Acting as both the final show this outlet viewed for 2023, and our first published review of ’24, The Little Big Things seems fitting as both a coda and forward-thinking mission statement for Nica Burns’ @sohoplace. The glitzy, characterful new West End venue, which completed its first full orbit last year, was a major contributing factor in Burns placing second in The Stage’s top 100 theatre figures last week (a quad of National Theatre execs just pipping her to the top spot). The Financial Times lauded her new hub of theatrical innovation as “a West End theatre with inclusivity at its heart” and, again, Big Things couldn’t be a more palpable demonstration of this.

A brand new musical offering adapted from the memoir of Henry Fraser – whose life (and burgeoning rugby stardom) was shattered overnight by a fluke accident on holiday with his brothers – The Little Big Things certainly inherits a corker of a true story, but do its theatrical aspirations and ingredients stack up to the source material, and its venue’s own zeitgeist-nabbing buzz?

It’s easy to go maudlin or mawkish when transplanting the real to the stage. Doubly so when it pivots around a story as innately stirring and emotive as Fraser’s, twinged with tragedy and pain. And of course, there remains the ever prevalent threat of tokenising disability, or being somehow reductive about its implementation. Heck, Big Things’ dramaturg and associate director, Nickie Miles-Wildin, acknowledges this, decrying what she calls ‘inspiration porn’, where disabled characters are reduced to little more than conduits of motivation for the world about them.

“…there remains the ever prevalent threat of tokenising disability, or being somehow reductive about its implementation…”

Sharply, boldly, The Little Big Things digs deeper and pans wider. It’s a show about many things; family, expression, identity, art, love. It centres mainly around the Fraser clan – mum Fran (Linzi Hateley), dad Andrew (Alasdair Harvey), brothers Tom (Jamie Chatterton), Dom (Jordan Benjamin) and Will (Cleve September) and, of course, Henry. In an inspired move, Big Things’ protagonist is dual-played, both in youthful, pre-accident guise by Jonny Amies, and everything that follows the fateful incident by Ed Larkin (notably the first time a wheelchair-user has led a West End musical).

Sure, the show doesn’t shy away from some of the sobering realities of what first appears to be a youth stymied before even his prime. The early anguish of Henry’s accident and subsequent diagnosis are blisteringly etched by a devastating Linzi Hateley. The weight and struggle of accommodating and at times even recognising this ‘new’ Henry within the family unit is delicately interwoven throughout, with every member of the Fraser family given their moment of struggle and hurt. Admirably, The Little Big Things doesn’t shy away from just how difficult the whole situation is, and yet neither does it feel laden or staid.

For, perhaps in part owing to its energised, upbeat soundtrack of poppy feel-goods from Nick Butcher and Tom Ling, a relentless undercurrent of humour and self-deprecating wit throughout Joe White‘s buoyant book, or its sheer wealth of eye-opening set pieces and innovative musical theatre moments, The Little Big Things is a big, bold, joyous tapestry of multicolour brush strokes that makes for one of the most vibrant, uplifting and tirelessly entertaining new musicals in recent memory.

From a toe-tapping, gospel-lite ode to the workers of the NHS, a bonkers Monopoly-themed night out for Henry and mum, to some of its rousing solos of introspection and determination, Big Things throbs with invention and energy. In the confines of @Sohoplace’s cosier, in-the-round fold, it manages to feel both grand and intimate at once, with director Luke Sheppard and choreographer Mark Smith delivering a punchy, pacy show that carries both the visual bombast of a full West End ticket, whilst never drowning out the quieter, powerful ebbs that land so powerfully in the new venue. Characters ascend into the rafters, ocean soundscapes and colours wash across the stage and audience both, performers ring out from the balconies. It’s transportive, imaginative and dazzling stuff.

“It’s transportive, imaginative and dazzling stuff.”

Of course, tremendous credit for this must go to the fantastic cast and ensemble. They’re universally excellent, from the Fraser family leads, through to supporting parts, such as company member Amy West stepping up and giving a barnstorming understudy turn as a soulful, kindly doctor in the performance reviewed. Jordan Benjamin gets perhaps the clearest arc and growth as the youngest of the Fraser brothers, and it’s a beautifully observed performance with stunning vocals to match, but in truth all three brothers impress.

