When it comes to classic murder mysteries and suspense thrillers, Frederick Knott’s Dial M for Murder sits firmly in the Hall of Fame. Though perhaps not technically a murder mystery – in the sense that we see the murder in question planned, set-up, executed (if you will), and subsequently botched, all with the full knowledge of who is responsible for it – it still has all the right ingredients to place it firmly within the genre, whilst also offering enough divergence to stand out.

In fact, it’s this somewhat unique narrative construct that makes the play so enticingly suspenseful and delightful to watch – we know what the killer intended, we know how it turned out, but will they get away with it? It is this looming question that makes the story one that has gone down in history and seen numerous interpretations on the stage and silver screen alike.

This particular production, directed by Anthony Banks, has a history of its very own. It premiered in London in January 2020, and after an early finish and lengthy time away (in no small part owing to a certain global pandemic), it returns here for a short, two-venue tour from Manchester’s Lowry to Malvern’s Festival Theatre. Also returning are the original cast, including Strictly winner Tom Chambers and X-Factor finalist Diana Vickers as central couple Tony and Margot Wendice.

The ‘reality tv’ star status of Murder’s principal cast may initially put some prospective viewers off, perhaps suspicious of ‘poster-over-performance’ style casting. However, when it comes to Chambers, these concerns can safely be put to one side. There is, admittedly, a moment near the start of the piece, where Tony is gliding and dancing around the flat, where you question whether it’s in Chambers’ contract to show off his natural affinity for graceful footwork. However, while this instance remains a slightly questionable directorial choice, it ties into Chambers’ interpretation of the character as a whole. This Tony isn’t the typical 1950s straight-talking professional of Dial M history, but is instead imbued with an off-beat quirkiness. With a smattering of campness, giddiness, and a forced smile for the ages, Chambers sells this new take on the character with great skill, accuracy and gusto, and it only succeeds in making the laughs acerbically funnier, and his sinister turns gleefully juicier. By the end of the production, it’s a great success.

The same degree of success cannot be said, unfortunately, for Vickers. With an aesthetic quality that sits comfortably in the shoes of Grace Kelly presented through a slightly more contemporary filter, she undeniably looks the part. However, Vickers’ speaks in an often stilted and awkward manner, often buttressing her words with gesture or exaggerated facial expressions, as opposed to genuine emoting. The overall effect is a slightly forced, rehearsed performance, which, in the context of the piece, is a real shame, with Margot being the most sympathetic character in the story who should provide the audience’s way in to some of the emotional investment in the narrative.

“Harper’s Hubbard is playful, yet sincere, and it is his magnetic watchability that the second half of the production really thrives on…”

Thankfully, the slack is picked up elsewhere, with the real stand out performance of the evening being that of Christopher Harper, in the classic double-casting of Captain Lesgate and Insepctor Hubbard. Harper differentiates the two characters with such nuance, you find yourself momentarily doubting whether they are played by the same actor at all. His Lesgate is intimidating and measured, providing a joyfully confrontational rapport with Chambers’ Tony, but it’s in his performance as Hubbard where he truly shines. Gone is the traditional, An Inspector Calls-style trope, replacing croaky-voiced, cynical intellect aloofness with a young, slightly awkward, very endearing young man, who is motivated by a sense of purpose and goodwill. Harper’s Hubbard is playful, yet sincere, and it is his magnetic watchability that the second half of the production really thrives on, not only selling some of the more expositional passages of dialogue (which naturally come hand in hand with the genre) with ease, but also selling it all with a pacy gumption that is a true delight to watch.

Ultimately, it is this essence which makes the show the thrill and joy to watch that it is. David Woodhead’s costume and set design are exquisitely constructed to pop with colour and style, and Banks chooses the right moments to bathe the piece in strobe neon lights and rocky music. The show is sexy, and it knows it, which only makes it all the more lovable. Banks knows the formula for classics such as Dial M, and he successfully balances where to lean into the sinister, providing the audience with the edge-of-the-seat thrills they came for, and where to let his performers and his audience revel in the sleek and swooping story that make it an undeniable pleasure to watch. No matter how hard you try, that final, stare-at-the-door moment is one that never gets old, and this production pulls it off, capturing the heart of what Dial M for Murder is, and making it an undeniably delectable, compelling thriller.

The written information given before Dickson Mbi’s one-man dance performance Enowate informs us that it is a show serving a strong focus on identity. The leaflet provided describes how the show is inspired by Mbi’s ‘life changing journey to his ancestral home in Cameroon’, and subsequent period of self-reflection, weighing up his dual identities of African heritage and his upbringing in London’s East End.

