It’s highly unlikely this review will break new ground by drawing reference to just how timely and resonant this production of Fiddler on the Roof is, landing in the current socio-political climate that it does.

The much-lauded, Olivier-hauling Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre outing, that sold out the Barbican this Summer, arrives in Birmingham for Christmas, and there’s no shying away from its poignancy.

The ugly creep of antisemitism and the displacement of Jewish communities. Pogroms from a Russian aggressor. The parallels are myriad, and practically write themselves.

And yet, although this handsome and striking revival feels more prescient and necessary than ever, it never feels laden or dour. Rather, Jordan Fein and Julia Cheng infuse it with a hearty dose of joy, bonhomie and levity, cutting a deeply funny thread through the ninety-minute first act in particular.

Following the strifes and toils of well-meaning milkman Tevye (Matthew Woodyatt) in pre-revolutionary Russia, Fiddler is fundamentally a family affair. Tevye has been ‘blessed’ with five daughters, and although the odd intrusion from Tsarist police or whispers in the local community hint at worrying goings-on in the wider world, for the time being he’s mainly preoccupied with his spirited offspring. Naturally, they’re falling in love with all the wrong suitors, all as Tevye’s long-suffering wife Golde (Jodie Jacobs) is taking heed from a local matchmaker (Beverley Klein) whose approach to love and marriage is more than a trifle transactional.

Well, it is ‘tradition’, after all.

As Tevye struggles with the expectations and demands of convention, a lame horse and his wilful children all, the small-town ebb and flow of his Anatevka swells about him. It’s a beautiful, authentic and utterly infectious depiction, too, as even bit parts and minor supporting characters help weave the tapestry of this wholly convincing village ensemble.

“…a terrific, grounding central turn, one that bristles with comedic energy and relatability.

Undoubtedly, Woodyatt is the anchor pin, though. It’s a terrific, grounding central turn, one that bristles with comedic energy and relatability. Whether engaging in sardonic banter with the almighty or wringing his hands at the thought of having to cook up yet another pantomime to get his wife on side, Woodyatt is both bombastic and tender at once, and his command of character and the ease with which he mines laughs from almost every beat of dialogue and incident is tremendous. He’s ably met by Jodie Jacobs as Golde, with the pair’s marital frisson and friction a giddy joy to watch throughout.

They’re surrounded by excellence, too. One of the hardest-working companies you will see on stage this Christmas help transform sequences such as a wedding celebration, a bar free-for-all and a spot of not-so-supernatural subterfuge into some of the slickest, most impressive musical theatre you could hope for. As mentioned, Fein and Cheng direct and choreograph it all to polished, propulsive perfection. That ninety minute first half flies by.

Within a collective of standouts, Natasha Jules Bernard is particularly great as eldest daughter Tzeitel, and showcases some almost literally otherworldly vocals when she gets her ‘Fruma-Sarah’ on. Dan Wolff puts in a great comedic turn as well-meaning but slightly feeble tailor, Motel as does Beverley Klein as the village’s melodramatic matchmaker, Yente. Roman Lytwyniw impressed in the performance reviewed as alternative fiddler, his eventual pairing up with Hannah Bristow on clarinet being a pause of raw tenderness and aching beauty. Greg Bernstein is earnest and likeable as free-thinking student, Perchik, commanding the stage with some astonishing moves and pulling off a lot of demanding choreo and physicality with real gusto and aplomb.

If the performances, direction and movement are all top notch, it certainly helps that this is such a visually arresting piece, too. Tom Scutt’s distinctive set design is slightly repurposed here, yet no less affecting. Like so much of this production, it feels both traditional, Earthy yet modern and stylised all at once.

“Like so much of this production, it feels both traditional, Earthy yet modern and stylised all at once.”

The ensemble often sit about at the edges, the orchestra perpetually upstage behind rows of wheat, as beams of Aideen Malone’s evocative lighting spill in from the wings. And that’s before we even get to the levitating monolith of the show’s ‘roof’, an almost ominous cast of stone and crop looming over proceedings throughout. It’s altogether a gorgeous piece of musical theatre.

For certain, Fiddler is peppered with hummable Bock and Harnick favourites such as ‘Matchmaker’, ‘Tradition’ and the irrepressible ear worm of ‘If I Were A Rich Man’. And yes, particularly come the shorter, zippier second act, things do get notably more solemn and timely.

But ultimately, it’s the heart and humour that carry the day here, in a genuinely inspired revisit that alchemises stunning design work, inspired casting and truly electric direction and choreography. Woodyatt is a soulful and lovable Tevye, and in the hands of fantastic creatives and buoyed by a kinetic, show-stopping ensemble, offer up one of the most perfect fusions of revival and, yes, tradition, in recent musical theatre history.

If I were a rich man, I’d be catching it daily, it’s that good…

“It will be a magnificent, opulent, tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement. A sensual ravishment…”

So opines Jim Broadbent’s gloriously animated impresario, Harold Zidler, in Baz Luhrmann’s Oscar-winning Moulin Rouge!

As mission statements go, it’s one that all things ‘Rouge’ have played by. The celebrated, multi award-winning Broadway and West End runs kept things suitably spectacular, and its inaugural world tour certainly doesn’t skimp on the ‘spectacular, spectacular’.

