One can’t help but admire the fact that London’s The Mousetrap is not only the longest running show of any kind in the world… ever, but so too is it built upon a foundation of mystery and intrigue. The hushed, wink-wink, nudge-nudge marketing gimmickry of asking attendees to not spoil its singular ending as they leave the auditorium (currently the St Martin’s, where it has played since 1974) is a cheeky flourish for a show that, perhaps more than any other, epitomises the idea of ‘staying power’.

There’s a dash of that mischievous ‘in the know’ fraternité to be found at the periphery of Original Theatre’s Murder in the Dark, which arrives in Birmingham for a week-long engagement as part of its UK Tour. The opening pages of the show’s programme invite audience members to ‘spread the word (but not the spoilers)’ and it takes a chunk of the play to fully comprehend some of the slights of hand and misdirection you’ve unwittingly been prone to from before you even take your seats.

But let’s not go anywhere near those spoilers…

A mostly moody, occasionally spooky and inventive ghost story-cum-thriller hybrid from playwright Torben Betts, staged by the same company behind the recent fantastic production of The Mirror Crack’d, perhaps the biggest – and in some ways most pleasant – surprise is that Murder in the Dark somehow manages to be a bricolage of both fairly conventional theatrical thriller trappings blended in with some wonderfully unexpected and original deviations.

“It practically drips with typicality during its opening beats…”

It practically drips with typicality during its opening beats; a couple are left seemingly stranded in a remote farmstead one snow-battered New Year’s Eve after a minor car accident. Washed up former pop star, Danny (Tom Chambers) and his younger girlfriend, Sarah (Laura White) have a relationship on the rocks (and not in the way Danny would like), but they’re forced to put on their best behaviour for quirky oddball of a benefactor, farming Widow Mrs Bateman (TV and stage legend Susie Blake).

And, seeing as the inciting crash happened on the way home from his mother’s funeral, some of Danny’s estranged family are in tow, too; ex-wife Rebecca (Rebecca Charles), son Jake (Jonny Green) who insists on calling his disappointment of a father by his first name, and brother William (Owen Oakeshot), with whom Danny clearly shares a storied and checkered past.

An intriguing if slightly plodding, character-centric first Act weaves through the intriguing dynamics between the cast, keeping the creepiness and slowly unfolding sense of dread mostly at the periphery. Why does that television keep turning itself on, and always to that creepy song? Did Jake really see a ballerina in the outhouse, as he seems so insistent on? And what of the rumours that the dotty Mrs Bateman may have offed her husband via some lethal broth?

Given the title and general setup, it’s easy to spend much of the first half of the show expecting the inevitable bodies to start turning up, for accusations and suspicions to begin flying, and those early kernels of motives and moments of rage and betrayal to get their moment in the snow.

And yet, Murder isn’t content to keep playing its (curiously already-tuned) guitar strings to such a typical beat.

To delve too deeply into the twists and turns of the second Act in particular would ruin much of the experience, but suffice to say it becomes an altogether more distinctive and occasionally trippy beast, post-interval. Whether it sticks the landing, and if its detour into decidedly more heightened fare is as original and unpredictable as it seems to think, will likely depend on the individual theatregoer. This particular writer had one major twist involving one of the supporting characters pegged fairly on, but it was entirely due to the show capitalising on the unique strengths and opportunities of being a staged play that allowed me to piece together what was happening quite organically.

“Despite seeming to not so much suffer from an identity crisis as it comes to actively revel in it, Murder is buoyed by some sterling performances grounding it amidst all the uncertainty and madness.”

Despite seeming to not so much suffer from an identity crisis as it comes to actively revel in it, Murder is buoyed by a couple of solid performances grounding it amidst all the uncertainty and madness.

Chambers is a decent central force around which the show’s strangeness percolates. A troubled, occasionally tortured soul, Chambers does a good job of keeping the audience hesitant as to whether or not his ‘Danny’ is someone to root for (hint: for the most part, he isn’t), and the show as a whole does a good job of finding a lot of lighter, comedic beats amidst all the foreboding and angst. Around him, Laura White adds vim, nuance and dimension to a slightly more plainly-written and atypical ‘sassy younger girlfriend’ role, but others, such as Rebecca Charles, as ex-wife Rebecca, and Owen Oakeshott as Danny’s brother, get fairly thankless, cookie-cutter fare to work with.

Two of the standouts are Jonny Green as Danny’s frustrated, sardonic son, Jake, and the ever-dependable Susie Blake as the show’s best character, the perpetually unclockable Mrs Bateman. Green gets some fantastic moments searing a few home truths into his deadbeat dad, putting in a fine turn that simmers with barely-below-the-surface disdain and ire, whilst Blake is an absolute force as a character who even up until the show’s final moments you aren’t entirely sure how to square. It’s a fantastic gear shift for a character actress par excellence who has in recent years delivered lovely, but decidedly more homely, turns as the likes of Miss Marple and even Queen Elizabeth II. The bubbly, strange, sinister, funny, suspicious soup of unsettling strangeness that is Mrs Bateman couldn’t be further apart from those cosier types, and both the character, and Blake’s interpretation of her, are amongst Murder’s biggest coups.

“Blake is an absolute force as a character who even up until the show’s final moments you aren’t entirely sure how to square.”

It’s probably fair to say that logic, if nothing else, dictates Murder in the Dark probably won’t be the next Mousetrap. For all of its creativity and warping second half in particular, its postmodern vibe doubtless lacks some of the clarity and polish of, say, a conventional Agatha Christie or thereabouts. Also, for a show that gradually ratchets up its horror, it’s never particularly scary. It’s a handsome production, for sure – with particular credit to Paul Pyant for his ominous, naturalistic lighting, and some suitably eerie sound from Max Pappenheim.

There are certainly plenty of ideas, themes and even the occasional allegory bandying around in this dark, weird world of Murder. As mentioned, it has an undercurrent of comedy that slices throughout. Some of the madcap derailing of its latter stages works, some of it feels obvious, or ultimately falls a little too on-the-nose to be particularly profound or shocking. But as an intriguing evening of mystery and spooky questioning, peppered with engaging performances, it did at least keep us wondering and second-guessing right up to its closing moments.

As promised, whilst we shan’t be divulging any spoilers, we’ll certainly spread the word.

Although the likes of Mousetrap and Woman in Black have no need to keep the lights on at night for fear of this supplanting them, this is nonetheless a Murder well worth checking out for those who appreciate the things that go ‘bump’ in the night, who may be looking for something that little bit different from their typical on-stage spooks, and who aren’t afraid to realise that…

…no, we’ll leave it at that.

We wouldn’t want to upset Mrs Bateman now, would we?

Note: TWE reviewed  ‘Annie’ earlier in its current tour. Given that this is the same touring production, what follows is a revised version of that same review, updated for its visit to the Wolverhampton Grand.

It’s one of those mildly discombobulating moments, realising that Nikolai Foster’s celebrated revival of Annie is staring down the barrel of being, itself – whisper it – twelve years old.

Springing from a bed sewn from the success of the likes of Matilda the Musical – whose inspiration can be seen and felt throughout much of Foster, and designer Colin Richmond’s, admittedly dazzling work here – this Annie is, in many ways, a testament to the power of a strong creative team and vision.

Sure, Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin’s original music still offers up a handful of memorable earworms – most notably tentpoles ‘Tomorrow’ and ‘Hard knocked life’ (though everyone knows the villainous razzmatazz of ‘Easy Street’ is comfortably the show’s best number). However, the gooey sentimentality that runs through the core of its story, about an adorable orphan being taken in by a irascible billionaire, coupled with some its fair share of less memorable tunes and wonky narrative choices (the prominence of FDR and his political aspirations in Act II still slightly jars), has seen past productions prior to this revival often be exercises in ‘pleasant but unspectacular’.

No such mediocrity here, though. Foster, along with choreographer Nick Winston, have kept their feet firmly on the peddle since 2011, and never let up – hyper-charging each set piece and number into overdrive. Within the multicolour playground of Richmond’s opulent staging – which offers plenty of knowing winks to the story’s original roots in comic strips, of all things – this comfortably remains the best, most kinetic and vibrant that the little orphan’s merry misadventures have ever been.

