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.

It’s highly unlikely this review will break new ground by drawing reference to just how timely and resonant this production of Fiddler on the Roof is, landing in the current socio-political climate that it does.

The much-lauded, Olivier-hauling Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre outing, that sold out the Barbican this Summer, arrives in Birmingham for Christmas, and there’s no shying away from its poignancy.

The ugly creep of antisemitism and the displacement of Jewish communities. Pogroms from a Russian aggressor. The parallels are myriad, and practically write themselves.

And yet, although this handsome and striking revival feels more prescient and necessary than ever, it never feels laden or dour. Rather, Jordan Fein and Julia Cheng infuse it with a hearty dose of joy, bonhomie and levity, cutting a deeply funny thread through the ninety-minute first act in particular.

Following the strifes and toils of well-meaning milkman Tevye (Matthew Woodyatt) in pre-revolutionary Russia, Fiddler is fundamentally a family affair. Tevye has been ‘blessed’ with five daughters, and although the odd intrusion from Tsarist police or whispers in the local community hint at worrying goings-on in the wider world, for the time being he’s mainly preoccupied with his spirited offspring. Naturally, they’re falling in love with all the wrong suitors, all as Tevye’s long-suffering wife Golde (Jodie Jacobs) is taking heed from a local matchmaker (Beverley Klein) whose approach to love and marriage is more than a trifle transactional.

Well, it is ‘tradition’, after all.

As Tevye struggles with the expectations and demands of convention, a lame horse and his wilful children all, the small-town ebb and flow of his Anatevka swells about him. It’s a beautiful, authentic and utterly infectious depiction, too, as even bit parts and minor supporting characters help weave the tapestry of this wholly convincing village ensemble.

“…a terrific, grounding central turn, one that bristles with comedic energy and relatability.

Undoubtedly, Woodyatt is the anchor pin, though. It’s a terrific, grounding central turn, one that bristles with comedic energy and relatability. Whether engaging in sardonic banter with the almighty or wringing his hands at the thought of having to cook up yet another pantomime to get his wife on side, Woodyatt is both bombastic and tender at once, and his command of character and the ease with which he mines laughs from almost every beat of dialogue and incident is tremendous. He’s ably met by Jodie Jacobs as Golde, with the pair’s marital frisson and friction a giddy joy to watch throughout.

They’re surrounded by excellence, too. One of the hardest-working companies you will see on stage this Christmas help transform sequences such as a wedding celebration, a bar free-for-all and a spot of not-so-supernatural subterfuge into some of the slickest, most impressive musical theatre you could hope for. As mentioned, Fein and Cheng direct and choreograph it all to polished, propulsive perfection. That ninety minute first half flies by.

Within a collective of standouts, Natasha Jules Bernard is particularly great as eldest daughter Tzeitel, and showcases some almost literally otherworldly vocals when she gets her ‘Fruma-Sarah’ on. Dan Wolff puts in a great comedic turn as well-meaning but slightly feeble tailor, Motel as does Beverley Klein as the village’s melodramatic matchmaker, Yente. Roman Lytwyniw impressed in the performance reviewed as alternative fiddler, his eventual pairing up with Hannah Bristow on clarinet being a pause of raw tenderness and aching beauty. Greg Bernstein is earnest and likeable as free-thinking student, Perchik, commanding the stage with some astonishing moves and pulling off a lot of demanding choreo and physicality with real gusto and aplomb.

If the performances, direction and movement are all top notch, it certainly helps that this is such a visually arresting piece, too. Tom Scutt’s distinctive set design is slightly repurposed here, yet no less affecting. Like so much of this production, it feels both traditional, Earthy yet modern and stylised all at once.

“Like so much of this production, it feels both traditional, Earthy yet modern and stylised all at once.”

The ensemble often sit about at the edges, the orchestra perpetually upstage behind rows of wheat, as beams of Aideen Malone’s evocative lighting spill in from the wings. And that’s before we even get to the levitating monolith of the show’s ‘roof’, an almost ominous cast of stone and crop looming over proceedings throughout. It’s altogether a gorgeous piece of musical theatre.

For certain, Fiddler is peppered with hummable Bock and Harnick favourites such as ‘Matchmaker’, ‘Tradition’ and the irrepressible ear worm of ‘If I Were A Rich Man’. And yes, particularly come the shorter, zippier second act, things do get notably more solemn and timely.