For a start, it certainly makes good on the ‘opulent’. Whilst perhaps inevitably, the nature of touring means Derek McLane’s set and staging can’t spill out and transform the auditorium to quite the extent it does in London, it’s still a stunning beast. The shows’ trademark ‘pink elephant’ and windmills are not only here, they’re rather enormous. The Birmingham Hippodrome auditorium is a particularly splendid fit, its existing crimson and gold hues blending beautifully with McLane’s ambitious work, all cast under Justin Townsend’s roaming spotlights, moody ambience and eye-popping razzmatazz.

Luhrmann’s OG cinematic whirlwind is, of course, the blueprint here. It’s central through line – a yarn of two young lovers, aspiring writer Christian (Nate Landskroner) and courtesan Satine (Verity Thompson) who begin a love affair at the iconic Parisian landmark with tragic consequence – is mostly intact.

“What made the original film such a bricolage of post modern sensibilities (not least of all in its celebration and application of music) gets carried over, too.”

But what made the original film such a bricolage of post-modern sensibilities (not least of all in its celebration and application of music) gets carried over, too. Purists might bemoan some fan favourite songs for not only being cut, but in many instances replaced with a jukebox of eclectic hits new and old alike. But from Whitney to Adele and Gaga and even some Talking Heads and Dead or Alive, Justin Levine and John Logan have summoned up a monster tracklist that, like before, somehow just works, and created a show that feels just as playful, freewheeling and musically madcap as the film did some – whisper it – twenty-four years ago.

Director Alex Timbers and choreographer Sonya Tayeh don’t just let the rapid fire succession of classic rock and pop hits do all the heavy lifting, either. Timbers keeps the playful, fourth-wall breaking of Christian’s narration light and unladen. The show moves at a terrific pace, and Timbers and company mine plenty of levity throughout, too – sometimes even using the choice of song as a brief moment of humour, affording the audience time to giggle for a few moments before the set pieces really swing into gear. Tayeh’s choreography is as showy and theatrical as it needs to be, yet moments such as a breathtaking Act II opener to Gaga’s ‘Bad Romance’ are passionate, virile, rhythmic and intoxicating. It can’t be easy finding a language to the movement of such a tonally erratic piece as Moulin Rouge!, but complemented in no small way by Catherine Zuber’s wonderful costume work, Timbers and Tayeh pull it off to regularly gobsmacking effect.

One of the real areas where this stage adaptation actively improves on the film has to be in some of its character work. Perhaps the biggest beneficiary is Satine herself. It’s only with comparative hindsight that Nicole Kidman’s (admittedly excellent) character in the original film is a little plagued with passivity and victimhood. Here, she is festooned with agency. Whereas in the original, Satine unconvincingly shows no comprehension of a mysterious affliction that seems to be affecting her, here she independently takes action. Where the film depicts her as a victim of manhandling and attempted assault, needing to be saved by a towering man, on stage in the very same scene Satine once again is the one making the decisions, calling the sots and controlling the narrative.

And ultimately, when it all looks to come crashing down about her, our heroine doesn’t simply go along with it all because there’s little point doing otherwise (…sorry, Nicole), instead she not only insists that ‘the show will go on’, but does so selflessly to ensure her lover’s work is showcased.

It certainly helps that Verity Thompson, recently memorable and hilarious as an uber Heath in Heathers the Musical, is a remarkable Satine. Commanding and vocally resplendent (the roof utterly obliterated by her rendition of Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’), she further brings an almost indefinable sense of old Hollywood grace and charisma to the role. Fitting for the characters aspirations and quasi-tragic trappings. But Thompson is met beautifully by a similarly impressive Nate Landskroner, who is soulful, earnest and captures the boyish passion and naivety of the role brilliant. He can also sing up a storm, too, and the chemistry and passion between he and Thompson palpable (which curiously was a mild criticism of the London production when first seeing it back in 2022).

The ever-dependable Cameron Blakely is fantastic as the flamboyant and wonderful Zidler. He even manages to get a few moments of his own ad libbing and character beats in. Generally, it’s a rather perfect marrying of performer and role. Kurt Kansley is great fun throughout, too, as Toulouse-Lautrec.

“In truth, though, wherever you throw your glance, there is excellence on show…”

In truth, though, wherever you throw your glance, there is excellence on show. Good luck peeling your attention away from the scintillation and talents of Kahlia Davis, Summer Priest, Scott Sutcliffe and Ellie Jane Grant, even after they’ve finished knocking your socks off with a truly bombastic and crowd-pleasing ‘Lady Marmalade’ opener.

So is this visit to the Moulin Rouge the ‘sensual ravishment’ we were hoping and promised?

It is, and then some. One of the most visually arresting and high-kicking touring productions that sacrifices none of the spectacle and bombast of the fantastic London production, and with this stellar cast arguably even betters it.

For sure, it isn’t exactly high art, but nor does it claim to be.

But it is, undoubtedly, with a fire in its belly and a passionate, sexy zeal to its step, a ‘tremendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement’.

Yes, Harold, at the Moulin Rouge, you most certainly will have fun.

 It’s probably not a great sign when a journey home after a supposed crime thriller has you compounding the plot holes and logical inconsistencies in your mind. Rather than piecing together and remembering all the clever foreshadowing and subtle hints you realise you were being fed over the course of the piece, you instead ruminate on some variant of well hang on, what was the point of that?

