Applauding the Nazis? …really?

“Whose side are you guys on?”

It’s a cheeky, fourth-wall breaking dig that Operation Mincemeat throws at the audience early into its second act. A wry example of a musical that has a great deal of fun playing with the medium of theatre to tell its irreverent – yet often deeply human – account of a titular, real life intelligence operation toward the end of World War II.

“Well at least it’s not a musical” follows a little later. The nudge, nudge, wink winkery on full display.

In truth, Mincemeat barnstorms its way through a whirlwind of characters, set pieces, exposition and about-turns with such kinetic vim and theatrical invention that it brings to mind great, madcap British capers like One Man, Two Guv’nors, The Play That Goes Wrong and Noises Off. Throw on top a dizzyingly eclectic score that cycles through rap, dance, more conventional musical theatre fare and even some Minchin and Miranda-esque sing-speak, and surely it’s a briefing for an absolute cluster bomb of a misfire?

Miraculously, Operation Mincemeat not only succeeds in spinning so many disparate plates, but it positively soars in doing so. David Cumming, Felix Hagan, Natasha Hodgson and Zoë Roberts’ bayonet-sharp book and lyrics not only keep things moving at a relentless pace, but also launch a veritable artillery of physical comedy, slapstick, farce, satire, historical illumination, song and dance and somehow, just somehow, underpin the whole thing with real poignancy and emotional clout.

“Despite the excellent humour, the stakes feel real, and there’s plenty of pathos tucked away throughout.”

As mentioned, it tells the story of the ‘you couldn’t write it’ (James Bond scribe Ian Fleming is in there, don’t you know) IRL mission undertaken by British intelligence to deceive Hitler into moving troops out of Sicily for the subsequent invasion by the Allied Forces.

Despite the excellent humour, the stakes feel real, and there’s plenty of pathos tucked away throughout. It takes time to highlight the unsung contribution of the secretaries and women of the era. It asks questions of the dehumanising choices made out of wartime necessity.

And, in what is one of the show’s standout and celebrated sequences, gradually ripples back the deception and artifice to shine a light on those left behind when their loved ones go to war.

But it never feels laden or heavy-handed. For every sombre, singular spotlight of ‘Dear Bill’ there is the europop, clubland silliness of ‘Das Übermensch’ (“goose-step to the left, jump to the far right”). It’s no minor miracle in and of itself that the show avoids feeling like a complete tonal haywire, and serves up its silly and funny just as effortlessly as it does its history and heart.

It is in no small part thanks to a terrific company on multi-role, gender-flipping duty throughout that the current tour of Mincemeat is such a resoundingly successful operation. Five talented performers carry the entirety of this frenetic beast on their backs, sometimes switching out characters live on stage with a yank of a suit or a drop of a pair of glasses. Resident director David Firas-Robles keeps the transitions and movement slick and punchy, and again his cast come up aces here.

All five are fantastic, though Jamie-Rose Monk and Christian Andrews get some of the meatiest chameleonic work. Monk tackles some of the toughest, rapid-fire wordplay with gusto as the no-nonsense Colonel overseeing the whole affair, and elsewhere is hilarious as our slightly hapless, profusely sweaty man in Spain. Andrews is side-splitting in a number of terrifically colourful supporting parts, including a ridiculously odious pathologist (a personal favourite) and a dim-witted American pilot who unwittingly threatens to upend the whole affair.

“…it’s in his measured, gradually disarming turn as administrative matron Hester that Andrews threatens to steal the whole show.”

But it’s in his measured, gradually disarming turn as administrative matron Hester that Andrews threatens to steal the whole show and delivers a real show-stopper of a supporting turn. The aforementioned ‘Dear Bill’ will surely become a seminal example of character study and storytelling through song, and the uniqueness with which musical theatre can run the full gamut of exposition and emotion all at once.

