It would be tempting to slather any production of Marlowe’s Edward II with plaudits concerning its timeliness, or analogise it to the contemporary. There’s the obvious dangling carrot of homophobia within patriarchal power structures to swing about. And heck, contort the parallels a little further and you can take its presentation of a mercurial, emotional leader who refuses to listen to those around him and acts on a boyish whim to… well, you know whom.

But what’s perhaps most striking about Edward II, or at least Daniel Raggett’s impressive treatment of it here, is that it doesn’t feel the need to reach for the low-hanging fruit (…careful).

Marlowe’s heightened accounting of the doomed relationship between the titular monarch and his favoured ‘minion’, Piers Gaveston, crackles with impulses and clashes far more primal and base. Outside of some initial discomfort evinced by a group of nobles upon seeing their monarch kissing another man (which here could easily be interpreted as revulsion to his infidelity and brazenness as anything else) the same-sex nature of the central tryst could almost be incidental.

That isn’t to say Raggett shies away from the inherent queerness of the text. As Professor Goran Stanivukovic states in the show’s programme: there is no hiding behind metaphor or decoration to dramatise Edward’s sexuality. If anything, Garrett somewhat normalises it, his Edward II speaking to far more universal politics and power plays of envy, caprice and exploitation.

Raggett and company do a great job of initially keeping the character dynamics relatable and nuanced. Sure, this Mortimer fellow (Enzo Cilenti) seems a little oily and underhanded, and Warwick (Geoffrey Lumb) a trifle too hot-headed for comfort, but by the same token their King (RSC Co-Artistic Director, Daniel Evans) is doling out titles and position to his new lover on a whimsy, not to mention disrespecting his wife and ordering humiliation and assault on members of the cloth.

Raggett deftly ratchets up the tension as Edward’s lovestruck mania sees him slowly lose influence and control as the nobles about him plot to wrest their ruler back from what they deem a corrupt influence.

Inevitably, bloodshed and mayhem ensue.

It makes for a taut, gripping hundred minutes of theatre, played straight through without interval. As well as keeping things tight and pacy, Ragett plunges his staging back into the recesses of the RSC’s Swan theatre, often depicting multiple panes of action at once. See, for instance, Evans’ Edward huddling broken and forlorn downstage (almost within the audience) as Cilenti’s Mortimer rages about an ornate dining table, even as Ruta Gedmintas’ Queen Isabella tends to her son’s ceremonial preparation yet further back.

“…a taut, gripping hundred minutes of theatre”

Plumes of smoke cascade about, catching beams of Tim Lutkin’s moody lighting as throbbing hums of Tingying Dong’s sound design pulse away in the background, ebbing the gnawing sense of dread and tension. Whether splashing about in the puddles of muck that lend a grimy realness to a bleak imprisonment, or winching up an ill-fortuned character to meet their fate, Leslie Travers’ set design is equally striking, tactile, dramatic and grand.

Thankfully, this handsome production meets its impressive aesthetic and direction with some standout performances to match. Evans colours his Edward with a bricolage of faults and virtues in equal measure. Noble yet capricious, his infatuated monarch bandies between seeming both utterly ill-suited to rule and yet at the same time a genial and earnest presence. Somehow both commanding and pathetic at once, it’s an absorbing central turn that ultimately brings the audience on side as tragedy and incident escalate.

“Somehow both commanding and pathetic at once, it’s an absorbing central turn…”

Eloka Ivo first introduces his Gaveston with a slight air of predatory bullishness. Wrapped in only a towel at what appears to be a sauna, boasting to his friends about his appetite for grander pursuits, it underpins his apparent love for the king with potential shades of opportunism. Cilenti carefully builds the ruthless ambition of his Mortimer, whilst Stavros Demetraki and Kwaku Mills both impress as Gaveston’s gay besties. If some may balk at the characterisations here tiptoeing ever so slightly towards stereotype, they contrarily feel amongst the more real and relatable of the lot. Not to mention the juxtaposition of Demetraki’s muscular Spencer in a tight-fitting white vest, or Mills in unapologetic colour clashing with the uniformity, fineries and pomp of the nobles carries all manner of neat connotations of individuality, protest and defiance.

But although Raggett and the team do infuse shades of queer culture and representation into the nooks and edges of Richard II, it isn’t ever in an overly showy or overt fashion. After all, as already praised, this isn’t really a story or production about homophobia. There’s scarce mention of the fact it is a man the King is risking it all for. Queen Isabella – a deliciously icy (if occasionally too softly-spoken) Ruta Gedmintas – loathes Gaveston for robbing her of her King and husband’s affections, not really because he’s a man. Even the haughty bishops are more put out by assault on their own than anything else.

All of which makes its power struggles, personality clashes and game of thrones all the more compelling and engrossing. At times it’s downright vicious and unyielding, too; plenty of the cast find themselves thrown about, manhandled, smeared with blood or even naked altogether, and a late game assassination is particularly visceral and shocking.

Paired up with Rupert Goold’s high-octane Hamlet in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Edward II rounds out a genuinely thrilling start to 2025 for the RSC. It’s a gripping, relentless and frequently brutal battle royale that throbs with electric performances, riveting direction and suitably regal stagecraft. Sure, you can punch and prod for allegory and contemporary parallels, but really it works best as a treatise on the same primordial instincts and inherent nastiness that underpins any great political drama. Namely, that power corrupts and people can become utterly unflinching horrors in their pursuit of it.

Now who does that sound like?…

Answers on a blood-soaked, insignia-adorned postcard…

There’s a clear and present danger in so bullishly – not to mention literally – framing an entire production of Hamlet around the concept of a sinking ship.

“Rupert [Goold, director] and Luke [Thallon, actor] were interested in setting the action within the context of a catastrophic event where the outcome is already known to the audience.”

Set designer Es Devlin, outlining the thinking behind this Titanic-inspired spin on one of Shakespeare’s most celebrated and staged offerings. From its turn-of-the-20th-Century costuming to the epic, tilting spectacle of Elsinore’s maritime supplement, Goold takes his Hamlet out onto the high seas almost by way of James Cameron, boldly courting tragedy and potential ‘IRL’ disaster in the process.

Somehow, the iceberg is diverted. What could easily have become a Hindenburg of style and spectacle over substance, as its company throw themselves about a collapsing stage like screaming rag dolls before enormous rear screen projects of rolling seas, actually manifests as a captivating thrill ride of intense, haunting performances, top-tier production values and frequently stunning stagecraft.

“It feels raw, authentic, dangerous and utterly absorbing.”

