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.

Full disclosure. This particular reviewer grew up on the fifties, bubblegum, teenagers-so-old-they’re-practically-creaking charms of Randal Kreisler’s Grease. Casey and Jacobs’ music remains as indelible as ever, and its staples – not least of all that Olivia Newton-John transformation – are forever etched in cinema (and musical) history.

As such, Secret Cinema and Today Tix’ decision to recreate Rydell High smack bang in the centre of Battersea Park and create a hybridised screening-performance homunculus sounds pretty much like someone wandered into my dreamscape and made it manifest.

Tell me about it, stud.

So, personal bias acknowledged; though it’s probably fair to say most who will be visiting Grease: The Immersive Movie Musical will be fans of the source material.

Of course, it isn’t Secret Cinema’s first term at Rydell. Back in 2023, they offered up a similar experience at Birmingham’s NEC arena, which was well-received.

For London, however, they have gone decidedly full throttle, upping the ante and delivering an experience that is automatic… systematic… and, well, you know the rest.

Secret Cinema have built a reputation for high quality, solid production value immersion into the world of each respective IP. Grease presents something of a deviation from the formula, as the screening of the Travolta and Newton-John classic is intercut with live musical performances throughout. It slants the whole experience closer to outright musical theatre than many of their previous offerings, but that’s no bad thing when you’re dealing with material like the film’s ballroom sequence or fairground finale, both brilliant and opulently realised here.

There’s an argument to be made that it makes for a slightly choppier, more stop-start affair. And in a rather unexpected curveball, the live performances and staging are so good throughout that the screening downtimes sometimes feel almost like filler. The film itself is still eminently watchable, but it’s hard not to find yourself itching for the next set piece or big number.

As mentioned, the exterior of Evolution London has been repurposed into Rydell’s graduation fairground, complete with rides and immaculately themed standees. Down yourself a themed cocktail or the compulsory hot dogs, and you’re free to snap as many selfies and footage as you want out here. Fancy dress is heavily encouraged. The sense of atmosphere and buzz is infectious, and a lot of the supporting artists and even stalls holders throw themselves into the idea that you’ve time warped to 1959.

“As well as looking like a technicolor 1950s marvel, the attention to detail is similarly impressive.”

The bulk of the evening, however, takes place inside, where Tom Rogers and Howard Hudson have created a glorious bricolage of locations and vignettes from the film. From the ‘Frosty Palace’ ice creamery, the T-Birds’ garage, the Rydell stage and even a stunning, expansive ’Drive-In’ wall, it’s all a visual feast. As well as looking like a technicolor 1950s marvel, the attention to detail is similarly impressive. There’s oodles to take in; giggling at the flyers and pieces on the Rydell noticeboard as you walk in (vote Patty Simcox, FYI) through to Susan Kulkarni and Martina Trottman’s costumes serving up candy floss server, fifties’ diner cuteness or slick greaser even at the various themed eateries and stands.

So it looks great, and thankfully with such a heavy onus on live performance, is a slick joy to watch, too. Given the sheer expanse of the auditorium, director Matt Costain and choreographer Jennifer Weber have done a good job of moving the key set pieces and numbers around the place. There’s plenty of elevation, and in the case of Rizzo’s ‘Lucy Penrose’ parodic ‘Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee’, she literally takes to a mobile four poster bed which drives around the centre stage. There’s even some small but appreciated contemporising done, too – no lifting non-consensual lifting of Patty’s dress or same-sex bans with the ballroom boogying, to name a couple.

For sure, there can occasionally be some discombobulation as you hear an iconic number starting up and aren’t quite sure where in this sizeable space it’s coming from, but if you’re brushed up on the film, you’ll likely have an idea as where you need to gather. And for those completely on the wrong side, many of the numbers are projected to the same screens dotted throughout that the film plays on.

Costain is savvy enough to keep the whole thing moving and, more often than not, numbers migrate across to the large centre stage, or are set there entirely. This makes for truly awesome sequences such as the iconic ballroom dance-off which, complete with audience participation and some stunning choreography from Weber that ‘Danny’ Liam Morris and ‘Cha-Cha’ Leah Dane positively raise the roof with. Grab yourself a VIP ticket and you’ll even find yourself drafted in to help out on-stage for key numbers.

It all makes for a hugely entertaining evening that is almost impossible to not get swept up in. An electric atmosphere and a cast of excellent performers make good on the concept of a live, interactive trip to Rydell. One moment you can be learning some smooth moves from Waylon Jacobs’ compere, doing the hand jive with Reece Kerridge’s irrepressible Tom, or have Imogen Kingsley-Smith’s (*perfectly* cast) Patty Simcox waving her love letter to Danny Zuko in your face. Mill around, take in the atmosphere and soak up the energy, excitement and all the little spontaneous moments that are completely unique to this approach to musical theatre.

“Mill around, take in the atmosphere and soak up the energy, excitement and all the little spontaneous moments that are completely unique to this approach to musical theatre.”

Lucy Penrose’s Rizzo is great, sardonic fun, and she threatens to steal the whole night with a cabaret style repurposing of her big solo number ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’. Stephanie Costi as Sandy and the aforementioned Liam Morris more than do justice to the iconic roles they interpret, and David Fearn’s gorgeous vocals are a real treat throughout the night, even if it feels like something of a missed opportunity to not have Teen Angel (Frankie Avalon’s cameo in the OG film) be more of a standout by being played by a different member of the talented company.

But we’re not electing class president or head boy/girl. Rydell High, Year of 1959 are a talented, spirited bunch across the board and they deserve top marks in their yearbook (my ignorance towards the American educational system now on full display).

For fans of Grease in any incarnation, then a trip to Secret Cinema and Today Tix’ faithful, exciting and turbo charged summoning of it is a surefire recommendation. Battersea Park has been transformed into California for six weeks only, and Costain, Weber and their talented team take the idea of immersive performance and dial it up a gear or five.

Grease: The Immersive Movie Musical is here, and is set to turn those Summer nights into a heatwave of great music, spirited performances, joyful immersion… burnin’ up the London quarter mile on a trip to Rydell that fans will be hopelessly devoted to.