But ultimately, it’s the heart and humour that carry the day here, in a genuinely inspired revisit that alchemises stunning design work, inspired casting and truly electric direction and choreography. Woodyatt is a soulful and lovable Tevye, and in the hands of fantastic creatives and buoyed by a kinetic, show-stopping ensemble, offer up one of the most perfect fusions of revival and, yes, tradition, in recent musical theatre history.

If I were a rich man, I’d be catching it daily, it’s that good…

It’s not quite clear exactly which ‘yam yam’ frogs the team at the Wolverhampton Grand have been kissing of late, or what dark and forbidden tomes they may have been plundering, but there’s no denying there’s magic abound in the Black Country this Christmas.

It’s no fluke, either. The regional theatre has been swinging hard and hitting strong with its impressive slew of in-house panto productions in recent years, and with this gigawatt Beauty, they score a gorgeous, hilarious home run.

A panto with actual, legitimate plot twists? Colour me floored. One of the strongest winners in the entirety of the Drag Race oeuvre vamping and camping up the best panto villain you’ll see this year? Gagged and stupefied. A joyful homecoming for the theatre’s resident panto MVPs, Ian Adams and Tam Ryan? Tens across the board.

It’s a dizzyingly fun, colourful and vibrant evening of distilled panto magic, stuffed with signature set pieces (the year we don’t get an Adams ‘I Don’t Care’ sequence is when the pitchforks come out), a smorgasbord of impressions, slapstick fun and genuinely impressive song and dance numbers and production values that will whisk you away beyond even the West End.

“…a dizzyingly fun, colourful and vibrant evening of distilled panto magic.”

It’s Sleeping Beauty a la pantomime, so the core narrative beats are present, tried and true, this time housed in the whimsical kingdom of old Bilstonia (sound familiar?). Adams and Ryan have a lot of fun with the fairytale tropes and cultural postmodernisms alike. As is custom, they offer up plenty of jabs and swipes at everything from the likes of Rachel Reeves, Keir Starmer, that numerical craze… and, well, Smethwick (naturally).

There’s more conventional (see: extremely welcome) fare – such as when Ryan, as ‘Mickey Fortune’ mines lots of laughter from a fun but familiar extended bit about voice recognition and hit songs. Once again kids of all ages lap up his top-notch clownery throughout. Adams, as ‘Mary Fortune’, again delivers your quintessential panto dame with verve, double entendre and toe-tapping bonhomie to spare.

If the stalwarts again posit themselves as being amongst the best in the biz, the newcomers more than keep up, too. Comedy impressionist (and former Corrie star) Debra Stephenson is a kindly presence as ‘Queen Bertha’, but really shines when she’s cut loose to serve up her wheelhouse of impersonations. Whipping through the likes of Stacy Solomon, Lorraine Kelly and even Donald Trump, it’s quite disarming – and deliciously entertaining – being reminded just how bloody good she is at it. Sure, the likes of Anne Robinson may be mining the depths of relevancy a bit too far for some of the audience, but by the time a little Cilla croons in, at least Ryan is ready with a quip for the younger generation to ‘ask your grandparents’.

Georgia Iudica-Davies is lovely and in fine voice as the titular heroine, whilst TV star Zak Douglas offers up some great physical comedy as the hapless ‘Gerald the Herald’. Good luck finding a more perfect or dashing panto prince than musical theatre star (and local lad done good) Solomon Davy. Davy continues his ascent and showcases why a future Fiyero or similar is surely on the cards, and just you wait for his ‘I’m All Alone’ number in the second act… not least of all thanks to its utterly bonkers and inspired finale (particularly moving on the performance reviewed, for reasons patrons of the Grand will have appreciated).

“…a barnstorming performance and one that Beard makes worth the price of admission alone.”

Which leaves the inimitable, towering colossus of camp that is Danny Beard. It’s alchemy of the most malevolent and masterful sort, as not only does Beard utterly command the stage with every strut, stomp and even Fosse (seriously, Chicago fans will be in their element here) but so too is his Carabosse as raucously funny as she is delectably sinister. Whether belting out Conchita Wurst, ratcheting up the spectacle summoning pillars of flames or even a towering dragon for our heroes to do battle with, it’s a barnstorming performance and one that Beard makes worth the price of admission alone. That this particular reviewer was almost crying with laughter at just a ridiculous Irish drawl when Carabosse dons a disguise is testimony to the triple (quadruple?… clock the mug) threat that the drag champion represents.