“It’s a thrill to be back at the orphanage for other reasons, besides…”

It’s a thrill to be back at the orphanage for other reasons, besides. We reviewed this latest touring production of Annie earlier in the year, during its visit to Birmingham, and it felt, to be blunt, a smidgeon lacklustre in places. That it was mere days after the passing of the late, great Paul O’Grady who was, at the time of his passing, sharing the role of the villainous Miss Hanagan at certain venues, meant we gave it a bit of pass. But sound issues, stoppages, some flubbed lines and a slightly nervy leading lady left the impression of a show that was finding its ‘Easy Street’ not quite so smooth a ride.

Returning to the Midlands this week with a visit to Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre, it’s a thrill to say this Annie has more than gotten her groove back.

Along for the ride for this latest tour is one of the earlier stars of Foster’s original revival – Strictly Come Dancing’s Craig Revel Horwood, once again strapping on the heels and necking back the (hopefully artificial) booze as Annie’s caustic, gin-addled orphanage owner, Miss Hannigan. Horwood’s been in and out of the role for just shy of a decade now, and this latest incarnation of his take on the villainess carries some of that brow-beaten weariness with her. Sure, Horwood can shimmy and soft-shoe up there amongst the best – something that gets put to terrific use in the dialled up ‘Easy Street’ and its reprise, for instance – and he’s not shy of belting, either, but there’s something infectiously delicious about the dryer, quieter character moments and less overt choices he takes this time round. His Hannigan here is pathetic, desperate, whiney, deluded – and all the funnier for it.

From old pros (forgive me, Craig) to newer faces, a superlative Sharangi Gnanavarathan delighted in the performance reviewed as the lovable, titular orphan. In what is, remarkably, her professional stage debut, Gnanavarathan commanded the stage with a charismatic, endearing performance and fantastic vocals. Insert ‘bright future awaits’ references here. 

“A superlative Sharangi Gnanavarathan… in what is, remarkably, her professional stage debut.”

Amelia Adams proves another one to watch, as a delightful, kindly Grace Farrell with beautiful, crystalline vocals, she feels plucked straight from the golden era of the studio musical. Paul French and Billie-Kay, meanwhile, are suitably sleazy and odious as the con artists trying to monopolise on Annie’s newfound attachment to business titan Oliver Warbucks, with French in particular taking his ‘Rooster’ down some gloriously unhinged deviations and creative cul-de-sacs that were new and hilariously bonkers, even after having already seen the tour earlier in its run. There’s clearly a lot of fun being had between French and Revel Horwood in particular, as on-stage siblings.

Speaking of fun, stage vetern Alex Bourne is a notably buoyant and even occasionally peppy Oliver Warbucks, a choice that works beautifully with this vibrant, technicolor take on the tale.

But of course, there’s no appraising the show without mentioning the kids.

Oh, the kids. Right from the off, with a foot-stomping, fist-clenching, gleefully bravura take on the anthemic ‘Hard Knocked Life’, they brilliantly, bombastically let you know this is an Annie that means business… and isn’t afraid to sock you one in the smacker if you underestimate it. Revel Horwood, French, Adams and the company all put in wonderful turns but, in truth, it’s the talented youngsters stomping their way through some of the best numbers, that really run away with the whole thing.

There’s so much theatrical goodness coursing through the fibre of this incarnation of Annie, that it’s difficult to see it being considered now anything less than definitive. It is so animated, so slickly choreographed and energetically delivered, so colourful and infused with stagey showmanship, that the possibility of slipping back to the simpler, dryer offerings of yesteryear is simply inconceivable.

Over a decade on, Annie continues to prove itself more than ready for ‘tomorrow’. After a slightly disappointing state of play earlier in the run, everyone’s favourite redhead is back on jubilant, irrepressible form, with a seminal revival that remains a completely joyful tonic, and one that will leave you feeling more than fully dressed, with the grandest of smiles.

Note: TWE reviewed  ‘The Ocean At The End Of The Lane’ earlier in its current tour. Given that this is the same touring production, what follows is a revised version of that same review, updated for its visit to the Wolverhampton Grand.

Literalism or allegory. Fantasy agin reality. Identity versus perception.

Vast swathes of the endlessly inventive, wildly imaginative oeuvre of Neil Gaiman pivot around the fusion of the magical and the mundane, and the thin, nebulous separation of the real and the unreal. Whilst many of his celebrated offerings do indeed take giddy, soaring flight into the realms of the marvellous (and even the mythological), Gaiman’s work remains so enduring and endearing in no small way by dint of it so often being grounded, rooted and channelled through the immediate and the relatable.

The impish frustrations, curiosities and naïveté of childhood imagination in Coraline. The innately un-godly, often even unassuming, personas and forms taken by the titular American Gods. The elevation of ordinary trinkets into artefacts of immense power and importance in, say, Chivalry. And, of course, the innate power and strengths of dreams as evinced in The Sandman.

It seems obvious – some may say glib, even – to point out that a celebrated author’s work is partly so successful because of its relatability, and how it often encircles timeless themes that a reader can easily attach themselves to. And yet, when you consider that this trenchant humanity courses so seamlessly and consistently through the bravura imagination and heightened vision of Gaiman’s world-building across so many subjects and scapes, then it only becomes all the more impressive. To paint a lavish, broad canvas of dreamscapes and unfettered originality, yet still thread it through with character, connection and resonance is no mean feat for a single story or book, let alone the countless in Gaiman’s back catalogue.

In what some consider to be amongst his most personal of works – and indeed which the author has himself admitted is peppered with glimpses and reflections from his own childhood – The Ocean at the End of the Lane has arrived on stage as a bold, dynamic and deeply-moving standard bearer for brand Gaiman.

Identity, and indeed self-identity, underpins much of the tale that Ocean tells, as a young boy (Keir Ogilvy) teetering on the edge of maturity toils with what the world around him thinks of him, not least of all his Dad (first cover Joe Rawlinson-Hunt in the performance reviewed at Wolverhampton). Even more fundamentally, there appear to be demons creeping about the periphery of what he thinks of himself, too. In a fractured (if not quite broken) home, one clearly still reeling from recent loss, ideas of parental and familial disconnect, and the widening chasm between childhood and burgeoning adolescence, all swirl.

Enter the fantastical and the fay.

Following another spot of tragedy, the ‘boy’ befriends fellow local oddball, Lettie Hempstock (Millie Hikasa) and family, who, in the confines of their cosy family farm, begin to peel back the quintessential Gaiman layers of magic and mystery. Curious goings-on in the boy’s life, followed by some ill-advised tinkering, sets in motion a series of increasingly dangerous and otherworldly events, not least of all the arrival of a sinister entity who takes on the form of ‘Ursula’, an intrusive new lodger and potential wicked-stepmother-to-be (Eastenders‘ Charlie Brooks, in a deliciously vicious and barbed turn).

The sandbox of Gaiman’s penchant for ‘magical realism’ is on full display here, and it’s in no small part down to a unity of fantastic performances, some truly audacious audiovisual and design work, and inspired, pin-sharp direction from Katy Rudd that all coalesces into a sweeping, heightened spectacle that never drowns under the waves of its own ambition. Sure, the magic and whimsy hit a bit of a temporary snag with a couple of technical halts during the performance reviewed, but these weren’t present elsewhere in the tour and are likely little more than a (very) technically demanding show finding its footing in a new venue. 

It’s grandiose stuff. Much akin to the National Theatre’s previous offerings, in particular the likes of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, here sumptuous production values and flourishes of invention delight and enrich the experience, yet never overshadow or distract from it. From jaw-dropping cable and elevation work, industry-leading standards of puppetry and costume work that bandy between the terrifying to the downright transcendent (a fairly late-game act II sequence is especially beguiling), right down to tried-and-true moments of misdirection and theatrical slight of hand (watch as Brooks’ Ursula appears to transport about the stage, much to the vocal astonishment of chunks of the audience), Ocean is an absolute feast for the senses, and feels as lavish and opulent as the rich text from which it is derived.

“…a sweeping, heightened spectacle that never drowns under the waves of its own ambition.“

Naturally, all of the spectacle and wizardry in the world is for little if the characters and narrative ring hollow. Joel Horwood’s instinctive, sensitive take on Gaiman’s novel is ethereal and rich with whimsy and delight aplenty, but crucially lets that aforementioned humanity and relatability shine through and breathe. Moments of doom-laden exposition are punctured with cantankerous asides from Finty Williams’ spritely grandmother figure. A set piece of genuine trauma (and borderline abuse) quite literally pushes the fantastical and the demonic temporarily backstage. Even as the potentially apocalyptic and fatalistic crashes in about its antagonists, Ocean takes the time to put its central dynamics and relationships quite literally under the spotlight.

