It’s difficult to shake a sense that revisiting Moira Buffini’s Handbagged in 2025 feels surprisingly more dated than it did even a decade ago, when this particular reviewer last caught it (at the Coventry Belgrade).

That isn’t really a slight, either. Buffini’s witty, meta four-hander chronicling the reportedly frosty relationship between the late Queen Elizabeth II and Margaret Thatcher is still a great deal of fun, and blitzes through Thatcher’s eleven-year tenure in suitably accessible and entertaining form. It’s more a commentary on how vastly different the geopolitics are this time around.

Notably, we’ve had the realisation of Thatcher’s ultimate Euroscepticism in Brexit, and whilst much is made of the Queen herself being a constant throughout the perils and even changing of the guard at No. 10, when well all know she’s now off playing with the corgis or admiring the horses in the great beyond.

There are some notable parallels – a celebrity turned unreliable President, anyone? But on the whole, landing in the breakneck era that it does, and particularly at a time when UK, European and US politics are beset with brinkmanship and peril, it can’t help but feel a little staid. It’s a time capsule, for sure, and covers major periods such as the Falklands, the miners strike and IRA terrorism with aplomb, but when you’ve broken that fourth wall and have your leads acting as contemporised narrators (right down to addressing younger audience members who may not even have been born back in ’86) it feels somewhat jarring to have no reference at all to such major political earthquakes as Brexit and the obvious Reagan-Trump parallels, to name but a couple.

Similarly, the show passes a touching moment at the end regarding dementia, which Thatcher was herself in the later stages of when Buffini first wrote the piece, and yet there’s no acknowledgement of the Queen’s own mortality.

It’s a rare instance of what feels like a once excellent play now feeling a trifle incomplete; boxed in by its own creative choices. A revised, updated version of Handbagged, anyone?

“It’s a rare instance of what feels like a once excellent play now feeling a trifle incomplete; boxed in by its own creative choices.”

Despite this rather notable lacuna, what remains is still a feisty, frequently funny jolt through (relatively) recent history. Whilst it doesn’t probe too deep, with much of the banter and personality clash between the pair mostly focused around implicit or surface-level cattiness, it makes for an amusing watch. Buffini gave herself carte blanche to dial up some of the rhetoric and barbs by frequently having the elder iterations of Maggie and the Queen jumping in to clarify they never actually said that.

It’s heightened, occasionally even silly fun. There’s a great moment where the younger ‘Liz’ (a resplendent Helen Reuben) breaks from the poise of a particularly pointed Christmas message to lounge about and relish in the shock of ‘Mags’ (an equally impressive Emma Ernest) and Dennis Thatcher’s (Gerard McDermott’s) reactions to it. As the show repeatedly points out, it’s the kind of the Queen would never actually have done, but it’s delicious all the same.

McDermott and Cassius Konneh offer up great character work as jobbing actors who are ‘hired’ to take on a variety of roles in the journey through Eighties turmoil. Konneh gets some of the biggest laughs of the night as a hilarious take on Nancy Reagan (right down to the questionable pronunciations), though it’s arguably his interjections pointing out some of the social injustices of the time that resonate loudest. McDermott showcases an impressive wheelhouse of accents and impressions, doling out uncanny evocations of everyone from Prince Philip and Michael Heseltine to Geoffrey Howe and Arthur Scargill.

But there’s no denying it is a show anchored around its leading ladies, and all four not only get the voices down pat, but enrich these two iconic women with some extra dimension and nuance, too. Emma Ernest and Morag Cross inherit plenty of Thatcher’s most enduring lines and soundbites, but they’re deftly woven to give a sense of steely conviction where caricature could have easily prevailed. Sarah Boyle and Helen Reuben, meanwhile, manage to get the late Queen’s prim and precise moments to perfection, but also infuse her with a zesty, cheeky sense of fun and humour that she was privately renowned for.

“…wonderful performances across the board.”

They’re wonderful performances across the board that really carry the night.

The new production looks suitably grand, to boot. Katie Lias’ set is a striking coliseum for this battle Royale, neatly blending the ornate grandeur of an enormous coin featuring, naturally, the monarch’s profile, with more makeshift flourishes to reflect the in-universe ‘production’ – racks of costume changes for the gentleman floating upstage, or strands of rope rigging. Ryan Day’s moody lighting lends the aura of a studio interview or even flairs of interrogation whenever the two sit down for their next battle of wits.