Steering the good ship Hamlet – or rather careening it into the choppiest waters of desperation and madness – is a captivating Luke Thallon, serving up a mesmerising RSC debut in the titular role. His naturalistic, freewheeling prince feels at times almost ethereal to the events about him, his madness at his Uncle’s perceived regicide framed with a boyishness, occasionally crackling with nervy tics or bursting forth into full-throated rage. There’s an almost matter of fact, even improvisational slant to Thallon’s delivery. It feels raw, authentic, dangerous and utterly absorbing.

It’s a kinetic central turn, and Goold almost drowns his production in movement to match. Be it the aforementioned canting of the stage itself – representing the ship’s quarters and deck – which impressively dips and tilts to almost gravity-defying extents, or ensemble members constantly rushing up stairs or even flinging themselves out of hatches and openings. Even Akhila Krishnan’s moody video backdrops throb with movement mechanical and industrial, as seen deep in the bows of the ship’s engine room where Hamlet first encounters Anton Lesser’s ghostly evocation, or even the haunting flow of the ocean by moonlight. Occasionally, the ominous pulse of red digital clock faces add extra punch, reminding us that Goold and co have not only confined this tale of treachery and murder to one locale, but to the span of a single night, also.

It is at times nail bating in its ratcheting of this tension and propulsion.

Whilst Thallon’s deliciously multi-faceted turn is the driving force here, he is far from alone in impressing. With the momentum and pacing dialled up to eleven, and the intensity of performances across the board cranked up to match, Goold mercifully finds moments of levity to ease some of the gnawing dread and heaviness. Thallon himself jesters about with a comical, mocking underbelly to his almost adolescent despair, whilst Elliot Levey is great fun as an awkward, sycophantic Polonius.

“…there’s no denying that it is in the grit and grimness that this breathless Hamlet really prickles the skin.”

But there’s no denying that it is in the grit and grimness that this breathless Hamlet really prickles the skin. The barely-suppressed ruthlessness of Jared Harris’ Claudius eventually segues to a more savage, almost feral thing as his schemes collapse about him. Nancy Carroll is captivating as a conflicted Gertrude torn between love for her son and the mayhem he is affecting. And if Nia Towle is initially a likeable, proper Ophelia, she too particularly impresses during the character’s later, darker moments – disrobing, singing and cascading into her own despair.

With the inherent tragedy of Shakespeare and Hamlet infused with the flavour of disaster, it almost begs the question why such an urgent union hasn’t quite been attempted before. This is Hamlet the thriller, the Hollywood blockbuster almost.

And if such treatment may sound like a thing of horror for purists, then rest assured. Scintillating performances bring the text to life with ferocity and passion, and all the eye-popping spectacle is handsomely met by a taut, tightly directed and ceaselessly gripping adventure on the high seas.

Whilst by no means a maiden affair, here is one of the RSC‘s finest, most gripping voyages to date.

All aboard.

With its vivid flushes of neon pink and striking sans serif scene-setters, Tinuke Craig’s funky, punky and oh-so-camp The School for Scandal certainly lands its visual impact. Between Alex Lowde’s heightened, 18th century-via-Warhol aesthetic, Ravi Deepres’ video portraits and ripples of modernity injected into Brinsley Sheridan’s classic comedy of errors with mentions of super-injunctions, political disgrace and the like, it’s a decidedly post-modern affair. Think of it as Bridgerton by way of Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, with a splash of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette thrown in for good period measure.

Like Shonda Rhimes’ wildly successful Netflix period romp, scandal, gossip and social intrigue form the crux of School’s tale. Following a vogue-lite hybrid of high fashion runway and drag ball open, this stylish production flies out of the gate with a brand new preface. Siubhan Harrison’s delectably snide Lady Sneerwell, the grand dame of gossip mongering, seductively invites us in amongst her court of conspirers and malcontents, and for good measure instructs the audience to withhold their judgement.

We may all be about to witness a rabble of bitches and backstabbers, lies and deception, but we bloody love it.

Like many a Shakespeare farce, Richard Brinkley Sheridan’s romp is a melting pot of crossed purposes and collapsing ruses. Harrison’s Sneerwell relishes her role in architecting social scandal and disgrace, and has thrown her lot in with Joseph (Stefan Adegbola), one half of the Surface brotherhood, due to inherit a fortune from their formerly absentee uncle, Sir Oliver (Wil Johnson). His brother, Charles (John Leader) is a flamboyant, freewheeling playboy, yet shows flairs of kindness and joie de vivre by comparison to his more cunning, sentiment-preaching kin. Feisty, freewheeling young Lady Teazle (Tara Tijani), meanwhile, is slowly driving her kindly, older husband, Sir Peter (Geoffrey Streatfield) to despair, despite the duo having only recently been wed.

Confusion, paranoia and frustration all explode into a melange of plotting and subterfuge as this colourful group of characters begin to fall foul of their own ambitions, desires and machinations.

As mentioned, there are moments where Craig intercuts the classic piece with more contemporary comedy or perspective. They have great, knowing fun getting their characters to clumsily dodge the source of Sir Oliver’s fortunes, for instance, born of his history with a rather problematic merchant company of old. The fourth wall is routinely broken, with characters opining or darting commentary at the audience directly throughout. Joseph’s penchant for waxing lyrical is given angelic, almost revelatory accompaniment from above, and always gets its laughs.

It’s a bright, colourful jolt of fun, carried on performances that are writ as large as any of Lowde’s grand, decadent costumes. Adegbola is a standout as the charming, manipulative Joseph, though he is well met by his on-stage brother, a wonderful animated and buoyant John Leader, who injects Charles with an elastic and infectious exuberance. Streatfeild and Tijani are great fun as the warring Teazles, each in their own way lending the piece its few glimpses of real heart and growth.

“…a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids.”

Amongst the rest of the cast, Wil Johnson leans into the nudge nudge, wink winkery as his returning Sir Oliver adopts a variety of disguises to test the mettle and quality of his heirs, whilst Tadeo Martinez is every inch the odious bootlick as a transatlantic Mr Snake. And particular credit must also go to a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids. Houghton once again proves herself a formidable character actress, and her expressions and facial tics alone will lhave you yearning for more than her handful of appearances.

Funny, sassy and spirited, with high camp to spare, it’s nevertheless difficult to shake the sense that Craig’s adaptation isn’t perhaps quite as pacy or taut as it ought be. There’s an abundance of repetition and reacquainting the audience with key threads and relationships within Sheridan’s text that could quite easily be truncated, or excised altogether, here. For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.

“For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.”

And, whilst there are plenty of laughs along the way, it never quite hits the same uproarious levels of frenetic chaos or frequency of hilarity as its current counterpart, The Merry Wives of Windsor, which it plays in rep with at the RSC this summer.