Kemi-Bo Jacobs and Williams each imbue their kindly yet no-nonsense maternal types with a real sense of venerability that never feels formulaic or typical, as essentially the sages of the story. Rawlinson-Hunt put in an admirable, slightly more buoyant performance covering for principle ‘Dad’, Trevor Fox, and if it lacked something of Fox’s gravity, it was nonetheless an affecting turn. Brooks, as mentioned, relishes every moment of malicious bombast and sinister mischief as Ursula, and eats up every moment she’s on stage.

But so much of Ocean’s heart and power rests on Ogilvy and Hikasa’s shoulders. The latter gets arguably the toughest ask of the company, portraying a timeless ‘little girl’ with the knowledge and experience of the ages on a youthful, slightly boisterous mantle, and she’s resplendent and engaging throughout, whilst Ogilvy has to navigate the show’s most emotionally demanding beats, which he does with complete confidence. They are masterstrokes of performances, and the success and impact of the story, as depicted here on stage, is in no small part thanks to their gorgeously-observed and compelling turns.

“…for all of its opulent, rich style and at times almost balletic staging, never does the fantastical dampen or outshine the core humanity and relatability at the heart of this particular Ocean.”

When wading through the ideas, themes and messages of the wonderful world of Gaiman, you’re scarcely anything less than spoiled for choice. In this gorgeous, slick, evocative and frequently astonishing demonstration of stagecraft, the full scope of everything the famed author aims for is beautifully depicted and realised. It is a true spectacle – a dazzling, beautiful flurry of fabric, bracken and even strip neon lighting. Sure, there’s more than a soupçon of eighties, Stranger Things vibing to much of what Davis, Rudd and (lighting designer) Paul Constable, (Sound designer) Ian Dickinson and (magic and illusions designer) Jamie Harrison aim for here, but it all works resoundingly well.

And for all of its opulent, rich style and at times almost balletic staging, never does the fantastical dampen or outshine the core humanity and relatability at the heart of this particular Ocean.

Like many of the myriad marvels sprung from the mind of its renowned creator, The Ocean at the End of the Lane on stage is a remarkable concoction of both the extravagant and the immediate – an unfettered flight of pure fantasy that is comfortably amongst the most visually arresting and dazzling things you can see on stage, whilst at the same time a focused, sincere and moving story of timeless resonance and relatability.

It is, quite simply, a form of pure, bottled, otherworldly theatrical alchemy, and should absolutely be seen to be believed.

Trying to pitch a satirical, political rock opera to a mainstream audience pretty much all politic’d out by the past few years of scandals, enquiries, pandemics and partygates is no easy sell. Doubly so when you frame it around a figure whose ability to napalm their own reputation and legacy could comfortably go toe-to-toe with the likes of the Truss’, Johnsons and Kwartengs of – sigh – the past twelve months.

Yes, if you’ve any chance of putting seats in bums to watch even a slightly leaner (at a fairly brisk 2 hour runtime, interval included) musical lampooning of the life and times (crimes?) of one Anthony Charles Lynton – as the show takes relish in cheekily reminding us – Blair, you’d better pitch it fairly broad indeed.

Arriving shortly after Spitting Image swung at similarly low-hanging fruit with its recent Idiots Assemble musical madness, Harry Hill and Steve Brown’s unabashedly silly TONY! [The Tony Blair Rock Opera] jetties nuance and subtlety out the window altogether, instead offering up a rapid fire romp that is rarely particularly clever, but frequently raucous and laugh-out-loud funny.

Hill’s signature lunacy seeps into every nook and crevice of TONY!, and for the most part it’s fairly obvious – yet no less giggle-inducing – stuff. George W. Bush’s dunderheaded grasp of foreign policy (and even an atlas), Alastair Campbell – complete with bagpipes and kilt – quite literally scribbling the word ‘bollocks’ over Blair’s infamous ‘dodgy dossier’. Rosie Strobel’s scrappy John Prescott, naturally, threatens to spark members of the audiences with his opening lines. Elsewhere, the madness is a touch more abstract or heightened – Phil Sealey’s Saddam Hussein by way of Groucho Marx is so ridiculous yet perfectly enacted by Sealey that you can’t help but go along for the ride.

“Hill’s signature lunacy seeps into every nook and crevice of TONY!“

And a ride it certainly is. Whizzing through everything from literally Blair’s birth through to his eventual departure from Downing Street and impending European Presidency, stopping off at some of the major pitstops in between, TONY! is zippy, manic anarchy. It’s stuffed with vignettes and musical moments that never linger for too long. And, whilst Brown’s songs aren’t universally successful, and like so much of the show, are shamelessly on the nose (see Osama Bin Laden’s Act II opener, ‘Kill the Infidel’), they certainly lend a charged frenzy and kinetic drive to the shenanigans.

If much of the first half whistles through Blair’s (Jack Whittle) formative years and the emergence of New Labour, TONY! gives itself permission to breathe somewhat during an Act II that mostly hinges around the invasion of Iraq, and it’s here where things get a little more interesting. Where much of the show is content to bob around at surface, level lampooning everything and everyone in sight – even neon-lit targets such as David Blunkett and his dog get the obvious treatment – it’s in the exploration of what is widely consider Blair’s ultimate folly that the nuggets of something more profound and interesting start to bubble to the surface of Hill and Brown’s clownery.

Whilst they choose to eschew biting profundity for much of the show’s runtime, the decision for instance to play out Blair’s speech to the House of Commons that sought to justify the invasion of Iraq, and even Robin Cook’s (Sally Cheng) resignation prior to it, as straight and dramatic, jolts the more socially and politically astute in the audience to attention. More intriguing still, the decision to then have Blair step forward and ask some direct questions to and of the audience – we did, after all, hand him another Labour majority post-Iraq – offers glimpses off an even more unique and dimensional piece tucked away beneath the phallic carrots, dropped trousers and other TV Burp-esque buffoonery.

Sure, it ultimately wheels back to broader strokes and a more generic – if crowd-pleasing – final number that settles on the conclusion that pretty much every leader, politician and, heck, person, is an ‘asshole’, but at least TONY! even temporarily scratches at some interesting nuggets of irony and nuance before the silliness resumes.

It’s ultimately a consummately broad, silly, funny time at the theatre. And, given the hardly booming niche for autobiographical political musicals, understandably so.

Hill and Brown, along with director Peter Rowe and lead designer Libby Watson, shrewdly don’t overreach when it comes to staging and realisation, either. Where Hill’s frenzied imagination let loose on a large budget has misfired before (I Can’t Sing, anyone?) here the deliberately makeshift aesthetic, low-budget costuming, ratty wigs and all lend it an indie, almost improvisational vibe, right down to the three-man band being present on stage at all times. Essentially, all involved know that it’s a bunch of people being very silly in wigs and outfits, and don’t try to slather that all with excessive production.

TONY!’s real ace, though, lies in its ‘cabinet’ of players. In fact, in places it’s occasionally hard to not feel that many of them are better than the material they are serving. Most are on multi-role duty; all are excellent.

Howard Samuels dials the camp up to No. 10 and back, from an hilariously lecherous Peter Mandelson to an unhinged, raging Dick Cheney he proves a real audience favourite. Martin Johnston roars through the auditorium and offers up fantastic character chops as Neil Kinnock, Bush Junior and others, whilst Tori Burgess winningly pitches her Cherie as a deliciously broad Scouse chav. Emma Jay Thomas threatens to steal the handful of scenes she flits into as Princess Diana, and Phil Sealey, as mentioned, is superb, plumbing every ounce of physicality from Hussein, not to mention Blair’s long-time frenemy, eventual fellow Prime Minister Gordon – pauses for breath – Brown.

“there’s no doubt that the night belongs to Jack Whittle… a heightened, idiosyncratic, at times wilfully grotesque, caricature of Blair, but a captivating and hilarious one at that.”