Beard is helped in no small way by David Shields’ wonderful costume work, with Carabosse’s outfits in particular routinely threatening to steal the show. But Shields spreads his magic across the breadth of Bilstonia and its residents and, coupled with Sam Hilditch’s glorious technicolor bedazzlement and David Janson and Natalie Bennyworth’s spritely, energised direction and choreography keep this Beauty far too eye-popping to ever send you off to sleep. There’s zombie chickens, vaudeville style tap numbers, repeat nods to The Traitors, a villainous spin on the Cell Block Tango, and an anarchic riff on the Twelve Days of Christmas that, if something of a chestnut, is a spiritedly executed one at that.

Whilst Beard towers over the cast and company – clocking in at just over eight feet in full stilettos and regalia – and his brilliant, bombastic Carabosse threatens to do the same over the whole show, the truth is there is excellence on show everywhere you look here. It ticks so many boxes, gets so much right and is so crammed with wholesome, effortless family friendly fabulousness that you’d likely be able to sleep for a hundred years and rest assured that few better pantos would pass by in the time.

Breathlessly camp and colourful with production value to spare and boasting standout turns from old favourites and fabulous new friends alike, as the Grand continue to carve their identity as a go-to home for top drawer festive entertainment, they once more strike perfect panto gold here with a true ‘Beauty’, indeed.

Despite not, one must assume, being an actual subtitle of this lavish new touring production of Miss Saigon, good luck finding any materials associated with it not having ‘The Legend Reborn’ slapped all over it (go on, take a look at that poster).

Part pitch, part invitation, it’s a nifty (and suitably theatrical) call to action for audiences to be summoned to what has always been the less ubiquitous of the Boublil and Schönberg big two (the other being, of course, the inescapable Les Misérables).

And as mission statements go, it’s pretty on-point. Here, Michael Harrison and team have rebuilt, redesigned and in parts even rewritten Saigon into a recognisable yet confidently reimagined beast. Yes, it’s still saddled with some of the show’s inherent lopsidedness and mawkish cul-de-sacs, but a tremendous cast and some truly stellar design work give it a whole new lease of eye (and ear) popping life.

Fans and purists trembling at the mention of rewrites can be assuaged, too; this is still the Miss Saigon you know and love. Much of the tinkering, courtesy of the National Theatre’s Rob Hastie, brings some of the more dated or coarse sung-spoke dialogue to a more contemporary place. ‘Half-breeds’ becomes ‘little ones’ when referring to the left behind children of ‘Bui Doi’. Completely agreeable things like that.

“Fans and purists trembling at the mention of rewrites can be assuaged, too; this is still the Miss Saigon you know and love.”

But broadly, the story still follows the same, Puccini-inspired tale of an ill-fated romance between a disenfranchised US marine (Jack Kane) and Vietnamese girl (Julianne Pundan) who has been enveloped into the underbelly of Saigon’s nightlife, during the closing of the Vietnam conflict. Orbiting the two is Seann Miley Moore’s swindling ‘Engineer’, a larger-than-life wheeler-dealer scheming and exploiting where he can in the hopes of getting a visa to pursue his ‘American Dream’.

Given its wider geo-political context, Saigon remains a surprisingly focused and even simple affair. Yes, there’s still the thrilling evacuation sequence (also repurposed here, yet no less effective as members of the company zip up and down into the beyond), and fleeting ruminations on the wider consequences of war, such as the stirring ‘Bui Doi’ Act II opener. But it remains ultimately a show about a love torn asunder and a mother’s determination to better the life of her child.

In a week where Jon M Chu’s second Wicked movie is reviving conversations about just how many musical’s suffer from wobblier second halves, Miss Saigon proves itself a high profile reminder. Cramming Madama Butterfly’s three act structure into two is felt, making for a meaty, sweeping and romantic first half, followed by a decidedly flatter and thinner second. There’s good stuff in that last hour, for certain – that helicopter moment, and this production’s heightened, Drag Race-esque ‘American Dream’ set piece keeps it being comfortably one of the best parts of the whole show – but it’s undeniably front-loaded.