Should Stephen Hawking hold true, somewhere in the ether or the beyond lies a reality where Nicholas Hytner’s production of Richard II lands deliciously apropos. Depicting, as it does, the fall of a mercurial, emotionally thin-skinned leader prone to bouts of petulance and entitlement to a younger, more grounded and capable candidate.

As it stands, we have to settle for it all feeling a little bittersweet.

Still, despite the obvious (delicious) parallels, to channel it solely through such a lens would be reductive. Whilst this remains one of the Bard’s lesser-staged pieces – and with its at-times almost formulaic politicking and intrigue it isn’t difficult to perhaps see why – Hytner shrewdly frames it as something of a character study-cum-star vehicle, hinging the whole thing on Bridgerton and Wicked star Jonathan Bailey’s titular turn.

After Sigourney Weaver’s soggy Prospero and Tom Holland’s underwhelming Romeo, London audiences have certainly been learning of late that star power alone can’t cultivate good ‘speare. Yet Bailey, who we must remember cut his teeth on the stage and has already impressed with supporting turns in Othello and King Lear, more than bucks the trend here, offering up a scintillating central turn as the ill-suited monarch.

“…Bailey’s creation here is one of immense caprice and even theatricality.”

Opening with his power at its absolute, a spat between two nobles casts sharp focus on Richard’s mercurial bent. And – whisper it – there are rumours that he himself called for the very deed that caused the fallout. From viciously spitting his cousin farewell mere inches from his face to flamboyantly holding court as he prances above their duelling pit, whistle in hand, Bailey’s creation here is one of immense caprice and even theatricality. Soon after, he impishly removes years from a family member’s banishment as a spontaneous, kindly flourish to an Uncle, one whom he later throws about a hospital ward in rage.

This Richard is a kaleidoscope of narcissism and neuroses, and it’s a truly electric watch. As Hytner recently pointed out, Bailey is a natural with the text, and manages to make this changeable, spiteful, lost, needy, uncertain creation hilarious and horrifying in equal measure. Injecting musicality and character into even the most rudimentary of asides and put downs, Bailey somehow manages to inject it all with the slightest splash of camp, too. By the time the walls are closing in about him at the end of the first half and he has adopted an almost messianic-by-way-of-Rik Mayall mania, it’s difficult to not find yourself rooting for the churl.

Fittingly, it isn’t until the character’s later moments of realisation that the pomposity and sheen begins to truly melt away. Even a tearful separation with Olivia Popica’s Queen Isabel feels solipsistic and performative. Adornments and costume pared down, it’s the only glimpse we get of the star’s Hollywood musculature, too – in grey joggers and a t-shirt we begin to see, for perhaps the first time, Richard the man.

Whilst Bailey is undeniably the main draw here – both in regards to performance and doubtless box office, too – he’s embedded within an impressive company who do great grounding work about this unpredictable centre.

Royce Pierreson is far less showy, yet brings the necessary gravitas and calm to the decent Bullingbrook, Richard’s cousin clearly better equipped to rule. Pierreson is a brooding, pensive figure on stage, and is a great foil to the animated chaos Bailey unleashes. Michael Simkins is terrific and dignified as a principled, conflicted Duke of York, and even he manages to get beats of humour throughout, be it chiding his despairing wife (Amanda Root, fantastic in mining the second half’s familial troubles for all their heart and humour) or tremulously speaking into a podium microphone. Christopher Osikanlu Colquhoun’s slick, almost oily Northumberland offers an echo of a chief whip or similar operator, whilst Badria Timimi is contrarily a source of goodness and reason throughout as a sincere Bishop of Carlisle, delivering a haunting, wrenching prophecy of what doom may befall conspirators to the crown.

“…it’s a truly electric watch.”

Performed quasi in-the-round, Bob Crowley’s set and staging aren’t exactly stripped back, but rather accented and peppered with set pieces and focal points, most of which ascend, descend or, in the case of an imposing piece of heavy artillery, are wheeled onto the stage. Not that Crowley fails to seize upon story or character, though; his ‘sceptered isle’ is a litter-strewn canvas of cardboard, empty bottles and detritus, making both Gaunt and Richard’s adoration of it feel ironic, almost comedically so.

When we return from the interval, the ostentation of Richard has been replaced with the monochrome modernity and efficiency of Bullingbrook. Decadent chandeliers and intricate carved doors give way to strip lighting and frosted glass panels. Trench coats and finery replaced with black suit and tie, as ornate writing desks, glasses of whiskey and lines of cocaine are supplanted with Scandi-style minimalism and uniformity.

Grant Olding’s pulsing, dramatic score mostly lends urgency and pace to transitions, keeping things feeling suitably cinematic, a task well-met by Bruno Poet’s stark, often backlighting beams. Pierreson’s return is as a figure set before the spill of car headlights, and a tense assassination early on is cast almost entirely in silhouette. It’s a moody, dramatic production for sure, and coupled with the company’s strong performances, keeps even its more tempered moments a rich watch.

A couple of minor creative choices occasionally pluck at the suspension of disbelief or register as less authentic. A wrenching double execution is slightly defanged thanks to some almost non-diegetic gunshots. Similarly, as effective as Bailey’s elevation into the galleries is for the close of the first half, it does leave some of the audience reduced to watching a pair of small monitors for some of his best moments in the show.

Still, for the most part this is exciting, accessible and frequently gripping Shakespeare. Bailey’s maddening, mercurial tour-de-force proves one of the most exciting and unpredictable performances in London right now, and is worth the ticket price alone. Pierreson proves himself a talent to watch, and this slick, sexy production takes the star wattage of its lead and channels it into frequent theatrical electricity.

And as a coda, if even this brattish, self-centred ruler can see the error of his ways, then maybe…

Nope, we’ll leave the IRL parallels there.

Let’s not get silly.

In the current cultural climate where Richard Gadd’s Baby Reindeer has defied expectations and smashed Netflix records internationally, a keen light has been shone on the translation of toxic, unhealthy relationships into ‘entertainment’. For certain, it isn’t exactly new or original ground to cover on stage – from Prima Facie to Gaslight, the tragic commonality of abuse, assault and coercion has found itself frequent subject matter for dramatisation.