Visually and technically, this touring production is a showy beast. There are flashier set pieces and stagecraft littered throughout, but designer Ben Stones and lighting chief Mark Henderson truly go to town in a show-stopping finale that features one of the single best set design gags of recent memory. The only slight quibble in the performance reviewed was some occasionally inconsistent sound, including at a fairly pivotal plot point involving a submarine where key chunks of dialogue dipped in and out of audibility.

As a live combat exercise in utilising the unique strengths and opportunities of musical theatre to tell a wholly original take on a very real story, Operation Mincemeat is a triumph and deserves all the medals, statues and plaques. Marketing for the show proudly boasts is as being ‘the best reviewed show in West End history’, and it isn’t difficult to see why. Regularly hilarious, crammed with witty, cutting, satirical and honest storytelling that shines a light on its history and humanity both, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take some shore leave to catch Operation Mincemeat, post-haste.

Divorced. Beheaded. Died. Divorced. Beheaded. Survived.

Six the Musical can comfortably afford to do pretty much any and all of the above to any theatre reviewer that may dare to come for it. Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss’ rampaging, seventy-five minute cultural juggernaut is a thing of such surefire demand and adoration that it’s one of the few surefire bets in musical theatre you can safely call ‘critic proof’. It’s hard to recall a show with such a fervent, dedicated fanbase. Wicked? Or do we have to go back as far as Rocky Horror, perhaps? Of course, it’s helped immeasurably by its instant earworm of a soundtrack, one that has rippled out beyond the usual stagey crowds.

The elusive secret of the Six formula lies, it seems, in its comparative simplicity, with a smattering of almost Spice Girls–ian ‘girl power’ thrown in for good measure. The short, single-act blitz through the six wives of Henry VIII as they set their stories and struggles to pop tributes is light on story, big on character and simple yet effective in staging. It wears its streamlined, focused Fringe origins as a sparkling, rhinestoned badge of honour, and admirably none of the creatives have allowed its success to seduce them into stuffing and padding it out beyond recognition or efficiency.

Six is a smart, lean, and whippet-fast jaunt of a show. A funny, charismatic and infectious hybrid of pop concert and musical theatre that laces itself with just enough pathos and even historical insight – not to mention a crowd-pleasing undercurrent of feminine empowerment and positivity throughout – to make those bangers of songs just further icing on an already royally pleasing cake.

“…to suggest the music is somehow an afterthought would surely warrant a beheading.”

Though to suggest the music is somehow an afterthought would surely warrant a beheading. Marlow and Moss demonstrate an uncanny ear for a breadth of genre and style, not to mention setting that to witty wordplay and storytelling through song. From the hip-hop stylings of Anna of Cleve’s (Jodie Knight) ‘Get Down’ as she bombastically flaunts her freewheeling royal lifestyle, the power ballad majesty of Jane Seymour’s (Emily Dawson) wrenching, bittersweet ‘Heart of Stone’ through to the Euro-electro pulse of ‘Haus of Holbein’, each Queen gets their own signature number, perfectly attuned to the tale they have to tell.

See, for instance, the gradual degradation of Katherine Howard’s (Abi Atchison) sultry ‘All You Wanna Do’. Initially starting out as a seductive anthem in the vein of a Britney or Ariana Grande A-side, over the course of the number the spectre of predatory impulses and objectification creep in to the staging, lyrics and performance all, until eventually Howard, shaking and dehumanised, is quite literally being pulled and grasped at from every corner.

It’s just one of many masterclasses Six delivers in doing an awful lot with evidentially quite little.

Between the solo pieces and peppy ensemble numbers, the sextet engage in zippy banter and jovial oneupmanship, with the meta-narrative of a fictional contest to determine who was worse done by old Henry VIII ratcheting up toward conclusion. Lucia Valentina’s hilariously brattish Anne Boleyn habitually reminds her competitors that, despite their woes, she has this thing all sewn up by dint of, you know, losing her head. 