Thankfully, even as some of its second Act wheels into soap opera or Lifetime territory, a genuinely stunning company keep us invested. Julianne Pundan is an exceptional Kim, delivering both powerhouse vocals and a blistering turn as a defiant young woman who refuses to be victim or damsel, despite the horrors about her. She gets a lot of big sings – ‘The Movie In My Mind’ (pairing up beautifully with a similarly impressive Ace as Gigi), ‘I’d Give My Life For You’ and ‘I Still Believe’ to name but a few, and Pundan goes to town with each of them. A seriously impressive performance. Jack Kane imbues his Chris with a sensitivity and later flashes of trauma that bounce nicely off of Pundan’s steelier Kim.

“Julianne Pundan is an exceptional Kim, delivering both powerhouse vocals and a blistering turn as a defiant young woman who refuses to be victim or damsel…”

Dominic Hartley-Harris, Emily Langham and Mikko Juan all get moments to impress in supporting roles, but it’s Seann Miley Moore as the Engineer who threatens to steal the whole thing from beneath the lovebirds. Landing in an era of Me Too and Epstein files, some of the more problematic edges of the role are softened a little here, with Moore dialling the mercurial flamboyance and opportunism of the character up to eleven. Sexy, sleazy, comedic, villainous and anti-hero all rolled into one, it’s a kinetic, dazzling and chameleonic turn, utterly infectious to watch and arguably worth the ticket price alone.

Were the performances not enough, Andrew D Edwards and Bruno Poet’s design and lighting work muster up a similar feast for the senses. Peeling back some of the glitz and neon of the original production in favour of something grittier and earthy, Edwards sets are tremendous labyrinths of levels, layers, depth and verticality. From the seedy back alleys of Saigon to the red swathes and pillars of later Ho Chi Minh City in ‘The Morning of the Dragon’, this is a scale and quality of touring production rarely seen. Bathed gloriously in Poet’s spotlights and side-spilling waves of light, it’s likely the prettiest and most visually arresting tour you’ll see this year.

It’s just a shame that, in the performance reviewed, some of the sound mixing and mics felt off at times, with the excellent vocalists drowned out by the orchestra or otherwise barely audible in key moments. Something of a crime, given their obvious skills.

But yes, the legend has indeed been reborn. Sure, this phoenix Saigon still carries some of the original production’s narrative baggage and wonkiness, and that three act curvature remains as glaring as ever. But inspired casting from a company giving it their all on a truly gorgeous playground makes for one of the most impressive touring productions of the year, and an evening of theatre that you certainly won’t be screaming to get airlifted out of.

There’s something almost festively ironic about a show centring around a character having a bit of an identity crisis suffering from one itself.

Part musical theatre. Not quite pantomime. No longer audacious, arena ‘spectacular’. Jon Conway’s touring production of Elf the Musical is a bizarre, confusing beast. A hodgepodge chimaera of fleetingly amusing festive highs swung about with distracting technical lows and some choice creative decisions that don’t so much gel into a festive whole as scattershot into bemusement.

It’s a bit akin to a real life version of one of the show’s manic snowball fights. At first it seems like a good, fun idea, is initially entertaining, peppered with moments of fun and thrill, but ultimately sees you walking away with that cold, soggy, sinking feeling of regret.

Full disclosure; Conway and co are clearly pitching this broad and young. It isn’t so much for the gnarly, grizzled theatre critics as it is for the very (very) young, and in the performance reviewed, they absolutely ate it up.

And yet, there’s no shying away from that brand recognition. It follows the basic premise of the 2003 Will Ferrell vehicle of the same name, which sees a human (Jordan Conway) raised in the North Pole by Santa’s helpers heading off to New York in search of his family. There’ll doubtless be significant chunks of the audience along for the ride in the hopes of seeing a festive favourite transplanted to stage.

As an adaptation, Thomas Meehan and Bob Martin’s book stays fairly faithful and mostly works, checking off the most iconic catchphrases and beats from the film. Matthew Sklar and Chad Beguilin’s music is serviceable and suitably jaunty throughout, and perhaps unsurprisingly it works best when it’s (rarely) allowed to go full musical theatre, such as a fun extended tap number in Macy’s.

“As an adaptation, Thomas Meehan and Bob Martin’s book stays fairly faithful and mostly works, checking off the most iconic catchphrases and beats from the film.”

Some of Tim Goodchild’s staging from the former arena iteration of the show carries across well, and makes certain sequences, such as the aforementioned Macy’s grotto, look genuinely quite impressive and eye-catching on the Wolverhampton Grand’s stage. Giant inflatable candy canes and enormous Christmas Garland being winched up into the rafters keep things like suitably Christmassy and showy, though it only serves to draw a beadier eye to other set pieces which are reduced to nothing more than a bench on stage (and often even less than that).

