Note: TWE reviewed  ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ earlier in its current 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.

If there was ever to be a case made for there being such a thing as a review-proof show, surely Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show would be it.

Recent cultural juggernauts, such as Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss’ Six may nip at its (8 inch, blood-red stilettoed) heels, but those queens have almost half a Century of catching up to crack on with before they’re challenging Rocky.

The cult classic rolls around on what has become practically its annual strut into the West Midlands, this time via Wolverhampton, and the usual fan fervour, audience dress up and participation shows no signs of waning. And why would they? Crowds have been donning their suspenders, singing along and lovingly heckling all things Rocky since the seventies.

The current touring production is for all intents and purposes a re-wheeling of the same slick, technicolor iteration that has been doing the rounds for the past decade or so. Hugh Durrant’s inspired fusion of gothic-lite hunting lodge fused with lashings of fifties B-movie flavouring and sci-fi provide a playground for Sue Blane’s rhinestoned costumes and Nick Richings’ decadently unsubtle and disco-infused lighting to shine.

You’ve likely seen it all before, but that is no bad thing.

What Rocky‘s latest visit to Wolves boasts, however, is a spirited cast of faces old and new alike keeping things zesty.

Familiar faces abound as Haley Flaherty and Stephen Webb return to the roles of naive, hapless and repressed Janet, and the maniacal, freewheeling Dr. Frank ‘n Furter, respectively. Flaherty and Webb are both amongst the finest Janets and ‘Franks’ that the production has boasted over the past decade or so, and it’s a joy to have them back in these roles that fit them like taut, snapping rubber gloves. They each have plenty of fun alongside a perfectly cast James Bisp, who proves an inspired choice for Brad, and gives character to spare to the nervy, awkward yet occasionally soulful dweeb.

Morgan Jackson, similarly, stands comfortably amongst the best incarnations of the titular ‘Rocky’ creation to date. As well as acing the Charles Atlas’ seal of approval in terms of a mightily impressive physique, he also showcases killer vocals during his ‘Sword of Damocles’ solo and his portion of ‘Rose Tint My World’. And if his Rocky belts and poses for the gods, Laura Bird is equally perfect as the enigmatic and sultry Magenta.

Moments of invention and surprise are littered elsewhere, too. Jackie Clune’s female narrator does a great job with the usual schtick of injecting plenty of topical meta humour throughout (and three guesses as to which Farrage-stamped President and political party bear the brunt of these). But it is when Clune goes off on distinctly female tangents to some of the show’s trademark heckling and audience participation that we get yet newer wrinkles and spins on formula.

“…the same colourful, postmodern melange of mayhem and naughtiness that audiences have flocked to in cinemas and theatres alike for over fifty years.”

Being a fair way through this mega, globe-trotting tour,  there were a few spots where the energy felt as though it slightly lagged, or some of the apparent ad libs or physical comedy landed a touch de rigueur. But the leads are still giving it their all, and it’s particlarly impressive to see Webb still having fun and trying new things out with his Frank ‘n Furter (…leave it), not to mention the sheer heft he throws into the character’s mercurial bouts of passion, rage and even despair.

In all though, whether playing it safe or flirting with surprise like this current production, it’s generally very difficult to go wrong with The Rocky Horror Show. It is the same colourful, postmodern melange of mayhem and naughtiness that audiences have flocked to in cinemas and theatres alike for over fifty years.

O’Brien’s now-iconic numbers are as irresistible and entertaining as ever, and few shows can boast a toe-tapping, off-your-seat doublet as infectious as ‘Time Warp’ and ‘Sweet Transvestite’.

Whether it is your first trip over to the Frankenstein place, or your feather boas and fishnets are already weathered from their service to the pelvic thrusting of it all, The Rocky Horror Show remains a firm audience favourite, and deservedly so. This latest tour peppers itself with some fresh twists, faces new and old alike, but it’s still essentially the same beloved time warp that you’ll be having a ball of a time doing all over again.

Altogether now; it’s just a jump to the left…

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.