Emily Jupp’s Wormholes arrives without the sheen and fireworks of stranger-than-fiction absurdity that courses through Reindeer. So much of Gadd’s tortured tale would be deemed ridiculous, were it not autobiographical in nature. Jupp’s tale here, of a woman recounting her past as she faces rather ambiguous questioning by the police, is notably less sensationalist. Befitting of its running analogy of the parasitic guinea worm, Wormholes knows that abuse rarely storms in to your work place and unleashes itself at full throttle, but is rather a gnawing, burrowing and debilitating thing that slowly, insidiously takes its hold and makes its presence known.

Front and centre is Call the Midwife star, Victoria Yeates, who recently impressed in the RSC’s Ben & Imo. Her character, referred only to in the text as ‘Woman’, proves not so much an unreliable narrator as a deeply human one – distracted, troubled, uncertain. Her memories scattered, disjointed. She ponders of the titular channels through which she may escape her life and trauma. The weight of what she has gone through gradually builds as she guides the audience through her story, swings in mood and fortitude pointing to an impending unraveling. The frisson and excitement of those first dates. The unapologetic frankness of recalling the great sex. Sarcastic yet never sinister observations on how our lives and friendships change as we become absorbed in new love.

And then, like the aforementioned parasite, the worm slowly begins to turn.

It’s thrilling, consummately engaging and deeply human work. Yeates has spoken candidly about her own journey and experiences of being in an abusive relationship, which likely underpins the earnest, heartbreaking authenticity of her turn here.

“There are few frills and mercifully scant distractions.”

There are few frills and mercifully scant distractions. A simple stage bathed in mostly blue hues represents the arena for Jupp and Yeates’ story, with Paul Housden’s occasional sound and music creeping in at the periphery to underpin a particular beat or charged moment. A warped, discordant rendition of Chaka Khan, earlier used during a moment of elation and freedom for ‘Woman’ is particularly haunting.

Jupp’s experience in writing about mental health, and the closeness with which this ties to Yeates’ own experiences imbues Wormholes with a heady, sobering rawness. Its recollections and depictions of abuse, coercion and even physical violence are devastating often in their simplicity and relatability. As it knows and depicts all too well, malevolence will often wear a smile, and the damage isn’t always apparent until it’s sometimes too late.

Yeates’ control and instincts here are masterful. She demonstrates herself once again as a commanding presence on the stage, flitting between incredulity, devastation, frustration and even bouts of rage sometimes within a matter of seconds. It’s a heartrending, tremendous turn from a seriously capable performer.

“…a heartrending, tremendous turn from a seriously capable performer.”

Given its subject matter, Wormholes isn’t exactly an easy watch. Yet director Scott Le Crass and Yeates pitch the balance well, finding plenty of levity and relatability, particularly in ‘Woman’s’ observations of the world about her. It veers towards particularly dark territory come its conclusion, yet deftly avoids feeling exploitative or in any way lesser than the measured, absorbing hour that has come before it.

As per Gadd’s original, Olivier Award-winning stage version of Baby Reindeer, Wormholes is a stripped back, one-person affair. It presents a blisteringly authentic portrayal of domestic violence and abuse in a way that is only amplified by its normality. Jupp’s nuanced writing and Yeates’ stunning performance hauntingly remind us that the darkness that occurs behind closed doors doesn’t always involve or require Netflix-style fireworks, yet are no less heartbreaking or devastating as a result.

Acting as both the final show this outlet viewed for 2023, and our first published review of ’24, The Little Big Things seems fitting as both a coda and forward-thinking mission statement for Nica Burns’ @sohoplace. The glitzy, characterful new West End venue, which completed its first full orbit last year, was a major contributing factor in Burns placing second in The Stage’s top 100 theatre figures last week (a quad of National Theatre execs just pipping her to the top spot). The Financial Times lauded her new hub of theatrical innovation as “a West End theatre with inclusivity at its heart” and, again, Big Things couldn’t be a more palpable demonstration of this.

A brand new musical offering adapted from the memoir of Henry Fraser – whose life (and burgeoning rugby stardom) was shattered overnight by a fluke accident on holiday with his brothers – The Little Big Things certainly inherits a corker of a true story, but do its theatrical aspirations and ingredients stack up to the source material, and its venue’s own zeitgeist-nabbing buzz?

It’s easy to go maudlin or mawkish when transplanting the real to the stage. Doubly so when it pivots around a story as innately stirring and emotive as Fraser’s, twinged with tragedy and pain. And of course, there remains the ever prevalent threat of tokenising disability, or being somehow reductive about its implementation. Heck, Big Things’ dramaturg and associate director, Nickie Miles-Wildin, acknowledges this, decrying what she calls ‘inspiration porn’, where disabled characters are reduced to little more than conduits of motivation for the world about them.

“…there remains the ever prevalent threat of tokenising disability, or being somehow reductive about its implementation…”

Sharply, boldly, The Little Big Things digs deeper and pans wider. It’s a show about many things; family, expression, identity, art, love. It centres mainly around the Fraser clan – mum Fran (Linzi Hateley), dad Andrew (Alasdair Harvey), brothers Tom (Jamie Chatterton), Dom (Jordan Benjamin) and Will (Cleve September) and, of course, Henry. In an inspired move, Big Things’ protagonist is dual-played, both in youthful, pre-accident guise by Jonny Amies, and everything that follows the fateful incident by Ed Larkin (notably the first time a wheelchair-user has led a West End musical).

Sure, the show doesn’t shy away from some of the sobering realities of what first appears to be a youth stymied before even his prime. The early anguish of Henry’s accident and subsequent diagnosis are blisteringly etched by a devastating Linzi Hateley. The weight and struggle of accommodating and at times even recognising this ‘new’ Henry within the family unit is delicately interwoven throughout, with every member of the Fraser family given their moment of struggle and hurt. Admirably, The Little Big Things doesn’t shy away from just how difficult the whole situation is, and yet neither does it feel laden or staid.