But there’s no doubt that the night belongs to Jack Whittle in the titular turn. Rarely off stage, Whittle sets the energy levels high from the off, and never flounders. Offering plenty of the former Prime Minister’s signature ticks and quirks and dashing foppishness, it’s a heightened, idiosyncratic, at times wilfully grotesque, caricature of Blair, but a captivating and hilarious one at that. Watch as Whittle, even in the background of other numbers (such as Johnston/Kinnock’s ‘Well Alright’) bops and Cheshire grins his way through practically every moment. It’s a superb, surprisingly physical comedic turn, and the driving force behind so much of the show’s character, energy and funny.

It’s true that despite a relative paucity of politically-oriented comedy, there are those who have attempted and succeeded with a modicum more wit and dimension, even within the framework of equally bonkers parody. The socio-political hijinks of Trey Parker and Matt Stone spring first and foremost to mind as creative operators in a similar field. Their incarnation of Saddam Hussein and the Iraq War in South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut, or Kim Jong Il in Team America: World Police (both musicals, incidentally), are no less puerile and ridiculous than what Hill and Brown deliver, but are ensconced with more knowing commentary on media scapegoating, American fundamentalism and other slightly more cerebral and nuanced wrinkles than what Hill and co. mine for here.

And yet, as blunt and frequently stupid as TONY! is, it never professes to be anything otherwise. For sure, it may prove too infantile for some, but, buoyed as it is by a splendid company of performers who are tirelessly funny and confidently elevate things at every turn, and speeding along at a breakneck pace as it does, it’s hard not to be won over by the madcap energy and raucous, Blair-faced nonsense of The Tony Blair Rock Opera.

Note: TWE reviewed  ‘Sister Act the Musical’ earlier in its current tour. Given that this is the same touring production, what follows is a revised version of that same review, updated for its visit to the Wolverhampton Grand.

Pre-pandemic, the musical theatre scene fizzed with something of a buzz for an announced revival of Sister Act The Musical promising something of a twist. Not only would it be overseen by OG ‘Deloris’, Oscar-winner Whoopi Goldberg, but so too would it be a hybridised version of the stage musical, intercut with some of the jukebox hits from the film.

And then? Enter COVID-19, stage left.

Four years on, it seems that perhaps God does, after all, move in mysterious ways. For whilst ‘Act’ MkII would have no doubt been an interesting curio to visit, and few would likely have denied the appeal of seeing Goldberg back involved in the habit, on the merits of this most fabulous new London and touring production that materialised, our stagey prayers were answered, anyway.

Wisely abandoning much of the tinkering and restyling done by Craig Revel Horwood in his 2016/17 tour of the show – not least of all its somewhat divisive ‘actor-muso’ infusion – Sister Act 2023 brings itself much closer in line with the original, celebrated West End production. Like the film that inspired it, it tells the story of washed-up lounge singer Deloris Van Cartier (Sandra Marvin) who, after witnessing her gangster boyfriend murdering a mole, goes on the run and, eventually, into hiding in a struggling nunnery.

“Sister Act takes so much of the fish-out-of-water hijinks that made the film such a smash and dials them up to eleven…”

On stage, Sister Act takes so much of the fish-out-of-water hijinks that made the film such a smash and dials them up to eleven, as brass, sassy Deloris butts heads (and, indeed, butts) with the convent’s no-nonsense Mother Superior (Lesley Joseph) whilst forming an unlikely and wholesome friendship with the Nuns about her. Characters grow. Lessons are learnt. And, for the stage, it’s all given a glitzy, sequinned gloss thanks to being transplanted to the ’70s. A move that lends a perfectly apt disco styling, only solidified by Alan Menken and Glenn Slater’s terrific score that offers echoes of everything of the era from Studio 54 to The Jackson Five and even a soupçon of Marvin Gaye.

The show’s got good, groovy ‘bones’, then. Which always helps, but a show as spunky, funky and funny as Sister Act will live or die by its cast. So praise whatever deity gives you your ‘Sunday Morning Fever’, then, for the utterly joyful ensemble of this latest Act. Without any egress or sensationalism, this is one of the most divine companies you could wish to watch treading the boards (and raising the roof).

Front and centre is the ever-fabulous Sandra Marvin, who, vocal powerhouse as ever, proves herself a formidable comedienne here, too. It’s a quite perfect blessing of performer and role, and right from her toe-tapping, scene-setting double-whammy opener of ‘Take Me To Heaven’ and ‘Fabulous, Baby!’, you know from the outset that not only are you in safe hands, not only has this Act got its Deloris down pat, but a damn high bar has been set that, amazingly, Marvin’s co-stars manage to routinely play up to, as well. It’s giddying fun to revisit the tour many months in and see Marvin continuing to plough every scene and set piece for new beats of sass and funny, and taking her numbers to new places, too; see a particularly soulful rendition of the titular ballad this time round, for instance.

Lizzie Bea continues her ascent as a leading lady of the stage on the rise, with a beautifully observed take on the timid but kindly Sister Mary Robert. Her Act II soul searcher, ‘The Life I Never Led’ is breathtakingly strong.  Alfie Parker makes for a loveable Eddie, benefiting from one of the evening’s best and funniest numbers. On a similar note, special mention must go to Castell Parker, who stepped in for the performance reviewed to cover the role of TJ – one of a trio of bumbling henchmen – and put in a superb, soulful performance alongside Damian Buhagiar and Tom Hopcroft, all of whom were on hilarious form stealing scenes (and hearts!) aplenty.

“It’s giddying fun to revisit the tour many months in and see Marvin continuing to plough every scene and set piece for new beats of sass and funny…”

Catherine Millsom and Anne Smith take on Kathy Najimy and Mary Wickes’ supporting Nuns from the film, and they are each utterly joyous and hilariously cranky, respectively. And you can’t help but be bowled over by the wonderful Lesley Joseph, still belting out the numbers and cutting a rug at the venerable age of 77. Joseph felt notably more confident in and vocally resonant in the role of Mother Superior this time round, too (having first played Sister Mary Lazarus to Jennifer Saunders‘ Mother Superior), and is a hoot during the cantakerous, unglamorous frustrations of ‘Haven’t got a prayer’. And naturally, being the complete pro that she is, Joseph handled a minor staging malfunction during that very number with consummate wit and flair.

For somewhat mystifying reasons, Morgan Large’s otherwise showy and suitably vibrant staging is noticeably pared back for its residency in Wolverhampton and these later tour venues. Some visual flourishes – such as Deloris ascending on a giant glitter ball for her ‘Fabulous, Baby!’ reprise – are notably absent, and entire portions of the set’s framing have been chopped, leaving the stage occasionally feeling a trifle bare when it ventures too far from the convent. It’s still a funky, glitzy piece to look at, though, and despite some of these noticeable edits, it looks great framed within the Grand auditorium. It’s just a pity to see it stripped back from its former, dazzling opulence.

There remains, of course, plenty of fun character beats and staging wrinkles to enjoy – watch as Deloris’ ‘sisters’ pop out from inside cupboards, beneath beds and other peekaboo surprises, in a move reminiscent of the postmodern quirks of Marianne Elliot‘s recent revival of Company.

“It’s difficult to imagine a more consistently uplifting, irrepressible and entertaining evening of musical theatre…”

These minor quibbles aside though, for the most part everything here just works. And does so at such a consistently high level, it’s difficult to imagine a more consistently uplifting, irrepressible and entertaining evening of musical theatre.

We almost didn’t get this glittering, pitch-perfect incarnation of Sister Act The Musical. This transcendent joyful noise of camp, colourful fabulousness. And, whilst there will likely always be some with a modicum of curiosity as to what form the previously-announced hybrid Act could have taken, and ponder how successful chopping up Menken and Slater’s score to make room for jukebox classics may have been, on the basis of this gorgeous cast, still-glitzy presentation and all-round divine treat that is Sister Act The Musical, one can’t help but have another tried-and-test homily spring to mind, too.

Namely – if it ain’t broke, don’t crucifix it.

Literalism or allegory. Fantasy agin reality. Identity versus perception.

Vast swathes of the endlessly inventive, wildly imaginative oeuvre of Neil Gaiman pivot around the fusion of the magical and the mundane, and the thin, nebulous separation of the real and the unreal. Whilst many of his celebrated offerings do indeed take giddy, soaring flight into the realms of the marvellous (and even the mythological), Gaiman’s work remains so enduring and endearing in no small way by dint of it being so often grounded, rooted and channelled through the immediate and the relatable.