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 not quite clear exactly which ‘yam yam’ frogs the team at the Wolverhampton Grand have been kissing of late, or what dark and forbidden tomes they may have been plundering, but there’s no denying there’s magic abound in the Black Country this Christmas.

It’s no fluke, either. The regional theatre has been swinging hard and hitting strong with its impressive slew of in-house panto productions in recent years, and with this gigawatt Beauty, they score a gorgeous, hilarious home run.

A panto with actual, legitimate plot twists? Colour me floored. One of the strongest winners in the entirety of the Drag Race oeuvre vamping and camping up the best panto villain you’ll see this year? Gagged and stupefied. A joyful homecoming for the theatre’s resident panto MVPs, Ian Adams and Tam Ryan? Tens across the board.

It’s a dizzyingly fun, colourful and vibrant evening of distilled panto magic, stuffed with signature set pieces (the year we don’t get an Adams ‘I Don’t Care’ sequence is when the pitchforks come out), a smorgasbord of impressions, slapstick fun and genuinely impressive song and dance numbers and production values that will whisk you away beyond even the West End.

“…a dizzyingly fun, colourful and vibrant evening of distilled panto magic.”

It’s Sleeping Beauty a la pantomime, so the core narrative beats are present, tried and true, this time housed in the whimsical kingdom of old Bilstonia (sound familiar?). Adams and Ryan have a lot of fun with the fairytale tropes and cultural postmodernisms alike. As is custom, they offer up plenty of jabs and swipes at everything from the likes of Rachel Reeves, Keir Starmer, that numerical craze… and, well, Smethwick (naturally).

There’s more conventional (see: extremely welcome) fare – such as when Ryan, as ‘Mickey Fortune’ mines lots of laughter from a fun but familiar extended bit about voice recognition and hit songs. Once again kids of all ages lap up his top-notch clownery throughout. Adams, as ‘Mary Fortune’, again delivers your quintessential panto dame with verve, double entendre and toe-tapping bonhomie to spare.

If the stalwarts again posit themselves as being amongst the best in the biz, the newcomers more than keep up, too. Comedy impressionist (and former Corrie star) Debra Stephenson is a kindly presence as ‘Queen Bertha’, but really shines when she’s cut loose to serve up her wheelhouse of impersonations. Whipping through the likes of Stacy Solomon, Lorraine Kelly and even Donald Trump, it’s quite disarming – and deliciously entertaining – being reminded just how bloody good she is at it. Sure, the likes of Anne Robinson may be mining the depths of relevancy a bit too far for some of the audience, but by the time a little Cilla croons in, at least Ryan is ready with a quip for the younger generation to ‘ask your grandparents’.

Georgia Iudica-Davies is lovely and in fine voice as the titular heroine, whilst TV star Zak Douglas offers up some great physical comedy as the hapless ‘Gerald the Herald’. Good luck finding a more perfect or dashing panto prince than musical theatre star (and local lad done good) Solomon Davy. Davy continues his ascent and showcases why a future Fiyero or similar is surely on the cards, and just you wait for his ‘I’m All Alone’ number in the second act… not least of all thanks to its utterly bonkers and inspired finale (particularly moving on the performance reviewed, for reasons patrons of the Grand will have appreciated).

“…a barnstorming performance and one that Beard makes worth the price of admission alone.”

Which leaves the inimitable, towering colossus of camp that is Danny Beard. It’s alchemy of the most malevolent and masterful sort, as not only does Beard utterly command the stage with every strut, stomp and even Fosse (seriously, Chicago fans will be in their element here) but so too is his Carabosse as raucously funny as she is delectably sinister. Whether belting out Conchita Wurst, ratcheting up the spectacle summoning pillars of flames or even a towering dragon for our heroes to do battle with, it’s a barnstorming performance and one that Beard makes worth the price of admission alone. That this particular reviewer was almost crying with laughter at just a ridiculous Irish drawl when Carabosse dons a disguise is testimony to the triple (quadruple?… clock the mug) threat that the drag champion represents.