Peter James is back in Birmingham, as another of his popular, pulpy crime novels gets a stage adaptation, complete with the usual slew of vaguely familiar TV faces propping up the marketing. Where The Perfect Murder saw Eastenders favourites Shane Richie and Jessie Wallace reunite, 2021’s Looking Good Dead pulled a similar soapy feat with Adam Woodyatt and Laurie Brett (also of ‘Enders fame) teaming up.

For 2025’s offering, Picture You Dead, a veritable smorgasbord from the likes of Emmerdale, Casualty and even Strictly Come Dancing stuff out the line up.

The premise alone is quintessential, high-concept James, as a young couple find themselves embroiled in sinister goings-on after they inadvertently stumble upon what may be a long-lost masterpiece at a local car boot sale. Forgeries, murder and the dark underbelly of the art world come to envelop the pair, all as James’ DSI Roy Grace (a returning George Rainsford) races to solve an historic, unsolved murder that may or may not be connected.

The initial flourishes of Dead prove intriguing enough. The concept of forgeries and fakery puts an audience weened on Netflix true crime and golden age television on high alert from the off. It’s likely that alarm bells will ring early on when a seemingly charming ‘copyist’ offers to look after this prized painting for a few days.

And yet, for all of its attempt to slowly ratchet up the tension and uncertainty, the ultimate realisation is that Picture You Dead is, frankly, nowhere near as smart as it seems to think it is.

It certainly doesn’t help that, as mentioned earlier, the sheer abundance of plot holes and chasms of logic seem to only refresh with each passing scene. Sure, you may have managed to get a very impressive copy of your painting made, but do you really want to hang it on your living room wall for any visitor or passing burglar to see?

Why exactly is this villain engaging in some elaborate, Kevin McAllister-esque scheme involving donuts and insulin jabs when they are already brandishing a pistol and could just threaten to shoot their target instead?

Surely this other scallywag’s threat to set a captive aflame in the middle of his collection of priceless paintings is a little… hollow?

It doesn’t help that the direction feels similarly hokey, too. Picture You Dead whips about like a tonal hurricane, with moments that should feel intimidating and fraught with peril coming across as hammy and camp. Elsewhere, scenes are awkwardly lingered on for so long after their conclusion that one begins to suspect an about turn that never comes. And let’s not even get started on some of the questionable choices of LGBT representation and performance.

“Picture You Dead whips about like a tonal hurricane, with moments that should feel intimidating and fraught with peril coming across as hammy and camp.”

Some of the cast do their best with the wobbly material they’re served. Mark Oxtoby and Sean Jones both give good loveable rogue, and Gemma Stroyan is at least earnest as Grace’s sidekick and second in command. Rainsford feels like a walking cypher of your de facto superintendent, with precious little to do except sternly pontificate and spout exposition on autopilot. Ben Cutler shows moments of promise as one half of the genuinely overwhelmed young couple whose find kicks off the dangerous series of events, but Fiona Wade is more wooden than most of the picture frames on the set.

If Strictly fave Ore Oduba seems to at least be having fun as a machiavellian art collector, and is good for the odd titter, the character is still so jarringly camp and unthreatening that the whole subplot regularly feels pulled from a production of Carry On Criminal. Spare a thought for the talented Jodie Steele, who does her absolute best and gives arguably the best performance of the night as a ruthless contractor, but inherents most of the silliest beats to try and pass off.

If you can disengage your critical faculties and don’t mind some acting that can bandy from hammy to downright mahogany, Picture You Dead is an evening of watchable nonsense. At the very least, it looks handsome enough, with Adrian Linford’s set a surprisingly versatile beast.

But James churns out his thrillers with conveyor belt efficiency, and in Picture You Dead it truly shows. Pluck too hard on any of its threads, or let yourself get carried away with too many theories or expectations and it rapidly untangles into a contradictory, jarring mess, which for many will be a death knell in the current climate of sophisticated, intelligent thrillers.

There are glimmers of an interesting picture occasionally being painted here, and a couple of brushstrokes and performances to admire, but on appraisal it’d be fairly criminal to go anywhere near calling Picture You Dead a masterpiece.

Leave it at the car boot, where it belongs.

The theatre colossus that is Andrew Lloyd Webber committed a giggle-worthy gaff earlier this year, when accepting a WhatsOnStage award for his recent revival of Starlight Express in the West End.

“We’re bringing in new, young people to see a show and… okay, it’s not necessarily the greatest musical you’ll ever see.”

The room – not to mention swathes of TikTok – took it in good humour and relished in the Lord (not that one) offering up a splash of self-deprecation toward one of his earlier offerings.

It’s the kind of deadpan that could be levied at Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The debut collaboration between Lloyd Webber and Sir Tim Rice is a simple but pleasant thing. It has graced more school, amateur and professional stages than quite possibly any other musical that springs to mind and as such is peppy, family-friendly fun with catchy tunes that you’ll likely be humming long after the curtain falls.

But as a simplistic, sung-through piece it’s… well, not necessarily the greatest musical you’ll ever see.

Enter: Michael Harrison, Laurence Connor and team.

Stretching, pulling, rethreading and revitalising every nook, cranny and beat of Joseph, imbibing it with spectacle and a flurry of big-budget, song-and-dance embellishments, they serve up what is perhaps the biggest surprise of the theatre season so far.

Bursting with invention and joy, this is a rousing, technicolor marvel of a revival that truly sings.

“…a rousing, technicolor marvel of a revival that truly sings.”