Lasasha Aldridge’s commanding Catherine of Aragon comes out victorious in a game of maternity misery top trumps, whilst Emily Dawson’s Jane Seymour is quick to remind the other ladies that she was the only one the infamous monarch ever truly loved and that she was robbed of seeing her child grow up. Whilst it may all sound frightfully dour and grim, it’s written with such verve and delivered with such mischievous buoyancy – tongues planted firmly in cheeks – that it all proves great, tireless fun. Jodie Knight‘s utterly infectious and audacious Anna of Cleves is the outlier, but the sheer relish and ass-shaking, fist-pumping bombacity with which she sings about how she landed on her feet is an absolute gem, with Knight giving one of the most charismatic and irrepressible Cleves’ to date.

“…it’s written with such verve and delivered with such mischievous buoyancy – tongues planted firmly in cheeks – that it all proves great, tireless fun.”

And ultimately, it leaves things to Eve Kitchingman’s freethinking survivor (and bonafide vocal powerhouse), Catherine Parr, to take a step back from her own heartbreak and appraise all the misery and schadenfreude so that Six can partake in its final, wonderfully cathartic about-turn.

Emma Bailey’s staging and Gabriella Slade’s costumes have certainly been leant some extra sparkle and pizazz since the show’s earlier outings, but once again the core essence of their simple yet showy pop concert vibes haven’t been lost. The illusion is merely amplified, and in no small part thanks to Tim Deiling’s dynamic, dramatic lighting. It looks, sounds and feels like something akin to a bottled arena spectacle, with some ruffles and threading of Tudor flavouring punched in for good measure.

The cast assembled for this latest touring are a royally scintillating and talented troupe. The performance reviewed featured a number of alternates and swings, but you’d sooner find a forgery in the Haus of Holbein before spotting a weak link in this royal chain. They’re all genuinely great, and just know whichever member of the royal court of twenty-twenty-SIX you get to experience, you’re in fantastic hands… and heels.

All six – not to mention their always-on-stage ‘ladies in waiting’ band – keep the energy levels high from the off, and practically never falter.

But we’re not about to commit the ultimate Six taboo of pitting any of these fierce, fabulous ladies against one another. Not only would it go against the entire vibe and raison d’être of this joyous, affirming ode to individuality and sisterhood both, but it would also be utterly pointless.

After all, I could say this was a theatrical atrocity beyond measure or comprehension, and it would still do precisely nothing to dampen the box office and love for brand Six. And thank Henry…. sorry, thank Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anna, Katherine and Catherine (again) for that, because Six is not only here to stay, not only is it pretty much a perfectly-formed package of poppy musical theatre brilliance, but it’s also fundamentally an empowering, vibrant and utterly original showcase of theatrical magic that wears its well-deserved crown with vim, sass, pride and utterly regal fabulousness.

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…

Despite not, one must assume, being an actual subtitle of this lavish new touring production of Miss Saigon, good luck finding any materials associated with it not having ‘The Legend Reborn’ slapped all over it (go on, take a look at that poster).

Part pitch, part invitation, it’s a nifty (and suitably theatrical) call to action for audiences to be summoned to what has always been the less ubiquitous of the Boublil and Schönberg big two (the other being, of course, the inescapable Les Misérables).

And as mission statements go, it’s pretty on-point. Here, Michael Harrison and team have rebuilt, redesigned and in parts even rewritten Saigon into a recognisable yet confidently reimagined beast. Yes, it’s still saddled with some of the show’s inherent lopsidedness and mawkish cul-de-sacs, but a tremendous cast and some truly stellar design work give it a whole new lease of eye (and ear) popping life.

Fans and purists trembling at the mention of rewrites can be assuaged, too; this is still the Miss Saigon you know and love. Much of the tinkering, courtesy of the National Theatre’s Rob Hastie, brings some of the more dated or coarse sung-spoke dialogue to a more contemporary place. ‘Half-breeds’ becomes ‘little ones’ when referring to the left behind children of ‘Bui Doi’. Completely agreeable things like that.