For, perhaps in part owing to its energised, upbeat soundtrack of poppy feel-goods from Nick Butcher and Tom Ling, a relentless undercurrent of humour and self-deprecating wit throughout Joe White‘s buoyant book, or its sheer wealth of eye-opening set pieces and innovative musical theatre moments, The Little Big Things is a big, bold, joyous tapestry of multicolour brush strokes that makes for one of the most vibrant, uplifting and tirelessly entertaining new musicals in recent memory.

From a toe-tapping, gospel-lite ode to the workers of the NHS, a bonkers Monopoly-themed night out for Henry and mum, to some of its rousing solos of introspection and determination, Big Things throbs with invention and energy. In the confines of @Sohoplace’s cosier, in-the-round fold, it manages to feel both grand and intimate at once, with director Luke Sheppard and choreographer Mark Smith delivering a punchy, pacy show that carries both the visual bombast of a full West End ticket, whilst never drowning out the quieter, powerful ebbs that land so powerfully in the new venue. Characters ascend into the rafters, ocean soundscapes and colours wash across the stage and audience both, performers ring out from the balconies. It’s transportive, imaginative and dazzling stuff.

“It’s transportive, imaginative and dazzling stuff.”

Of course, tremendous credit for this must go to the fantastic cast and ensemble. They’re universally excellent, from the Fraser family leads, through to supporting parts, such as company member Amy West stepping up and giving a barnstorming understudy turn as a soulful, kindly doctor in the performance reviewed. Jordan Benjamin gets perhaps the clearest arc and growth as the youngest of the Fraser brothers, and it’s a beautifully observed performance with stunning vocals to match, but in truth all three brothers impress.

Amy Trigg steals practically every scene she appears in as Henry’s droll, sex-positive physiotherapist, whilst Gracie McGonigal is in fine voice and a complete ray of sunshine throughout as Henry’s longstanding, sweet-natured crush. Hateley and Harvey may be consummate West End veterans from whom we’d expect terrific work, but even by their own high standards, their anguished, hopeful, proud turns as Henry’s parents are especially strong.

“Ed Larkin brings an impressive weight and sense of venerability to his Henry… Amies, meanwhile is staggeringly good… give the pair of them Oliviers, pronto.”

And, of course, the Henrys. Having the younger Henry transition to become something of a subconscious reflection of his own guilt and inability to fully accept what has happened is a canny move, with the dynamic between the two actors portraying the central role electric throughout. Ed Larkin brings an impressive weight and sense of venerability to his Henry, often the eye of the storm about which much of the anguish and fallout rages. Amies, meanwhile, is staggeringly good, absolutely tearing up the show’s biggest asks of him vocally, and navigating a trajectory from youthful boisterousness to acceptance with real gravitas and heart. The charting of Henry’s eventual new calling as an artist is meticulously, tear-jerkingly earnest, as is the denouement to their occasionally fractious back-and-forth. Give the pair of them Oliviers, pronto.

Ultimately, The Little Big Things is just that. A collection of myriad parts harmonising to create a beautiful tapestry of colour, sound, spectacle and storytelling. It is, in part, an inspiring tale of one man’s resilience, determination and, ultimately, optimism. And yet its inspiration never feels glib, tokenistic or cheap. This is a deeply human, dimensional story, awash with delight, fringed with pain, pulsing with humanity. As a theatre experience, it is bold, beautifully written, handsomely performed and dazzlingly staged.

And, as a misson statement for @SohoPlace, for Burns and for new musical theatre as a whole, it is a glorious, technicolor manifesto that, as Henry Fraser himself so admirably showcased, the best really can be yet to come.

In a fashion that seems befitting for such a daring, distinctive show, we’re going to start this one both broad and bold.

There are very few shows in memory – recent or otherwise – that manage to succeed in being so profoundly specific yet universally resonant at once as Michael R. Jackson’s A Strange Loop.

On the one hand, its emotionally raw and honest exploration into the creative process and intrapersonal struggles of a self-proclaimed ‘fat, Black, queer’ aspiring musical theatre writer is razor sharp in its definition and scope. There is a lived experience cast on the stage here in unbridled, blistering form. Kyle Ramar Freeman’s immediate and endearing protagonist, Usher, takes us through a disarmingly powerful single-Act tour-de-force stacked with prejudice, fetishism (of queerness, body size and skin tone), self-loathing, ecclesiastic intolerance and more, that will doubtless speak loudest to its black and queer audiences.

And, as was highlighted during a frank and illuminating post-show Q&A, should absolutely be offered to them as readily and affordably as possible.

And yet, on the other hand, so too is there an undeniable universality and frankness to so much of Loop’s journey of self-discovery and emotional honesty, and so irrepressible a joy and exuberance to its execution, that it makes it an easy recommendation for all.

There’s no shying away from the importance of its message and strength of its voice, though. A Strange Loop almost dares you to lull into a false sense of comfort or apathy. ‘Butt f*cking’, dehumanisation and liberal use of the ’n’ word as both endearment and insult abound. Fresh trauma or anguish is injected at almost every turn, as Usher weaves a metafictive journey of crafting his own musical project that, for character and audience both, comes to feel like creativity via self-therapy.

If its metafictional hijinks and its wheeling around identity issues are not entirely original in approach, they’re no less genius or affecting in execution. Usher is joined on stage throughout by a cast of six ‘Thoughts’ – manifestations of his psyche and place within modern society. Some are literal and immediate – sexual ambivalence, self-loathing etc. – whilst others float more nebulously around matters financial and familial. What binds them all is the witty, biting fashion with which they are employed throughout, and the glorious company that bring them to life.

“If its metafictional hijinks and its wheeling around identity issues are not entirely original in approach, they’re no less genius or affecting in execution.”

As Loop charges through its hour and forty-minute runtime, Jackson’s music and lyrics don’t waste the promise of exploring Usher and his toils through the medium of the musical. It manages to be both immeasurably uplifting and a bit of a downer at once; the numbers bandying between show-stopping and glitzy to searing and soul-searching. Director Stephen Brackett keeps his feet on the pedal and does a solid job of guiding us through the at-times dizzyingly blurring lines between the literal and figurative. As we see Usher’s ‘big, black and queer-ass’ musical take shape, discerning what is ‘real’ and what is part of Usher’s heightened reconstructions isn’t always immediately available, but the emotional resonance and message are never lost.