Alex Thorpe generally keeps things pacy with a keen eye on character, and there’s plenty of movement, but some of the choices here are a touch… curious. Not least of all bizarre musical interludes where these esteemed and proper ladies burst into truncated renditions of jarring numbers such as The Cranberries’ ‘Zombie’ and Electric Light Orchestra’s ‘Mr Blue Sky’. It gives complete tonal whiplash from the rest of the RP hijinks and guffawing, and feels ripped from a far less classy production.

Overall, despite its now glaring age and some odd directorial choices, Handbagged still remains a treat. Not quite as cutting or essential as, say, a decade ago, but still a royally engaging evening of theatre, whose sassy, delightful central performances prove to be the real jewels in the crown.

Oh god, we haven’t even mentioned The Crown…

With a slew of loving admirers and outright imitators, running the gamut from Orwell’s Animal Farm through to Lewis’ adventures of Narnia, the stark truth is that there hasn’t quite been anything to challenge the crown of Marianne Elliot, Tom Morris and Toby Sedgwick’s stunning fusion of animal puppetry and theatrical storytelling in War Horse. The influence of the National Theatre colossus (itself returning for a new tour later in 2024) can be seen and felt in a whole host of productions since, but no show seems to have quite been able to recapture or bottle that ‘Joey’ magic.

Max Webster’s Life of Pi is perhaps the closest a show has come to date. On paper, it checks a lot of the same boxes. Based on a popular novel? Check. Orbiting a critically acclaimed Hollywood adaptation? Indeed. Organically featuring a prominent animal character that forges a bond with its traumatised, struggling protagonist put through an ordeal of survival? Full house.

To simply filter Pi through the funnel of Horse would, however, do it a disservice. Whereas Horse is a more literal rumination on war, loss and fortitude, Yann Martel’s Life of Pi novel, on which this theatrical outing is lifted, is – for better or worse – a decidedly more spiritual and metaphysical affair. An allegorical melting pot of ideas and pondering on faith, higher powers, the interconnectivity with the natural world and, perhaps above all, the power of storytelling.

“It makes for a more numinous, occasionally otherworldly experience…”

It makes for a more numinous, occasionally otherworldly experience, and it’s in realising this quality where Webster and company’s production really shines. Following the story of young Piscine ‘Pi’ Patel (Divesh Subaskaran), we following the probing, questioning son of a zookeeper as he embarks on a new life with his family, departing the turbulence of mid 1970’s India. As the family set out on their emigration to Canada, disaster strikes, and young ‘Pi’ is forced into a battle for survival on the high seas, with only a lifeboat and the small matter of a ferocious Bengal Tiger for company.

It looks fantastic. Even the more dour moments of the show – such as those set in present day where we find a traumatised, recovering Pi recounting his tale within an institution – ripple at their fringes with Andrzej Goulding’s captivating projection and transportive video work. Tim Hatley’s early sets for the sequences in India are versatile, changeable yet evocative of place – be it the verticality of a bustling zoo, busy and lived-in market back streets or an unwelcoming cargo ship. And once out upon the ocean, the team really go to town on creating some mesmerising visuals – with everything from bioluminescent schools of flittering fish, to a blanket of stars enveloping lonely Pi and his feline companion.

Of course, there’s no getting around the fact that, as per War Horse, the puppetry is in many ways the star attraction here, and Pi’s beasts definitely do not disappoint. The main player is ‘Richard Parker’, the fearsome Bengal Tiger whom Pi comes to form a begrudging co-existence with as the pair float for survival on the open sea. It’s little surprise that the role of ‘Richard’ nabbed the Olivier for Best Actor in a Supporting Role for all seven (!) of its original puppeteers, and Akash Heer, Kate Rowsell and Fred Davis did truly resplendent work in the performance reviewed. It certainly helps that Nick Barnes and Finn Caldwell’s stylised yet utterly believable design work on not just Richard, but a slew of featured animal characters from cackling hyenas to maternal Orangutans, feels somehow both heightened yet utterly authentic at once.

