s monolithic staging coupled, with the tremendous performances, meaning it all rarely lulls.

“His utterly roof-raising ‘Epiphany’ is a blistering reminder of just how good he is…”

Which leaves the tale of Sweeney Todd himself. Already a firm musical theatre favourite, Karimloo boasts the likes of Phantom, Miss Saigon and multiple roles in Les Mis on his MT rap sheet. He unsurprisingly takes to the conflicted rage and reserve, and booming baritone of Todd like a silver blade to the jugular. There is a stillness and dignity here, too, even a charm, to his murderous barber, one that makes the eventual eruptions of hatred and venom all the more shaking. His utterly roof-raising ‘Epiphany’ is a blistering reminder of just how good he is, and is one of many peaks of a titanic central turn.

So get Sondheim right and you have a surefire hit on your hands.

It’s a credo that Murphy and his team have ran with, serving up an epic, uncompromising, raw and full-throated Sweeney. Karimloo and Meow Meow more than earn their (mouldy, dry) crust, delivering a pair of knockout performances as fantastic as they are so perfectly, complementarily different, all encapsulated in a grand, grim playground of theatrical stagecraft.

If it’s a sumptuous evening of musical theatre you are after in Birmingham this Summer, you’ll find few better options, and no closer a shave, than this razor-sharp, funny and thrilling Sweeney Todd, the gleaming showstopper off Broad Street.

It almost feels rude to wrest any sort of sociopolitical commentary into a review of The Choir of Man.

Nic Doodson and Andrew Kay’s Fringe favourite-turned-global phenomenon is such an unpatronising, nuanced beast, one that deftly avoids any overt commentary or gender politics even when they’re right there for the plucking, that it feels clunky to go there.

But there’s no shying away from it.

In a world of Incel culture horrors, heinous social media algorithms and the sobering lessons born of the likes of Adolescence, The Choir of Man is the ultimate tonic (no gin required).

Set in a microcosmic boozer (‘The Jungle’… yes, the Guns’ N’ Roses classic features) the likes of which the show opines as being something of a vanishing creed, Choir is a buoyant, irrepressible celebration and reclamation of so many things that seem to have otherwise collectedly given modern society the ick.

“…a buoyant, irrepressible celebration and reclamation of so many things that seem to have otherwise collectedly given modern society the ick.”

It is distinctly, unabashedly British with nary a trace of jingoism. It is a kaleidoscope of healthy, positive, relatable masculinity, without any lingering shadow of misogyny or toxicity.

But more than any and all of that, it’s a bloody good time with the lads.

A jukebox affair that musically bounces through everything from The Proclaimers to Sia and even Toy Story, if you strip Choir back to its brawny bones then it is, essentially, a series of vignettes brilliantly performed and winningly staged by a loveable troupe of nine very talented actor-musos.

Think of it as Six, gender-flipped, period-jumped, and plonked into your local.

From the outset, Choir of Man is an almost folksy piece, more interested in being contemplative and evoking a sense of place, or state of mind, than telling a story, per se. What inference of a narrative there is is mainly scene-setting, framing the eponymous musical troupe who take residence at ‘The Jungle’ (We didn’t know pub choirs were a thing, but on the merit seen here, sign us up!).

The Jungle’s resident poet-cum-narrator, Oluwalonimi (Nimi) Owoyemi is the warm, engaging centre of the piece, incrementally introducing us to what are the pub’s archetypal finds. There’s the ‘romantic’ who soulfully belts to Adele, the ‘hard man’ who roars John Farnham’s ‘You’re the Voice’, and even the ‘bore’, who delivers some Andy Williams, even as an audience member pulled onto the stage sits building a house of cards beside him.

Yet as the show jaunts through colourful musical numbers and a lock-in’s load of audience participation, it’s the blending of fiction and reality that truly sings. Owoyemi’s poignant, touching monologues infuse the IRL backstories, trials and dreams of the cast into the show, lending all the spirited bravura real heart and pathos. Credit to Doodson and monologues writer, Ben Norris, for the affecting work done here.