The impish frustrations, curiosities and naïveté of childhood imagination in Coraline. The innately un-godly, often even unassuming, personas and forms taken by the titular American Gods. The elevation of ordinary trinkets into artefacts of immense power and importance in, say, Chivalry. And, of course, the innate power and strengths of dreams as evinced in The Sandman.

It seems obvious – some may say glib, even – to point out that a celebrated author’s work is partly so successful because of its relatability, and how they encircle timeless themes that a reader can easily attach themselves to. And yet, when you consider that this trenchant humanity courses so seamlessly and consistently through the bravura imagination and heightened vision of Gaiman’s world-building across so many subjects and scapes, then it only becomes all the more impressive. To paint a lavish, broad canvas of dreamscapes and unfettered originality, yet still thread it through with character, connection and resonance is no mean feat for a single story or book, let alone the countless in Gaiman’s back catalogue.

In what some consider to be amongst his most personal of works – and indeed which the author has himself admitted is peppered with glimmers of inspiration from his own childhood – The Ocean at the End of the Lane has arrived on stage as a bold, dynamic and deeply-moving standard bearer for brand Gaiman.

“…a bold, dynamic and deeply-moving standard bearer for brand Gaiman.”

Identity, and indeed self-identity, underpins much of the tale that Ocean tells, as a young boy (Keir Ogilvy) teetering on the edge of maturity toils with what the world around him thinks of him, not least of all his Dad (Trevor Fox). Even more fundamentally, there appear to be demons creeping about the periphery of what he thinks of himself, too. In a fractured (if not quite broken) home, one clearly still reeling from recent loss, ideas of parental and familial disconnect, and the widening chasm between childhood and burgeoning adolescence, all swirl.

Enter the fantastical and the fay.

Following another spot of tragedy, the ‘boy’ befriends fellow local oddball, Lettie Hempstock (Millie Hikasa) and family, who, in the confines of their cosy family farm, begin to peel back the quintessential Gaiman layers of magic and mystery. Curious goings-on in the boy’s life, followed by some ill-advised tinkering, sets in motion a series of increasingly dangerous and otherworldly events, not least of all the arrival of a sinister entity who takes on the form of ‘Ursula’, an intrusive new lodger and potential wicked-stepmother-to-be (Eastenders‘ Charlie Brooks, in a deliciously vicious and barbed turn).

The sandbox of Gaiman’s penchant for ‘magical realism’ is on full display here, and it’s in no small part down to a unity of fantastic performances, some truly audacious audiovisual and design work, and inspired, pin-sharp direction from Katy Rudd that it all coalesces into a sweeping, heightened spectacle that never drowns under the waves of its own ambition.

It’s grandiose stuff. Much akin to the National Theatre’s previous offerings, in particular the likes of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, here sumptuous production values and flourishes of invention delight and enrich the experience, yet never overshadow or distract from it. From jaw-dropping cable and elevation work, industry-leading standards of puppetry and costume work that bandy between the terrifying to the downright transcendent (a fairly late-game act II sequence is especially beguiling), right down to tried-and-true moments of misdirection and theatrical slight of hand (watch as Brooks’ Ursula appears to transport about the stage, much to the vocal astonishment of chunks of the audience), Ocean is an absolute feast for the senses, and feels as lavish and opulent as the rich text from which it is derived.

“Brooks… as mentioned, relishes every moment of malicious bombast and sinister mischief as Ursula, and eats up every moment she’s on stage.”

Naturally, all of the spectacle and wizardry in the world is for little if the characters and narrative ring hollow. Joel Horwood’s instinctive, sensitive take on Gaiman’s novel is ethereal and rich with whimsy and delight aplenty, but crucially lets that aforementioned humanity and relatability shine through and breathe. Moments of doom-laden exposition are punctured with cantankerous asides from Finty Williams’ spritely grandmother figure. A set piece of genuine trauma (and borderline abuse) quite literally pushes the fantastical and the demonic temporarily backstage. Even as the potentially apocalyptic and fatalistic crashes in about its antagonists, Ocean takes the time to put its central dynamics and relationships quite literally under the spotlight.

Fox channels empathy and dimension aplenty from his struggling, distant father figure that could otherwise so easily derail into the familiar and the rote. Laurie Ogden is tremendous fun throughout, giving an uncanny turn as the slightly brattish little sister, whilst Kemi-Bo Jacobs and Williams each imbue their kindly yet no-nonsense maternal types with a real sense of venerability that, likewise, never feel formulaic in a typical, sagely sense. Brooks, as mentioned, relishes every moment of malicious bombast and sinister mischief as Ursula, and eats up every moment she’s on stage.

But so much of Ocean’s heart and power rests on Ogilvy and Hikasa’s shoulders. The latter gets arguably the toughest ask of the company, portraying a timeless ‘little girl’ with the knowledge and experience of the ages on a youthful, slightly boisterous mantle, and she’s resplendent and engaging throughout, whilst Ogilvy has to navigate the show’s toughest and most emotionally demanding beats, which he does with complete confidence. They are masterstrokes of performances, and the success and impact of the story, as depicted here on stage, is in no small part thanks to their gorgeously-observed and compelling turns.

“They are masterstrokes of performances…”

When wading through the ideas, themes and messages of the wonderful world of Gaiman, you’re scarcely anything less than spoiled for choice. In this gorgeous, slick, evocative and frequently astonishing demonstration of stagecraft, the full scope of everything the famed author aims for is beautifully depicted and realised. It is a true spectacle – a dazzling, beautiful flurry of fabric, bracken and even strip neon lighting. Sure, there’s more than a soupçon of eighties, Stranger Things vibing to much of what Davis, Rudd and (lighting designer) Paul Constable, (Sound designer) Ian Dickinson and (magic and illusions designer) Jamie Harrison aim for here, but it all works resoundingly well.

And for all of its opulent, rich style and at times almost balletic staging, never does the fantastical dampen or outshine the core humanity and relatability at the heart of Ocean.

Like many of the myriad marvels sprung from the mind of its renowned creator, The Ocean at the End of the Lane on stage is a remarkable concoction of both the extravagant and the immediate – an unfettered flight of pure fantasy that is comfortably amongst the most visually arresting and dazzling things you can see on stage, whilst at the same time a focused, sincere and moving story of timeless resonance and relatability.

It is, quite simply, a form of pure, bottled, otherworldly theatrical alchemy, and should absolutely be seen to be believed.

On the morning of the performance reviewed, national treasure, actress Kathy Burke, proudly tweeted how her recent comments on how she loves being ‘woke’ (because, she states, “it’s better than being an ignorant b*stard”) have been slapped onto t-shirts. Elsewhere on the vestiges of what was once Twitter, droves took to ridiculing and despairing (in fairly equal measure) the game of bigot bingo that seemed to be pouring out of the populist-right ‘National Conservatism’ conference in London. And all mere days after a certain ex-President got served a slice of what some would deem long-overdue humble pie, with a US court finding him guilty of sexual abuse.

You’ll forgive the laden and socio-politically charged opener, but it seems that wherever you glance, there’s a lot of people taking particular relish in socking it to the truly horrible.

It’s isn’t exactly a new trend, either, and indeed entertainment has offered up plenty of retributive thrills over the years, be it on the page, screen or stage. From the family-friendly hijinks of, say, Home Alone or Matilda, right through to the decidedly more macabre and sanguine offerings of Sweeney Todd or Kill Bill, there’s empowerment and vicarious badassery in witnessing some just desserts being doled out to deserving targets.

Which leads neatly to the 1989 cinematic release of Heathers, and now, of all things, its late-2000’s musical adaptation.

Michael Lehmann and Daniel Waters’ darkly subversive coming-of-age comedy often gets unfairly lumped in today with conversations surrounding the likes of Tina Fey’s (far more pedestrian and formulaic) Mean Girls, or reduced to passing references in the likes of, say, RuPaul’s Drag Race. Plenty can process the titular reference as being one of cliquey high-school bitchiness, but that on its own is reductive to the point of almost insulting; the original Heathers is a twisted treat purely because of how far beyond the typical playground cattiness and antics that it takes its biting, dangerous narrative.

It’s what makes the idea of Heathers as a musical such a potentially disastrous misfire. In a story that deals with, amongst other heady issues, the likes of teen suicide, homophobia, bullying, murder and even terrorism amidst all other manner of blunt bleakness, the idea of it being set to some peppy tunes from the team behind Legally Blonde the Musical surely sets off some warning bells?