Going in with this knowledge, one would be forgiven for eagerly awaiting an expression of deep philosophical thinking and physical grandeur from the offset. It is, therefore, something of a surprise when Mbi casually wanders onto the stage in his t-shirt and joggers.

‘I love stage right,’ he begins, ‘I love stage left. But centre stage is where I feel most connected.’ It’s a simple, straight-forward opener, one that, whilst perhaps a little jarring, serves to tell us two things: that everything in this performance is intensely meaningful and personal to Mbi, and that he wants to break down the barrier that one might typically expect between an audience and a dance-based show; inviting us to become actively involved in it.

It is an at-times varying ability to effectively achieve these two things that determines the show’s success as a whole.

With the introduction over, the performance truly begins – a one hour journey that can be divided into three distinct sections or ‘scenes.’ These scenes go to represent the various facets of Mbi’s identity, and effectively create a journey that takes us from his upbringing, through his discovery of heritage, and then finally to a consideration of the two combined.

Instead of opting to show specific events, or create an explicit narrative, Mbi, along with Artistic Consultant and Producer Farooq Chaudhry instead take the approach to mould all the experiences and emotions that come with each section into a more representative, abstract expression that encompasses everything, and anthropomorphises each into single characters.

Although there are, at times, patches of incoherence throughout, the overall trajectory is clear, and it is overall an effective choice that creates a truly unique experience for the audience.

The first segment explores Mbi’s life before his experiences in Cameroon, and it is here that the inclusion of the audience into the show works at its best. Mbi’s East-End youth and cheekiness are personified into a footballer, bouncing around the space with a playful lightness. Mbi plays with isolation and weight with ease, showing an acute physical control that is channelled through character. Using his hand as the ball, he kicks, heads and bounces it out into the audience, encouraging people to throw it back. It’s here where he achieves perhaps the show’s most immediate and successful connection, with his infectious sense of playfulness creating an interaction and reciprocated liveliness that is truly involving. Expressive and energetic, it communicates the foundation of Mbi’s personality, and identity in this stage of his life.

The next scene brings with it significant change, and one where this sense of connection falters. This middle portion is easily the most physically impressive of the whole piece, and the careful consideration of how each production element interacts pays extreme dividends. The intention in this stage, as described by Mbi himself in the short post-show chat that followed the performance, was to explore and inhabit a sense of animism, putting this into practice, and tying it into the prowess and power of nature that formed part of his experiences in Cameroon.

The character devised for this section is evidently non-human. Mbi stands, bent over, his head down, lit so that crevices between his neck and shoulders become pits of shadow resembling eyes, his neck appearing thinner, and the back of his head creating a nose or mouth to complete the illusion of a creature’s face. The design and execution is incredible, and to witness is a visual marvel; the ability to recognise Mbi’s human form melts away, replaced by the striking image of a living, breathing creature born from his contortions and physicality. It is immensely effective, and Mbi’s precise use and manipulation of his own body (particularly, as mentioned, the muscles of his shoulders and back) make for quite compelling viewing as this animistic rawness is so viscerally conveyed.

This central scene is the longest of the three, and whilst the impressiveness of Mbi’s physicality makes it compelling to begin with, this doesn’t endure for the entirety of the slightly overlong vignette. With each instance where the lights snap to black, and then return to the creature in a different position, the purpose and momentum of the scene slowly ebbs away, threatening to take the audience’s attention with it. The movements become repetitive, and once we have experienced Mbi’s initially breathtaking creation, and understood what its expression reveals about his identity, it becomes difficult to see why the scene continues for as long as it does.

Once Enowate moves on, however, it’s easy to quickly become fully engaged once more. The final section is abstract (spiritual perhaps, maybe even cosmic?) and it is here where the lighting and projection design are most effective in supporting Mbi’s physical work. Using a gauze curtain at the front of the stage, Mbi’s body is enhanced by lights and figures that fit with his physical shape, and then subsequently exist beyond it. They allow him to build the resonance and scale of his already commanding and powerful movement. The performance builds in momentum here and it is genuinely thrilling to watch, the sound pounding, and Mbi’s dual identities mixing, combining, growing and beginning to exist in a plane beyond his physical self. It’s a mesmerising and ultimately satisfying conclusion to the piece.

It completes the picture of Dickson Mbi, the final few seconds being him, once again in his plain, physical form, stood in front of the audience, reminding us of the person whose identity and truth (the title translating literally to ‘truth stands’) that we have spent the last hour exploring.