For those who have somehow avoided the Joseph engine to date, its follows its titular character as he goes on his biblical adventure through slavery, imprisonment and beyond. Given its roots, Lloyd Webber and Rice’s book is refreshingly scarce on religiosity, with nary a mention of the big man upstairs. Instead, it is a decidedly child-friendly ode to fortitude, perseverance and decency.

‘Given the fact that any substance here is paper thin (at best), Connor, along with set designer Morgan Large and choreographer Joanne M. Hunter decide to go full throttle on the spectacle. Particular credit to MD John Rigby and the dance arrangements from Sam Davis, too. A cynic may call it padding, but the full-throated way in which the creatives here take the likes of ‘One More Angel in Heaven’ and explode into a full honkey-tonk hoedown of almost Rodgers and Hammerstein proportions is nothing short of genius. ‘Those Canaan Days‘ becoming ‘Can Can days? Inspired. This feels like Joseph the musical as it always ought to have been.

Given the abundance of different genres that Joseph’s score riffs through – jazz, country, rock, calypso to name but a few – the decision to have lots of freewheeling, expansive fun here pays off in abundance. Formerly pleasant toe-tappers turn into full scale song and dance show-stoppers, and Connor has a deft eye for injecting character throughout, to boot.

Of course, it helps to be working with such a strong company. Not least of all a selection of very winning child performers who have been integrated into the show far beyond the usual token pop-ups, which is a joy to watch. Even key roles such as Potiphar and the good-nature Benjamin are portrayed by some of the talented kids on stage.

In a similar vein, the irrepressible bundle of joy that is Christina Bianco takes her cheeky, fourth wall-breaking narrator and dips it in and out with bit parts such as Joseph’s father and Potiphar’s villainous, seductive wife. Bianco injects the role with a ton of energy and charm to spare, and her innate comedic skills are put to great use throughout. And if it that weren’t enough natural comedic talent to appreciate, the triumphant return of Birmingham Hippodrome favourite Matt Slack proves an utterly scene-stealing strike of casting gold.

“Hippodrome favourite Matt Slack proves an utterly scene-stealing strike of casting gold.”

By dint of his role as Pharaoh, Slack isn’t afforded a tremendous of stage time, but he mines it for every laugh, strut and cheeky reference to his panto staples as he can. It’s a gift of an extended cameo, and a surefire reason why audiences should check out the tour in Birmingham.

But arguably this production’s greatest ace is in it’s leading man; rising musical theatre star Adam Filipe. Recently impressing with knockout vocals in Titanic the Musical and Sideshow in Concert last April, Filipe steps into big sandals – not to mention a certain sizeable coat – and more than rises to the occasion, serving up an absolute dream of a Joseph. Injecting the admittedly rather one-dimensional lead with a likability, exuberance and even athleticism throughout, Filipe is tremendous. And yes, he absolutely raises the roof with a blistering rendition of ‘Close Every Door’.

To say this is a production that exceeds expectations would be an understatement. It may well be amongst the most inventive, characterful and exciting examples of injecting a whole new scale and life into an old favourite to date. It is a glittering, joyful manifesto of how to stage a revival with vision and purpose, and if it is a case of dazzling with style over substance, then colour me dazzled, then slap on some more.

Lloyd Webber best get practising the next iteration of that speech…

Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman’s Ghost Stories is one of those shows that can be fiendishly tricky to review. Much akin to that other spooky offering doing the rounds across the UK, 2:22 – A Ghost Story, we’re firmly in say-too-much-and-you’ll-spoil-it territory here.

Still, firmly ensconced with that fear, let’s switch on the flickering torch and shine a light on whether this creepy outing is truly as spine-tingling as its marketing would suggest.

Theatre isn’t exactly shy of ghostly or horror imbued evenings – The Woman in Black and the aforementioned celebrity carousel of 2:22 being obvious examples. The West End recently lit up to the sci-fi horror mixtape of Stranger Things: The First Shadow, and those who like their atmosphere a la Christie, there’s always tentpole The Mousetrap.

“…a genuinely creepy, at times startling jolt of pure horror.”

Having seen them all, it comes as something of a welcome surprise that Ghost Stories comfortably casts the spectre of its competition aside when it comes to pure tension and frights. This is a genuinely creepy, at times startling jolt of pure horror. It isn’t quite as cerebral as Woman in Black or character-centric as, say, 2:22, but it’s quite possibly, jump for jump, the scariest thing you can sit down and watch in a theatre right now.

Stories hinges around a central narrator – paranormal skeptic and psychologist Professor Goodman (Dan Tetsell). Goodman sets out his stall with a direct address to the audience, flashing up some viral and meme friendly case studies, and introduces us to the idea of the ‘percipient’ – an individual who believes they have seen (or perceived… see?) a ghost or other such otherworldly nastiness.

Goodman serves up some fun audience participation examples, before going on to share the three interviews and accounts of ghostly goings-on that he has always found the most unsettling or difficult to disprove.

“Nick Manning’s sound work and James Farncombe’s lighting are perhaps the real MVPs here, embedding a sense of inescapable dread from the moment you enter the auditorium.”

It is these three spooky vignettes that form the main bulk of Stories run time. We see sardonic night watchman Tony (Birds of a Feather’s David Cardy) encounter strange goings on in during his shift at a sanitarium. Nervy Simon (Eddie Loodmer-Elliott) ends up stranded with a broken down car after a party with some… unexpected company. And workaholic Mike (Casualty and Holby City star Clive Mantle) begins to uncover quite why his pregnant wife is reluctant to go into the new nursery he’s had decorated for her.