“Nick Barnes and Finn Caldwell’s stylised yet utterly believable design work… feels somehow both heightened yet utterly authentic at once.”

Of the human cast, Pi himself is earnestly and powerfully portrayed by an impressive Divesh Subaskaran. Curious, questioning and earnest, boyishly brave and endearingly naive all at once, Subaskaran takes his ‘Pi’ (not to mention the audience) on quite the journey, particularly affecting during the later moments of trauma and realisation, and cements himself as a real talent to watch. Goldy Notay, Sonya Venugopal and Ralph Birtwell put in likeable supporting turns as Pi’s family, but perhaps somewhat disappointingly, the majority of humans outside of Pi himself are fairly thin, cookie cutter types with less meat on their bones than the driftwood puppets about them.

Pi also finds itself bookended with a fair amount of questioning and hypothesising, and occasionally seems to almost catch itself getting a little too self-important or pious. There’s some fleetingly interesting stuff in there about belief, conviction and chance, but the spectacle is showy and entrancing, and the central plight engaging enough, that it could easily do without the need for quite so much sermonising.

Life of Pi may not quite rise to the ranks of majesty, nuance or gut punch storytelling of War Horse, and occasionally dips into feeling a little too meditative for its own good, but remains nonetheless a worthy challenger to Joey’s equine throne. Magnificently performed, it is a moving, sumptuously realised tale of survival and fortitude, enriched with some of the most stunning stagecraft and puppetry you will likely see in a theatre this year.

There’s always the looming hazard of that pesky moralistic tripwire cutting through any biopic – even musical ones – that depict the infamous. Namely, can this be seen to be glorifying or, perhaps worse, even justifying the actions of the deplorable and deranged?

Musical theatre, after all, isn’t exactly shy of championing the anti-hero or even the outright murderous (American Psycho, Sweeney Todd). Heck, the likes of Chicago even satirise the very concept of infamy as celebrity, crime as commodity.

But when slapped on the framework of a true story plucked from history, sensitivities can understandably prickle.

For the most part, Ivan Menchell, Don Black and Frank Wildhorn’s musical retelling of the rise and fall of notorious bandits Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow manages to steer clear of trying to outwardly excuse their thieving, gunslinging ways. Barrow (Alex James-Hatton) is framed as a wrong ‘un roughneck from the off, impervious to common sense and decent suggestion, habitually hopping in and out of prison, and bubbling away in his own mire of anger and frustration. And, when the darkness descends, the show doesn’t shy away from commenting on the character’s descent from petty burglar to murderer. Parker (Katie Tonkinson) is introduced as a sassy waitress with dreams of Hollywood and a penchant for poetry. Her downward spiral feels a touch less defined.

“…two commanding central performances and some jaunty, memorable tunes hold together the slightly unsure, meandering book.”

Bonnie & Clyde is, for the most part, a love story about its titular crooks, and even if it never quite digs deep enough for us to really engage with what makes the duo tick, or indeed quite why they are so inexorably drawn to one another, two commanding central performances and some jaunty, memorable tunes hold together the slightly unsure, meandering book.

And transferred from its recent West End iteration, Nick Winston’s tour is certainly a looker. Its muted greys and blacks, heavy, layered use of Nina Dunn‘s projections and stark casts of Zoe Spurr’s lighting spilling through bullet hole-ridden walls or casting out harshly from the wings certainly makes for an impression. It’s a handsome piece, with more than a flair of the cinematic in its bold, stylised execution. Few touring productions play with quite so much on-stage depth and dimension, nor look quite so striking, so kudos to Winston and designer Philip Witcomb for successfully transplanting this on the road with such visceral impact.

Given the aforementioned quality of its soundtrack, it’s perhaps surprising the show has been relatively untouched here in the UK up until last year. There’s a decided (and understandable) country lilt to it all, but Wildhorn and Black’s soundtrack is littered with ear-worms and a good mix of characterful toe-tappers and some surprisingly heartrending belters, too. Who’d have thought a number about dying together could somehow be affecting, profound, fatalistic and yearning all at once?

