It’s a universal truth in the ebbing, organic flow of theatre making.

Just because one production is good, doesn’t mean they all will be.

Perhaps the reigning example of this creed is the wildly variable Ghost the Musical. The original West End production and subsequent tour remains one of the most technically dazzling and ambitious musicals ever put to stage. The barely watchable Bill Kenwright homunculus of it that followed a few years later, starring the late Sarah Harding, was a disaster. Its most recent reincarnation landed somewhere in between.

Of course, the reverse can be true, as well. One would rather pluck one’s own teeth than revisit the 2017 tour of Grease, whilst Nikolai Foster’s recent revisit gave it a much-needed MOT into a really exciting and vibrant piece of musical theatre.

Which brings us to Bat Out Of Hell, a show which, back in 2022 this very outlet called ‘one of the most gorgeous, vibrantly and innovatively realised productions you will see in any theatre.’

No prizes for guessing where this is going…

First, the good. This new, non-replica production at least gets its casting on point. Bringing back former cast members Glenn Adamson, Rob Fowler and Sharon Sexton alone makes for a compelling argument to see them do their thing. Katie Tonkinson, so great last year in the ill-fated Bonnie & Clyde, is equally impressive, and rounds out the central cast with gusto.

Bat continues to boast some of the best vocals you could wish for in a musical production, with Adamson and co routinely knocking raising the roofs with killer riffs and belts to what are, after all, seriously demanding sings in the discography or Meatloaf and Jim Steinman.

They’re enveloped by more excellence, too. Georgia Bradshaw, Luke Street and Ryan Carter are all seriously impressive, and a special shout out must go to local Wolverhampton talent Sophie-Rose Emery, who delivered a powerhouse understudy Valkyrie in the performance reviewed.

“The stage is almost literally set aflame with talent, and when you can just allow yourself to be swept along in the rock ’n roll of it all, there are moments of pure electricity.”

The stage is almost literally set aflame with talent, and when you can just allow yourself to be swept along in the rock ’n roll of it all, there are moments of pure electricity.

So give this company all their deserved plaudits; they give it their all and present some seriously commanding and soaring numbers masterfully.

The issue is, frankly, everything else. And the calibre of talent assembled for this production only makes its waste of them all the more glaring.

This is Bat Out Of Hell – the Ozempic years. Whilst never the most intricate or groundbreaking of narratives, Steinman’s original book presented a dystopian slant on Peter Pan, all drenched in lashings of punk rock anarchy. The bones of its story are just about intact: a powerful, corporate overlord (Rob Fowler) tries to prevent his ingenue daughter, Raven (Katie Tonkinson) from becoming entangled with Start (Glenn Adamson), the spunky leader of a group of rebellious youths who will never grow old.

For those familiar with the previous production, it’s impossible to not feel disappointed that so much of the plot and substance is either blitzed through or chopped out altogether. And yet, despite taking out entire numbers (three in total), it doesn’t seem to have any time for world or character-building, either. Spare a thought for those who are new to it all; interval murmurings had several people completely lost as to what on earth was supposed to be going on.

As well as being inexcusably rushed, rendering some of it almost incomprehensible, there’s precious little sense of character or motivation. The central love interest and Raven’s parents seem to separate and reunite every ten minutes. Good luck decoding why; there seems to be more time given to the reasons behind the will they, won’t they of Bradshaw and Carter’s Zahara and Jagwire. Someone says something about underground tunnels and ‘deep ends’ at some point. Answers on a postcard for the uninitiated.

Without context or breathing space, moments of humour fall flat or, in the case of what was formerly a raucous, show-stopping duet between Fowler and Sexton, feel uncomfortable and jarring here. 

“As well as being inexcusably rushed…. there’s precious little sense of character or motivation.”

And the choreography. It’s serviceable for some of the bigger set pieces – the company briefly bringing ‘Dead Ringer for Love’ to life as a song and dance interlude – but for the most part it’s bizarre, distracting and borderline parodic. Whenever our two leads are together they awkwardly bound about each other like a pair of agitated rabbits. It feels laden, awkward and at times even amateur.

This Bat Out Of Hell is directed in a fashion that seems, if anything, annoyingly burdened by the whole musical theatre inconvenience, when it really just wants to be a staged rock concert. For most shows of this ilk, that would acceptable (enjoyable, even). Yet there’s no denying this Bat has had its wings, logic and much of its compelling uniqueness clipped altogether. So much of what made it a fun, quirky and original piece of musical theatre storytelling has been binned in favour of a rushed, confusing mess.