With a new epilogue bolted on that juxtaposes Sneerwell’s salacious open, and ends the evening on a pleasant and affirming note, chances are you will walk away from School for Scandal suitably entertained and amused. Craig’s production is lavish and certainly eye-opening to look at, but much like Bridgerton before it, is never quite as revelatory or original as it may first appear.

And that, for some, may be perhaps the greatest scandal of all; rather than leaving one feel thoroughly debauched or invigorated as its optics and name may suggest, audiences of this light, frothy jolt of neon fun will have to settle for simply being tickled rather pink, instead.

As we see out the sputtering tail end of a general election and parliament dogged by scandals, dodgy advisors, disgraced lobbyists and furious back pedalling on environmental pledges all, it seems a particularly prescient time for the RSC and Good Chance Theatre’s Kyoto to land.

Writers Joe Robertson and Joe Murphy, the duo behind the critically-acclaimed The Jungle, reunite with directors Stephen Daldry (Billy Elliot) and Justin Martin (Stranger Things: The First Shadow) for this sobering, timely and incisive recounting of the years leading up to the pivotal Kyoto COP summit of 1997.

On paper, it may not sound like particularly thrilling theatre to essentially bear witness to just shy of three hours of international diplomats and delegates squabbling – sometimes over things as inane as the appropriate use of a semi-colon or question mark, as an Act II free-for-all humorously depicts. Yet, its in the innate, shared humanity that it placed under its lens, and an undercurrent thread of the power of agreement versus the toxifying (quite literally) presence of vested interest that Kyoto finds its voice and theatrical purpose.

It’s all hung around a masterful and absorbing central turn from Stephen Kunken as lawyer-turned-NGO-lobbyist, Don Pearlman. Kyoto opens with the curtain falling on the Reagan years. Pearlman wastes no time in casting the nineties as a glorious heyday compared to the horrors of the contemporary. With the Berlin Wall down and Bush Senior proclaiming ‘a world refreshed by freedom seems reborn’, the scientific and political spheres are turning their attention to a new impending crisis – man’s impact on climate change. Fresh out of serving seven ‘glorious’ years in government, Pearlman finds himself headhunted by OPEC – the ‘Organisation of Petroleum Exporting Countries’ – to try and stymy the growing concern and outcry.

“…perhaps one of Kyoto’s greatest strengths is in showcasing how major ethical and existential quandaries can be sunk by, of all things, disagreements on grammar.”

Pearlman sets out to frustrate and essentially nullify a decade of international summits and meetings, from Geneva to Berlin and beyond. It’s here where, after a slightly unhurried start, Kyoto really finds its footing and hits its stride. A shrewd adept at backdoor dealings, twisting ears and a canny ability to root out and exacerbate geopolitical divisions, Pearlman plays his infuriating yet intoxicating merry dance of manipulation. Robertson and Murphy’s book is clearly deeply researched (though they are immediate in having Kunken point out that some artistic license has been taken) and perhaps one of Kyoto’s greatest strengths is in showcasing how major ethical and existential quandaries can be sunk by, of all things, disagreements on grammar.

Early on, Andrea Gathcalian’s spirited delegate of the small island state of Kiribati emphatically and powerfully challenges how rising sea levels will come to spell disaster for both her island, and hundreds of others. Within Pearlman’s web of mistrust and political machinations she falls, however, and even major players such as the US nevertheless water down their promises and wording.

With such a morally nebulous anchor around which the show pivots, all involved do a shrewd job in managing Pearlman’s journey and relationship with the audience. Kunken is, as mentioned, fantastic as the unapologetic, increasingly despairing Pearlman, and the dawning realisation that he is not so much an antihero so much as an outright villain is deftly and carefully charted. By the second Act, it takes the likes of Ingrid Oliver’s dignified but cunning Merkel, and the whirlwind arrival of Blair’s New Labour Britain in the form of Ferdy Roberts’ bullish John Prescott, to start tipping the balance in favour of unity and common good. All the while, Jorge Bosch’s animated, impassioned portrayal of COP President Raul Estrada-Oyuela begins to offer the heart and humanity lacking of our underhanded narrator.

Nancy Crane, meanwhile, gives a wonderful and layered turn as the United States’ delegate, ‘Sue’, who is at times obstinate, sarcastic and flippant. The USA’s inarguable clout is well represented here, and Crane does an admirable job reminding the audience that even in these binary times and in such heated situations, politicians are often varying hues of grey as opposed to explicitly forces of good or evil. Jenna Augen, similarly, does great work as Pearlman’s uncertain wife, Shirley, and it’s telling how even she struggles to find the positives in her husband’s line of work and stance. Augen is particularly moving in a powerful, if slightly overlong, denouement.

“There’s real kinetic energy and electricity in the conference sequences…”

Given Kyoto’s not-insubstantial running time, Daldry and Martin keeps things moving and engaging. There’s real kinetic energy and electricity in the conference sequences, played in-the-round with members of the public filling out some of the COP seats. There’s a surprising amount of comedy in there, too – from the more obvious, such as Prescott’s fist-happy exasperation at the lack of lunch, to some inspired interactions with those lucky enough to be part of the action.

Miriam Reuther’s set certainly makes for a grand spectacle, too – the imposing conference roundtable acting both functionally and as a stage at once. Strips of neon lights frame the RSC’s Swan Theatre as sparks or blossom shower down from above at key moments. Akhila Krishnan and Ian Syme’s video and projection work is bold and present, whilst also frequently steeped in distinctly 90’s low-bit character. It all feels premium, big-budget and striking.

In all, Kyoto manages to take an important, prescient era in modern political history, and craft it into a compelling, often gripping piece of entertainment that ebbs with warning and sobering insight. It’s a powerful, brilliantly acted treatise on the means and methods by which bad faith actors can squander progress, and a timely reminder of the sway and influence lobbyists and oil titans can still lever. Yet, despite being honeyed and overseen by a wonderfully machiavellian creation in Kunken’s Pearlman, Kyoto, much like its titular accord, ultimately sings with the promise of shared humanity and decency, and the power of unity over division, humanity over profit, and the future over just the here and now.

It isn’t uncommon for Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor to be given something of a modern makeover. After all, despite being amongst the somewhat lesser-known of the Bard’s comedies, it remains strikingly modern in its sensibilities and approach (trigger warnings of ‘body shaming’ and the like notwithstanding). Its zippy, domestic shenanigans – of double-dealing, scheming and paranoia as two housewives dole out some due comeuppance in the direction of a lecherous visitor – could easily be seen as the progenitor of the modern sitcom or farce.