Amy Trigg steals practically every scene she appears in as Henry’s droll, sex-positive physiotherapist, whilst Gracie McGonigal is in fine voice and a complete ray of sunshine throughout as Henry’s longstanding, sweet-natured crush. Hateley and Harvey may be consummate West End veterans from whom we’d expect terrific work, but even by their own high standards, their anguished, hopeful, proud turns as Henry’s parents are especially strong.

“Ed Larkin brings an impressive weight and sense of venerability to his Henry… Amies, meanwhile is staggeringly good… give the pair of them Oliviers, pronto.”

And, of course, the Henrys. Having the younger Henry transition to become something of a subconscious reflection of his own guilt and inability to fully accept what has happened is a canny move, with the dynamic between the two actors portraying the central role electric throughout. Ed Larkin brings an impressive weight and sense of venerability to his Henry, often the eye of the storm about which much of the anguish and fallout rages. Amies, meanwhile, is staggeringly good, absolutely tearing up the show’s biggest asks of him vocally, and navigating a trajectory from youthful boisterousness to acceptance with real gravitas and heart. The charting of Henry’s eventual new calling as an artist is meticulously, tear-jerkingly earnest, as is the denouement to their occasionally fractious back-and-forth. Give the pair of them Oliviers, pronto.

Ultimately, The Little Big Things is just that. A collection of myriad parts harmonising to create a beautiful tapestry of colour, sound, spectacle and storytelling. It is, in part, an inspiring tale of one man’s resilience, determination and, ultimately, optimism. And yet its inspiration never feels glib, tokenistic or cheap. This is a deeply human, dimensional story, awash with delight, fringed with pain, pulsing with humanity. As a theatre experience, it is bold, beautifully written, handsomely performed and dazzlingly staged.

And, as a misson statement for @SohoPlace, for Burns and for new musical theatre as a whole, it is a glorious, technicolor manifesto that, as Henry Fraser himself so admirably showcased, the best really can be yet to come.

There’s something cosily fuzzy and familiar about The Osmonds as a group, as a family, and indeed, as an entity within the world of entertainment. At a time when the bad boy shenanigans and edgier aesthetic of rock ’n roll were tightening their stranglehold on the cultural zeitgeist, the wholesomeness of fraternal benevolence that the Brothers O’ represented was a hearty reminder that feel-good never truly goes out of fashion.

The same is true of this jukebox tour through the – mostly pleasant – tale of the family who, as the show proudly boasts, were at one point out-selling and out-charting even the likes of Elvis and The Beatles. Whilst its tread through the rise of the group from child wonderkind (earmarked for success by none other than old Uncle Walt, Disney himself) to globe-trotting, chart-topping heartthrobs offers hints at tensions and occasional acrimony between the brothers, and offers suggestions that their militant father-manager, George (a brilliant Charlie Allen), was overbearing and emotionally unavailable, it never takes it as far as to suggest anything as raw or outright as abuse. Where many jukebox biopics tend to relish in the misery, or compound on the drama, here it’s all mostly kept at surface level, and nothing that a quick pep talk with mom, or spot of brotherly bonding can’t solve (or at least help to gloss over).

Much of this perhaps stems from the project being penned from a ‘story’ by Jay Osmond, one of the original fab four (later five, later, well I lost count…). Julian Bigg and Shaun Kerrison’s book shrewdly places Jay himself as in-out narrator of the piece. On the upside, this mercifully allows The Osmonds to maintain a punchy pace, by dint of Jay guiding us through transitions, scene-setting and other expository fluff that other jukeboxes often struggle to trudge through, or labour over establishing.

The downside, potentially, is that a lot of Osmonds feels slightly at arms length, even in the few moments of actual meaningful conflict and exploration – such as a pivotal late-game family meeting. It’s all, again like the group themselves, mostly froth, sugar and bubblegum, with a palpable hesitancy to really delve too deep into any of the internal or familial conflict. It’s the story of The Osmonds delivered by a member of the Osmonds, and that deference, whilst dignified, can be felt throughout.