Of the cast, the only supporting characters who make any sort of dent or impression are Clyde’s brother, ‘Buck’ (Sam Ferriday) and god-fearing, law-abiding wife Blanche (Coronation Street’s Catherine Tyldesley). Tyldesley is particularly fun and fiesty, in many ways serving as the moral compass of the piece, getting a terrific and stirring duet with Tonkinson about loving who you will, and despairing as her ‘daddy’ keeps finding himself embroiled in his brother’s problematic ways. And though the show doesn’t do a tremendous amount with him, Ferriday is in fine voice, and makes the most of what moments he gets as the conflicted Buck.

“Tyldesley is particularly fun and fiesty, in many ways serving as the moral compass of the piece.”

Elsewhere, a nifty gospel number deftly intercuts preaching and proselytising with Clyde’s increasingly dangerous larceny, and makes good use of singer Jaz Ellington’s soulful vocals, and Winston’s flair as director-choreographer keeps the show spritely and kinetic throughout, even in its talkier moments.

But really, much of the impact of Bonnie & Clyde rests, unsurprisingly, on the shoulders (and lungs) of its two leads, and they are quite criminally good. Tonkinson as Bonnie makes for the perfect aspiring ingenue, naive and distracted enough to the point that she’s giddy at the thought of a hostage asking for her autograph, and still clinging to hopes and dreams of Hollywood even as the bodies pile up. With undeniable charm and appeal, it’s easy to imagine this Parker actually having what it takes to have become a bonafide star (albeit less claret-stained). And whilst the book doesn’t afford Bonnie quite as much introspection or perspective as her beau, she gets some great sings, with Tonkinson delivering an impressive blend of both the powerful and the delicate, complete with signature Texan lilt.

“…it’s easy to imagine this Parker actually having what it takes to have become a bonafide star.”

In what deserves to be a star-making turn, Alex James-Hatton is all fire, rage and truly stellar vocals as Clyde. Lending the bandit the perfect, intoxicating mix of dashing, cocksure allure and fringes of something far more sinister, it’s a barnstorming performance. James-Hatton doesn’t shy away from the lighter, even sillier moments, too, rounding out a seriously impressive outing. And in case it hasn’t been clear, the boy can sing.

Whilst it does fumble about a bit trying to find its perspective, message and purpose (brace yourself for the most perfunctory, cookie-cutter law enforcement you’ve ever known), there’s a lot to enjoy in this sexy, showy retelling of Bonnie & Clyde. Mercifully, it doesn’t seek to glorify or excuse its subjects (though in fairness, it doesn’t probe too deep beneath the surface, anyway). On paper, there’s precious little here that will blow your mind or break the mould, but when it is this strikingly staged, and carried by two absolute powerhouse, tour-de-force performances that inject the enjoyable score with range and heart to spare, it makes for a guns-blazing, roof-raising spark of intoxicating folie à deux.

Would you be criminal to miss it? Perhaps not, but it’s certainly a drive well worth taking.

Ahh, the musical parody. Darling of the festival scene. Copyright-swerving bane of many a studio or Estate. Much like their more, ahem… adult cousins, the ubiquity of these fair use fun times has bloomed over recent years.

The appeal of plastering one of the Marvel or DC ouevre or, in this instance, Netflix megahit, Stranger Things, on a poster to invite bums on seats is fairly obvious. Even the bloodthirsty litigious titans at Disney have been able to do little to stymie the cult success of Unfortunate, which sees The Little Mermaid’s Ursula the Sea Witch get a Wicked-style musical reappraisal of her own.

Sorry, musical parody.

And yet, the obvious pitfall lingers ominously. If you can slap an iconic Disney villain or Millie Bobby Brown lookalikee on your marketing, does it really matter how good a parody, or indeed musical, it even is?

Strangers Sings! proves itself to be as unexpected and bizarre an anomaly as the sci-fi happenings of the original show upon which it riffs. For, despite a modest budget, its off-Broadway roots, and being the debut offering from New York-based Jonathan Hogue, it all works remarkably, unprecedentedly well.

“There is more than a flair of the French and Saunders or Saturday Night Live in its winningly low-budget simulacra.”

Sure, aesthetically it has something of a feel of community theatre about it, with its cardboard-faced demogorgans, Smiffys wigs and joyous, almost B-movie flourishes. And yet, for a parody this only adds to the nudge-nudge, wink-wink, fringe charm of it all. There is more than a flair of the French and Saunders or Saturday Night Live in its winningly low-budget simulacra.