In actuality, writers Laurence O’Keefe and Kevin Murphy (said Blonde-smiths) pull a blinder here, not only transmogrifying the film into a purposeful and somehow relentlessly entertaining and funny stage romp, but actually taking things one step further in understanding and utilising the very format and tropes of the stage musical to amplify the rug-pulling, twisty-turny, frank and shocking story at the very dark, beating heart of Heathers.

Case in point – the show’s opening numbers. We get the bitchy, school-ruling clique, the air-headed jocks, the plucky heroine, and the mysterious new boy who may or may not have caught the eye of our lead, who herself seems ready to make a pact with the titular trio of devils in an ‘anything for a quiet life’ sort of gambit. You’ve seen the story before, in a million ways, and could practically signpost the direction it’s likely headed – girl loses herself and her true friends in the pursuit of popularity, yet ends up coming full circle, falling in love with the goofy oddball, and finding strength in her own individuality.

And yet, Heathers is decidedly not interested in taking you down that road. Sure, O’Keefe and Murphy do a superb job of wrong-footing you early on, in a sumptuously cunning first Act that quite literally plays all the right notes in taking those unfamiliar with the story along for the ride on where they think it’s all headed. The earnest ice-breaker (pun intended) of our lead, Veronica (Jenna Innes) crooning with trenchcoat-wearing loner, ‘J.D.’ (Jacob Fowler) at a Seven Eleven during ‘Freeze Your Brain’. The snappy, overt nastiness of ‘Candy Store’, as Heathers Chandler, Duke and McNamara really put a stamp on their bitchy rule. We even get the obligatory parents-are-away, ensemble party rompery of ‘Big Fun’.

“…remarkably, you can be in a position of going from complete shock and disgust to side-splitting laughter – sometimes in the space of seconds – without suffering any sort of tonal whiplash.”

But then, the worm begins to turn.

To go into detail on the subversions and about-turns that Heathers takes, particularly for those coming at the IP with fresh, unspoiled eyes, would risk ruining so much of the fun… and what unabashedly confident, bleak, brilliant fun it is.

It’s difficult not to be slightly taken aback by it all. Owing to the complete confidence and quality of the writing and performances, here is a show where, remarkably, you can be in a position of going from complete shock and disgust to side-splitting laughter – sometimes in the space of seconds – without suffering any sort of tonal whiplash. This is a show that is able to subdue you into laughing about a teenager’s mealy-mouthed suicide attempt, and as gauche and brazen as that may sound (and may indeed be), it’s a testament to how brilliantly-written, tightly-realised and winningly performed this touring production in particular is.

Enormous credit has to go to the cast. Jenna Innes steers the ship with masterful gusto, with a rounded, dynamic Veronica with whom we go on the full gamut of emotion. She inherits some big asks, too, pulling off some extraordinary belts and tough sings whilst never relinquishing character, nor the show’s overall sense of touching-distance irony. It’s a bravura turn that establishes her as a real talent to watch. Jacob Fowler, meanwhile, is equally impressive as the object of her affections. Navigating arguably an even more shifting and complex figure, his soulful vocals match an idiosyncratic turn that bandies between being adorable to at-times downright terrifying.

Kingsley Morton, recently quite wonderful as Wednesday in the The Addams Family, rekindles her sparkle in the supporting role of Veronica’s long-time bestie, Martha. Morton rends hearts in a crushing, beautifully delivered Act II solo, and proves herself another one absolute made for the stage. Alex Woodward and Morgan Jackson, meanwhile, gobble up scenes aplenty as the pair of groin-thrusting, empty-headed try-hard jocks who, again, somehow manage to convincingly lampoon their way around some fairly sinister material without ever threatening a disconnect. Conor McFarlane, Jay Bryce and Katie Paine all keep things colourful with some fun bit parts, whilst a punchy ensemble and swing do terrific work keeping the energy levels high throughout.

But there’s no discussing Heathers without appraising, well… you know who. For the performance reviewed, understudies Summer Priest and Eliza Bowden stepped in for the roles of ‘vice’ Heathers, Duke and McNamara respectively. Whilst Duke is perhaps the most underserved of the book, Priest did a suitably sultry and sassy job, whilst Bowden shone during the show’s second half, where her character gets a little more by way of development and chance to shine.

Yet ruling the roost, with godly stage presence, fantastic vocals, and razor-sharp characterisation par excellence is the superlative Verity Thompson as head bitch in charge, Heather Chandler. From the outset, Thompson commands, demands and effortlessly captures attention; a truly megawatt turn that shines even amongst an exceptional company and ensemble about her. Sure, the book gives her Heather Chandler the most to do out of the show’s antagonists, but even when she’s relegated to observing from the sidelines, theatrical magic courses through the very fibre of Thompson’s wonderful turn.

“…theatrical magic courses through the very fibre of Thompson’s wonderful turn.”

Those already familiar with Heathers by way of the film will find that, outside of some minor changes and tonal adjustments here and there, the musical is surprisingly faithful. Key moments, such as its climactic, emotional showdown, gets some new wrinkles and emotional beats, but overall what’s most impressive here is how well it all works as a piece of musical theatre. There’s admirably very little shying away from its nastiness and raw subject matter. Sure, the score lands far closer to early-mid 2000s than anything remotely 80s-sounding, but that’s no dealbreaker; O’Keefe and Murphy once again pepper the soundtrack with plenty of earworms and character nuggets. There are one or two places where it slightly flounders – such as a televised appeal that lands a little too tamely – and some may balk at the slightly sugar-coated denouement, but otherwise it mostly retains its fangs and bite, with punchy direction and choreography throughout from Andy Fickman and Gary Lloyd.

There will doubtless be some for whom the sobering topics that Heathers features or pivots around may register a touch too close to home. It may even lead to some disconnect or, for some, perhaps even a sense that it’s all in somewhat poor taste.

Had its execution, its writing, its performances and its moulding of the unique strengths and opportunities of the musical all not been so uniformly well-handled, I’d probably be inclined to agree. But, in this day and age where attitudes are championed for being simplistic and binary, where so many new productions and stories follow a roadmap to formula with little by way of invention or daring, how ironic it is that we have to go over three decades into the past to land on something which makes for one of the freshest, most original and welcomely complicated musical storytelling offerings in recent memory.

‘The extreme always seems to make an impression’, Christian Slater opines in the original 1989 release. It seems, on balance, as good a mission statement or appraisal as any for the daring, deliciously twisted and disarmingly complicated nasty and nice musical adaptation that would come to follow.

A challenge: strip any particular adaptation of the Titanic tragedy of its historical framing, and describe what you are left with.

The most immediate – not to mention culturally indelible – is James Cameron’s 1997 Oscar-gobbling blockbuster. But take away the actual Titanic from, well, Titanic, and what are you left with? For the most part, it’s an action movie hinged upon a tragic tale of star-crossed romance.

For ubiquitous though the harrowing events of April 1912 may be, there’s no singular, definitive Titanic ‘story’, outside of that of historical accounts and National Geographic specials.

Strip Titanic the Musical of its hull, and the bones of what’s left behind paint something of a puzzling picture.

A musical that is unquestionably an ensemble piece, and one that is regularly rousing, decadently staged and performed. Yet, for all of its flourishes and gorgeous stagecraft, it’s difficult not to leave feeling visually and audibly wowed, yet strangely unmoved.

Peter Stone and Maury Yeston have crafted a show of two distinct halves. No prizes for guessing where intermission lands. In what registers as a very conscious attempt to both move away from the doe-eyed romance of Winslet and DiCaprio, whilst also reflecting this ‘floating city’ as a vessel of truly many, the first half bounces around a surprisingly broad cast of characters, both passenger and crew. There’s excitable newlywed Alice Beane (a spirited Bree Smith), who offers up some of the more interesting flashes of character as she defies class restrictions to hobnob amongst the aristocrats and millionaires, fussy yet well-meaning steward Mr Etches (Barnaby Hughes), hesitant First Officer, William Murdoch (Billy Roberts) and hiss-worthy ‘villain’ of the piece, J Bruce Ismay (Martin Allanson) to name but a few.