“For a show that speaks so much of community and a sense of welcome, it’s a credo that carries through to every minute of this infectious theatregoing experience.”

But if that all sounds like it’s threatening to get a little morose or self-indulgent, fear not – The Choir of Man is relentlessly cheery, upbeat and fist-pumpingly enjoyable throughout. Even before the show begins, audience members are invited to purchase a pint on stage. In the interval, the bar opens once again, with members of the cast jaunting about to chat and take selfies. For a show that speaks so much of community and a sense of welcome, it’s a credo that carries through to every minute of this infectious theatregoing experience.

A truly ensemble piece, to single out any of the remarkable lineup of principles assembled for the tour would definitely be a disservice. In the performance reviewed, all but one of the principles took to the stage, with swing member Niall Woodson on – and doing a terrific, toe-tapping job – as the ‘Handyman’. But genuinely, every single one of the company – Sam Walter, Joshua Lloyd, Gustav Melbardis, Levi Tyrell Johnson, Rob Godfrey, Aaron Pottenger, Ben Mabberley and the aforementioned Owoyemi – are tremendous. The vocals are knockout, the harmonies pitch-perfect, the character work is funny in crowd-pleasing, inoffensive fashion, the energy levels never falter and the multiple uproarious, well-earned standing ovations were amongst the most fervent and impassioned this particular reviewer has experienced in the past fifteen years. Sure, it probably could do without an extended urinal sequence but, hey, it still got the laughs.

And that’s all without going anywhere near one of the highlights of the evening, where the local, 200-strong Got2Sing choir were invited to stand and join in with the lads for a rousing reprise of ‘Chandelier’ which left nary a dry eye in the house.

In all (the gaffer just called last orders), The Choir of Man is, like any good night down the pub or simply shared with friends, a joyous remedy for whatever ails you. Brilliantly and immersively staged, boldly and tirelessly performed, it is, measure for measure, one of the most irrepressible and rhapsodic evenings of theatre you could ask for.

And at a lean, perfectly-judged 2 hours (including interval), pulsing with bonhomie and feel good to spare, it is a vibrant, energetic and rollicking good night out and, in difficult and divisive times, exactly the kind of show the world needs right now.

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 current visit to the Alexandra Theatre.

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 wheels back into town with its now practically annual stop at the Alexandra, Birmingham, 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 boasts, however, is what is arguably one of its strongest, if not the strongest, casts in the 12 plus years that this particular reviewer has been doing a jump to the left, a step to the right… and the whole timewarp shebang. 

For its most revent visit – a pitstop at the Wolverhampton Grand back in April – an assemblage of covers and understudies were praised for putting on a great show, so be assured you’ll be getting a high voltage, sassy, sexy ride whoever dons the stage for this current production.

“Previously, Carter-Wilson impressed when understudying the role, but it is this full realisation, the role being his, where he’s really crammed it full of nervous, quirky little beats and measures all of his own.”

Birmingham’s press night boasted the full cast of principles, meaning Daisy Steere with a giddy, hyperactive and delightful Columbia, and Ryan Carter-Wilson‘s twitchy, idiosyncratic and fantastic take on the iconic Riff-Raff. Previously, Carter-Wilson impressed when understudying the role, but it is this full realisation, the role being his, where he’s really crammed it full of nervous, quirky little beats and measures all of his own. Of course, he still belts for the stratosphere when needed, but it’s in the quieter, even sillier, moments of the character that he really commands a role that has been so indelibly performed by others in the past.

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.

“…it’s particlarly impressive to see Webb still having fun and trying new things out with his Frank ‘n Furter (…leave it).”

On a similar note, it’s impressive to see such an expansive, ongoing tour and production still playing with new beats and ideas – little moments popping up that weren’t even in the show a few months ago, such as some notable playabout with panties. And the leads are still giving it their all; 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…

 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.