Dyson and Nyman, along with director Sean Holmes, have crafted a cracking and regularly thrilling ride. Brilliantly paced, Holmes proves a dab hand at knowing when to simply allow the inherent tension of a scene to simply swallow its audience up by itself. Nick Manning’s sound work and James Farncombe’s lighting are perhaps the real MVPs here, embedding a sense of inescapable dread from the moment you enter the auditorium. It’s a seriously atmospheric and unsettling arena.

There’s some impressive stagecraft and technical wizardry on show, too. Again, to get into the specifics would ruin the frightening fun, but some of the special effects, stunt and costume work from Scott Penrose, Jonathan Holby and Becky Gunstone are seriously impressive (not to mention terrifying).

Given that an awful lot of Stories’ time involves its central cast wandering around looking frightened, a lot of the connection needed with the audience falls on its small but solid company. All of the three central ‘percipient’s are great in their individual segments, with Cardy a lot of fun as the cantankerous caretaker, and Loodmer-Elliott particularly endearing as a rather hapless driver (who may or may not have even passed his test). TV favourite Mantle gets a little more to do toward the end of the show, and Dan Tetsell is fantastic throughout as Professor Goodman. Whether giving deadpan reactions to the close of each vignette, or gradually threading in the sense that something isn’t quite… right about his own interjections, it’s a fun and absorbing performance that threads the entire piece together perfectly.

If you’re in the market for a fright and a fun evening of jumps and scares at the theatre, Ghost Stories is an easy recommendation. At roughly ninety minutes without an interval, it is a taut, regularly gripping and occasionally terrifying dive into the things that go bump in the night. Boasting some impressive visuals, effects work and spirited performances (forgive the pun) this is one set of Stories that will thrill and chill, and maybe even haunt you come bed time.

But don’t worry, there’s nothing under there.

…I promise.

Theatre certainly isn’t short of pieces about the conflicted wunderkind or the struggling artiste. Art through adversity. The terrible genius.

Heck, right now, Mark Ravenhill’s delightful Ben & Imo, which pivots around the mercurial, temperamental brilliance of composer Benjamin Britten has just opened a visit to the Orange Tree Theatre after a well-received run at the RSC last year.

What lands The Shark Is Broken an extra wrinkle of intrigue is not just its atypical subject matter; conflict, ponderances and soul-searching done on the floating set of Steven Spielberg’s 1975 smash-hit Jaws. But more so the fact that this taut character piece is penned by and starring Ian Shaw, son of original Jaws star, the late, great Robert Shaw.

It’s an uncanny evocation of the actor’s celebrated, iconic father in one of his most enduring roles. Shaw channels his father’s frank, sardonic briskness yet irrepressible charm with gusto, threatening to swallow up his co-stars and Duncan Henderson’s neatly depicted recreation of the film’s ‘Orca’ boat more than any malfunctioning shark could.

“Shaw channels his father’s frank, sardonic briskness yet irrepressible charm with gusto…”

It is the summer of 1974. Three actors are sat on a boat off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard waiting to shoot scenes for rising director Spielberg’s new thriller. If filmmaking is interminably slow at the best of times (“it’s not the time it takes to take the take that takes the time…”), then here the downtime is only being amplified by their notoriously unreliable titular co-star.

Bottles of booze are stashed away (or stuck under table surfaces) whilst wagers, card games and even arm wrestles are on the agenda to wile away the hours of tedium.

For fans of Spielberg’s classic, much of what follows in the unbroken ninety minute run time plays out like an extended version of the film’s ‘scar’ scene, albeit bleeding out IRL. There are sobering accounts of relationships with fathers (leant extra pathos being penned by Shaw writing for and about his own father and grandfather), rumination on the wider changes happening in the entertainment industry, and all manner of jostling about the ‘quality’ of this turkey they are apparently filming. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Shaw’s now-celebrated ‘US Indianapolis’ speech proves to be a sort of emblematic anchor for it all, with the actor crankily besmirching the writing for this pivotal scene and taking it upon himself to repurpose it.

The dynamic between the three actors is neatly conveyed and a joy to watch. Ashley Margolis’ animated and at times almost pueirle take on Richard Dreyfuss proves a perfect counter to Shaw’s faultless invocation of his father. Whether gleefully setting his co-star up for a fall via a phone call to Harold Pinter or bursting with rage and even assault when Dreyfuss jetties one of his bottles of booze overboard, Shaw’s performance is bristling, hilarious and touching in equal measure. Crucially, he underpins the bombast and bravura with the venerable charm and dignity his late father carried so effortlessly.

Dan Fredenburgh finishes the hat as Roy Scheider, who, much like his on-screen character, if less showy than his counterparts regularly proves to be the stabilising and grounding influence in the trio.

And whilst there is plenty of the aforementioned soul-searching and contemplation to be found here, Shaw and co-writer Joseph Nixon keep this Shark swimming at a brisk pace. It’s regularly laugh-out-loud funny, too, admittedly much of which is courtesy of Shaw’s biting put-downs, asides and whimsies.

“For certain, there will surely be extra mileage here for fans of the film…”

Henderson’s staging – of a dissected replica of the film’s main setting – is a neat and nostalgic playground, buoyed by Nina Dunn’s film strip-cum-seascape video backdrop. Adam Cork gets a few early giggles with his original music floating around the edges of John William’s trademark ominous score.

