It’s probably fair to say that many audiences tend to be a touch more forgiving and receptive to anything with a lash of the festive about it. Repetition becomes tradition; the familiar becomes the favourite. Whilst not quite to same level of ubiquity as, say, A Christmas Carol, most will agree that Narnia has been done. In print, on screen (large and small, with a new Netflix adaptation in the works as of writing) and indeed on stage. Or at least so far as its first, iconic instalment (I don’t detect much of a clamour for a stage adaptation of Prince Caspian).

Even this very production of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which houses itself at the Birmingham Rep for Christmas 2023 (and indeed for an early chunk of 2024, to boot), has already done the rounds in Birmingham a few times over.

And yet, whether it is the moody ambience of its staging, the magical whimsy that crackles through its puppetry and performances, or the bewitching, haunting throb of its folksy music, this trip to Narnia feels as fresh and inviting as those first crisp steps out of the wardrobe.

It starts bold; the journey of the four Pevensie children (Daniel Apea, Kudzu Mangombe, Jerome Scott and Liyah Summers) from home to wardship in wartime England casts stark, juddering beams from on high to simulate a cold, mechanical and uninviting train journey. Cath Whitefield’s (more on whom, later) stiff and waspish Mrs Macready offers little warmth or comfort (though a few giggles, courtesy of her sheer, unimpressed rigidity) upon arrival.

Benji Bower and Barnaby Race’s score offers urgency and even some flashes of Zimmer-esque modernity, with just enough infusions of the fantastical dancing at the edges.

Of course, eventually we follow the children on their journey through the titular gateway, and what were mere hints of fantasy and wonderment are fully let loose. Fabrics cascade down to form the hut of kindly fawn, Mr Tumnus (a beautifully delicate Jez Unwin, who does great work with one of the show’s best numbers). Streaks of ice and light ebb through cracks in the stage floor when magic is invoked, or hope ignited. The mighty Lion Aslan is dual performed, as both Oliver Hoare’s fur-robed majesty and a jaw-dropping behemoth of a triple-manned puppet. Whitefield’s villainous white witch, Jadis, lifts and floats around the stage with malevolent authority on her industrial chariot-cum-crane.

…And just you wait until she channels her inner Cirque du Soleil to summon forth her minions for war.

It may sound rote, but there’s something about the look, sound, feel and fabric of this production that regularly feels magical.

Whilst not quite a musical, it certainly boasts a considerable number of set pieces that tiptoe, prance or, in the case of a certain crimson gift-giver, even jolly jaunt their way very close to feeling like one. This particular writer still has ‘Myra the gift-giver… SinterKlaas!’ stuck on repeat in his head some days later.

The Earthy, folk nature of much of the music, with its laments to spirits of nature and water, and odes to Springtime, are gorgeous, and often beautifully accompanied by actor-musos weaving about the stage.

“Whilst not quite a musical, it certainly boasts a considerable number of set pieces that tiptoe, prance or even jolly jaunt their way very close to feeling like one.”

It’s mostly left to the Narnians to deliver up the song and dance, which makes it something of a pity that Jadis herself doesn’t get any sort of villainous refrain, but overall the music is one of the richest and most enjoyable reasons for this new version of Lion to exist.

As a fairly faithful adaptation of the source material, some of the inherent storytelling stumbles of this first part of the Narnia saga remain intact. Its high levels of kid-friendly cuteness (beavers, otters and squirrels, oh my!) can occasionally clash with the heavier concepts of war, murder and monarchy. Perils are undone almost as quickly as they are introduced, and the heavier pseudo-Christian undertones can feel a trifle old hat in 2023.

But these are minor and mostly forgettable quibbles. Michael Fentiman directs a fluid, punchy adventure filled with wonderment and delight within the playground of Tom Paris’ design work, Jack Knowles’ lighting and Tom Marshall’s fantastic and evocative sound work.

The four Pevensie kids put in warm turns, with Summers something of a standout as principled, take-charge Susan. Whitefield is fantastic as the show’s villainess throughout, with Shane Antony-Whiteley showcasing impressive physicality and intimidating presence as her chief lieutenant, Maugrim. Michael Larcombe, meanwhile, occasionally threatens to steal scenes out from under both of them as the hilarious head ‘cruel’ – a minion who seems to have graduated from the Andy Serkis school of hunched wretchedness.

Samuel Morgan-Grahame and Ruby Ablett offer up some further comic lightness as a pair of bickering but well-meaning beavers, along with David Birrell who bookends the show with his quirky, deadpan professor.

We may have been through the wardrobe many times over, and in many different forms, but off the back of this rich, vivid production, this particular trip to Narnia is comfortably one of the best yet.

Like many artists with indelible, defining signature hits or anthems, Frank Sinatra famously loathed his seminal ‘My Way’. Toward the latter years of his storied career, he wasn’t shy of sharing this with audiences, either.

It likely explains why this world premiere of Sinatra the Musical, developed with the blessing and involvement of the Sinatra family, completely omits arguably his most iconic tentpole. Heck, even ‘New York, New York’ is relegated to a peppy curtain call singalong.