The legitimately superb cast do their absolute best to salvage it, and the vocals and performances remain arguably worth the price of admission alone, but as the pendulum of production quality swings, the former great version of this show is All Coming Back to Me Now.

And I guess, with that in mind, Two out of Five Stars ain’t bad…

Note: TWE recently reviewed  ‘Chicago’ earlier in its 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.

As we appraise a show already reviewed earlier in its run, let Chicago the Musical’s most overriding swipe at celebrity culture and infamy linger for a second.

Namely; flavour of the month can change on a dime.

It’s a truth that transposes itself onto this new production of Ebb, Kander and Fosse’s fan favourite in a curiously meta fashion.

Take a glance at the show’s current tour schedule and it appears to almost be a dice roll of who will be appearing where. Head on down to Norwich next month and 80s legend Sinitta will be temporarily reclaiming the reins of Matron ‘Mama’ Morton. Strictly favourite Kevin Clifton recently capped off his appearance in the tour for a handful of venues, fand X Factor and Loose Women alumni swings back in for the show’s last stop in Salford.

In our review of the current touring production at the Alexandra earlier this year, this writer made a point of clearly establishing that glitzy five star rating was for the assemblage of leads that Brum was treated to. Heck, we even prefaced it all with: We can’t be held responsible if you are reading this further down the line and your Billy Flynn proves a damp squib, or your Matron ‘Mama’ Morton can’t riff for the back rows.

Which brings us to Wolverhampton, as Chicago fosses it way into the City for a week-long engagement at the Grand. You’ve likely already glanced at that star rating, but we’ll get to the whys of that shortly.

Those familiar with the show will be pleased to know that this is very much the tale of ‘greed, corruption, violence, exploitation, adultery and treachery’ you know and love, staged with real Fosse-worthy pizzaz and zest. It’s a sexy, funny, silly romp through the misadventures and opportunism of jailbirds Roxie Hart (Janette Manrara) and Velma Kelly (Djalenga Scott) who find themselves banged up for murder.

And, as the tagline for Rob Marshall’s Oscar-gobbling 2002 film adaptation shrewdly chimed – if you can’t be famous, be infamous.

“Somehow both more heightened and stripped back at once on stage when compared to Marshall’s film adaptation, the current touring production really leans into the zanier, freewheeling hijinks of Ebb and Fosse’s book.”

Somehow both more heightened and stripped back at once on stage when compared to Marshall’s film adaptation, the current touring production really leans into the zanier, freewheeling hijinks of Ebb and Fosse’s book. As the two warring murderesses attempt to outdo one another, abetted by their slick operator of a lawyer (Darren Day) and equally self-serving prison matron (Victoria Anderson), whole numbers omitted from the film are present and accounted for here, such as Roxie’s wonderfully goofy ‘Me and My Baby’ and Velma’s accompanying ‘I Know A Girl’.

Naturally, all the iconic favourites – from seminal opener ‘All That Jazz‘ onwards – are here, too, and in the hands of such a strong company, and with a splash of extra sexiness and fun injected into Fosse’s classic choreo courtesy of Ann Reinking and Gary Chryst, it’s quite possibly the best that Chicago has looked, moved and sounded in its several decades of existence. The show’s iconic tiered, minimalist staging, very much evocative of the cabaret joints of the era, remains distinctive and effective in its simplicity. Tour director Tânia Nardini makes great use of it, not least of all with resident MD Neil MacDonald a show-stopping tenant – leading a truly impressive ten-strong orchestra on-stage, who prove to be a star attraction in and of themselves.

Before, about and even between them, a seriously impressive company strut, split and sidle their way through this exciting, sultry revisit. They are excellent across the board, though particular plaudits must go to Annabelle Lang, Victoria Anderson, Ria Tanaka, Lucy-Anne Stacey and Bethany Adamson who, in addition to being on multi-role ensemble duty, help solidify ‘The Cell Block Tango’ as one of musical theatre’s great numbers. Similarly, whilst Josh Crowther makes for a physically imposing and dashing Fred Casely, it’s actually in his later quirkier, caricature beats where he really impresses with some terrific physical comedy and character work.