Blanche McIntyre’s (All’s Well That Ends Well, Arabian Nights) spritely, colourful new production is leant extra immediacy, framed in a small English hamlet in the apparent midst of Euros fever – buntings of St George’s Cross interchangeably swapped out with the Bundesflagge (an often-omitted minor subplot regarding German thieves is kept curiously intact here, despite contributing little). Groups of youths bandy about in football shirts, and even burst into spontaneous eruptions of Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’. The Garter Inn, interpreted here as a fairly standardised country pub, is adorned with signs advertising screenings of ‘Pie Sports’, whilst its exuberant host (Emily Houghton) is the image of some ilk of punk/Brit pop hybrid, who appears ready to swing by Glastonbury after serving her regulars.

Into it all strides John Hodgkinson’s wonderfully repugnant (and rotund) Sir John Falstaff, who, a little down on his luck and penny both, casts his licentious gaze upon both Mistress Page and her affluent – not to mention similarly-married – bestie, Mrs Ford (Siubhan Harrison). When the duo catch on to Falstaff’s double down and scurrilous intent, they plot their revenge, and put into action a plan to teach the boor a lesson or three…

“…a canny reminder that Merry Wives often has its women calling the shots and holding the aces.”

McIntyre directs what is already a funny, witty piece with a punchy vibrancy. The abundance of cross purposes, mix-ups and manipulations come thick and fast, and it’s all set against Robert Innes Hopkins’ gorgeous, green staging. Characters are writ large and uniformly funny. Shazia Nicholls’ delightfully cockney and expressive Mrs Quickly, who has the ear of many in the town, busies about scenes like a hyperactive quasi-narrator, a canny reminder that Merry Wives often has its women calling the shots and holding the aces. Frank Ford is excellent, sympathetic and snivelling all as Ford’s desperately paranoid husband, who adopts an alter-ego in an effort to uncover his wife’s infidelities.

Of the two scheming wives, stage and screen veteran Spiro brings a little more dimension and spunk to her Mistress Page, where Siubhan Harrison’s Mrs Ford is a touch more levelled and demure. Given that the play occasionally alludes to notions of spousal abuse and domestic violence, and the occasional discomfort of Mr Ford’s overbearing suspicion and rage, it makes sense. Still, when the two women’s scheming takes flight, the chemistry between them is excellent. Scenes of the pair cracking up as they take devilish delight in their increasingly ridiculous bouts of revenge are utterly infectious.

“…amongst the most riotous, laugh-out-loud moments in recent RSC history.”

At the heart of all the mischief and mayhem is a bravura turn from John Hodgkinson as Falstaff. Imbued with a sense of self-importance, yet daring to tease edges of actual nobility and even sympathy, this is a bombastic, robust take on the character in every regard. Hodgkinson delivers a comedic masterclass, with some of the later sequences of Falstaff attempting to evade discovery by the town’s husband amongst the most riotous, laugh-out-loud moments in recent RSC history.

Depending on sensibilities, Wives may occasionally falter for some. As mentioned, much is made of Falstaff’s size in particular, and to contemporary audiences such regular, unabashed use of ‘fat’ as an insult may prick a nerve. It similarly shows its age come its forest-bound finale, which is fiendishly difficult to translate to a modern setting – though Hopkins and McIntyre give it a damned good go; positing its rabble of faux fae folk here as something akin to a toss up of youth mob and performance art both.

“…the laughs come thick and fast, but there are trickles of pathos in there, too.”

Whilst by no measure an especially deep or provocative piece, Wives does contain the odd moments that poke at deeper resonance and darker subtext. That it is delivered here by such a fine company, and with such fantastically realised characters means the laughs come thick and fast, but there are trickles of pathos in there, too.

Keenly directed, winningly performed, and sharply transforming what is one of Shakespeare’s most accessible and timely pieces into something of a riotously funny sitcom on stage, The Merry Wives of Windsor proves a delectable continuation of a strong year for RSC comedy, after their wondrous Midsummer Night’s Dream and the recent Love’s Labour’s Lost.

A superb, side-splitting slice of summery, suburban silliness, catch Merry Wives until September, as it shares the season with the upcoming School for Scandal.

On paper, it’s something of a curious starting pistol for the RSC’s new joint artistic directors, Daniel Evans and Tamara Harvey, to be launching their tenure with Love’s Labour’s Lost. For a start, it ranks amongst the lesser-known and least played of the Bard’s outings, and to pitch a slightly more muted, grounded comedy so soon after the fantastical elation of perhaps the definitive Shakespeare comedy, with Eleanor Rhode’s raucous reimagining of A Midsummer Night’s Dream so fresh and recent in the memory, posits the risk of looking like an also-ran.

And yet the bedevilment is in the details, and whilst Emily Burns’ production may not have the high-concept bells and whistles and high fantasy of Midsummer, it carries itself with a lightness, whimsy and, yes, silliness all of its own. It also boasts some wattage – the big pull and poster boy (quite literally) for the piece being Bridgerton’s Luke Thompson as the charming Berowne. And, bookended with some geopolitical and emotional heft, this slightly truncated version of the text does a terrific job of bringing the tale’s sensibilities and ideas onto a distinctly contemporary footing.

The central thread of Lost interweaves the tale of a young princess (Melanie-Joyce Bermudez) seeking to reclaim her dying father’s land, with that of three friends who have made a vow of learning and abstinence to its current king (Abiola Owokoniron). Perhaps inevitably, the four young men, sworn to take neither company nor pleasure from the fairer sex, each become immediately smitten with one of the princess’ court (or in the case of King Ferdinand, said princess herself), and the expected hijinks ensure.

As touched upon, Burns and her team pitch this take firmly within a modern framework. Navarre itself is handsomely realised as something akin to Apple Park via a Pacific spa resort, with the four men at the heart of the tale seemingly equally plucked from Silicon Valley. Mobile phones are commonplace, with Brandon Bassir’s Dumaine a hostage to both the selfie and possibly even a TikTok or two, and the ladies holding their judgement court and hearsay via, naturally, a few swipes of social media. And, fittingly for a tale that sets its female minds as the superior power players, Bermudez’ princess and her entourage are themselves pant-suit wearing, golf-buggy commandeering women on a mission.

“In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch…”

In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch. For whilst Thompson and co’s oath-breaking, cupid-struck band of bros are fairly harmless – and often quite hilarious – in their attempts to win over their lady loves (brace yourselves for Backstreet Boys on the stage of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre…), the undercurrent of female empowerment that ebbs through Lost, and a refusal to yield to more infantile notions of love and lust lends it a refreshingly blunt and, again, contemporary edge.