The problem is, despite all being named after genuine persons on the doomed voyage, and the performances being strong across-the-board, outside of a handful of exceptions, much of the character work here is kept at a distinctly surface level (to pardon a slightly awkward pun). There’s also a veritable sea of young, budding and potentially doomed romances that scarcely register beyond the merit of their performers. Even earnest, salt-of-the-Earth stoker, Frederick (Adam Filipe, in sublime voice), one of the show’s best characters and finest performances both, has his story wrapped around a love waiting for him ashore.

“…despite all being named after genuine persons on the doomed voyage… much of the character work here is kept at a distinctly surface level”

Come the iceberg and inevitable calamity that follows, it’s surprising how quickly Titanic jetties a significant chunk of the cast of characters it spends much of its pleasant, meandering first half establishing, almost the point of anticlimax. Many of the stories we’ve been following for the best part of two hours are wrapped up with little individuality or musical egress, in a single (admittedly quite rousing) ensemble number that quite literally bids most of its cast – and dynamics – adieu. And, as impressively staged as the final moments of the liner are, it feels odd that in such a collective piece, we’re here, pinpoint-focused on just one character, even if it is Ian McLarnon’s fantastic take on engineer Thomas Andrews.

It makes for a jarringly incongruent second half, which repeatedly staggers and swerves between ratcheting up the tension and delivering the occasional moment of genuinely thrilling staging, where it seems like the ‘musical’ element of this Titanic is really dialling up the knots and finding it sea legs – see, for instance, a heated, three-way blame-laying tussle between the ship’s bigwigs. It’s just a shame that it almost immediately lapse into more languid moments of sipping champagne and character pontification. The sense of momentum, tension and stakes of Titanic the Musical seem to hit more unexpected obstacles than its namesake.

“…you’d have to go within the vicinity of Les Misêrables to find grandiose choral numbers this rousing.”

It’s far from a lost cause. Given the events it takes inspiration from, the show keeps things suitably serious and sombre, nigh-operatic (even to the point of occasioinally feeling self-serious almost to the creeping edge of parody). And you’d have to go within the vicinity of Les Misêrables to find grandiose choral numbers this rousing. Practically the entire company are offered at least glimpses of moments to shine, and much of Yeston’s music in the first half in particular at least aims for Boublil and Schönberg, occasionally coming surprisingly close. Some wistful ‘I wants’ around dinner tables of the various classes proves particularly delightful early on, whilst Valda Aviks and David Delve do much of the affecting and emotional heavy lifting later on.

There’s no denying that it’s a truly sumptuous production, too – Howard Hudson’s moody, evocative lighting, and David Woodhead’s tremendous set design and costume work all look and feel transportive, high-budget. In fact, the parallels to the doomed liner herself are myriad. Titanic the Musical is grand, lavish and impressive. At two hours and fourty minutes, it’s no whippet, and offers up plenty to be awed by.

“grand, lavish and impressive”

By the finale, though, as the names of all those poor souls lost in the tragedy adorn the stage, there’s a definite sense that it isn’t all landing quite as profoundly or movingly as it perhaps ought. It harkens back to that original stripped-bare conundrum – this Titanic doesn’t quite seem to know what it is, or wants to be.

Indeed, for all its opulence and aesthetic grandeur, for its numerous moments of stirring bombast, Titanic the Musical feels as though you’ve witnessed something that your mind and brain are telling you is impressive, rather than the heart.

As a feat of theatrical engineering, she’s a marvel.

But as a moving, engaging and purposeful piece of musical theatre storytelling, Titanic the Musical feels strangely hollow and, dare we say it, a little lost at sea.

Canted, revisionist and parodic theatre is hardly anything new. Heck, it’s practically a staple of any self-respecting fringe festival. In the West Midlands alone, there’s a running calendar of theatre ‘with a twist’ on history or classic literature for the immediate and foreseeable; April has Austen, May presents Dickens’ turn (with Unexpected Twist at the Wolverhampton Grand), whilst June sees the return of the merry wives of Windsor and their pop concert shebang Six (back in Brum at the Hippodrome).

Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of), however (itself up there amongst the most irritating of titles to repeatedly type out), is Olivier award-winning revisitation. And, whilst no single accolade or award – even those cast in the visage of Sir Larry – are automatic, unequivocal guarantees of quality, here is a twist on formula and familiar that truly sings (…literally).

With some knowing metadramatic framing, Isobel McArthur’s canny spin centres around a quintet of oh-so-Austen housemaids and servants, lamenting the sorry lot that they and their ilk get lumbered with in many of the classic romances or romantic epics. They settle on the titular classic as a prime example, and see fit to play out a retelling of the tale, using their five strong group as a troupe of stand-ins for practically the entirety of the Pride & Prejudice OG cast (father figure, Mr. Bennet, being a hilariously-realised exception, along with a couple of the Bennet sisters).

There are echoes of Mischief Theatre, and even tonal dashes of the likes of, say, Acorn Antiques, in the distinctly British silliness at which McArthur pitches this retelling. It’s barmily enjoyable and relentlessly funny throughout, though perhaps most welcome is how so much of the fun and humour is born of the characters and performances themselves.

“…barmily enjoyable and relentlessly funny throughout”

Sure, there are some environmental gags and visual buffoonery littered throughout (an early horse riding sequence is particularly bonkers) – including more than once instance where Colin Grenfell’s lighting is used to puncture the equivalent of a comedy edit on screen – but for the most part, the talented troupe of ladies who bring this twisted, postmodern riff on Austen to life is where the real substance (and silliness) springs from.

In what proves to be a rather inspired wrinkle, the show isn’t so much a musical as it is peppered with frequent moments of mic-in-hand karaoke, and with a track listing that cycles through everything from Bonnie Tyler to The Partridge Family, coupled with its all-female cast, the whole thing is leant a palpable fringe-meets-hen night kind of feel.

What sounds on paper like it should be a tonal cluster bomb actually delivers an impressively consistent and faithful trip through Austen’s celebrated classic. Of course, that’s with the delicious caveat that stately balls and debuts are replaced here with baudy, plastic-cupped discos featuring towers of Irn Bru cans. Where cordially sipping glasses of champers is replaced with necking back bottles of WKD Blue, and where there is liberal use of f-bombs and similar coarseness to gusset up this raucous (yet never crass or cynical) retelling.

All five of Pride’s (sorry… that full title and formatting has me beat) cast are, inevitably, on multi-role duty, meaning each get ample opportunity to shine. Lucy Gray regularly plays narrator, but is most deliciously repugnant as an ersatz, snobbish Caroline Bingley, whilst Megan Louise Wilson goes to town pitching her Lady Catherine as a venom-spewing, cane-stomping harridan (where her other characters mostly cut straight). Dannie Harris switches – sometimes within a matter of moments – between the truly laugh-out-loud bluntness and furniture-chewing melodrama of the Bennet matriarch, to a deadpan, self-serious Mr Darcy (including a delightfully droll nudge to his iconic lake sequence) and is hilarious as both.

“If Stonelake and Harris prove Pride’s heart (their central romance holding surprising water), Jamieson is its freewheeling, barnstorming funny bone.”

Steering true amidst all of the madness about her is a resplendent Emmy Stonelake, whose maid takes on the mantle of the story’s heroine, Elizabeth. Not only does Stonelake offer up some of the best vocals of the night (roof-raisingly impressive), but so too does her earthy, Cambrian grit lend the show an earnest, likeable heroine to root for. An extraordinarily naturalistic and gifted comedienne, Stonelake is certainly a talent to watch, as is the chameleonic Leah Jamieson, who cycles through one larger-than-life, giddily idiosyncratic character after another. If Stonelake and Harris prove Pride’s heart (their central romance holding surprising water), Jamieson is its freewheeling, barnstorming funny bone.

From shaking maracas to full-blown on stage instrumentations, quick costume changes and silly visual gags aplenty, there’s scarce downtime in the inspired silliness on show here, and the talented fivesome never dip in exuberance. Whilst at just over two and a half hours, there’s a sense that it could probably be a slightly leaner beast, the energy in McArthur’s writing and both she and Simon Harvey’s direction keeps the laughs, gags and, perhaps most unexpectedly, investment, coming thick and fast. Audible gasps at later plot twists and developments showcase an adaptation that, for all of its genuine fun and tomfoolery, still manages to pull off the dramatic threading and curvature of the source material. No mean feat for a show that features an entire set piece around a garish green ‘Jane Aust-bin’.