Beard is helped in no small way by David Shields’ wonderful costume work, with Carabosse’s outfits in particular routinely threatening to steal the show. But Shields spreads his magic across the breadth of Bilstonia and its residents and, coupled with Sam Hilditch’s glorious technicolor bedazzlement and David Janson and Natalie Bennyworth’s spritely, energised direction and choreography keep this Beauty far too eye-popping to ever send you off to sleep. There’s zombie chickens, vaudeville style tap numbers, repeat nods to The Traitors, a villainous spin on the Cell Block Tango, and an anarchic riff on the Twelve Days of Christmas that, if something of a chestnut, is a spiritedly executed one at that.

Whilst Beard towers over the cast and company – clocking in at just over eight feet in full stilettos and regalia – and his brilliant, bombastic Carabosse threatens to do the same over the whole show, the truth is there is excellence on show everywhere you look here. It ticks so many boxes, gets so much right and is so crammed with wholesome, effortless family friendly fabulousness that you’d likely be able to sleep for a hundred years and rest assured that few better pantos would pass by in the time.

Breathlessly camp and colourful with production value to spare and boasting standout turns from old favourites and fabulous new friends alike, as the Grand continue to carve their identity as a go-to home for top drawer festive entertainment, they once more strike perfect panto gold here with a true ‘Beauty’, indeed.

There’s something almost festively ironic about a show centring around a character having a bit of an identity crisis suffering from one itself.

Part musical theatre. Not quite pantomime. No longer audacious, arena ‘spectacular’. Jon Conway’s touring production of Elf the Musical is a bizarre, confusing beast. A hodgepodge chimaera of fleetingly amusing festive highs swung about with distracting technical lows and some choice creative decisions that don’t so much gel into a festive whole as scattershot into bemusement.

It’s a bit akin to a real life version of one of the show’s manic snowball fights. At first it seems like a good, fun idea, is initially entertaining, peppered with moments of fun and thrill, but ultimately sees you walking away with that cold, soggy, sinking feeling of regret.

Full disclosure; Conway and co are clearly pitching this broad and young. It isn’t so much for the gnarly, grizzled theatre critics as it is for the very (very) young, and in the performance reviewed, they absolutely ate it up.

And yet, there’s no shying away from that brand recognition. It follows the basic premise of the 2003 Will Ferrell vehicle of the same name, which sees a human (Jordan Conway) raised in the North Pole by Santa’s helpers heading off to New York in search of his family. There’ll doubtless be significant chunks of the audience along for the ride in the hopes of seeing a festive favourite transplanted to stage.

As an adaptation, Thomas Meehan and Bob Martin’s book stays fairly faithful and mostly works, checking off the most iconic catchphrases and beats from the film. Matthew Sklar and Chad Beguilin’s music is serviceable and suitably jaunty throughout, and perhaps unsurprisingly it works best when it’s (rarely) allowed to go full musical theatre, such as a fun extended tap number in Macy’s.

“As an adaptation, Thomas Meehan and Bob Martin’s book stays fairly faithful and mostly works, checking off the most iconic catchphrases and beats from the film.”

Some of Tim Goodchild’s staging from the former arena iteration of the show carries across well, and makes certain sequences, such as the aforementioned Macy’s grotto, look genuinely quite impressive and eye-catching on the Wolverhampton Grand’s stage. Giant inflatable candy canes and enormous Christmas Garland being winched up into the rafters keep things like suitably Christmassy and showy, though it only serves to draw a beadier eye to other set pieces which are reduced to nothing more than a bench on stage (and often even less than that).

Sadly, recurrent tech and sound problems were the least of the distractions in the performance reviewed. What must be some of the worst projection and video work seen in a show to date are genuinely horrible throughout. At best, they feel like cheap, royalty-free plunges from Google or Youtube, at other times they actively detract from the story being told. Why are we seeing a giant video of gingerbread men gyrating about in an oven when we’re supposed to be in a department store?

That character whose ultimate dream is to see snow, and the very realisation of this – spoilers – proves a major turning point for her come the finale? Well, maybe just try and disregard the fact that a few scenes earlier she was prancing around in front of a backdrop of New York quite literally bathed in snow.