If that all sounds a touch preachy, then fear not. Whilst it is innately a less punchier and altogether more contemplative affair than, say, Midsummer or Twelfth Night, with something of a stop-start jolt to some of its character rumination and interludes in particular, Burns does a strong job keeping the comedy rarely a beat or two away.

Particularly funny are this production’s take on the outlandish Don Armado (Jack Bardoe), a larger-than-life, tennis playing and short-shorts wearing Spaniard vying for the affections of young worker, Jaquenetta (Marienella Phillips) and a down-on-his luck Costard (Nathan Foad). Bardoe is particularly animated and a whole lot of fun in a hilarious, ridiculous role, that bounces well off of Foad’s deliciously dry and camp put-upon. Elsewhere, Tony Gardner makes for a gloriously stuffy and self-important Holofernes.

Of its leads, Melanie-Joyce Bermudez brings gravitas and dimension to her Princess, particularly strong in her scenes as political strategist and regent in waiting. Ioanna Kimbook lends a venerable warmth to her Rosaline, feeling the most grounded and ‘real’ of the almost Desperate Housewives power foursome. Speaking of which, Burns and the company inject plenty of sass and even occasional venom into the ladies’ circle, casting down even entire Nations with derisory asides. But even at its most seemingly vicious, it’s consummately entertaining cattiness.

“Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages…”

Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages with a likeable, roguish Berowne. The previously mentioned Brandon Bassir, too, is a terrific, energised and suitably laddish Dumaine.

A funny, likeable, mature retelling of one of Shakespeare’s less prolific pieces may have been something of a roll of the dice for the new captains of the good ship RSC. And yet, glancing over the forthcoming 2024/25 season, with a number of less obvious choices given the star treatment and being brought front and centre, it’s clear that there is a vision and direction to pluck at every thread and string of the Bard’s catalogue and see what gems can be unearthed, or even forged.

As a litmus for what’s to come, this funny, charming, surprisingly modern revisit to Love’s Labour’s Lost is a strong, confident start, and pitches this new era for the RSC as one very ready to be still and contemplative in living art, and a court more than a little Academe…

The tortured creative. The long-suffering, oft-overlooked spouse/assistant. The looming spectre of a potential magnum opus (or complete Hindenburg).

At a conceptual level, there isn’t anything Earth-shatteringly new or unique to Mark Ravenhill’s Ben and Imo, now playing at the RSC‘s Swan Theatre. Set in the months leading up to the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, it follows the titular partnership of celebrated composer Benjamin Britten (Samuel Barnett), and daughter of the equally esteemed Gustav Holst, Imogen (Victoria Yeates) as they come together to complete Gloriana – a new Grand opera penned by Britten especially for the occasion.

It’s a time of post-War change and possibility, as a ‘new Elizabethan’ age dawns, yet traditional sensibilities still hold. Into Benjamin’s maelstrom of inspired creativity and changeable, frustrated spirits comes the calming pleasance of Imogen. We are warned early on of the great composer’s caprice, even cruelty, whilst ‘Imo’ offers up no delusions of credit or billing for her contribution to the great project.

What follows is a delightful, immaculately performed two-hander that sensitively explores the burgeoning friendship and creative frisson between the duo. Ravenhill’s writing, and Erica Whyman’s measured, purposeful direction moulds two very distinct and contrasting individuals, bound though they are by one shared commonality; a deep passion and appreciation for music.

“…a delightful, immaculately performed two-hander that sensitively explores the burgeoning friendship and creative frisson…”

As each comes to learn more about their counterpart, and the inevitable stresses and pressures from external agencies come into play, boundaries, patience, respect and love are all put to the test. And, naturally for any biopic pivoting around a creative of Britten’s calibre, the fickle, tempestuous gremlin that is the artistic temperament regularly threatens to dash it all to the wind (or seas, in this case).

Perhaps most admirable is how keenly Ravenhill, Whyman and the two cast members balance both subtext and incident. Letters threatening cancellation or imposed changes to the opera’s Gala performance trigger the expected bouts of mania and catastrophising in Barnett’s irascible Britten. A New Year flood forces questions of living arrangements and even Imogen’s fee and finances. There’s the growing sense that Gloriana itself may be a wonderful piece of work, but will likely bore the royals to tears. There’s plenty that happens, and it’s always a delight to anticipate how these characters will respond, and what dent it may land in the armour of their partnership.

But so too does it all foster and explore deeper insecurities and dimensions within its leads. Britten’s ebbing mood segues to a need for a physical, nigh-maternal connection with Holst. The bravura and rage of the man regularly collapses to expose the shell of a spoiled, troubled boy. Holst’s wayfaring, nomadic ways and refusals to ‘settle’ offer glimpses at a fearless, if somewhat lost, soul. We get flashes, too, of her innate ability as a performer, singer and dancer, yet it is perhaps the trappings and humility of the time that keep her confidence as any of these things fleeting and caged.

If the art of great performance is to rob the audience of the need for suspension of disbelief, then it’s a feat Ben & Imo pulls off beautifully. Its characters feel real. Earnest, flawed, mercurial. It’s in no small part thanks to two gifted turns from Barnett and Yeates. There’s an effortlessness and immediacy to their chemistry, but also a raw, borderline physical edge to the more hostile moments. Barnett impressively wheels between commanding, vulnerable, terrifying and even heart-rending as the tormented, fussy, puerile Britten. Particularly notable is how Barnett’s disarmingly naturalistic depiction of someone with evident mental health challenges admirably never feels overplayed or performative. Intuitive, impressive and clearly well-researched work.

“Intuitive, impressive and clearly well-researched work.”

Victoria Yeates, meanwhile, is a sheer delight from the off as Imogen. Ravenhill thankfully affords ‘Imo’ plenty of growth and change, too, from her initially dutiful and hesitant assistant unwilling to speak or suggest beyond her station, to the more impassioned, forthright and defiant support rod their shared time forges her into being. Yeates (known to many for her roles in Call the Midwife and the Fantastic Beasts franchise) meets Barnett’s ‘darkness’ with a buoyant elegance and likability. Its a beautifully observed and layered performance from a deeply impressive actress.

The only real gripe about Ravenhill’s play, and Whyman’s execution of it here, is that music, almost ironically, plays a fairly distant second fiddle throughout. Conor Mitchell’s light accompaniments punctuate the odd transition, and Yeates and Barnett do get a handful of opportunities to tinkle the ivories themselves. But given the characters’ palpable love for their work, it seems somewhat slighting to have it feature in such a limited fashion. Imagine Amadeus with only momentary snippets of Requiem or Figaro. Unthinkable.