Sadly, recurrent tech and sound problems were the least of the distractions in the performance reviewed. What must be some of the worst projection and video work seen in a show to date are genuinely horrible throughout. At best, they feel like cheap, royalty-free plunges from Google or Youtube, at other times they actively detract from the story being told. Why are we seeing a giant video of gingerbread men gyrating about in an oven when we’re supposed to be in a department store?

That character whose ultimate dream is to see snow, and the very realisation of this – spoilers – proves a major turning point for her come the finale? Well, maybe just try and disregard the fact that a few scenes earlier she was prancing around in front of a backdrop of New York quite literally bathed in snow.

What’s that, little girl? You saw Rudolph’s nose glowing bright and guiding Santa’s sleigh? Not according to the projections (and even some earlier dialogue) you didn’t. Say what, Buddy? Santa’s sleigh has crashed in central park? Then why is the very next thing we see is him zipping through the Manhattan skyline at a pace even Spider-man would tremble at?

It would be less egregious if they weren’t so consistently the central focus of the staging, often required to do a lot of the heavy lifting of setting a sense of place.

Coupled with the recurrent sound issues and the odd flubbed line and the overall effect is one of those cheap Temu christmas ornaments that arrive looking a lot less impressive than they did online.

“…the overall effect is one of those cheap Temu christmas ornaments that arrive looking a lot less impressive than they did online.”

It certainly doesn’t help that the company assembled for the tour – many of whom are veterans of the production, having starred in it for quite literally years – are a mixed Santa sack. Barry Bloxham is decently cantankerous as Buddy’s overworked, long-lost father, Walter, charting his character’s Scrooge-esque arc well. Nikita Coulon delivers arguably the best vocals of the night and manages to scrape off the excess cheese foisted on her character. She’s admirably supported by a solid Karis Lomax, gender-swapped and feeling perhaps a smidgeon too old here for some of the material her character is given. Natalie Gray and Dafydd Lansley give what are probably the most characterful and animated turns of the night, whilst Philip Day gives good Santa, even if his Act 2 ensemble number turned into a bit of a messy, undisciplined shambles.

Kelly Banlaki gives good choreo and a suitably quirky take on Buddy’s love interest, Jovie, whilst the younger audience members ate up the broader strokes of Jordan Conway’s performance as Buddy. But for such an iconic character (reinterpretation or no) it feels surprisingly aimless and underpowered. At times offering up flashes of Ferrell’s turn in the original film, elsewhere deviating more into panto fool territory, it’s a meandering and confusingly underpowered performance that occasionally, jarringly dials it up to eleven. Conway clearly exhibits some skill in physical comedy – arguably his best moment is an extended bit of workplace tomfoolery with one of his father’s office staff – but as a musical theatre performance, it frequently flatlines.

“Conway clearly exhibits some skill in physical comedy – arguably his best moment is an extended bit of workplace tomfoolery with one of his father’s office staff…”

It feels particularly miserly (and may etch me firmly on the naughty list) to aim this at such a light-hearted piece clearly pitched to family audiences, but if nothing else, Elf has the ignominy of featuring what are possibly some of the worst vocal performances this particular reviewer has heard in a professional production.

It’s unfortunate – particularly for someone who is a sucker for all things Yuletide – that the ingredients… or at least, recipe… are certainly here for a fun, festive offering. It has one wondering whether the current London production, starring Joel Montague and Carrie Hope Fletcher, might hold more festive promise (and certainly at least look and feel a little less… well, cheap).

If you’re in the market for an evening of pleasant, mildly diverting seasonal distractions… then there are moments of panto-y, family fun (but even then there are far better alternatives to enjoy this Christmastime). Die-hard fans of the film will likely find this invocation an underwhelming one, though as mentioned the younger audience goers seemed to be gobbling it up like festive candy.

Switch off your brain and adjust your expectations somewhere below am-dram and you’ll likely find a diverting couple of hours of tinselly nonsense here, but go in expecting a musical theatre production as fresh, energised and memorable as the film that inspired it, and you may end up feeling like you’ve opened a parcel of coal.

A nightmare before Christmas?

That would be harsh, but you certainly wouldn’t be a cotton-headed ninny muggins for giving this particular sleigh ride a skip…