Still, there’s likely few going along to a show about The Osmonds expecting anything other than a peppy good time, and it’s here where the show delivers in abundance. Buoyed by their notable catalogue of hits, including such tentpole favourites as ‘Crazy Horses’, ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’ and perennial crowd-pleaser, ‘Puppy Love’, that zippy pacing rides on a wave of earworms that keeps things energised. A common pitfall of jukebox biopics tends to be a stop-start erraticism born of almost box-ticking expectations, where long spells of drama and history come to an abrupt and jarring halt for the next fan favourite hit to play out. Abetted in no small way by some excellent, fluid direction from Shaun Kerrison, and really stellar choreography from Bill Deamer, The Osmonds uses the family’s discography to consistently vigorous – and occasionally even thematic – effect, moving with real purpose and rhythm throughout. This is no slog – much like, say, The Jersey Boys, this feels like a jukebox musical at least attempting to use the genre to its full on-stage potential.

Barring some minor technical gripes, such as one or two mics seeming to dip below ideal levels throughout, on the whole, Osmonds is a technically and aesthetically pleasing package. Lucy Osborne’s vibrant, sixties and seventies-infused set and costume design are immediately recognisable, whilst also heightened just enough to inject razzmatazz into proceedings, whilst the ever-dependable Ben Cracknell takes the mock-concert styling of the piece and bathes audience and stage alike in a showy splash of colour and era.

“…much like, say, The Jersey Boys, this feels like a jukebox musical at least attempting to use the genre to its full on-stage potential.”

On the stage, shout outs to Nicola Bryan and Georgia Lennon, who give great supporting turns as mom Olive, and sister Marie; the latter singing and dancing up a storm in some of her solo/duet turns. And Alex Cardell is impressively eclectic early on as a variety of tv personalities, including one Andy Williams. But, let’s face it, we can’t go anywhere near appraising a show titled The Osmonds without talking about its titular troupe. Stepping in for the performance reviewed, ensemble member Tristan Whincup (who usually plays Jimmy) put on an admirable show as Donny, with his aforementioned ‘Puppy Love’ getting one of the most spirited audience reactions of the night (no small feat, given the generally bonkers level of fervour in said audience at this particular performance).

Jamie Chatterton and Danny Nattress put in fine, consistent turns as Alan and Wayne, respectively, with Nattress delivering a soulful take on a more sombre favourite in Act II. Ryan Anderson’s Merrill gave some of the best vocals of the night in higher register (not to mention when the mic, or this writer’s ears, permitted) and is, on the whole, the member perhaps best served by the book, outside of Jay. Speaking of whom, Alex Lodge is an effortlessly winning and charismatic presence, steering the busy, bustling show with real gusto and effusive likability.

“…it’s unsurprisingly when they harmonise and take to the stage as a quintet that The Osmonds really aims to fire on all cylindars.”

Whilst all five of the leads are gifted performers individually, it’s unsurprisingly when they harmonise and take to the stage as a quintet that The Osmonds really aims to fire on all cylindars. Having said this, and whether it was a technical or performance issue remains to be seen, there were times where the group performances seemed to lose a bit of vocal oomph. Given that some of the impressive solos and more stripped-back harmonies showcase genuinely terrific voices throughout, it seems tech gremlins may be at fault here. It’s just a little bizarre to watch a show where you can go from being won over and duly impressed by a vocal performance one moment, to hardly hearing the very same singer sometimes moments later. Despite all that, it has to be ackonwledged that moments and set pieces of the five performing together routinely received one of the most vocal, exuberant and hyper-engaged audience reactions of any show this particular writer has been privy to.

By the time it reaches the curtain call, that same innate, gooey warmth and inoffensive, undemanding positivity that is quintessential Osmonds fare takes the day. It doesn’t rewrite any of the rules, and for all of the genuinely impressive spectacle, it’s in service to a fairly pedestrian recap pretty low on dramatic incident and stakes. There’s a smattering of historical inaccuracies and creative license peppered throughout, too; for instance, by the time of the final performance, there’s talk of characters retiring who had, in fact, by that stage in time already passed away, but as per much of the show, the irrepressible feel-good is so ingrained in the IP and identity of the family and their output, that you can’t help but smile, sway and, yes, sing along.

‘Love me for a reason, let the reason be love’ the boys croon, to rapturous response.

And really, it’s all as simple, as unassuming, as doe-eyed, as idealistic and as undeniably iconic as that.