Perhaps most surprisingly, Strangers Sings! works surprisingly well as a comedic, satirical musical in its own right. The songs are routinely catchy and witty, and littered with plenty of in-jokes for fans of the show. “And best friends never DIE…” croons ill-fated internet favourite, Barb (Philippa Leadbetter). Most inspired of all is a bonkers, fourth-wall breaking ode to Things’ cast member Winona Ryder, complete with cameos from her past hits. Howard Jenkins’ Hopper not only uncannily channels David Harbour’s gruff officer, but also makes good use of his tragic backstory, never quite allowing him to get his Dear Evan Hansen moment to musically pine for his lost child.

“Those unfamiliar with Stranger Things itself will be lost on the full extent to which Sings! does indeed parody the source material…”

Those unfamiliar with Stranger Things itself will be lost on the full extent to which Sings! does indeed parody the source material (the opening number alone offers plenty of digs at how rote many of its cast of characters are), but it is plenty funny and silly enough throughout to keep even the unfamiliar entertained. Hogue’s book also does a fairly solid job of summarising what is mainly the first season of the show (which a couple of later season subplots and cameos woven in) and mercilessly lampoons everything from Joyce’s (Verity Power) certainty that her son is communicating via Christmas tree lights, to the the innate silliness of the show’s cookie cutter mad scientists and generally ineffective child protagonists. There’s even a soupçon of Avenue Q-style fun to be had with Joyce’s missing son, Will (also Power, on dual-role, puppeteering duty).

The laughs and visual gags come thick and fast, and Hogue even wheels through some old musical theatre favourites for good measure. Not all of it lands, but thankfully the jokes are frequent and zany enough that the duds don’t linger for long.

And the character work is impressive across-the-board. Anna Amelia showcases impressive versatility as the enigmatic lab escapee, ‘Eleven’ and a Nancy dialled up to beyond ditzy, whilst William Shackleton serves up a hilarious imitation of Gaten Matarazzo as loveable doofus, Dustin. Elliot Wooster is in fine voice as young Mike, and the aforementioned Jenkins is perfect casting as as swaggering, droll Hopper. Leadbetter vamps up a late-game Sondheim type with relish, but it is regularly Alfie Doohan, equally hilarious as cocksure jock the Steve Harrington as he is the nervy, nerdy Jonathan, and Power in full unhinged Winona Ryder mode, who regularly steal the show.

As with practically anything so reliant on its intertextuality, those wholly alien to Stranger Things will get considerably less mileage here. That being said, anecdotally there were people in the performance reviewed who had never seen an episode of the show, and still happened to love it.

“…as it to be expected for anything Things-related, it is positive drenched in all things Eighties…”

There’s clearly a deep knowledge and passion for the source material, which makes for an effective piece of both ridicule and pastiche. And as it to be expected for anything Things-related, it is positive drenched in all things Eighties, with the obligatory nods to NeverEnding Story, Dungeons & Dragons and Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” all present and accounted for.

It won’t be giving Chekov or Keats a run for their money anytime soon, but if you’re in the market for silly, unpretentious musical tomfoolery based on a hugely popular IP (and who isn’t at this time of year?), and just an overall fun, funny time at the theatre, head on (upside) down to Hawkins Town and enjoy a quirky, zany show peppered with colourful performances, goofy humour, and a musical parody that genuinely sings.

The term ‘star vehicle’ is bandied around perhaps a pinch too often in this digital age of insta-celebrity and influencer fandom.

Yet there’s little doubt that it is exactly what 1992’s The Bodyguard proved to be, with its art-imitating-life framing of the late, great Whitney Houston as a headline-grabbing pop-star in need of protection from a dangerous stalker, as she swirls her way through an album launch and Oscar nomination.

Its transplanting from screen to stage is unsurprisingly effortless – the film’s titanic, record-breaking soundtrack did all of the leg-work then (courtesy of Houston’s powerhouse lungs), and continues, for the most part, to do so here. As with its cinematic predecessor, the central tale and formula of Bodyguard is predictable to the point of almost being rote; rich, entitled yet well-meaning megastar has gruff, handsome protector type thrust upon her, and the initial animosity and frostiness between the two eventually blossoms into a romance that will have everyone reaching for the hankies over come the finale.