This is all in no small way down to Freeman’s astonishing central turn. Rarely off-stage, he more than delivers on the big vocal asks, but is perhaps even more impressive in the honesty and rawness of his take on a role that asks for big, often whiplash-inducing emotional about-turns. Whether heartbreakingly lamenting his choice of a grimy, abusive one-night stand, timidly jostling with his ‘Thought’ co-stars, sassily channeling his ‘Inner White Girl’, or sending up gospel evangelist types in deliciously broad, comedic strokes, it’s an absolute barnstormer of a performance.

“…an absolute barnstormer of a performance.”

He’s surrounded by excellence, too. It would be churlish to single out any of the six-strong ‘Thoughts’, all deserving of extra kudos for being on multi-role duty as they are, and each is given plenty of moments and set pieces within which to shine. When they come together collectively, such as during a side-splitting cultural ombudsman for the creative output of Tyler Perry, featuring the likes of Harriet “motherf*ckin’” Tubman, Jimmy Baldwin, Whitney Houston, and even an Oscar-wielding Solomon Northup a la 12 Years a Slave, it’s utterly electric. And how gratifying, not to mention a privilege, to be witness to such a bold, distinctive musical not only speaking to, but also delivered by, a cast consistently exclusively of superlative black talent. Nathan Armarkwei-Larya, Eddie Elliot, Sharlene Hector, Tendai Humphrey Sitima, Yeukayi Ushe and Jean-Luke Worrell were all superlative thourhgout in the performance reviewed. They are a manic whirlwind of vibrancy and character around Freeman’s soulful centre.

A review of A Strange Loop could easily run double, treble the length as afforded here. There’s more that could be said of the sheer ballsy, unfiltered hutzpah of where Jackson is willing to go, and what all involved are willing to bring so truthfully to the stage. Of appraising its completely-deserved Pulitzer gong for Drama, and how it has already ensconced itself amongst the great pieces depicting the creative process and person. And there’s just something exquisite about bearing witness to a show with so much grit in its teeth and gumption in its stride landing amidst a sea of vanilla and beige.

But above all, A Strange Loop is fierce. Fiercely unique, bitingly funny, ferociously honest and relentlessly inspired. You will likely find yourself caught in your own strange loop of laughter and tears throughout, and come away – after its bravely unconventional, no-easy-answers finale – feeling like Usher’s marvellous musical project has if not necessarily redefined, then certainly reminded, of the true possibility, power and impact of storytelling via the medium of the musical.

At one point midway through the second act of Erica Whyman and Lolita’s Chakrabarti’s stage adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, Tom Varey’s ‘William’ (you know the one) asks his fellow players to imagine the seats of their newly-founded Globe theatre to be full of patrons. Moments before, a comedic beat sees one of the Bard’s troupe almost tumble off the edge of the stage and into the laps of (gamely amused) actual audience members. Nestled, as Hamnet currently is, in the Swan Theatre at the RSC, it’s all laced with echoes of cultural poignancy, not to mention some cheeky, fourth-wall breaking knowingness.

Plenty of Whyman’s transplant of Hamnet resonates to this canny, autobiographical enrichment. Mentions of Stratford and Warwickshire abound (and even received audible murmurs of approval from the audience), whilst the whole thing feels leant a sense of authenticity by dint of company and locale alone.

And yet, for all of the myriad fun had in exploring the unique meta opportunities of bringing this tale to the stage in Stratford (and soon to be London), fundamentally O’Farrell’s story is one of grief, loss, absence and departure. For sure, the power of performance and the cathartic nature of theatre are indeed important threads of the Hamnet tale, and there’s fun to be had with a smattering of references and Easter eggs for enthusiasts of the Bard’s oeuvre, but all the frolics and intertextuality in the world wouldn’t save it from a failure to deliver on the story’s most profound and affecting beats.

“…an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway…”

Thankfully, a resplendent company deliver us to the eventual heartbreak and anguish with sincerity and clout. Front and centre is a captivating Madeleine Mantock, as Shakespeare’s wife, Anne – here renamed Agnes (‘the g is silent’) – Hathaway. It’s an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway, which bounces well off of Varey’s likeable, boyish vim as a young Shakespeare. Whyman and Chakrabarti’s adaptation doesn’t shy away from the ethereal and spiritualistic elements of O’Farrell’s storytelling, either; introducing Agnes from the off as a figure attuned to whispers on the wind, an affinity with the natural world, and the perhaps inevitable consequential sneers and accusations of witchcraft and ungodliness. Where less confident productions would perhaps hedge their bets on ambiguity, Hamnet quite literally gives voice and presence to the manifestations of spirits and the supernatural, that end up being a crucial part of its heroine’s identity and arc.

More grounded are practically the entirety of characters about her. From Sarah Belcher’s unabashedly venomous step-mother, Peter Wright’s boorish, oft-abusive and shame-ridden father of Varey’s Shakespeare (or his flatulent luvvy), to a wonderfully droll and deadpan Elizabeth Rider as his mother Mary, it’s a rabble of earthy, colourful Elizabethans. Sure, we rarely scratch beneath the surface for most of them, but they’re a rich and vibrantly performed collective who add plenty of grit and character, to a slightly meandering first half in particular.

For it’s certainly a lopsided affair. The first act, which centres around the blossoming romance between lowly Latin teacher William, and Hathaway, surely takes its time, but is a little too doe-eyed, occasionally to the point of threatening to feel languid. By contrast, the sheer amount of incident and high drama that rips through the punchier, powerful second half almost leaves it feeling too fleeting. Chunks of Hamnet’s opening hour may be characterful and involving, but pale into relative inconsequence by the time the tragedy that threatens to tear the Shakespeare homestead apart begins to unravel post-interval.