Djalenga Scott triumphantly returns to the role of Velma Kelly, singing and sassing up a veritable storm as the feisty ‘OG’ merry murderess. Joshua Lloyd proves an endearing and boyish Amos, whilst many eyes will doubtless be on Strictly Come Dancing pro Janette Manrara to see whether she has the chops to take on the deceptively demanding role of Roxie Hart. Thankfully, she does not disappoint. Like much of the show, Roxie on stage is a far more manic, goofy and even brattish creation than on screen, and Manrara brings an excitable physicality to the role that is utterly infectious. She infuses so much vitality and nervous, hyperactive electricity into her Roxie that you can’t take your eyes off of this delicious interpretation of the character. And yes, her dance skills are put to terrific use, perhaps most notably in the puppetry hijinks of ‘We Both Reached For The Gun’ and the comic freewheeling of ‘Me and My Baby’.

“Manrara brings an excitable physicality to the role that is utterly infectious… and yes, her dance skills are put to terrific use.”

Darren Day steps into the sauve, cocksure shoes of defence lawyer Billy Flynn, and whilst he certainly looks the part, a lot of the character’s higher register and bigger belts elude Day. He’s a perfectly serviceable Billy, but when compared to other Billy’s on this very tour, it hard to shake that it feels like a downgrade. The production has also lost the riffing, belting prowess of Brenda Edwards as Mama Morton, though it has to be said, ensemble member Victoria Anderson who stepped in for Edwards can belt for the heavens, too, even if the characterisation felt a little thin.

Much like we said earlier in the year, if this current touring production is indeed a changing, evolving beast with a variable lineup at practically every stop of the way, then, as mentioned, you may need to adjust your mileage accordingly. Chicago lives and breathes on its casting, and you only need to glance at previous reviews by this very outlet to know that some of the alternate casting choices are something of a mixed bag.

So if Wolverhampton isn’t quite getting to experience Chicago at its absolute sexiest and best (curiously in the performance reviewed, Manrara’s opening number was grounded from its ladder-scaling heights to being plonked on stage), it’s still a sizzling, relentlessly entertaining spectacle of Vaudevillian delights and iconic numbers. It’s directed and choreographed to absolute perfection, and high-kicked and jazz-handed to the stage by a cast and company who are (mostly) so good you’d almost think it should be illegal.

Come on babe, why don’t you paint the town, and see what all the Fosse’s about.

There’s a handy old ad hominem that often bubbles to the surface when contemplating yet another revival of an ‘old favourite’ that perhaps should have been left to yesteryear. You know it; it’s the one about polishing a certain type of excrement. And you’ve quite possibly seen it, too, one of those lazy, half-soaked retreads of a show we’ve seen countless times before, put through the blender of formulae and churned out to half-empty auditoriums.

Firstly, to call Footloose as source material a ‘turd’ would be needlessly both crass and unfair. Whilst its tale of repressed youths liberating their town through, of all things, dance, has never really been one that immediately screamed for the musical treatment, it isn’t the queerest of adaptations, either. Music running, as it does, through every tap and beat of its tale, and, given the soundtrack of the 1984 Hollywood sleeper hit boasts such instant earworms as the titular track and Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’, you already have the foundations of something poppy, frothy and fun for the stage.

Turning lemons into lemonade would perhaps, then, be a fairer adage.

True, there’s little getting around a story that is littered with a full quota of rote, cookie cutter characters, in service to a predictable, by-the-numbers plot and perfunctory central romance to boot, all of which quickly remind an audience that this is a story reaching for its fortieth anniversary in the not-too-distant. But, given those are the ingredients that the creatives assembled for this latest tour had to work with, coupled with the fact that the majority of audiences going in to see a show called Footloose will be expecting exactly that, then what surprisingly fizzy and energising lemonade it proves to be.

If that sounds a needlessly mean-spirited opener, it isn’t the intent. Look, Footloose is never going to blow minds or subvert expectations on what narrative profundity it’s going to provide; on stage or otherwise. Even back in the early eighties, it was enjoyed (later celebrated) as a spunky, spritely ode to teenage rebellion and the irresistible burgeoning of music and dance. Add a smattering of clerical authoritarianism and a sprinkle of parental conflict and, voila, you have a not-so-modern day fable of fighting the good fight by putting a soft shoe in your step (or, indeed, the nearest ‘Country’ equivalent).

Assembling a corker of a cast is the first step SellADoor and co. get right here. You’ve got your Darren Days (off sick for the performance reviewed) and Jake Quickendens (more on whom later) as poster names to draw in the crowds and sell it as a production of ‘note’, but they are slotted in amongst a company and ensemble who are energised and excellent throughout.