It doesn’t even attempt to break the mould or really flesh out too far beyond the blueprint of the film, but nor does it really need to. It’s accessible, effective and entertaining, pitched perfectly for the hen do and girls night out crowds (if you’ll forgive some over-generalisation). Director Thea Sharrock and design team Tim Hatley, Mark Henderson, Duncan McLean and Richard Brooker certainly put on a show – from pillars of flames erupting from the front of the stage to expansive projections and rapid edits selling the pop concert vibes (if slightly by way of The X Factor/Britain’s Got Talent), Bodyguard makes good on its Hollywood and pop concert trappings, even if there are some noticeable cut corners on the extravagance this time round. It even gets some punchy moments of shock and brief horror neatly tucked in throughout for good measure, too.

“A romance that comes across now a little formulaic, though it is undoubtedly what the vast majority of the audience will be there to see…”

But it is, first and foremost, a love story, and there’s no shaking that the raw, forbidden trespass of passion and profession between Houston and Kevin Costner felt a lot more daring back in the early 90s. It’s a romance that comes across now a little formulaic, though it is undoubtedly what the vast majority of the audience will be there to see (along with, naturally, a Whitney-esque belt or two).

It feels oddly dated elsewhere, too. See the clumsily regressive handling of its LGBT characters in particular – cookie cutter cliches of campy cattiness, for the most part.

To put it plainly, we’ve seen it all before.

But, again, with The Bodyguard, that’s sort of the point.

So all eyes (and ears) tend to fall on appraising how good each individual production’s Rachel Marron is. The separation between character and actress in the film was practically non-existent, so it’s unsurprising that, outside of its West End debut (where musical theatre goddess Heather Headley first steered the ship), touring productions of Bodyguard have tried to inject some of that Whitney duality synergy by having ‘IRL’ pop-stars take on the central role. From Beverley Knight to Alexandra Burke, what has been fairly consistent is the calibre of vocal chops they’ve hung pretty much the entirety of the show on.

On paper, hiring Pussycat Dolls star Melody Thornton for this latest tour makes a lot of creative and commercial sense. Actual proven chart-topper and pop star to portray the fictional chart-topper and pop star? Check. Someone who knows the show and has already portrayed the role before? Check.

A vocalist and performer with the vocal and acting range to carry such a monumental show with such colossal sings? Well, let’s explore that for a moment…

It’s often said that the measure of a good musical theatre performer, or indeed any performer, is the degree of confidence that they are able to imbue into their audience. A stalwart of the boards will break down the barriers of apprehension and suspension of disbelief, and assuage any doubts about any of the big numbers or challenging choreography ahead.

For the first half of the performance reviewed, it has to be said that Thornton didn’t quite deliver on this. There’s no doubting that she possesses a strong, soulful voice, but there was a reticence and restraint to her performance that made each inevitable big ballad an uncertain thing. It isn’t great to be watching The Bodyguard and having trepidation over whether or not your Rachel Marron is going to go for the big notes or play it safe.

It isn’t just the singing, either – supposedly high-energy, performative showstoppers such as ‘Million Dollar Bill’ and ‘How Will I Know’, despite being a touch over-choreographed here, still felt strangely languid and unenergised. The fantastic swing and ensemble gave it their all, but Thornton seemed to be holding back.

“…spinning, twirling and bopping her way through a kinetic, buoyant curtain call, you can’t help but ask ‘where was this Rachael Marron for so much of the show?’”

Now, with all that being said, for what can only be surmised by this particular writer as Thornton perhaps pacing herself and not wishing to over-exert ahead of the big tentpole moments that close out the show, she positively came alive for Act II, giving searing renditions of ‘One Moment in Time’ and, crucially, the iconic ‘I Will Always Love You’. And spinning, twirling and bopping her way through a kinetic, buoyant curtain call, you can’t help but ask ‘where was this Rachael Marron for so much of the show?’ By close, it becomes patently obvious that Thornton has ‘it’, and is a great fit for the role, but it’s perhaps debatable whether the actualisation of this comes a little too late in the day.