Thankfully – if one can say such a thing when discussing the bubonic death of the young – Whyman’s production strikes these pivotal moments with heartrending precision and impact. Mantock’s anguish and desperation as a woman facing the sum of all maternal fears is raw and devastating. It’s a truly blistering demonstration of grief. Loss hangs palpably in the air and upon the shoulders of the cast, and if it is indeed these wrenching throngs of pain that Hamnet has been building toward, the production and cast more than deliver.

“…one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.”

It only amplifies the regrettable nature of its disjointed structure. Just as we begin weaving into heady issues such as survivors guilt, expression through language and other interesting wrinkles, the breakneck pace of the second Act sees it all needing to be wrapped up. That it does so on a beautifully satisfying, bittersweet coda is welcome, but one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.

Structural gripes aside, this is nevertheless a slick, handsomely-realised production. Staging designer Tom Piper plays with levels and constructs (ladders, unfolding stages et al) to at times quite literally build the story of Shakespeare’s evolution, in a woody fashion that feels totally organic and resonant within the confines of the recently (sublimely) refurbished Swan. Movement and transitions are smooth, and the depictions of place feel lived-in and authentic. Prema Mehta and Xana’s lighting and sound work are cannily utilised, in understated yet surprisingly evocative fashion. Some may find the occasional otherworldly whisper a touch on the nose, but the sound of flies (or are they bees?) buzzing away faintly in the distance serves as a reminder that death and decay are creeping in at the periphery.

Much like its fascinating lead character, Hamnet is a curio of gentle otherworldliness and raw, unbridled emotion. That it spends a little too much of its runtime on the former, whilst slightly rushing through the weightier ebbs, makes for a production that lands with perhaps a touch less elan and rhythm than enthusiasts of O’Farrell’s novel may have anticpated. Yet, despite this slightly choppy pathway, when it comes to realising the emotional fulcrum of its titular tragedy, a riveting, powerhouse Mantock and company more than deliver.

It’s just a pity that it wraps itself up far too soon afterward.

For as the Bard himself knew only too well, and indeed as Varey’s Shakespeare emphatically notes to a freewheeling Will Kempe at one point, it simply doesn’t do to mess up on rhythm and structure.

Laced with its own quiescent, elegiac quality, and encompassing the span of practically an entire lifetime of fleeting moments and stifled dreams as it is, it isn’t difficult to comprehend that interpretation of Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain. You know the one; endlessly overwrought, bum-achingly indulgent. Interval as escape route.

Ang Lee’s now-seminal, Academy Award-gobbling (minus the infamous exception…) film adaptation had the luxury of languishing on its stunning, occasionally-haunting titular vistas, or the pensive, lingering throb of the edit.

And yet, it’s worth bearing in mind that Proulx’s own original short story, of unexpected, forbidden romance between two shepherds, was a fairly succinct affair, clocking in at just shy of 60 pages when it was first published, back in the late-nineties.

It’s what makes Jonathan Butterell and Ashley Robinson’s new transplant of the story to the stage such an interesting and dynamic offering. Clocking in at 90 minutes without an interval, this is raw, immediate theatre that somehow manages to be haunting, measured yet punchy at once.

The idea of making the most of what few moments of true happiness we have, and the isolated, hushed impermanence of its central love, are key themes that course through the centre of Brokeback – and it’s what makes the segmented, vignette approach taken here really sing. Ennis (Lucas Hedges) and Jack (Mike Faist) get very little time or life together, and as an audience, the feeling of wanting even more is a surprisingly effective – not to mention fitting – use of form and structure. Beautiful moments of tenderness are short but sweet. Any time the pair are not together on stage, we yearn to see them reunited. It’s never enough. It’s almost always cut short.

It’s sort of the entire point.

“…the feeling of wanting even more proves a surprisingly effective – not to mention fitting – use of form and structure.”

The confidence in Brokeback’s relative briskness is offered some extra clout by way of Butterell’s long-time collaborator, Dan Gillespie Sells (of The Feeling and Everybody’s Talking About Jamie fame) teaming up with inspired choice of songstress, Eddi Reader, to set key beats and moments here to song. Sure, it’s undeniably and unabashedly Country and Western, at times in an almost borderline-parodic sense, but it’s all live and acoustic, and makes for soulful, evocative and scene-setting stuff, with Reader’s vocals pristine and stirring accompaniment. There’s likely an argument to be made that the soundtrack and score of Lee’s film often get slightly overlooked when appraising its pathos and success (EmmyLou Harris’ ‘A Love That Will Never Grow Old’ being mostly, criminally, forgotten), but Butterell and team commit no such faux pas here.

Elsewhere, Tom Pye’s staging is suitably stripped back, earthy and unshowy, but when coupled with David Finn’s measured lighting work, proves surprisingly transformative. Live campfires, working faucets, and even the odd sprinkle of snow create a theatre-in-the-round environ that never distracts from its central performances, but embeds a palpable sense of place about them. Cast members place on the edge of stage, almost within the audience’s laps, an older Ennis (Paul Hickey) broods around at the periphery throughout, whilst Reader and band are never little more than an arm’s length away. It all feels real, present and immediate.

“A bravura, barnstorming turn from a seriously impressive actor…”

And it’s here that Brokeback’s real coup manifests. Hickey, along with Emily Fairn as Ennis’ struggling wife Alma and Martin Marquez in a variety of bit parts, all offer up solid supporting work. There’s a perhaps surprising amount of humour peppered in there, too. Jack’s wife Lureen, memorably played by Anne Hathaway on screen, is mentioned here but barely features – relegated to a glorified, late-game cameo by company member Sophie Reid.

But it’ll come as little surprise that the production belongs to Faist and Hedges. Faist, recently lighting up Spielberg’s West Side Story remake, gets the showier role, as the charismatic but flippant Jack Twist, and it’s a bravura, barnstorming (to forgive a slight pun) turn from a seriously impressive actor. His Jack is crackling, boyish, with an often sardonic quality that brings much of the levity (“You know friend, this is a god damn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation”). Hedges gets the trickier job of landing the quieter, reserved Ennis, and it isn’t until the latter half of the show that he gets meatier moments to sink into. Like Heath Ledger before him, Hedges does an admirable, confident job in letting Faist take the reigns early on, and doesn’t overplay his hesitant, troubled Ennis.