For certain, there will surely be extra mileage here for fans of the film, and you could argue that Shark even goes a little overboard on the abundance of meta quips. ‘Nobody will be watching this film in fifty years’ time’, ‘Whatever next… dinosaurs?’ and the almost de rigueur quip that there will never be a more corrupt or questionable President than Nixon (cue laughter).

But minor quibbles aside, even as a standalone three-hander with no familiarity of the source material, this is a keenly observed and beautifully acted slice of theatre. With winning performances, witty and characterful writing that is leant extra poignancy by dint of that familial connection, The Shark Is Broken is a funny, fascinating foray into the old adage of art through adversity.

Now could someone please get a mechanic out to Bruce…

There’s something strangely poetic (ironic?) about a production of Ghost being itself haunted from beyond the grave.

And no, we don’t callously mean the late, great Bill Kenwright.

Rather, the shadow of the past that is the original, celebrated run of the show looms large over this revived incarnation of Kenwright and co’s 2016 production, just as it did then.

Debuting back in 2011, first in Manchester, later in London and then finally on tour across the UK, Ballard, Rubin and Stewart’s stage adaptation of the Oscar-winning 1990s box office smash was fairly unanimously praised for its stunning stagecraft and effects work. To this date, although it was frequently beset with technical faults because of the sheer scope and ambition of what it took on the road, the OG run of Ghost the Musical remains quite possibly the most visually arresting and impressive touring production the UK has seen.

The core narrative remains the same as the movie and former runs. Doe-eyed lovebirds Molly (Rebekah Lowings) and Sam (Josh St. Clair) move in together in their new Brooklyn apartment, pottery wheel and all. But when tragedy strikes and Sam is killed by a mugger, Molly’s world is turned upside down. Sam’s spirit meanwhile, seemingly trapped on Earth, must unravel the mystery behind his murder and protect his beloved Molly, enlisting the help of fraudulent psychic Oda Mae Brown (Jacqui Dubois), who turns out to be the only one who can hear him from beyond the grave.

“…much of the criticism that was laid at the door of the show almost a decade ago sadly rings true here.”

Being a marginally revamped take on Kenwright’s more stripped-back affair of 2016, much of the criticism that was laid at the door of the show almost a decade ago sadly rings true here. By contrast to what has come before, so much of the staging and illusion work here – crucial to sell the ethereal and otherworldly elements that are so integral to the show – feel underwhelming, or at times even amateur, when compared with the original, dazzling production.

And whilst, yes, audiences going in with no experience of the original production will perhaps fare slightly better, nonetheless uninspired, hokey choreography, pitchy sound and what are at times quite literally wobbly set pieces all contribute to the feeling of a show that isn’t quite up to snuff.

Thankfully, the major death knell last time round – namely, casting – is markedly improved for 2025.

“Lowings is a veritable powerhouse… her searing rendition of fan favourite ‘With You’ is truly goose pimple inducing stuff…”

Whereas previously the late Sarah Harding (of Girls Aloud fame) sadly struggled with the big vocal asks (and acts) of Molly, Lowings is a veritable powerhouse with them. Her searing rendition of fan favourite ‘With You’ is truly goose pimple inducing stuff, and she tugs on the heartstrings with a moving, authentic turn throughout, even if Rubin’s book leaves her with rather little to do during the middle third of the show. Josh St. Clair, as Sam, is suitably frustrated and anguished, and is quite the belter in the higher registers himself. He unenviably inherits much of the production’s low-key approach to illusions and effects work, but gives it his all trying to sell the kind of rudimentary newspaper trickery you’d expect of early Paul Daniels or Blue Peter.

Jacqui Dubois navigated some initial mic dips to give a fun, spirited turn as the feisty Oda Mae (a role which won Whoopi Goldberg the Oscar), though this reviewer would loved to have seen more of her sisters, too, with Tanisha Butterfield and Krishna Jackson-Jones singing up a sassy storm for their introductory two-hander.

Elsewhere, understudy Jamie Pritchard was smooth yet slippery, and similarly in fine voice, as shady broker and bestie, Carl. And Garry Lee infuses palpable rage and intimidating frustration into his imposing subway spectre.

In all, Ghost the Musical remains a pleasant, occasionally funny and ultimately quite moving piece of musical theatre. If its central romance doesn’t always entirely convince – with early scenes feeling a touch too gawky – by the end you’ll likely be won over. Dave Stewart and Glen Ballard’s music bandies between stirring power ballads and less memorable character pieces, and it’s all applied a liberal dose of cheddar. It probably says something that the most memorable musical moment is arguably the only one it inherits from the film – The Righteous Brothers’ ‘Unchained Melody’ being put to liberal use here.

But there’s little shying away from the fact that, for all of the evident talent on stage, and some knockout vocals throughout, it feels like something of a shadow of its former self. And if it may seem unfair to judge a production against its past versions, even on its own merits there is a lot here that feels undercooked or pedestrian.

If you’re a fan of the original film you will likely find plenty to enjoy, and there are certainly performances worth catching, with a couple of the numbers in particular delivered to a stunning standard this time round.

And yet, indeed, here is one Ghost the Musical that, for want of a better analogy, feels haunted by the spectre of its own former grandeur and glory.