Some may balk at this, but in truth, Sinatra’s catalogue of classics is so replete with incredible tunes and instantly-recognisable earworms that it matters little at all. In fact, there’s an admirable confidence to a production that doesn’t lazily dovetail to the expected, autopilot closer.

Outstide of this, things are a little more typical. Sinatra the Musical is a handsomely-performed, vibrant and polished affair. It is padded with some of the usual restraints and limitations of the musical biopic, and doesn’t prod too deeply beneath the surface when it comes to its titular crooner. The jury will likely be out for some as to whether it is a little too reverential – murkier beats such as Sinatra’s long-rumoured (and indeed, photographed) affiliation with mob kingpins is touched upon but mostly explained away, and his legion infidelities and indiscretions during marriage are presented here as a mostly breezy jaunt of naughtiness. The show does, at least, afford the excellent Phoebe Panaretos, as first wife Nancy Sinatra, some isolated moments of hurt and anguish as she spots her husband’s freewheeling plastered across the papers.

“The jury will likely be out for some as to whether it is a little too reverential…”

Again, much of this is predominately the nature of the beast when it comes to the musical biopic, and that’s perfectly fine, as most audiences will go in knowing and expecting precisely this. Joe Dipietro’s book bounces along through the decades and tumult of Sinatra’s turbulent career, though perhaps a little more focus on character over incident would make the extremes register a little stronger here. Sinatra’s down and outs are undone almost as quickly on stage as they are introduced, and the highs are similarly fleeting. It’s difficult at times to get a full sense of just how successful – or desperate – his life becomes.

At just shy of three hours, it’s a meaty tale, though, even if there’s probably an argument to be made that a slightly overlong first Act outstays its welcome by a good ten minutes or so.

That’s all there really is to critique, though. The sheer bombast and joy of having a full brass band on stage at regular intervals is an absolute treat, and lends the production an authentic, show-stopping sense of razzmatazz. It’s all nestled in Peter McKintosh’s colourful, period-infused staging – a neat hybrid of physical set pieces and characterful projection work. Jon Morrell’s costumes follow suit and are regularly stunning. Director Kathleen Marshall keeps things punchy and energised throughout, injecting some terrific fun and even verticality into sequences such as the aforementioned ‘Come Fly With Me’ carousel of lovers.

But really, Sinatra the Musical is carried on the shoulder of a superb company of performers who infuse it with heart, humour and depth that transcends its occasionally slight book.

Carl Patrick, Vincent Riotta and Dawn Buckland pepper scenes with a sardonic sense of humour and bluntness (and even the occasional no-nonsense, expletive-laden tirade) throughout as Frank’s manager and parents, respectively. Riotta and Buckland even get their own ‘Timeless to Me’ moment, kicking up laughs and a hearty cheer with a spirited riff on ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’. Greg Bernstein tap dances a storm, and brings that distinctive, cheery energy to occasional appearances as Gene Kelly, whilst Ryesha Higgs momentarily threatens to steal the entire show with an extended cameo from Billie Holiday that oozes class and Holiday’s trademark ‘whiskey’ charm.

“Sinatra the Musical does some powerful things with its leading ladies and their very separate – yet often complimentary – plights.”

Of its central trio, Panaretos does a tremendous job with the ‘long-suffering wife’ supporting role, that can so easily become rote or formulaic. She charts Nancy’s journey, from feisty but doe-eyed youth to a woman who quietly yet confidently asserts her own independence and self-worth, with real gravity and dimension. Ana Villafañe, meanwhile, is similarly excellent as Ava Gardner – radiating raw Hollywood charisma and sex appeal, whilst still managing to find poignancy and even some timely pathos, with reminders of how the studio system placed such a stranglehold on the lives of its female stars. One of Villafañe’s later scenes, where she frankly sets out her reasons (and lack of choice) for a medical procedure she undertakes, is all the more devastating and eye-opening by dint of it being played out in such a matter of fact, no-nonsense fashion. Sinatra the Musical does some powerful things with its leading ladies and their very separate – yet often complimentary – plights.

Yet precisely nobody will be surprised to learn that the star of the show is undoubtedly Tony-winner Matt Doyle in the leading role. He has a superb ensemble around him, and fantastic supporting turns, as mentioned, but Sinatra simply wouldn’t work if its incarnation of ‘old blue eyes’ himself wasn’t up to scratch. Doyle treads a masterful balance between channeling the flourishes and vocal inflections of Sinatra, his charismatic, earnest turn coursing with ‘Frankie’s’ trademark charm to spare, without reducing it to straight-up imitation or a glorified tribute act.

“…a dream of a performance that serves as the production’s (rightful) crowning glory.”

Doyle expectedly sings a dream – including show-stopping finales of both acts – and you realise early on that even big asks such as ‘That’s Life’ and ‘I’m Gonna Live Till I Die’ are in fine hands (lungs?). Sinatra registers as a person, as a character, rather than just a simulacra, and it’s a dream of a performance that serves as the production’s (rightful) crowning glory.