“Fans and purists trembling at the mention of rewrites can be assuaged, too; this is still the Miss Saigon you know and love.”

But broadly, the story still follows the same, Puccini-inspired tale of an ill-fated romance between a disenfranchised US marine (Jack Kane) and Vietnamese girl (Julianne Pundan) who has been enveloped into the underbelly of Saigon’s nightlife, during the closing of the Vietnam conflict. Orbiting the two is Seann Miley Moore’s swindling ‘Engineer’, a larger-than-life wheeler-dealer scheming and exploiting where he can in the hopes of getting a visa to pursue his ‘American Dream’.

Given its wider geo-political context, Saigon remains a surprisingly focused and even simple affair. Yes, there’s still the thrilling evacuation sequence (also repurposed here, yet no less effective as members of the company zip up and down into the beyond), and fleeting ruminations on the wider consequences of war, such as the stirring ‘Bui Doi’ Act II opener. But it remains ultimately a show about a love torn asunder and a mother’s determination to better the life of her child.

In a week where Jon M Chu’s second Wicked movie is reviving conversations about just how many musical’s suffer from wobblier second halves, Miss Saigon proves itself a high profile reminder. Cramming Madama Butterfly’s three act structure into two is felt, making for a meaty, sweeping and romantic first half, followed by a decidedly flatter and thinner second. There’s good stuff in that last hour, for certain – that helicopter moment, and this production’s heightened, Drag Race-esque ‘American Dream’ set piece keeps it being comfortably one of the best parts of the whole show – but it’s undeniably front-loaded.

Thankfully, even as some of its second Act wheels into soap opera or Lifetime territory, a genuinely stunning company keep us invested. Julianne Pundan is an exceptional Kim, delivering both powerhouse vocals and a blistering turn as a defiant young woman who refuses to be victim or damsel, despite the horrors about her. She gets a lot of big sings – ‘The Movie In My Mind’ (pairing up beautifully with a similarly impressive Ace as Gigi), ‘I’d Give My Life For You’ and ‘I Still Believe’ to name but a few, and Pundan goes to town with each of them. A seriously impressive performance. Jack Kane imbues his Chris with a sensitivity and later flashes of trauma that bounce nicely off of Pundan’s steelier Kim.

“Julianne Pundan is an exceptional Kim, delivering both powerhouse vocals and a blistering turn as a defiant young woman who refuses to be victim or damsel…”

Dominic Hartley-Harris, Emily Langham and Mikko Juan all get moments to impress in supporting roles, but it’s Seann Miley Moore as the Engineer who threatens to steal the whole thing from beneath the lovebirds. Landing in an era of Me Too and Epstein files, some of the more problematic edges of the role are softened a little here, with Moore dialling the mercurial flamboyance and opportunism of the character up to eleven. Sexy, sleazy, comedic, villainous and anti-hero all rolled into one, it’s a kinetic, dazzling and chameleonic turn, utterly infectious to watch and arguably worth the ticket price alone.

Were the performances not enough, Andrew D Edwards and Bruno Poet’s design and lighting work muster up a similar feast for the senses. Peeling back some of the glitz and neon of the original production in favour of something grittier and earthy, Edwards sets are tremendous labyrinths of levels, layers, depth and verticality. From the seedy back alleys of Saigon to the red swathes and pillars of later Ho Chi Minh City in ‘The Morning of the Dragon’, this is a scale and quality of touring production rarely seen. Bathed gloriously in Poet’s spotlights and side-spilling waves of light, it’s likely the prettiest and most visually arresting tour you’ll see this year.

It’s just a shame that, in the performance reviewed, some of the sound mixing and mics felt off at times, with the excellent vocalists drowned out by the orchestra or otherwise barely audible in key moments. Something of a crime, given their obvious skills.

But yes, the legend has indeed been reborn. Sure, this phoenix Saigon still carries some of the original production’s narrative baggage and wonkiness, and that three act curvature remains as glaring as ever. But inspired casting from a company giving it their all on a truly gorgeous playground makes for one of the most impressive touring productions of the year, and an evening of theatre that you certainly won’t be screaming to get airlifted out of.