“…music, almost ironically, plays a fairly distant second fiddle throughout.”

Soutra Gilmour keeps things fairly functional when it comes to set design and staging, with Britten’s rotating piano centre stage and the odd shuffling of chairs and serving trolleys what little set dressing and change there is. The borders of the stage being given a blanket of white stones, coupled with the distant echoing of waves crashing upon the shore helps create a sense of place for Britten’s Aldeburgh retreat. A stylised take on an unexpected flooding midway through makes for an interesting visual and intriguing spot of symbolism both, but for the most part Ben and Imo lets its central partnership breathe and shine, unbothered by spectacle.

With little by way of theatrical frills and flourishes, this is for the most part precisely what it needs to be – solid, delightful and inviting theatre with neither pretence nor distraction. Handsomely acted, sensitively written, and carrying a surprising amount of poignancy and resonance.

It may not unearth a tremendous amount of historical detail or perspective that cannot be sourced about its eponymous pairing elsewhere, and is surprisingly light on that about which so much of its passion and friction pivots. But two stellar, absorbing performances help compose a winning, witty and heartfelt melody. One of the cost, cruelty and complicated truth of the creative genius, and the perhaps under-appreciated necessity of someone willing to cross the line and stand their ground in the face of its brilliance.

Dreamscapes and the fae are commonplace, almost the point of mundanity, within Shakespeare. Be it the servile Ariel and fellow island spirits of The Tempest, the foreboding misdirection of dreams in Romeo and Juliet, or the outward supernatural malevolence of Macbeth’s witchery, the Bard’s offerings are replete with the fantastical and otherworldly.

Yet nowhere are they more intertwined with the whinnying of character and narrative than A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This celebrated fool’s playground of mistaken identities, unrequited loves and fairytale mischief is the latest offering from the RSC, in a boisterous and kinetic production steered by Eleanor Rhode (a RSC returnee, after her 2019 production of the rarely-seen King John).

Given the whimsy and heightened nature of Dream’s fable, coursing through realms and concepts of high fantasy that even Tolkien and Carroll would likely balk at, anything resembling the words ‘stripped back’ as an approach might (understandably) alarm even non-purists.

And yes, to strictly label Rhode and designer Lucy Osborne’s take on the great romp as such would be unfair. For whilst this Dream may not be bursting at the seams with intrusive set decoration or any overt on-stage busyness, it still commands attention and offers up a colourful, inventive style all of its own. From its overhanging canvas of rose-like paper lanterns, its glitching, flickering projections of analog transmissions (complete with flashes of the iconic ‘Test Card F’), its not-quite-Eighties-but-the-shoulder-pads-are-close-enough costume design, through to at one point literally dropping a technicolor ball pit onto its company member’s heads, there’s a tangible retro vibrancy to where (and when) Rhodes pitches her ‘Athens’.

“…this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain.”

It’s a distinctive and interesting approach, and for a brief moment, one that almost makes the slightly more traditional depictions of Dream’s fairy folk that follow feel a little more de rigeuer, perhaps even staid, as a consequence. Fortunately, Osborne’s spunky costume design carries through (with Bally Gill’s decadently punk Oberon making a vivid, immediate impact), and some splendid illusory and lighting work from John Bulleid and Matt Daw keeping things suitably ethereal. Levitating floral macguffins, micro poi balls dancing about as enchanted fairy folk, a cascade of neon pink petals to consummate a consummation, and even a pair of animatronic donkey ears offering up perfectly timed comedic droops – this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain. One that fuses technology and theatricality, whilst shrewdly managing to avoid overreaching or stuffing itself silly on needless, excessive spectacle.

As the impending marriage of a nervy duke (Bally Gill, again) to his unenthused betrothed (Sirine Saba, also on multi-role duty) approaches, four young wannabe lovers flee into neighbouring woodlands to pursue their heart’s desires. Feisty Hermia (Dawn Sievewright) longs to abscond with the object of her affections, young Lysander (Ryan Hutton). The only catch is, she’s already been promised to strapping Demetrius (Nicholas Armfield), who himself commands the affections of envious Helena (Boadicea Ricketts).

Elsewhere, a performing troupe are making ready to perform for the Duke at his wedding, led by self-assured Bottom (Mathew Baynton) who is beyond confident that he can deliver a performance for the ages.

“Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory.”

As its colourful cast of characters intrude upon the realms of the fantastical by venturing into the glen, they fall foul of mischievous sprites and scorned fairy folk, leading to farce, silliness, switched desires and oscillating loyalties par excellence.

Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory. Rhode’s taut direction keeps things punchy and regularly injects invention and flourish. See a forest of ladders in Act II which the cast clamber up, thrust upon and slide down amidst a hilariously charged four-way verbal fracas. Bask in the gloriously melodramatic, ludicrous and even occasionally bawdy spot of late game metafiction.

It’s charged, kinetic and utterly entertaining stuff. Buoyed immeasurably by Rhode clearly letting the instincts and talents of a wonderful assembled company not only breathe, but run rampant.

Boadicea Ricketts’ brash, frustrated Helena crackles with some deliciously contemporary sensibilities and ticks, her gradual descent into exasperation and neurosis sublimely pitched. She’s handsomely met by Dawn Sievewright and Nicholas Armfield, both excellent and characterful as Hermia and Demetrius, respectively. But it’s perhaps a side-splitting, animated Ryan Hutton, a leaping bundle of comic and physical elasticity as Lysander, who gets amongst the most consistent and effortless laughs of the evening.

Not that he’s without stiff competition, mind. This is a uniformly fantastic company, with even smaller roles such as Emily Cundick’s Snout, Helen Monks’ fraught troupe leader Peter/Rita Quince, and Mitesh Soni’s Flute all amongst those getting laugh-out-loud moments to shine, particularly come the show’s closing scenes.

Bally Gill starts out strong and sets the tone from the off with his quirky, giggle-inducing Theseus, and if Sirine Saba is initially given little to work with as Hippolyta, she positively springs to life by the time she’s slinking, strutting and even boogying her way through the woods as Queen of Fairies, Titania. Credit must go, too, to an impressive Premi Tamang, stepping in to cover the role of Puck and giving a lively, winning turn (on press night no less).