Around her, Ayden Callaghan is solid as the gruff, no-nonsense Frank. It’s a fairly thankless and slightly under-written part, plastering blanket stoicism over any major development or depth, but Callaghan is a suitably brooding and handsome foil. He gives good deadpan, and certainly offers up the physicality required for the role. The talented Emily-Mae, meanwhile, continues a long-running Bodyguard trend of having the role of Rachel’s sister Nicki threaten to steal the whole show from under her.

And there’s not really much more than that to The Bodyguard. It’s consummate popcorn entertainment pushed through the mould of the musical: light, predictable, ‘poppy’ fun. Sure, it benefits immensely from having some of the best pop classics of the past few decades as its soundboard, and it looks and feels like a quality piece of theatre craft throughout. But with cookie cutter characters and little invention or embellishment beyond what was already a pretty formulaic script, this is a show which lives or dies by its casting.

On current form? It’s still likely a must-see for those who are ardent Houston enthusiasts or admirers of the film, of which there are countless. But even on those grounds, it’s a somewhat inconsistent outing this time round, with plenty of strong, belting highs, but more than a few languid, breathing lows, too.

For everyone else? If unpretentious nights of jukebox fun are your thing, then go for the tunes and the unapologetic, frothy entertainment factor of it all. Stay for a central performance that, whilst initially hesitant and restrained, and not the most dynamic or instinctive of acting turns, eventually blossoms into something far stronger and more affecting.

It takes some getting there, and it isn’t a journey without some hesitation and doubts, but come the curtain call, there’ll be few left in the auditorium not bopping along to Thornton, and welcoming her as a (mostly) fully-fledged Queen of the Night.

Right, let’s see how far we can get without eggs-austing the entirely predictable panoply of puns here, shall we?

…dammit.

Being a production that harkens as a throwback to panto tradition of old – in particular, taking its caravan of funny up and down the country over a period of several months – this is no strictly seasonal bird. As The Hobbit star Adam Brown, on scene-stealing form, quips late on, this particular goose has legs that stretch on until Easter.

And what glorious, fulsome legs they are.

This is as full-throated, uproariously funny and pitch-perfectly delivered as pantomime gets. Not a moment or beat is wasted, the laughs come thick and fast and, perhaps most impressively, the star power of Mother Goose’s leading duo is more than matched by the wattage of an insanely talented supporting cast and company.

We’re gushing, it’s true – but it’s deserved. This is a slice of family entertainment that effortlessly hits all the right notes – including an embarrassment of riches when it comes to show-stopping vocals – and lands its laughs and silly set pieces with relish.

It is, quite simply, perfect panto fare.

The big name draws here are undoubtedly ‘Gandalf’ himself, Ian McKellen and Scouse funny-man John Bishop. McKellen’s affinity for the stage, and visible love for the craft of pantomime in particular, anchors and steadies the entire piece. He will not, one assumes, mind my saying that he has extensive form here – his Widow Twankey now practically an instituation (including recently reviving her for his celebrated Ian Mckellen On Stage tour).

As the titular dame, his instincts for when to take it big (ohh-err) or play it smaller, subtle, even deadpan, are second-to-none. He’s undoubtedly a key reason why many will flock to watch a pantomime long after the last of the Christmas ‘pud is gone, and he certainly doesn’t disappoint. Thankfully, the show around him affords plenty of opportunity to let his hair down (or even his bra off, in a suitably bravura and bonkers curtain closer) and whether he is serving up Beefeater femme fatale realness, strutting his stuff to Right Said Fred, or just engaging in some of Mother Goose’s many panto staples (see: a zany kitchen calamity of misinterpretations and crossed purposes), Mckellen’s ‘Caroline Goose’ etches herself as another adorable, hilarious, definitive dame for the ages.

“Mckellen’s ‘Caroline Goose’ etches herself as another adorable, hilarious, definitive dame for the ages.”

Bishop plays the straight man, ‘Father’ Goose – ‘Vic’ – with gameness and a self-deprecating charm that never wears thin. Goose shrewdly affords him the chance to deliver some of his more conventional stand-up, solo style, which is characteristically solid, but it’s really when he bounces off the madness around him in suitably dry fashion that his everyman approach really works. Naturally, there are digs at the accent, Bishop’s signature elocution (or, dare I say, lack thereof) and even his comparative acting inexperience, too.