“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.

There’s certainly some bittersweet irony percolating about when you’re reviewing The Last Laugh, a show about the passing of legendary performers, in Birmingham, and finding out that Ozzy Osbourne has passed away.

It was a moment not lost on the company. In the show’s pleasant (but ultimately superfluous) second Act, which serves as a semi-scripted Q&A session with the cast, the session’s compere, cover Richard Hodder dedicated the evening’s final spot of singalong bonhomie to the great Prince of Darkness.

Death and the weight of being remembered or forgotten hangs heavy in the air of the otherwise charming and frequently funny Last Laugh.

It imagines a hypothetical gathering of comedy legends Tommy Cooper (Damian Williams), Eric Morecambe (Bob Golding) and Bob Monkhouse (Simon Cartwright) in a drab but ambiguous dressing room ahead of a nondescript ‘charity’ gig. The reveal of how and why these giants have gathered is not so much a twist as a journey to realisation (it’s practically given away in the title alone).

Extrapolated from Paul Hendy’s award-winning short, which itself was born from the three leads each doing their own respective shows in tribute to the legends they portray here, Last Laugh is nothing if not a love letter. The depictions of Cooper, Morecambe and Monkhouse are not only uncannily accurate and idiosyncratically on point, but there’s also a clear reverence to capturing the essence of these individuals beyond just the quips and (admittedly hilarious) gags.

“consummately charming, effortlessly entertaining fare that serves up enough of the classics to be worth a watch alone.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s still very funny. Many of the trio’s gags and familiar favourites are wheeled out, often with the audience giggling in anticipation of the punchline or from familiarity alone. A recurring visit from Cooper’s malfunctioning duck and a later sojourn with a wooden gate are a delight. It’s consummately charming, effortlessly entertaining fare that serves up enough of the classics to be worth a watch alone, particularly for anyone who is a fan of one or more of the gentlemen.

With an expanded runtime from the twenty-minute short, Hendy probes a little deeper here, too. Monkhouse’s more analytical bent towards comedy, and fixation on crediting writers, sheds a light on whether he was a more constructed and less natural comedian than his counterparts. The rogues’ gallery of past comics gives chance to ruminate on the likes of Tony Hancock, Max Miller and more (even if poor Sid James gets relegated to a lone haemorrhoid joke). The laughs are great, but it’s when Last Laugh seems to poke a little deeper that it serves up its more human and intriguing moments.

But there’s no denying that, bandying between a glorious, rich tribute act and a more sombre treatise on legacy and comedy as art or science, it’s a show very much all about its triad of glorious performances. Damian Williams is a powerhouse from the off as Cooper, bringing an Earthy warmth to his larger-than-life bravura and booming presence. Some of his more muted, sardonic asides are the funniest moments of the whole thing. Golding bottles Morecambe’s irrepressible energy and exuberance perfectly, and peppers the show with some lovely vocals and musicality. And Cartwright, with perhaps the hardest task of the three as the more composed and even stilted Monkhouse, not only channels his voice meticulously, but lends a real gravitas and dignity to his ponderances.

It all feels tremndously sincere and authentic. Particular credit to Hendy for being able to so believably not only write but also direct these three very different yet familiar icons. There’s no sense of base mimicry or, worse, caricature. It’s a charming, eminently watchable and routinely funny case of three very talented performers evoking what we come to learn are their genuine inspirations.

Poignant, charming and laugh out loud funny throughout, if The Last Laugh asks whether great artists will truly be remembered, it is a soulful, funny and dignified proof of precisely that.

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

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

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

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

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

No prizes for guessing where this is going…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 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.

Note: TWE recently reviewed  ‘Chicago’ earlier in its tour. Given that this is the same touring production, what follows is a revised version of that same review, updated for its visit to the Wolverhampton Grand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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