“Perhaps most impressively, the duo step out of the shadow of their forebears and put stamps of their own on the two leads…”

Perhaps most impressively, the duo step out of the shadow of their forebears and put stamps of their own on the two leads; even pivotal moments, such as Twist’s iconic ‘I wish I knew how to quit you’ line, are delivered here with a distinctive confidence and uniqueness of their own.

There’s an unfiltered physicality to their passions, too. It may seem a trifle indelicate to go there, but there is decidedly more intimacy (not to mention quasi-nudity!) here than was depicted on film, with Twist’s relishing of their trysts and sexual encounters in particular far more elated and unashamed. It may just be reflective of the times that the 2005 film arrived in, coupled with the direct nature of theatre (particularly in a fairly intimate space as this), but there’s undoubtedly a sense that this Brokeback celebrates, and certainly doesn’t shy away from, the physical attraction and sexual joy shared between its leads. There may be some subjectivity at play here, and it’s far from the most erotic or revealing thing you’ll see (even in the West End), but it’ll be an extra Eagle feather in the cowboy hat for much of its inevitable audience.

There’s doubtless myriad ways in which Brokeback Mountain could be rendered on stage. You could easily double the runtime. Some would chop the songs. Others still would heap flats upon levels upon design upon spectacle. Yet there’s a frisson and charge in what Butterell, Hedges and Faist capture here. It is fleeting, unforgiving. It is raw and direct. It is immediate yet fractured. Reader’s gorgeous tone lends soul and context to the romance, the heartbreak and ultimate anguish. The evocative stagecraft supports and frames, yet never distracts from, the smouldering partnership at its heart and centre.

You’ll likely walk away from Brokeback feeling, like its characters, that the time spent was too short. Yet it isn’t so much rushed as ‘leave ‘em wanting more’.

“There ain’t never enough time,” Jack memorably, heartbreakingly laments in one of the show’s final interactions.

It’s in a beautiful, tragic sort of way, the very essence of Proulx’s writing, and the perfect credo for this absorbing, moving return to Brokeback.

Ahh, the zeitgeist-clasping, roof-raising, cultural behemoth of ‘Let It Go’. Only just this past week getting knocked off its mighty perch of being the most successful ever Disney number here in the UK, by Encanto‘s equally earworm-y ‘We Don’t Talk About Bruno’. Right from its avalanche-inducing debut back in 2013, where it could be heard everywhere from garden parties to grime houses, there was fairly immediate chatter about how it would make for a perfect Act I closer, much in the vein of triumphant curtain droppers such as ‘Defying Gravity’, ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’ and even Legally Blonde’s soar of feel-good, ‘So Much Better’.

Fast-forward just shy of a decade, a successful, Tony-gobbling Broadway venture and even a pesky pandemic in in the interim, and the Queen of Arendelle’s triumphant belter of self-empowerment has finally arrived on the West End.

And, with the House of Mouse coffers backing it, some truly resplendent audiovisual design, and all framing the powerhouse pipes of growing stage legend Samantha Barks, London welcomes a truly jaw-dropping set piece that easily slots in amongst the greatest moments of musical theatre, perhaps ever.

It really is that good.

Disney have form here, though; see the big, colourful magic they wrought in turning Aladdin’s ‘Friend Like Me’ into a tour-de-force explosion of genre-bending, vaudeville-infused brilliance, a trick similarly (and understandably) pulled for ‘Be Our Guest’ in the new touring production of Beauty and the Beast. They certainly don’t shy away from doubling down on their big numbers.

However, a single song and set piece do not a consistent, quality musical necessarily make.

“Disney certainly don’t shy away from doubling down on their big numbers.”

Thankfully, anyone going to see Frozen out of love for its film predecessor (presumably the vast majority) will be thrilled to see all the major beats, moments and numbers included here, all glistening in that Disney sheen of quality and scale.

It’s immensely crowd-pleasing and, barring some slightly darker (yet welcome) moments and a curiously-judged but well received Act II opener that features very mild ‘nudity’ (spoiler: everyone’s in skin suits), is probably the go-to recommendation for a family visit to the West End.

Kids and adults alike will adore Craig Gallivan’s wonderful duality of puppetry and performance in the loveable Olaf, a comedic turn that somehow manages to both uncannily channel the nature and spirit of the film’s animated snowman without resorting to base mimicry of Josh Gad. Similarly splendid is the craftsmanship, design and performance (courtesy of Ashley Birchall & Mikayla Jade) put into reindeer Sven, here decidedly less cartoony, but more in the spirit of, say, War Horse’s ‘Joey’ is an indelible, beautiful stage presence that elicits plenty of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’.

As mentioned, it is one glorious looking production to bathe in. Christopher Oram, Neil Austin and Finn Ross bring an unparalleled sense of production value and scale to the Theatre Royal’s boards, from the breathtaking majesty of Elsa’s iconic transformation sequence, to a dollying bridge (that dwarfs even Les Mis’ iconic barricades) featuring pitfalls and slides aplenty, and a perpetual sense of heightened fantasy and magic, abetted tremendously by Jeremy Chernick and team’s stellar effects work. Even techie elements, such as a blisteringly high frame rate for Ross’ video and projection work in simulating a frustrated Elsa’s climactic blizzard, show a standard of attainment few shows aim for, let alone reach.

Good luck finding a more dazzling display of wonderment in the West End (or beyond).

Kristin Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez’ much-played, scarcely-bettered music is as infectious as ever, and the transition to the stage has brought with it some very welcome new numbers that are (mostly) just as good. Oliver Ormson’s beautifully-sung Hans gets a much-needed injection of character and development with his cunningly utilised ‘Hans of the Southern Isles’, whilst Elsa – somewhat passive during a good chunk of the films second reel – gets a real belter of an Act II soul-searcher in new favourite ‘Monster’, which Barks, again, knocks out of the park with real gusto.

Joining her, Obioma Ugoala is a warm, hearty presence as perennial good guy Kristoff, whilst Ormson could croon the phone book and it would likely be divine. In a smaller yet impactful turn, Richard Frame is suitably weaselly (sorry, Wesel-y) and serves up a lot of the pre-Olaf humour with his snidely Duke.