What’s that, little girl? You saw Rudolph’s nose glowing bright and guiding Santa’s sleigh? Not according to the projections (and even some earlier dialogue) you didn’t. Say what, Buddy? Santa’s sleigh has crashed in central park? Then why is the very next thing we see is him zipping through the Manhattan skyline at a pace even Spider-man would tremble at?

It would be less egregious if they weren’t so consistently the central focus of the staging, often required to do a lot of the heavy lifting of setting a sense of place.

Coupled with the recurrent sound issues and the odd flubbed line and the overall effect is one of those cheap Temu christmas ornaments that arrive looking a lot less impressive than they did online.

“…the overall effect is one of those cheap Temu christmas ornaments that arrive looking a lot less impressive than they did online.”

It certainly doesn’t help that the company assembled for the tour – many of whom are veterans of the production, having starred in it for quite literally years – are a mixed Santa sack. Barry Bloxham is decently cantankerous as Buddy’s overworked, long-lost father, Walter, charting his character’s Scrooge-esque arc well. Nikita Coulon delivers arguably the best vocals of the night and manages to scrape off the excess cheese foisted on her character. She’s admirably supported by a solid Karis Lomax, gender-swapped and feeling perhaps a smidgeon too old here for some of the material her character is given. Natalie Gray and Dafydd Lansley give what are probably the most characterful and animated turns of the night, whilst Philip Day gives good Santa, even if his Act 2 ensemble number turned into a bit of a messy, undisciplined shambles.

Kelly Banlaki gives good choreo and a suitably quirky take on Buddy’s love interest, Jovie, whilst the younger audience members ate up the broader strokes of Jordan Conway’s performance as Buddy. But for such an iconic character (reinterpretation or no) it feels surprisingly aimless and underpowered. At times offering up flashes of Ferrell’s turn in the original film, elsewhere deviating more into panto fool territory, it’s a meandering and confusingly underpowered performance that occasionally, jarringly dials it up to eleven. Conway clearly exhibits some skill in physical comedy – arguably his best moment is an extended bit of workplace tomfoolery with one of his father’s office staff – but as a musical theatre performance, it frequently flatlines.

“Conway clearly exhibits some skill in physical comedy – arguably his best moment is an extended bit of workplace tomfoolery with one of his father’s office staff…”

It feels particularly miserly (and may etch me firmly on the naughty list) to aim this at such a light-hearted piece clearly pitched to family audiences, but if nothing else, Elf has the ignominy of featuring what are possibly some of the worst vocal performances this particular reviewer has heard in a professional production.

It’s unfortunate – particularly for someone who is a sucker for all things Yuletide – that the ingredients… or at least, recipe… are certainly here for a fun, festive offering. It has one wondering whether the current London production, starring Joel Montague and Carrie Hope Fletcher, might hold more festive promise (and certainly at least look and feel a little less… well, cheap).

If you’re in the market for an evening of pleasant, mildly diverting seasonal distractions… then there are moments of panto-y, family fun (but even then there are far better alternatives to enjoy this Christmastime). Die-hard fans of the film will likely find this invocation an underwhelming one, though as mentioned the younger audience goers seemed to be gobbling it up like festive candy.

Switch off your brain and adjust your expectations somewhere below am-dram and you’ll likely find a diverting couple of hours of tinselly nonsense here, but go in expecting a musical theatre production as fresh, energised and memorable as the film that inspired it, and you may end up feeling like you’ve opened a parcel of coal.

A nightmare before Christmas?

That would be harsh, but you certainly wouldn’t be a cotton-headed ninny muggins for giving this particular sleigh ride a skip…

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…

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.

One of the most pleasant theatre surprises of the past year was Mark Ravenhill’s Ben & Imo, a touching and illuminating two-hander about a musical genius and their young protégé. Ravenhill’s depiction of Benjamin Britten’s determination to pen a new opera in time for the Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation hung on an exploration of the tortured, mercurial auteur.