Mbi has successfully achieved his intention of creating a piece that expresses his consideration of identity, and it’s clear throughout that the production is deeply personal to him, both emotionally affecting and passionately driven. Whether the same can be said for the audience is another question. Enowate is undoubtedly fascinating, compelling in places, and performed with a powerful degree of skill and physical control. But when considering if the audience are connected to it in quite the same way – the second of Mbi’s proclaimed intentions at the outset – the verdict is less definitive.

Mbi ends his introduction to Enowate with the invitation to ‘introduce you into my world,’ at which points the lights go out, and a gauze curtain for projections is pulled across the stage. And whilst this curtain isn’t physically present for the entire show, it seems that some barrier still remains. Whilst the audience can certainly enjoy witnessing such a powerful and personal expression of truth and identity, and early moments of interaction draw us in, Enowate ultimately keeps up at arms length – presenting us with a masterfully executed display of physical artistry that we never quite feel part of.

Glee & Me is the second one-woman show to come out of the Royal Exchange since their post-COVID reopening, the first having been Lauryn Redding’s Bloody Elle, which premiered in June. Being amongst the first of new Artistic Directors Bryony Shanahan and Roy Alexander Weise’s shows (their tenure starting mere months before the pandemic), they seem indicative of a fresh new start – one of individuality, hope, and love, in the face of life’s most terrifying challenges.

16-year-old Lola (Liv Hill) has just found out she has Glioma Multiforme – an aggressive brain tumour. Affectionately re-naming it ‘Glee’, she quickly casts off her former anxieties and turns to making the remaining year of her life the best one yet.

Naturally, that is easier said than done.

The script, in its premiere production here, is penned by Stuart Slade, who adeptly handles the subject matter with humour and sensitivity. He writes through the ‘if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry’ mentality, resulting in a play that comments more on the human spirit than it does illness or grief. It’s a refreshing take on a subject matter that has almost become a genre in its own right – particularly within film – and he executes it here with a flourish and charm that makes it compelling to watch, and one that keeps a lively sense of pace; the production’s unbroken 90-minute runtime barely noticeable to the audience. Be it in moments of laugh-out-loud comedy, warm humour, or acute sorrow, Slade’s writing is intensely human, full of an honesty and heart that make for a direct and personal audience experience.

There are occasional blips where the writing feels slightly off-target, though. In one instance, Lola suggests there is irony in the fact she is performing a monologue when her condition means she is soon going to lose her speech, and some of these more ‘meta’ moments don’t quite land. Although a sense of connection and empathy is achieved by the monologue being directly delivered to the audience, slightly post-modern acknowledgement of things like the form and structure of the play only serve to disconnect us from the moment. They take us out of Lola’s life, and back into the theatre; a shame when it is so effectively enthralling elsewhere. Slade has a tendency to lean a little too far into his teenage colloquialisms, too, littering the text with ‘man’, ‘sub-par’, ‘obvs’ and so on, which sometimes register as forced.

However, Hill carries them off extremely well, demonstrating an ability to deliver the occasionally bumpy text in a laid-back and easy-going, yet emotive, way. She imbues Lola with life – an energetic, charismatic and fast-talking girl, ready to fight for what she believes in at a moment’s notice, but ready to admit her faults too. At a very youthful-looking 21 years of age, Hill plays a convincing 16-year-old, not only in looks, but also with her flitting attention and sarcastic proclamations of opinion.

With youthfulness and humour abound, occasionally she occasionally loses some vocal clarity, her words slightly mumbled or fumbled together, which can lead to a little confusion, or a joke not hitting its mark. Thankfully such moment are in the minority, though, with Hill managing to bring a brightness and clarity to the play for the most part.

A strong sense of character is maintained throughout, but Hill has also clearly worked with director Nimmo Ismail to establish a sense of journey that perhaps would not be as apparent on the page. Whilst Lola tries to stay constant in her outlook, there are falters and obstacles as the story progresses, and its here that Hill and Ismail do a fantastic job at highlighting these subtly – the cracks beginning to appear in her optimistic shell.

There is one moment in particular, after Lola has a difficult realisation, where an underlying bitterness creeps into her voice – never pointed, but beautifully indicative of the turmoil that just under the surface. Hill is also brilliant in the play’s final scenes, displaying a collage of despair, hope, resilience and innocence that make for a very moving crescendo. If anything, the more light-hearted and optimistic focus for the rest of the play only increases the impact of the more sincere moments, where the mask is pulled away and the bare truth underneath is exposed.