Nowhere is this more noticeable than in Joshua Hawkins’ pitch-perfect steering of the ship as ‘Ren’ (Kevin Bacon’s star-making turn in the original). Hawkins is a professionally trained musical theatre performer, and it erupts from every moment he takes to the stage – a hyper-energised, vocally robust and tirelessly excellent turn. Co-lead Lucy Munden, likewise, routinely impresses as the daughter of an oppressive Reverend (Ben Barrow, doing an admirable understudy job for Day), whilst Oonagh Cox is a recurring delight as exuberant friend Rusty.

“…it must be said, X Factor and I’m A Celebrity star Quickenden is an inspired choice”

But there’s talent and entertaining takes pretty much wherever you glance. Wendy Paver cycles through a triad of roles and imbues each with something tender, funny or sardonic, whilst in much the same vein, Holly Ashton delicately bandies between a tender, empathetic mother and a wrenching, waspish principal. And, it must be said, X Factor and I’m A Celebrity star Quickenden is an inspired choice for the role of kind-hearted but slightly dim-witted Willard. Wheeling back to that initial latrine analogy, there’ve been many a touring ship sunk by the foolhardy insistence on stunt casting (please, nobody mention a certain Ms. Collins, we may manifest something awful). No such trouble here, though – Quickenden, who, to be fair was already known as a capable vocalist, is a complete natural on the stage, too. He crafts an endearing and animated character study, and sings and dances up a storm when called for. His august physique certainly received audible cries of approval from the crowds, too.

Aesthetically, this is a fairly handsome and shiny standard for a touring piece of theatre. Sara Perks’ set design, Chris Davey’s lighting and Chris Whybrow’s (occasionally over-bombastic) sound design all sync up to offer an impressive looking evening of colourful musical escapism. It certainly channels its era ‘vibes’ with aplomb. And, whilst some may balk at the mere mention of actor-muso, here it’s a neat, lightly-applied gloss, rather than a distracting splash of showmanship.

“…as fun, as inventive, as animated and as ambitious as any production of Footloose has a right to be.”

Performers wheel around on roller blades playing saxophones. Ensemble members literally propel themselves forward on gigantic rubber tyres. Cue the fan that blows Munden’s hair in suitably eighties dynamo fashion as she belts out the last reaches of ‘Holding Out For A Hero’. It’s pulpy, it’s predictable, and it’s plenty derivative, but heck, this is as fun, as inventive, as animated and as ambitious as any production of Footloose has a right to be.

So kick off your Sunday shoes, and whisk yourself back to simpler, sillier times. You likely won’t leave feeling in any way profoundly moved, surprised or enlightened, but that’s not really the point. It’s as polished and punchily executed as you could hope for in the confines of what the now-familiar story has to offer and, much like the denizens of its fictional humdrum town, by the time its infectious extended curtain call revisits those seminal hits, you’ll have had an irrepressibly good time getting to cut loose with Footloose, anyway.

The inherent Vaudevillian spark that sizzles through every tap, tune and tease of Chicago is something that the past few decades seem to have gone a little out of their way to try and water down somewhat. Beginning with the revivals of the late 90s both in London and across the pond, ditching the ‘Chicago: A Musical Vaudeville’ moniker in favour of just the Windy City by its lonesome, and the subsequent Rob Marshall film adaptation, which, whilst a hit by any conceivable measure, nevertheless took itself a lot more seriously than an outing featuring such numbers as ‘We Both Reached for the Gun’ and ‘Funny Honey’ perhaps ought.

Sure, there was still plenty of fun to be had with the mistresses of Murderess’ Row (particularly Catherine Zeta-Jones’ Oscar-winning turn as Velma Kelly), but in infusing extra drama – namely to beef up the climactic courtroom showdown and infuse extra venom into the antagonistic rivalry between its two leads – Chicago on screen tiptoed further away from the heightened vampy farce of its origins.

Think more Sorkin than Fosse.

Thankfully, the stage production remains mostly unfettered by such toying (streamlined but now-iconic title excision notwithstanding). In fact, Marshall admitted to struggling with how to incorporate so much of the direct-to-audience magic and non-existent fourth wall that Chicago offers in abundance, and it’s here where this latest touring production once again proves the stage and auditorium to be the perfect conduits for a show and story perhaps at its best when channeling the revues and music halls of the past, and laying its tale of murder, manipulation and morbid press fascination in as broad and bullish strokes as possible.

We’re in 1920s prohibition-era Chicago, and young Roxie Hart (Faye Brookes) has just gunned down the man she’s been cheating on well-meaning, slightly down-on-his-luck husband Amos (Joel Montague) with. Her motive? Well, he was walking out on her, of course.