As mentioned, perhaps the most delightful takeaway here is how, buoyant and hilarious as they are, this isn’t a show that rests too heavily on the shoulders of its celebrity headliners. In fact, there’s a strong argument to be made that you could excise Mckellen and Bishop from it altogether and, painful though that may be, the rest of the cast are so energised and top-drawer, that it would still fall as an easy recommendation.

“Perhaps the most delightful takeaway here is how, buoyant and hilarious as they are, this isn’t a show that rests too heavily on the shoulders of its celebrity headliners.”

Very few go to panto for the plot, but the serviceable mould of the ‘Mother Goose’ fable – kindly carer of animals, about to be thrown off of her land, inherits golden egg-layer who, quite literally, changes her fortunes – here really pulls in the talents of every supporting character, bit part and ensemble member. McKellen’s menagerie of animal charges are all distinctive, idiosyncratic and given plenty of individual moments to shine – be it, say, Mairi Barclay’s deliciously dramatic chimpanzee, Genevieve Nicole’s sassy ‘Puss in Boots’ (not to mention her barnstorming, crackpot take on Camilla, Queen… consort?) or Richard Leeming’s gleefully awkward Bat. Many are on multiple-role duty. All are terrific. By the time stage and screen veteran Anna-Jane Casey, as the perimenopausal ‘Cilla Quack’, is belting out her rendition of Funny Girl’s ‘Don’t Rain On My Parade’, or sending up Les Misérables, you will likely be in stagey heaven.

Other supporting turns completing the roster just as winningly include Oscar Conlon-Morrey as ‘Goose’ son, Jack, and love interest, Jill – played by native Midlander, Simbi Akande. Both deliver some exquisite physical comedy, character work and vocals. Speaking of which, Goose’s resident ‘good’ and ‘bad’ fairies, Karen Mavundukure as the villainous ‘Malignia’, and Sharon Ballard as the kindly ‘Encanta’, raise the roof throughout, including some big sings courtesy of Tina Turner and Barbara Streisand classics, which they absolutely eat up.

Technically, whilst Mother Goose will likely not be the most audacious or visually arresting show out on the road right now, there’s plenty to giggle at and enjoy in Liz Ascroft’s set and costume design, including what may be my single most favourite ‘flat’ ever, in the form of a certain aeronautical landing in Act II. Expectedly, McKellen’s Caroline gets the biggest and funniest frocks, though a special mention must go to a makeover moment for Bishop that got plenty of laughs and appreciation. Christopher Barlow’s myriad animal puppets add some fun and flavour throughout, even if they feel slightly underutilised, whilst choreographer Lizzi Gee injects even some old style tap and Hollywood razzmatazz to some of the showier company numbers littered throughout.

Writer Jonathan Harvey and director Cal McCrystal do a great job in realising what is essentially organised chaos on the stage. There’s a frisson and erratic charge to Mother Goose that makes it feel more spontaneous and anarchic than it doubtless is, and the tautness and instincts of McCrystal’s direction shouldn’t be overlooked here (nor should the performances they elicit from the entire cast).

As befits a contemporary pantomime, the topics and targets of its cheekiness stem far and wide. There are plenty of old familiars, traditional chestnuts and tentpole double entendre, but there’s plenty of cultural references thrown in for fun and mischief, too. McKellen’s Middle-earth antics offer up a running gag, whilst elsewhere, Bishop’s recent tenure in Doctor Who gets a swipe. Naturally, whilst we are given ample warning at the outset, the politico don’t escape unscathed either, with Rishi Sunak, Liz Truss, and even a porcine Boris Johnson and ‘Cruella Braverman’ getting a lashing.

“…the topics and targets of its cheekiness stem far and wide.”

The stars, it seemed, decided to align for Mother Goose. An early drop-out from Mel Giedroyc aside (who has been replaced by the equally-fabulous Casey, anyway), this has proven itself a definitive, must-see panto experience that more than lives up to the hype. An utterly joyous, impeccably-performed evening (or afternoon!) of family entertainment, Mother Goose brings big laughs and bedazzlement with its star leads, but in truth, a surrounding company and ensemble that shine just as bright.

Oh, what the heck, let’s go there…

Go see it, it’s cracking!