George Brant’s Marie & Rosetta, running at the Wolverhampton Grand theatre this week, may be a little kinder to its muses, but offers up some parallels nonetheless, and is equally quite the treat. Centring on the relationship between the ‘godmother of Rock ’n Roll’, Sister Rosetta Tharpe (Beverley Knight) and young tour recruit, Marie Knight (Ntombizodwa Ndlovu), in a single act, no-interval run through we find these two very different yet complementary women learn about one another and mine the kismet of their musical souls.

It’s a coronation of a homecoming for Wolverhampton born-and-bred Beverley Knight, who has carved out an (Olivier-nominated) name for herself as one of the most dependable leading ladies of musical theatre. Although Marie & Rosetta takes its time in getting to the singing, once Knight’s powerhouse vocals are unleashed, her transformation into Tharpe is not only complete, but is routinely show-stopping. Roll out the superlatives; Knight once again proves herself both a tour-de-force both technically and in terms of her soulful, searing evocation of the late, great Rosetta. And as stunning as her musicality is, equally impressive is her characterisation of Tharpe as a funny, feisty, no-nonsense, flawed grande dame.

But a two-hander would be nothing if partially amputated, and more than holding her own against Knight’s gigawatt presence is a tremendous Ntombizodwa Ndlovu as Marie Knight. In many ways, Ndlovu gets the more complete and transformative arc of the two, as the initially nervy, almost sycophantic gospel girl slowly begins to cast off her insecurities and hesitance and give herself over to the humanity and nuances of their music. Ndlovu is endearing, sweet and relatable, and packs a hefty emotional punch come the show’s coda in particular.

“Both ladies are formidable vocalists. When they come together… it is something truly electric.”

Both ladies are formidable vocalists. When they come together, in rousing renditions of ‘Strange Things Happening Every Day’, ‘Didn’t It Rain’ and ‘I Want a Tall Skinny Papa’ it is something truly electric.

As a showcase for its two exquisite performances, Marie & Rosetta is a thrill. As a piece of theatre exploring some important socio-political messages and themes, it can at times feel a little more pedestrian. Whilst Knight and Ndlovu both give beautiful, sincere performances, and Knight’s portrayal of Tharpe recalling performing at a venue when her friends and loved ones would not be even allowed in is particularly moving, Marie & Rosetta can occasionally lean a little too heavily on its exposition. And whilst it is a joy to hear these two ladies share their stories, and the growing chemistry and sass-backing between the two is great fun, there’s an awful lot of telling rather than showing.

Monique Touko’s direction, coupled with Lily Arnold’s set design, keeps things intimate and uncomplicated. The ladies’ playground is a 1940s funeral parlour, festooned with symbolism yet deftly staged to offer up some levels and podiums to highlight the musical moments. It’s all given just enough grandeur and flashes of glitz – right down to hidden neon signs and curtains peeling back to reveal the wonderful supporting band – to feel worthy of housing such storming performances. Whilst neither Knight nor Ndlovu play their respective instruments of choice, Touko and movement director Kloé Dean find an elegant and organic way of weaving this into the movement on stage.

As another delight of a two-hander, casting a light on often overlooked or even forgotten musical excellence, Marie & Rosetta proves itself a must-see. Whilst its book is a little uneven, and a touch too didactic where it could be more demonstrative, the sheer quality, power and irrepressible joy of its central performances simply cannot be denied. Searing, soulful and enlightening, Marie & Rosetta is a beautiful testimony to the legacy of two pioneering women who, like the show itself, should absolutely not be forgotten.

Look, we all know that for most, it’s all about the horse. And rightly so.

Adrian Kohler and Handspring Puppet Company’s astonishing equine creations remain, almost two decades later, truly beguiling visions on the stage. In movement, performance and as feats of engineering alone, ‘Joey’ and friends – including that scene-stealing goose – remain a wonder.

And yet, in the current turbulent geopolitical landscape, it’s sobering to be reminded just how effectively War Horse resonates on the first half of its titular couplet, too. This is as moving, thought-provoking and deeply human a theatrical exploration of war as any of its contemporaries.

Set in the lead up and over the course of World War I, War Horse follows young Albert Narracott (Tom Sturgess) as he raises a young foal his father (Karl Haynes) drunkenly buys at auction.