“perhaps at its best when channeling the revues and music halls of the past”

Fast track the young ingenue to the Cook County Jail for women, where she joins fellow recent murderess Velma Kelly (Djalenga Scott) on ‘Murderess Row’, with the promise of a noose waiting for her troubles. But it’s ok, or so we’re told, by the Row’s matriarch-for-hire overseer, Matron ‘Mama’ Morton (pop culture icon Sinitta… yes, that Sinitta), as Cook County apparently haven’t hung a woman in decades.

Plot twist… that’s about the change.

Originally adapted from Maurine Dallas Watkins’ stage play of the same name – inspired itself by actual real life court cases of female assailants acquitted of murder – Chicago has become something of a go-to satire for warnings on the fickle, capricious, oft-manipulated nature of fame and instant stardom, not to mention being pretty much a two-hour song and dance piece on getting away, quite literally, with murder.

As the age of the ‘cult of personality’ threatens to self-implode in a cacophony of Trumps, Johnsons and Prince Andrews, and the idea that fame can be a salve-all or veil to hide behind thankfully erodes away, there’s still plenty of timely, sobering warning shots fired throughout Chicago, most of which are as biting and prescient as they are by dint of their delivery being so consciously heightened and regularly bordering on farcical.

It’s no slight or insult, either; Chicago on stage is a much freer, looser and, yes, sillier affair, and it’s all the more revelrous and enjoyable for it.

It’s frequently laugh-out-loud funny, too. For instance, in depicting its sham courtroom trials as, well, a sham, the stage production descends the whole thing into exaggerated, cartoonish reenactments and recollections that wouldn’t be out of place in a Roadrunner cartoon. Where Renee Zellweger’s take on ‘Roxie’ in the film was a soberingly serious affair, here Brookes and the creatives get to imbue it with far more light, shade and buoyancy.

“Chicago on stage is a much freer, looser and, yes, sillier affair, and it’s all the more revelrous and enjoyable for it.”

As said, it’s that Vaudeville element. Numbers that could easily have been staged conventionally ‘bigger’, such as, say, ‘Razzle Dazzle’ or ‘I Can’t Do It Alone’, instead work far better with just the cast, that spotlight, the on-stage band (and oh, what a band they are!) and precious little need for anything more.

It helps that Chicago boasts such a strong supporting company. A superb ensemble carry – at times quite literally – big chunks of the show on their shoulders, and also inject plenty of that other key Chicago ingredient – a sultry physicality and decadent appeal to proceedings. Yes, Chicago is satirical and regularly silly, but it’s darn sexy too (something that again felt strangely absent in its film counterpart).

Faye Brookes takes seminal numbers like ‘Roxie’ and ‘Funny Honey’ and filters them through her loveable, mischievous take on the show’s co-lead. She has stage smarts aplenty, and whilst she doesn’t tear the roof off with belts or soaring refrains, she’s got a suitable lightness of tone, and fits the character to a tee; bulldozing scenes down with her comic timing and force of character alone. Djalenga Scott is all legs, high-kicks and glowering put-downs as a suitably sardonic Velma, and she takes major classics like ‘All That Jazz’ in her impressive, stage commanding stride. She’s the imposing, sensual glue that holds together some of her shared numbers too, including firm favourite ‘Cell Block Tango’, and characterful, neatly-charted duet ‘Class’ with Sinitta.

Elsewhere, Joel Montague tugs on the heartstrings as loveable Amos, getting perhaps the biggest cheer of the night closing out his downbeat Act II solo ‘Mr Cellophane’, whilst B E Wong is supremely watchable and flighty as ersatz reporting do-gooder, Mary Sunshine.

Given the prestige and quality of the music being handled and the terrific work done with that original Fosse and Ebb choreography, it’s a shame that in places – and even with some of its central cast – it’s hard not to feel that some parts of Chicago are, if not coasting, then at least strutting along at a comfortable rhythm.

Some of this may be due to it being a good few months into this, an international tour, and again none of this is true of the phenomenal swings and ensemble, but to say that they carry some numbers and sections of the show is, in some places, a case of understatement.

It doesn’t majorly detract from the overall good time you’ll have with Chicago, though, and the stage remains absolutely the medium of choice through which to experience its funny, biting pastiche of vaudeville good times and fleeting fame both. Featuring what are, without question, some of the best numbers in musical theatre history, winningly performed by its two leads and their entourage in particular, whilst this incarnation may careen perilously close once or twice to its ‘loved one minute, forgotten the next’ credo, Brookes, Hayes and a sinfully good group of gals and guys claw it back with confidence, presenting what remains a sexy, silly, sumptuously fun trip to the clink.