Take a dash of the Goes Wrong franchise, throw in a sprinkle of Victoria Wood, French and Saunders, and throw it all in a blender with liberal lashings of Six the Musical, and you’ll land somewhere in the neighbourhood of Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of).

It’s a giddily funny and blissfully silly evening of theatre that, against all odds and amidst its own wonderfully anarchic trappings, offers up Austen’s tale with surprising fidelity and resonance. It’s infectiously feel-good and frequently laugh-out-loud; an aggressive hug of a good time, with a hearty dose of indie, fringe and hen-do flavourings, to boot.

Revisionist and parodic theatre may be all the rage, but, like Austen herself, this is no pretender to the throne.

It is, sort of, without prejudice, a bonafide gem to be more than proud of.

In the great tombola of potential pull quotes that follow the debut of a new production, ‘better than expected’ and ‘it doesn’t need to be this good’ don’t perhaps crackle with quite the same fervour as some of the inevitable, nautical-flavoured gushing that will come for The SpongeBob Musical.

And yet, in a way, it’s probably amongst the loftiest praise one can afford a show whose brand recognition and popularity alone would likely have always guaranteed bums in seats, anyway. The ‘SpongeBob’ behemoth – which comfortably remains Paramount’s most commercially lucrative and viable franchise, on merchandising alone – could’ve easily coasted (mild, tangential pun there) on delivering an adaptation as facsimile to the kind of family-favourite, pleasant-yet-pedestrian offerings of, say, Cbeebies’ stage offerings.

Instead, what Tina Landau, Kyle Jarrow and a whole slew of musical talents first delivered on Broadway, was a critically-acclaimed, multi-Tony nominated postmodern treat. Fast forward a few years, and a certain global pandemic later, and Tara Overfield Wilkinson delivers up a reworked, tweaked, hyper-energised UK debut of a show that, yes, is a darn sight better than it had any right or need to be.

Following the antics of the very same cast of nautical misfits as the celebrated animated tv series, The SpongeBob Musical (itself, a slight reworking of the show’s former title) sees a calamity rumbling away on the shores (beds?) of Bikini Bottom, as a nearby volcano threatens to erupt and wipe out everyone’s ‘Best Day Ever’. Eternal optimist SpongeBob (Lewis Cornay, in what ought be a star-making turn) puts his trust in friendship, good times, and the smarts of his science-y friend Sandy (a Texan squirrel, naturally) in setting out to save the day.

Like so much here, Jarrow’s book paints itself in gloriously broad, multicolour strokes, but there’s wit and nuance in there, too. Steve Howell’s big, blue, beautiful, West End-worthy staging and Ben Bull’s brilliantly implemented video work are peppered with puns and quips galore, at everything from the Government (’10 Drowning Street’) to COVID dictats (‘Stay indoors, Protect the kelp, Save lives’) and even a slew of pop stars (‘Tuna Turner’ and ‘The Spice Gills’, anyone?). And if, in execution, SpongeBob feels in places more akin to a hyperactive panto on fishy steroids than a conventional musical theatre outing, that it maintains the necessary energy levels to do so thoroughout, and indeed to honour the manic spirit of the source material in the process, is itself no mean feat.

“Like so much here, Jarrow’s book paints itself in gloriously broad, multicolour strokes, but there’s wit and nuance in there, too.”

Overfield Wilkinson, along with choreographer Fabian Aloise, deserve particular credit for keeping this adventure in Bikini Bottom so consistently funny and kinetic, even at times when its story and musical numbers threaten to languish on the same or similar beats. The duo dial every number here right up to eleven, and there’s invention at every step, too – from a beautifully realised spot of sponge puppetry (of all things) that helps craft solo number ‘A Simple Sponge’ into a genuinely moving spot of stagecraft, to the raucous, roof-raising gospel stylings of ‘Super Sea Star Savior’ or a gloriously, full-throatedly vaudevillian song and dance number for Gareth Gates’ Squidward in ‘I’m Not a Loser’. Sure, some of the seeds of what is presented here are courtesy of the original Broadway creatives, but Aloise and Overfield Wilkinson deserve immense credit for injecting every step and song of SpongeBob with infectious energy and zest.

This is all enabled, of course, by a splendid company and ensemble who deliver the goods as intended. The aforementioned Cornay is outstandingly good – channeling the comedic, quirky oddness of the titular character with an effortless, likeably charm, whilst still finding time to showcase his heart, and belt out an incredible solo or two, to boot. He’s ably supported by Gates and Irfan Damani – the latter as SpongeBob’s lovable, dim-witted ‘bff’ Patrick Star – but it’s Chrissie Bhima as Sandy who regularly threatens to run away with proceedings. With a barnstorming command of character and physical comedy, and equally impressive vocals to match, Sandy’s story as scapegoat (‘scape squirrel’) for the calamities besieging Bikini Bottom offer some of the story’s most obvious yet touching undertones. Remembering that this is pitched primarily at kids,  including concepts such as ‘otherising’, and the perils of cheaply apportioning blame wherever possible, is a nice bit of social commentary and criticism for the show to include to its younger audiences.

“Cornay is outstandingly good – channeling the comedic, quirky oddness of the titular character, whilst still finding time to showcase his heart, and belt out an incredible solo or two.”

Elsewhere, Richard J Hunt is a lot of fun as an opportunistic Mr Krabs, whilst a talented Sarah Freer routinely pops up throughout to dazzle with a song or sassy interjection. Drag Race alum, Divina De Campo, is deliciously droll as the villainous, diminutive Sheldon J. Plankton, whose scheming with ‘wife’ Karen the Computer (Hannah Lowther) allows the show the chance to divulge into even some deadpan exploration of a dried-up relationship, rekindling some of its lost frisson. Speaking of Lowther, with so many of the company on multi-role duty, it speaks volumes to the talent on stage that she, along with the likes of Rebecca Lisewski, Reece Kerridge, Rhys Batten and Eloise Davies all disappear into such disparate, hilarious roles as pompous politicians, cocktail-swilling doomsayers and even a school of hilarious, fawning sardines (arguably the show’s finest scene-stealers). Keep a keen eye open, too, for TV stalwart Richard Arnold as the newscaster reporting on impending disaster, and an ear for musical veteran Alex Gaumond’s dulcet tones as the show’s Gallic-lilted narrator.

All of this comes with a big, volcano-sized disclaimer that The SpongeBob Musical will almost inevitably not be to everyone’s tastes. It’s big, loud (occasionally even noisy) and, as mentioned, pivots around a plot that bears the mark of its Kids’ TV show origins. It’s very consciously (and welcomely) pitched at that very same demographic here, too.

“a quick glance at the list of names who delivered music for SpongeBob says it all – vibrant, diverse, fabulous and more than a tiny bit random.”

The SpongeBob Musical doesn’t reinvent the wheel. In fact, it kind of picks up the wheel, tells a quick joke about it, then tosses it aside to focus on delivering more silly, colourful, high-energised fun. And what fun it is – the soundtrack alone, comprising of songs from the likes of Cyndi Lauper, John Legend, Waitress’ Sara Bareilles and even Aerosmith – offers up a constant supply of fresh, toe-tapping or soul-searching bangers. In fact, in many ways, a quick glance at the list of names who delivered music for SpongeBob says it all – vibrant, diverse, fabulous and more than a tiny bit random. It doesn’t all completely gel together; it’s more a bricolage of inspired, tuneful fun than it is a seamless, cohesive musical whole, but there’s no denying it is utterly infectious and buoyant throughout.

So no, The SpongeBob Musical didn’t need to be this good. Yes, it is a whole lot better than perhaps anyone had the right to expect it to be. It isn’t perfect, and it likely won’t convert anyone shell-fishly going in expecting Chekov or Miller, either. But, for everyone else, it is a nautical jolt of pure, family-friendly joy, and one of the most relentlessly energetic, vibrantly staged and winningly performed original productions to come along in recent memory.

So slap on your flippers, keep a weather eye open for any errant jellyfish, and be sure to have packed enough spare change for a Krabby Patty or two (their price seems to be skyrocketing, even amidst a cost of living crisis…). Snorkel on down to Bikini Bottom and soak up a regularly dazzling, frequently funny new family favourite that we’ll hopefully still be seeing…

…wait for it…

75 YEARS LATER.

(…Google it, if you need to).