The hearty, Devonshire-set first half predominately focuses on the dynamic between Albert and ‘Joey’, developing their bonds of trust, defying expectations as both grow (in Joey’s case, quite literally and magnificently). It’s a charmingly bucolic and earnest dive into pre-War Britain, with hooks such as a bet over whether or not Joey the hunting horse will be able to plough sewing the seeds for later, war-torn set pieces.

As the interval approaches, and the shadow of Wilhelm II looms large, the declaration of war brings the unflinching purpose and wrenching drama of War Horse to bear. An impressive steed, Joey is shipped off to Europe to engage in the war efforts as an officer’s mount, but young Albert is determined to get his beloved horse back.

It remains a story of decidedly two halves, and although the initial focus is fairly fixed on the Narracotts, the second Act blooms into far more of an ensemble piece. More than ever, the time and care original author Michael Morpurgo and book adapter Nick Stafford take in humanising all sides and facets of the war conflict feels especially timely and resonant.

“…the time and care original author Michael Morpurgo and book adapter Nick Stafford take in humanising all sides and facets of the war conflict feels especially timely and resonant.”

For sure, we get a couple of boo-hissable sorts. Jack Lord’s scarred, horse-whipping Private Klausen is about as cookie cutter as they come, but for the most part War Horse’ ensemble eschew tropes and shine with nuanced and endearing characters caught up amidst the brutality and devastation. Chris Williams’ kindly Lieutenant Nicholls is a keen artist who sketches Joey in his down time. Alexander Ballinger’s Captain Müller deserts the war effort to become an orderly and take care of the horses whilst also protecting a young French girl (Diany Samba-Bandza) whose home has been claimed by the war effort.

Even obnoxious cousin Billy (Haydn Burke) is remoulded by the horrors and reality of war. And a late-game ceasefire in no man’s land is not only buoyed by some genuinely enjoyable and pompous banter from the Brits, but is another reminder of shared humanity transcending borders and conflict divides.

It’s wonderful, affecting stuff and the cost and senselessness brutality of war are frequently felt; War Horse is certainly not sparing in dispatching even major characters. Prepare the tissues for a late farewell to one of its main animal cast, too.

The company assembled for the current tour more than do justice to the great material and theatrical wizardry they are playing with. Tom Sturgess is a sincere and lovable Albert, whilst Jo Castleton and Karl Haynes feel earthy and real as his struggling (and later worry-struck) parents. Sally Swanson lends a resonant, almost folklike aura to proceedings as she regularly provides delightful on-stage vocals and song to the show’s more emotive or sombre beats.

But arguably the most affecting, transfixing performances of the evening once again come from the masterful team of puppet performers who bring Joey (both young and old) and his frenemy ‘Topthorn’ to life. Tom Quinn, Lewis McBean and Michael Larcombe as adult Joey, Matthew Lawrence, Rafe Young and Felicity Donnelly as Topthorn and Eloise Beaumont-Wood, Diany Samba-Bandza and Jordan Paris as foal Joey all work absolute magic on the stage. The ticks, mannerisms and behavioural quirks they imbue merges performance, imagination and craftsmanship into not only illusion, but also character.

“…arguably the most affecting, transfixing performances of the evening once again come from the masterful team of puppet performers…”

On the subject of craftsmanship, War Horse remains a gorgeous, opulent spectacle elsewhere, too. Nicol Scott and Ben Pearcy’s wonderful animation and projection work, coupled with Rae Smith’s gorgeous art cast backdrops that are equal parts transportive, majestic and terrifying throughout. Rob Casey builds on Paule Constable’s lighting and syncs with Christopher Shutt’s fantastic sound to convey both the warmth of the Devonshire idyll and French countrysides with the stark, uncompromising noise and horror of the trenches and wartime Europe.

Director Tom Morris and revival director Katie Henry bring Joey and friends back to the stage a time where it could be scarcely more resonant or needed. It is, across the board, a showcase of superlative creative teams and performers synthesising to craft a near-faultless piece of truly dazzling theatre. A staple, a tentpole, a classic of its time and deservedly one of the most successful theatrical productions of the 21st Century.

Long may it rein.