Which brings us to Bottom. In what turns out to be an unsurprisingly inspired spot of casting, Ghosts and Horrible Histories’ Mathew Baynton is perfect as a heightened, grandstanding iteration of one of Shakespeare’s silliest creations. Where past productions may pitch their Bottom as courageous or fearlessly assertive, here he is hilariously self-important and pompous. And whether dialling up the melodrama and absurdity of his luvvies’ performative chops to the stratosphere, or sinking into the jackassery (quite literally) and physical lampoonery of the character post-transformation (just you wait for those ears and gnashers…) or even just daintily prancing about on stage in skimpy attire, Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass in the role throughout, lighting up the stage with every inch of his spindly, wide-eyed, hyper expressive and giddily farcical turn.

“…Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass…”

There will doubtless have been – and likely continue to be – visits to the whimsical farscapes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that carry even more showy spectacle and grandeur than this latest outing from the RSC. It is after all, by some measure, Shakespeare’s most heightened and outlandish hour, and for some that means big production value and stage wizardry dialled up to the nines.

And still, as pretty, colourful and occasionally otherwordly as Bulleid and Daw’s work confidently keep things here, no amount of aesthetic distraction or set pieces can compensate for the true magic of the Bard’s high fantasy hijinks. It’s a code that Rhode and company seem to have quite effortlessly cracked; a frisson they have plucked, bottled and ebbed into every beat and pulse of this giddy, winning and, yes, magical production.

Tirelessly funny, effortlessly vibrant in performance and character both, and a razor-sharp, immaculately performed evening of comedy and jollification, here is a Dream of a show that deserves adoration from top to scantily-clad Bottom.

A rare vision, indeed.

It isn’t difficult to spend considerable chunks of Isobel McArthur’s postmodern riff on The Fair Maid of the West feeling the slightest bit, well, tipsy.

For starters, the RSC’s Swan Theatre (which, incidentally, housed a Trevor Nunn staging of the same show as its inaugural production back in 1986), and its surrounding foyers and antechambers have all been given something of a tavernous makeover. Stalls seating plucked out and replaced with pub benches, chairs and tables (complete with branded beer mats, naturally). Hand-scribbled posters put out calls for karaoke nights, grand re-openings and details of ‘tonight’s special’ (‘booze’). Ana Inés and Jabares-Pita’s wooden, earthy staging interlocks and wheels about to form not one, not two, but three different drinking joints (not to mention a ship!) over the course of the show.

There’s a palpable sense of place throughout. Honest-to-goodness, dirt under the nails, pre-gentrified boozers of a maritime slant and coastal flavour (bandying, as the plot, does between Plymouth and Cornwall mostly). The key narrative beats of Thomas Heywood’s renaissance rom-com play out moderately intact (if knowingly sillier), as intrepid barmaid Liz (Amber James) sets out on a journey of self-determination and entrepreneurial flare after an attempt to court her by a kindly well-to-do (Philip Labey) backfires spectacularly.

It’s from here where the fidelity mostly freewheels into the beer cellar, though. If McArthur’s take on Fair Maid knows where it’s set, its giddy whirlwind of comedic interjections and modern flourishes throw up a dogged middle finger to any strict nineteenth Century trappings of time. Fifties-style jukeboxes place alongside bags of Scampi Fries and mentions of WKD, whilst regular musical interludes see the talented cast blitz their way through everything from Queen to ‘Viva España’.

McArthur certainly has form here. Her Olivier-winning, similarly bonkers take on Pride & Prejudice recently finished up a successful and acclaimed UK tour.

And yet, as she cheekily acknowledges in an early audience address from the show’s resident narrator (Richard Katz), Heywood’s Fair Maid is no Austen in terms of ubiquity and cultural capital. In a splash of mildly-Brechtian reflexivity, Kurtz’s ultimately quite important ‘metaphysical’ overseer reads out a letter from the playwright herself saying, essentially, ‘well nobody’s even read it, so balls to fidelity!’.

It certainly preps the audience for some of the madcap tomfoolery to come, though it’s hard to shake the sense that Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of)’s inspired approach – of having the whole thing essentially be a metafiction improvised by a group of cleaners – still feels like a tighter and more motivated approach than what McArthur and company opt for here. Tonally, structurally and in regards to focus, this Fair Maid veers about wildly in the first Act in particular.

“It crackles with an energy of what feels at times like a theatrical love letter to the boozer…”

Still, it’s irrepressible, silly and routinely funny throughout and, like any good time down the ‘local’, plenty buoyant and colourful. It crackles with an energy of what feels at times like a theatrical love letter to the boozer and its denizens; littered with characters and types you could find propping up the bar at practically any pub in the land. Matthew Woodyatt is a hoot as a sensitive singleton still reeling from his wife having shacked up with his brother, whilst David Rankine lights up the periphery as both a Glaswegian wino and human jukebox early on.

And as Liz quite literally sets sail with a cadre of colourful companions come the second act (after a jolting, sobering close to its first half), McArthur’s penchant for weaving the surprisingly emotive and powerful in amidst the farcical eventually takes root.

Revelations surrounding tertiary characters land with surprising heft, and there’s an undeniable universality to its overall messages and ideas of retrospective carpe diem, regret and self-determination. Liz herself proves a wilful, steely yet flawed core, with a neat feminist streak that never registers as obnoxious or forced. Her wiles and skills as a woman and barkeep both are put to the test and pit her as leader, pioneer and diplomat all.

If it all descends into a finale that wouldn’t feel out of place in a Monty Python skit – unapologetic cultural stereotypes and all – then Fair Maid’s second half has at least afforded us enough time and development with Liz and her fellowship to become surprisingly invested in seeing their quest succeed.

Much of this is courtesy of a stellar cast doing great work. Amber James is the beating heart and implacable anchor around which the high-concept hijinks can pivot. She does a terrific job keeping it mostly earnest and straight, even as barbershop quartets, bare-all poets and foppish, effeminate Spanish royalty spring up about her. It’s a confident, grounding and moving turn that James pulls off masterfully.

“Amber James is teriffic… handsomely supported by what must surely be two of the finest comedic talents currently treading the boards”

Cutting sillier, she’s handsomely supported by what must surely be two of the finest comedic talents currently treading the boards. Emmy Stonelake, recently fantastic in McArthur’s own Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of) is exquisite throughout as predominately Liz’s brash, fiery confidante, Clem. And the seemingly elastic Tom Babbage, also recently great as a skittish Professor Plum in Cluedo, steals scenes left, right and centre in a panoply of roles, most prominently an overly talkative postal worker who professes to have seen, done and even spoken it all.

Whilst it may lack some of the cohesion and ironic polish of Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of), and it mostly eschews much of the overt swashbuckling that some past interpretations have leant into, McArthur, James and company ultimately deliver an infectious romp for the festive season. Like some of its wobbly-legged characters, it’s an unpredictable, scattershot, even haphazard beast, occasionally registering as something more akin to a bemusing hangover fever dream than renaissance literature.