There’s probably a tighter, perhaps even slightly more consequential, version of Sinatra’s story that could be tweaked, pulled and plumbed from what is currently found in Sinatra the Musical. But for an all-new offering, with truly heady expectations heaped on it from name recognition alone, Marshall and Dipietro’s production is a polished, routinely impressive affair full of swagger, big band energy, and a rich collection of stunning performances. On the shoulders of a barnstorming turn from its leading man, it is a sumptuous, satisfying dip into the life of one of the most iconic and beloved entertainers of all time, and if this is just the beginning, then yes, we’re going to go there…

…we’ve a feeling that for this glitzy, impressive delight of a show, the best is yet to come…

Of all the ‘sure things’ in theatre, Noises Off is doubtless amongst the most dependable.

For certain, casting can be a strong bellwether as to how rib-tickling any particular production of Frayn’s classic metafictive romp is likely to be. But generally, you know you’re in for a good time watching the gradual collapse of a fictional touring production, beset with backstage hijinks, misunderstandings and general mayhem.

The progenitor of many modern farces of its ilk (the impact and influence on The Play That Goes Wrong and indeed much of Mischief Theatre’s output is undeniable), Noises lands in 2023 as a slightly less technically ambitious slice of physical silly than many of its successors, but no less biting or delicious.

For sure, some of its handling of issues offer occasional glimpses at Noises’ age (having debuted back in 1982), but there remains something infectiously irresistible about watching this merry band of players and their fictional touring piece gradually deteriorate into bedlam.

“…there remains something infectiously irresistible about watching this merry band of players and their fictional touring piece gradually deteriorate into bedlam.”

And, where many of its imitators lean harder or go grander on the slapstick, Noises remains the king of keeping character, and not incident, as the source of its funny.

Based in part on writer Michael Frayn’s own experiences and obversations in company and touring theatre, one of the evergreen delights of this silly show are the personalities and interpersonal squabbles that fuel so much of the anarchy. It’s fairly broad stuff – the frayed director (Simon Shepherd) putting it about with his leading lady (Lisa Ambalavanar) and stage manager (Nikhita Lesler) both. The self-admittedly (“You know how stupid I am”) hopeless actor (Simon Coates) asking endless questions of motivation, whilst regularly fainting at the first signs of violence. Catfights between co-stars. The grandstanding, neurotic leading man (Garry Lejeune) who descends to bouts of almost psychotic, axe-wielding jealous rage. And, of course, the ever-reliable presence of the whiskey-sloshing, line-forgetting has-been (Matthew Kelly). 

This latest touring production stems off of last year’s fortieth anniversary revival, which saw the likes of Felicity Kendal and Tracy-Ann Oberman fooling around in Frayn’s madcap sandbox. For this tour, Olivier-winner and former tv favourite, Matthew Kelly, is likely the most recognisable name, and he is great fun throughout as forgetful dipsomaniac Selsdon. But he’s capably joined by a well-rounded company who keep the energy levels high, and the laughs regular. Noises has a fairly carefully-calibrated creeping ascension of chaos, and the entire troupe do a great job of gradually upping the ante on the madness.

“Olivier-winner Matthew Kelly… whose cheery, drunken whimsy lights up every scene he stumbles through…”

They’re all solid, though along with Kelly, whose cheery, drunken whimsy lights up every scene he stumbles through, there are some notable standouts. Dan Fredenburgh is a whirlwind of manic energy, from cocksure to crazed, as an increasingly incensed and despairing Garry. Simon Shepherd bandies between deadpan and rage with a character that he manages to pull from being too sleazy or detestable in a post-‘me too’ age. And Lisa Ambalavanar is gloriously ditzy as an actress completely unwilling (unable?) to ad-lib or veer off-script, even as scenes collapse about her.

Perhaps most fabulous of all is stage and screen veteran Lucy Robinson as consummate luvvy, Belinda. Pitching her flamboyantly stagey and animated actress as something resembling Patricia Routledge by way of a caffeine overdose, it’s a delectable, side-splitting spot of character work. A late-game sequence wherein Robinson’s Belinda is attempting to hold together the rapidly-collapsing show around her offers up amongst the finest examples of comedy performance you’ll likely see on stage this year.

“…offers up amongst the finest examples of omedy performance you’ll likely see on stage this year.”

Director Lindsay Posner keeps things taut, punchy and fairly immaculately paced. Some of the physical tussles occasionally register as a little too phoney, but the jokes and set pieces come thick and fast enough that the odd dodgy wrestle or tug of war is quickly forgotten.

As ‘sure things’ go, seeing Noises Off return over four decades after it first debuted, and having lost none of its humour or heart in the process, makes for a very easy recommendation. For some weaned on the multi-levelled, stage-destroying spectacle of The Play That Goes Wrong (Mischief’s offerings being now so ubiquitous as to make the comparison unavoidable), then here you’ll likely find a slightly tamer, perhaps even more twee affair, yet one whose characters and repartee sizzle as caustically and foolishly as ever.

Noises still brings the laughs and, peppered with some genuinely fantastic comedic turns as this touring production is, proves to be definitely one to tick ‘Off’ the bucket list.

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.

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.