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…

If last year’s Jack and the Beanstalk outing for the Birmingham Hippodrome was a bit of a manic cluster bomb that slightly underutilised some of its cast and didn’t quite live up to the ‘drome’s usual (admittedly stratospheric) standard, then all eyes were on this year’s Peter Pan, for this reviewer at least, to see if it could recapture that pixie dust of Brummie panto perfection.

The first move Michael Harrison and co get right is scooping up the return of national treasure – and bonafide Birmingham royalty – Alison Hammond. The This Morning and Bake Off host’s infectious, Earthy likability and proud local lilt was a perfect addition to last year’s lineup, and it’s undeniably great to have her back. The rapport she shares with honorary Brummie – and undisputed audience favourite – Matt Slack (returning this time round his eleventh consecutive outing at the Hippodrome), is palpable, genuine and buckets of fun.

But as magical a mermaid as Alison proves to be, and as terrific as it is to see Slack back on indefatigable, hilarious top form, Peter Pan flies because it is a much more rounded and satisfying piece of pantomime jugglery.

As is to now be expected, this is as lavish and opulent a feast for the eyes as you’ll see outside of the M25. The Hippodrome never fails to deliver a dazzling spectacle, and the piratey, Neverland trappings of Pan give designers Mark Walters, Ben Cracknell, Teresa Dalton and Mike Coltman a true nautical playground to go to town with. From flashing, zapping electric eels, ginormous animatronic reptilians to a cannon-inspired dame frock that would have even Julian Clary blushing, this is comfortably one of the most dazzling, visually arresting productions you could sink into this Christmas and New Year.

In fact, you’ll need to split some very fine hairs indeed to find pretty much anything here that’s anything less than grand. Harry Michaels and Slack himself have fashioned a hearty, hilarious panto offering that admirably starts out with a strong focus on the story of the boy who never grew up, before gradually folding the usual panto frolics and set pieces into the mix.

“…you’ll need to split some very fine hairs indeed to find pretty much anything here that’s anything less than grand.”

It feels a trifle cynical to get into the minutiae of structure in a pantomime, but there’s a far more even-handed balancing of all of Pan’s myriad, joyful elements this time round when compared with last year’s Beanstalk. Andrew Ryan’s wonderful Dame – this time one Mrs Sylvia Smee – gets to have far more fun this time round (after being relegated to a couple of mopey ballads last year), here vamping up a storm with some post-modern riffs to outright unabashedly camp mash-ups of Gaga and La Cage. As always, the frocks are to die for.

From a lagoon-inspired repurposing of Earth, Wind and Fire’s ‘Boogie Wonderland’ to returnee Danny Mac doing a sizzling job of reminding everyone that he’s got both the moves and vocals to match with a corker of a take on ‘Jailhouse Rock’, the big musical numbers are suitably show-stopping and infused with character and fun. And, naturally, there’s an abundance of funny, too, often masterfully conducted by the maestro of mischief, Slack himself.

There’s an ingenious skit of map-themed puns, the customary free-for-all of ‘A Sailor Went To Sea’ as Hammond, Slack, Mac and Ryan engage in increasingly chaotic slapstick shenanigans and, perhaps most hilarious of all, a truly masterful impressionistic take on The Proclaimers that is up there with the funniest and most impressive of bits that Slack has delivered in his impressive, eleven-year tenure.

It’s all great, funny fare, and an impressive cast and ensemble put in the legwork to keep the energy levels high and the laughs coming thick and fast. Noah Harrison makes for a great Peter Pan, impish and boyishly charming, the kids in particular will love him as a young hero to root for. Danny Mac, meanwhile, is inspired, shrewdly playing his villainous Captain Hook completely nefarious and almost entirely straight… though not without a few cheeky jabs of self-deprecation at how seriously he is taking it all.

“…a terrific spot of panto villainy, and one that makes his aforementioned big musical moment all the more disarming.”

It’s a terrific spot of panto villainy, and one that makes his aforementioned big musical moment all the more disarming. Hammond is once again a delight, and when you have Matt Slack at his best as he is here then there are few, if any, in the industry that can match him.

Reclaiming its heritage as one of the finest pantos in all of the (Never Never) land, the Hippodrome has a treasure trove of real 24-carat booty on its hands – and hooks – with Peter Pan. With a touching nod to the venue’s recent 125th birthday, Hammond, Slack and Mac are a magical, winning combo in a dream of a panto that, in all the best ways will make you feel like you never grew up, either.

Chart a course for the second star to the right, and be prepared to be giggling straight through until morning!

At a time where the likes of Heartstopper, Sex Education and It’s A Sin have represented young LGBTQ+ storytelling becoming firmly ensconced within the entertainment mainstream, the forward-thinking scope of musical theatre feels more proudly pronounced than ever.

Rent, La Cage, Priscilla, Everybody’s Talking About Jamie… the list goes on. Musicals have often been at the frontier of exploring the boundaries of sexuality, gender identity and expression. TV and film, it seems, have recently been playing something of a game of catch up.

It makes Becoming Nancy, the Birmingham Rep’s new musical offering based on Terry Ronald’s 2011 quasi-biographical debut novel of the same name, something of a curio.

Let’s preface by acknowledging that new musical theatre is always something to be celebrated, and Nancy certainly gets its song and dance down pat. Directed and choreographed with relentless energy and razor sharp precision by the legendary Jerry Mitchell, this is a show that looks, moves and sounds terrific. George Stiles and Anthony Drewe’s soundtrack is positively stuffed with catchy, jaunty earworms and even a toe-tapping disco showstopper or two.