In many ways though, that’s sort of the point. It isn’t high art, nor does it profess to be. Instead, the RSC and McArthur invite you to pull up a chair and join James and friends for a Christmas and New Year of bawdy, boozy fun at a time when they’re perhaps needed more than ever.

We’ll drink to that.

You’d be forgiven for presuming that the first playwright to have their work performed on the Royal Shakespeare Theatre upon its opening in 1932 (monikered at the time as the ‘Shakespeare Memorial Theatre’) would have been a certain namesake Bard.

The honour, in fact, fell to Poet Laureate John Masefield, who had penned a poetry piece in honour of the RST’s predecessor, which had been consumed by a fire in 1926.

There is history and resonance aplenty, then, in the RSC turning to one of Masefield’s classic publications, festive fantasy The Box of Delights, for their 2023 Christmas offering in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

It’s far from the first time we’ve seen an adaptation of the novel, which offers up echoes of the likes of Narnia and early Harry Potter (despite predating both) with its biscuit-tin Christmas aesthetic and thoroughly English sensibilities (“now my wallet is gone, I have’t a tosser to my kick”, its lead disparages early on). A six-part, BAFTA-winning tv adaptation in the Eighties, whilst aesthetically dated by modern standards, remains a classic for many, with Den of Geek recently naming it “one of the most magical Yuletide dramas that the BBC has ever made.”

A multitude of radio and stage incarnations have since followed, most recently featuring Olivier-winner Matthew Kelly on dual-role duty as the tale’s warring wizards at London’s Wilton’s Music Hall. But now is the hour of the RSC to house the old favourite (Box, that is… not Kelly).

In many ways, this will be a deeply familiar Box to those who experienced the fantastical playground conjured up at Wilton’s. It is once again using writer Piers Torday’s imaginative, characterful translation of the book to stage, and a particular coup sees the return of Tom Piper’s glorious design wizardry and set magic.

Its whimsical story follows the low fantasy adventures of young orphan Kay (Callum Balmforth), as his much-anticipated holidays and otherwise normal world are interrupted by a clash between two time-travelling sorcerers. One, naturally, good… the other less so.

When wise, venerable ‘good’ wizard Cole (Stephen Boxer) spirits himself away to avoid the clutches of the villainous Abner Brown (Richard Lynch) and cronies, he leaves Kay in possession of the precious, titular macguffin, which is said to yield both wondrous yet also potentially disastrous power. It’s up to Kay to take off on a genuinely magical adventure peppered with puppetry, flying cars, dazzling phoenixes, witches and wizards and even animalistic transformations, all to save his friends, his townsfolk and, more importantly, Christmas itself. We’re ominously warned that ‘the wolves are running’, people are disappearing, and of course there’s the ever-looming threat of getting ‘scrobbled’.

“Balmforth is a spirited and likeable lead… but it’s the fantastic line-up of supporting characters that keep Box’s fantasy hijinks firing on all cylinders.”

Fortunately for Kay, along for the ride and festivities are the Jones children – feisty, gangster-loving, gun-toting Maria (Mae Munuo) and nervy, fussy Peter (Jack Humphrey). It’s here where Box conjures up amongst its greatest of magics. Balmforth is a spirited and likeable lead, an earnest grounding rod around which the spectacle and wonderment can ebb, but it’s the fantastic line-up of supporting characters that keep Box’s fantasy hijinks firing on all cylinders.

Munuo is terrific fun throughout as fearless, sardonic tomboy Maria. Quick to anger, fiercely defensive and always ready with a side-splitting one-liner or put-down, when confronted by is-she-isn’t-she witch Sylvia Daisy Pouncer (a similarly-impressive Claire Price), Maria naturally challenges her to a pistol repairing contest. She’s beautifully complemented by her ‘plank’ of a brother, Peter, a retiring, disapproving yet kind-hearted sort of Eton boy in-waiting. RSC favourite Jack Humphrey gives one of the finest and most routinely hilarious turns of the night, as his finicky yet lovable Peter bemoans the whole affair for being ‘the purple pim’ or giving him ‘the fantods’. The Jones duo are utter joys of characters and performances both.

“The Jones duo are utter joys of characters and performances both.”

Elsewhere, Stephen Boxer is a venerable Gandalf or Dumbledore-esque figure, with a glint in his eye and occasional spring in his step as the goodly Cole, whilst Samuel Wyers’ puppetry beautifully brings to life his canine companion Barney (amongst others). Credit to Alex Cardall, Tom Chapman and Rhiannon Skerrit for their impressive work here throughout. Stage veteran Annette McLaughlin is a hoot as the children’s easily-exasperated yet mild-mannered guardian, Caroline Louisa, Timothy Speyer pitches his animated Bishop perfectly for the tone of the show, and Melody Brown is another side-splitting scene-stealer as a shrill, passionate yet bolshy Mayor. Janet Etuk, meanwhile, brings a noble and calming presence amidst all the fluster to one of the show’s most fantastical characters and sequences, as Herne the Hunter.

Thanks in no small part to its vibrant cast, Box is wholesome, effortlessly entertaining and brilliantly executed family fun throughout. It’s also, beat-for-beat, one of the most unexpectedly funniest treats of the year. Sure, the villains, particularly Lynch’s Abner, get slightly shorter shrift, and it’s here, with its cheese-gobbling rodent henchmen and heightened climactic showdowns where the show veers closest to panto campness. Still, younger audiences in particular will likely appreciate a clear, suitably boo-hissable ne’er-do-well to rally against, and big set pieces such as the watery finale.

“…rich with flourishes of wonderment and fancy throughout.”

Piper’s design work is rich with flourishes of wonderment and fancy throughout. From the offset, Box’s towering, clockwork staging presents levels, hidden passages, hidey holes, trapdoors and all manner of verticality and surprise. Whether presenting a dusty, abandoned attic, a foreboding snowstorm or even more ambitious footing such as a flooding underworld or magical forest scape, this is an opulent, regularly dazzling production, with its chameleonic set bolstered by some stunning projection, video and lighting work. It’s comfortably one of the most transportive and immersive festive adventures you will likely see in a theatre this Christmas.

And speaking of Christmas, replete with humour, spectacle and bedazzlement aplenty, Box of Delights cements itself as another festive cracker for the RSC. It takes a much-loved classic and brings it to light with gorgeous production value, imaginative staging and a wealth of loveable, hilarious characters all winningly realised and vibrantly performed.

If it’s family fun you are after this holiday season (and make no doubt, it is very Christmassy), this Box of Delights is a joyous must-see, and does and is exactly what it says on the (festive biscuit) tin.