Hill’s performance is abetted by some confidence technical beats, too. In one of the piece’s final moments, practically every light in the theatre is powered to full intensity. As an audience member you feel exposed, visible, seen by those opposite you, as well as Lola herself. It’s an extremely clever piece of lighting design from Jess Bernberg, reflecting the weight of the piece all back on the audience, pushing the final focus onto what it would feel like were you to be in Lola’s shoes, or, perhaps, how lucky you are that you are not.

It’s indicative of the effective technical design throughout. Ismail and designer Anna Yates make use of hidden trapdoors, versatile on-stage lighting and directional sound, which not only keep the production visually interesting via a sense of unpredictability, but also require Lola to manipulate them herself, manoeuvring them to different positions, or even using them as props, such as with her phone. It lends both the performer and character a palpable sense of command over the space. This is her show, her story, which only adds to the endearment and empathy with her.

Overall, it’s a highly successful piece – a play that is always compelling, always engaging, but saves its fuel to deliver a few killer punches, rather than a consistent barrage across the whole. Its emotional journey is carefully considered and precisely charted, which ultimately makes for one of the more empathetical experiences that theatre has to offer. Hill makes Lola so real – so endearing and wonderful – that you whole-heartedly share her laughter and tears both. It is this sense of soul that makes Glee & Me such a fantastic audience experience, and one that provides a strong emotional response whilst you are in the auditorium, and even more indelible one to think on once you have left.

This humanity is grounded by Ndlovu and Edun’s extraordinary central performances. Faced with the ever-daunting task of taking on one so etched into our collective consciousness, Edun’s performance is understated, yet lives and breathes with a careful balance between powerful charisma and precise control. In his King, you can see a man who has the presence and magnetism to be the face that represents the pride and dreams of so many, but it is also underscored by dint of being a flawed husband and father, who lives in loneliness and fear. He is compelling to watch, and Edun successfully bears the weight that the writing places on his character to make it function.

Ndlovu is equally compelling, demonstrating a matching, yet contrasting, charisma that is by turns wild and sultry. With pin-sharp direction from Weise, she consistently hits the comedic beats that the play relies on to provide relief from the heavy subject matter. That’s not to say she is just here for the laughs; indeed, Ndlovu’s performance thrives on a burning passion that is also responsible for some of the play’s most affecting moments. The Mountaintop’s first half succeeds on the rapport between the two of them, a whip-smart tennis match of flirtation, expression and preaching that is engaging to witness, providing a sense of an entire social movement in a single conversation between two people.

For all the praise, however, the lengthy runtime, combined with an extremely heavy focus on dialogue, and such an emotionally and intellectually heavy subject matter, makes for a viewing experience that is, at times, exhausting. There’s clear logic behind the decision to excise an interval, as there’s really no appropriate place to put one without losing the focus and gradual momentum of the piece.

However, after we have seen the new change in gear play out, Hall pivots us back to more familiar territory, bringing with it notable slump in momentum. There’s still a while to go at this point, and whilst the dialogue remains powerfully written and delivered with great talent, it begins to fall flat, bouncing off of the audience instead of being absorbed by them. There’s surely a tighter run in there; one that Hall, or perhaps Weise, could have streamlined a little to make a more defined structure and taut trajectory from start to finish.

By the time we do reach the conclusion, there is a lift again. A highlight of the entire production is Camae’s monologue, infused with so much fire and passion that it is incredibly stirring. There is so much pain, grief, and determination on display from Ndlovu that it will likely light a fire in the belly and bring a tear to the eye. It’s the production’s pièce de résistance, and of itself would make for a punchy and thrilling conclusion to the play.

But no, Mountaintop is not done yet. There is a little more to come, which, whilst not entirely ineffective, feels a little lesser in comparison, and is, ultimately, unnecessary. Hall tries to reinforce her final message by getting King to talk to the audience directly, but this registers a trifle too blunt. It’s as if she doesn’t trust her own writing to make its impact, whereas really there is nothing in the play’s final address that we haven’t already learnt and felt from what we have already scene. It’s a slightly deflated final note to end on, when Camae’s bravura monologue felt a natural climax.

Despite these structural and pacing flaws, you still leave the auditorium with a sense of enlightenment and emotional affectation that demonstrates how effectively Hall’s words – even if there are a few too many of them – have been executed by Edun and Ndlovu. Weise oversees the many challenges of the piece with a great sense of control, and it makes for a viewing experience that is, for the most part, compelling. It is evident that he is directing from the heart, and it is this emotional perspective and framework that gives The Mountaintop the power that it harbours.

It’s a story that needs to be told – one that needs to be understood, particularly emotionally – and by foregrounding this, Weise creates a play that has a unique sense of presence and poignancy that would make it a tragedy to miss.