“Good luck finding a more dazzling display of wonderment in the West End (or beyond).”

Particular plaudits go, though, to ensemble member Sarah O’Connor, who stepped up to give a beautiful turn as co-lead Anna, capably carrying the weight of this enormous show on her charismatic shoulders, giving a wonderfully charismatic, quirky turn, and comfortably going toe-to-toe with heavyweights like Barks and Ormson to give just as accomplished and winning a turn. Arguably the night’s MVP.

Less successful is aforementioned Act II opener, ’Hygge’, which, whilst winningly performed (Matt Gillett also stepping in and doing a fine, funny job at the performance reviewed) and getting plenty of laughs as one of the show’s more upbeat and irreverent moments, feels tonally a little jarring, not to mention more than a trifle perfunctory, here. Far better would its vim and spectacle have been leant to the stronger and more character-driven ‘Fixer Upper’, which follows shortly after. Did anyone really think the one thing the original Frozen was missing was a musical interlude from sauna and shop owner Oaken? His now trademark ‘yoo hoo!’ – thankfully replicated here – remains far simpler and more iconic.

That isn’t to say deviation from the source wouldn’t be welcome. Au contraire; if anything, there’s an argument to be made that compared to say, Mary Poppins or The Lion King as other stage adaptations of Disney hits, Frozen plays it a little too safe. The other mentioned properties really lean into the medium of theatre to craft their stage outings as highly distinct and separate entities from their filmic counterparts, whilst keeping the core DNA intact. Frozen, on the other hand, regularly plays out and feels akin to an extremely big-budget – and admittedly gorgeously executed – transfer of some of its Disney park show cousins.

Much like Aladdin before it, there’s a hesitancy to Frozen to stray too far from the established aesthetic and template, or really play around with the uniqueness of the stage experience which, whilst understandable given how iconic Elsa and friends have become in the cultural consciousness, still feels like a slightly missed opportunity. Where it does offer hints at this – such as its interpretation of the film’s ‘troll’ characters here as more tribal, native human-esque types, or the aforementioned de-tooning of Sven, it works beautifully, and offers glimpses of something more distinctive still.

But again, nobody at Disney, or indeed in the audience, are likely to be losing any sleep that Elsa looks and sounds like, well, Elsa. Heck, they even manage to squeeze in a couple of nods and narrative nudges to the sequel.

Having recently extended its run to October at the earliest, there’s little indicator that Frozen on stage won’t have the same triumphant and celebrated run as its film forebear had in the Box Office, and its seminal hit had on the airwaves.

And, in fairness, it’s deserved. It’s a sweeping, glorious spectacle of a show, beautifully performed, and at times staggeringly well-realised. It’s a ‘safe’ bet in the sense that audiences will get exactly what they want and expect going in. Yes, it ends up landing quite heavily on the more derivative side of Disney’s stage adaptations, and the glimpses of something more unique and distinct peppered throughout wink at some potential missed opportunities, but when families of all ages are leaving infectiously overjoyed, satisfied and fulfilled, I guess I just need to let it go.

Nestled directly between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus, on the second Wednesday of each month, London’s iconic The Comedy Store comedy club presents its new Cray, Cray Cabaret night, boasting ‘top headliners, a world-class house band, the hottest comedy talent and brilliant musical guests’.

Venturing there for its October outing, it’s safe to say it certainly delivers on its promises.

The venue itself holds plenty of significance within the comedy world, having existed in some form since 1979. Upon entering, the interior is initially reminiscent of something akin to a New York jazz club, whilst still maintaining its London heart. There’s little in the way of traditional cabaret set-up that you might expect, though (not a round table with chairs to be seen), instead offering up a more intimate, less spacious setup. If you’re expecting a perfectly polished evening of entertainment, this probably isn’t for you. It’s rough and ready, with exactly the Earthy kind of feel that city comedy should have.

The food and hospitality sweetens the deal, with generous portions, reasonable prices, and a notably extra effort made to promote the special ‘Cray Cray Cocktail’ which, at £6, proved difficult to turn down.

On with the show, and stand-up comedian and West End star Phil Nichol leads proceedings – an amiable host with just the right balance of craziness, charm and wit. He brings the audience on side instantly, always finding a way to pick out and isolate members of the crowd without making them uncomfortable. He proves the perfect host for a venue of this size, making it clear he could do just fine without a backstage area, spending as he does most of his time off-stage mingling amongst the audience. At a previous show – at Camden Comedy Club – he was even spotted collecting empty glasses.

Nichol’s material is often bizarre – see for instance a lengthy Billie Holiday impersonation that primarily consisted of him asking the band to slow down – but in its zaniness he somehow manages to tick all of the boxes, and it’s clear throughout that his number one priority is to put his guests at ease. If at times you’re left craving an even greater degree of his trademark craziness (such as the lunacy of his 2011 Edinburgh Comedy Festival set), toning down slightly does allow him to remain the stable, responsible compere the evening required.

Split into two sections, the night reviewed offered a brilliant cross-section of the industry, with loveable ventriloquist Nina Conti opening, and TV regular Shaparak (formerly Shappi) Khorsandi closing the evening. Both formidable and entertaining comediennes in their own right. The highlight, however, was Javier Jarquin, a.k.a ‘The Card Ninja’, who served up a witty, subtle and fast-paced act that sees the gags come as rapidly as the playing cards he hurls around. With some particularly strong audience engagement and interaction, he proved a big hit.

Similarly, the ‘Big(ish) Band’ who underpin the entire evening do a solid job, never failing to engage in back-and-forth with each act, though given the theming of the event, a musical act or two would have been a welcome addition.

That being said, the night ended on a musical high, with Khorsandi and Nichol closing proceedings with a raucous rendition of Pulp’s ‘Common People’ that felt ripped straight from a slightly out-of-control office Christmas Party.

A suitably bonkers note to close on, the audience were on their feet singing along; irresistible, laugh-out-loud funny and charmingly peculiar.

And of course, more than a little ‘Cray’.