“George Stiles and Anthony Drewe’s soundtrack is positively stuffed with catchy, jaunty earworms…”

Presenting something of a ‘what if’ on a real-life scenario that occurred to Ronald when he was cast as Nancy in a school production of Lionel Bart’s Oliver!, Becoming Nancy follows the trials and self-discoveries of young David Starr (Joseph Peacock) after he accepts the unconventional offer (whereas Ronald in real life turned the opportunity down). He’s cast against newbie transfer student, the hunky Maxie Boswell (Joseph Vella) to whom he finds himself instantly attracted, and juggles his burgeoning sexuality and identity alongside backing up his best friend, fellow outcast Frances Bassey (Paige Peddie). Whom we are assured is no relation to Shirley.

David is a neatly realised creation. He’s occasionally theatrical, for sure, and makes healthy use of breaking the fourth wall to comedic effect, but on the whole it’s a very human and nuanced depiction of a young gay character. He shares his excitement at being cast in the role, but he also has a punkier passion for Sting, Debbie Harry and Kate Bush. It’s a reassuringly non-atypical portrayal, and Peacock does a great job of fleshing him out into a likeable, dimensional lead.

It’s just something of a pity that a number of the characters and narrative choices around him register at-times achingly familiar. Nancy serves up a smorgasbord of staples; the customary high school bullies, the sassy yet supportive aunt, the flamboyant yet mentoring drama teacher, the disapproving, narrow-minded father and the supportive, worrying mother, complete with her own power ballad of unconditional, ‘that’s-my-child’ maternal rawness.

Similarly, a subplot concerning racist thuggery may be no less timely now than in the late seventies when Nancy is set, but it is disappointingly laden and on-the-nose in its execution. It seems to take the concept of ‘show, don’t tell’, throw it out the window, and then repeatedly go to lengths to tell you why it has done so.

Thankfully, the second Act unshackles itself from formula a little to go down some more interesting and pensive avenues. A strong focus on a fake girlfriend, whilst initially offering shades of Ian Gallagher and Mandy Maguire a la Shameless, neatly explores the emotional fallout of what could easily have been a throwaway or joke character. Daisy Greenwood does excellent work here, as an impetuous classmate who finds herself with an unrequited attraction to David, culminating in a beautiful duet with Genevieve Nicole’s empathetic Aunt Val.

And whilst the ‘will they, won’t they’ dynamic between David and Maxie feels strangely sidelined for a good chunk of Act II, when the duo finally escape to the freedom and acceptance of Brighton (naturally), Nancy offers up some interesting and truthful subversions. The usually confident, carefree Maxie here struggles with the unabashed openness of the Brighton ‘scene’, questioning who and what he really is, leading to some earnest, relatable and mature highlighting of the young gay experience.

But for the most part, Becoming Nancy plays it safe and hits tried and true beats. It doesn’t quite earn some of its emotional payoff and character resolutions, with its villains in particular turning out to be pure cookie cutter fare, but you’ll still doubtless be smiling and bopping along by the time its crowd-pleasing curtain call plays out.

This is no small part thanks to Mitchell’s vibrant and joyful direction and choreography. There are plenty of fun, characterful set pieces that Mitchell goes to town on – from a Donna Summer-esque flourish in a Brighton gay club to a giddily hilarious spot of musical encouragement from avatars of David’s musical heroes (Nicole making for a hysterically perfect Kate Bush here).

“Peacock and Vella are an endearing, likeable central duo…”

It’s a big, colourful spectacle too, with David Rockwell and TJ Greenway’s staging punctured with splashes of punk rock video and projection work, alongside Philip Rosenberg’s vivid, punchy lighting. Nancy leaps off the stage much in the vein of its comic book and disco inspirations.

Equally elevating are the show’s terrific company, from an exciting, vigorous ensemble and swing, through to a uniformly impressive central cast. Peacock and Vella are a winning, loveable central duo, even if they could probably benefit from an extra scene or two to let their burgeoning romance marinate. The ever-dependable Rebecca Trehearn brings a quiet resolve and dignity to David’s mother Kath, and offers up some of the most roof-raising vocals of the evening with a searing rendition of ‘About Six Inches From Your Heart’. Though she’s comfortably met by a resplendent Paige Peddie, who puts in a great supporting turn as Frances, and absolutely tears up both of her big ticket numbers.

Elsewhere, Stephen Ashfield is great fun and in fine voice as both kindly teacher Hamish and a certain rock star alter-ego, and if a full musical was ever commissioned for Genevieve Nicole’s Aunt Val or Kate Bush, we’d absolutely be the first in line.

Ultimately, it’s hard to not be won over by Becoming Nancy, familiarity be damned. It never quite manages to forge its own identity or purpose to the extent of a Billy Elliot or Jamie, but it’s still an uplifting experience peppered with important and truthful moments. It’s an easy recommendation for the music, direction and cast alone, surely a trifecta any respecting musical theatre fan should be hoping for.

Go in expecting the second coming of original, groundbreaking queer musical storytelling and you may leave faintly disappointed. But let yourself laugh and bop along to a charming, comfortable and colourful journey rich with great tunes and loveable characters that keeps things mostly surface-level and you will likely ‘consider yourself’ right at home with Mitchell and Ronald’s energetic, feel-good and affirming Nancy.