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.

“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.

Note: TWE reviewed  ‘Richard O’Brien’s 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.

Let’s do the timewarp, again.

…again.

When it comes to musical favourites on repeat, Rocky Horror Show is the flag-waving, heel-kicking standard bearer for keep on keepin’ on. It should, by now, be spouted in theatre circles that the only things to survive a nuclear holocaust would likely be cockroaches, Liz Truss’ inexplicable career, and a touring production of Richard O’Brien’s madcap classic.

And yet, as the world turns, doing its own ‘jump to the left and step to the right’ in the process, the times that this venerable production (nigh identical in staging to when this particular author first reviewed, over a decade ago) finds itself landing in are a-changing, too.

Perhaps more than ever in recent memory, in the wake and gloom of a pandemic, the drab ebb of financial crises, international wars and humanitarian crises and the regressive, authoritarian stamp being slapped across the world onto expression, individuality and flamboyance, the world needs Rocky Horror.

It’s fortunate then, that the class of 2023/24 – a mix of veterans and newcomers alike to camp Rocky – rise to the occasion for this current World tour.

As the now-iconic splash of the show’s Columbia character and logo proudly boasts, this latest run marks the fiftieth anniversary of the camp, formerly cult, favourite. In appearance, bells and whistles, it’s practically the exact same glitzy, colourful trip as was wheeled out for its fortieth, too, but that’s no bad thing. Hugh Durrant’s B-movie-meets-Christie set stylings, Nick Richings’ technicolor barrage of fifties’ sci-fi lighting and Sue Blane’s seminal costumes – we’ve been here before, but it’s devilishly good to be back.

And it’s great to have some familiar faces along for the ride, too – Stephen Webb slips back into the stockings with rich ease as the iconic ‘Frank n Furter’, with his full-bodied, handsomely-sung and admirably unique spin on the role once again a joy. Any Rocky Horror worth its smut needs a ‘Frank’ that commands the stage, and Webb does so with delicious relish – soaring vocals at the ready, figure-hugging corset strapped tight, ridiculously oversized whip in hand.

Elsewhere, veteran ‘Narrator’ Philip Franks – who played the role in that very same inaugural review of mine back in the halcyon days of 2012 – is clearly still having a ball and showing no signs of languishing. This time round, he had plenty of topical detours to inject and an especially game Wolverhampton audience to bandy shoutouts, ad-libs and double entendres with.

And for the first time in over a decade of appraising the show, the performance reviewed was the first for this particular writer where iconic henchman, ‘Riff Raff’ (O’Brien’s own role in the original) was not played by the seminal Kristian Lavercombe. Instead, understudy Ryan Carter-Wilson had the daunting task of stepping into the hunched back and big sings of a character that Lavercombe has now famously played over 2,000 times. Yet from the outset, delivering stunning vocal highs on the riffs and belts of ‘Over at the Frankstenstein Place’ before cackling and contorting up a storm for the ‘Time Warp’, Carter-Wilson smashed any doubts aside, and served up terrific work and a top knotch Riff Raff.

No mean feat, given he is surrounded by probably the most uniformly-excellent Rocky cast that this particular reviewer has had the pleasure of shouting ‘c*ck’ at (and there have been many… casts that is, not the latter…). Richard Meek, another returnee, seems perfectly plucked from the era as a stroppy, boyish Brad with a tender, soulful voice, whilst stage veteran Haley Flaherty struts, slinks and shimmies back into the show with a masterclass Janet – comfortably the best reviewed to date (again, this is no small praise – she has some excellent predecessors).

“…the irresistible, hilarious, unabashedly camp and infectiously naughty Rocky Horror with its sonic oscillator dialled all the way up to ‘perfection’”

Darcy Finden’s Columbia? Exquisite. Ben Westhead’s Rocky? Fabulous (and certainly passes the Charles Atlas test). Joe Allen’s Eddie-Dr Scott duality? My favourite to date. Suzie McAdams, also on dual duty, as both Usherette and Magenta? Delicious and definitive.

If you notice a pattern emerging, it’s no science fiction, nor have I been seduced by an errant transducer.

This is, quite simply, the irresistible, hilarious, unabashedly camp and infectiously naughty Rocky Horror with its sonic oscillator dialled all the way up to ‘perfection’.

Sure, if you trawl wide and far enough, you’ll likely find some commentators taking pot shots at its representation of transvestism. Others, still, will probably pluck at a thread and find themselves arriving somewhere in the ballpark of perceived transphobia, but again, it feels very much like ‘square peg, round hole’ kind of revisionism.

In truth, for what is now five proud decades, Rocky Horror has championed and celebrated diversity and expression. It has sung from the hymn book of sex positivity, of gender fluidity, and of not just dreaming it, but being it. All whilst going nowhere near a soapbox, and staying effortlessly entertaining throughout.

Heck, in terms of staying power alone, and indeed one that commands even more fervent fan engagement, dressing up and love than ever before, it demands respect.

But strip away all of the socio-cultural framing, and even just as an evening of sinfully good musical theatre, this is Rocky Horror at the top of its game. A raucous, laugh-out-loud night of non-stop earworms, toe-tapping gems and plenty of post-modern mischief, there may be many informed by its influence, there may be some who consider themselves challengers to the throne (hint: they’re not), and even a merry band of naysayers to its cause, but the truth is quite simple…

There is only one Rocky Horror Show. And it’s still here; loud, proud and still captivating the crowd, performed this time round by across-the-board perfection.

Roll on the centenary.

Let’s do the timewarp, again.

…again.

When it comes to musical favourites on repeat, Rocky Horror Show is the flag-waving, heel-kicking standard bearer for keep on keepin’ on. It should, by now, be spouted in theatre circles that the only things to survive a nuclear holocaust would likely be cockroaches, Liz Truss’ inexplicable career, and a touring production of Richard O’Brien’s madcap classic.

And yet, as the world turns, doing its own ‘jump to the left and step to the right’ in the process, the times that this venerable production (nigh identical in staging to when this particular author first reviewed, over a decade ago) finds itself landing in are a-changing, too.

Perhaps more than ever in recent memory, in the wake and gloom of a pandemic, the drab ebb of financial crises, and the regressive, authoritarian stamp being slapped across the world onto expression, individuality and flamboyance, the world needs Rocky Horror.

It’s fortunate then, that the class of 2022/23 – a mix of veterans and newcomers alike to camp Rocky – rise to the occasion for this current World tour.

As the now-iconic splash of the show’s Columbia character and logo, on digital billboard outside Birmingham’s Alexandra Theatre, proudly boasts, this latest run marks the fiftieth anniversary of the camp, formerly cult, favourite. In appearance, bells and whistles, it’s practically the exact same glitzy, colourful trip wheeled out for the fortieth, too, but that’s no bad thing. Hugh Durrant’s B-movie-meets-Christie set stylings, Nick Richings’ technicolor barrage of lighting and Sue Blane’s seminal costumes – we’ve been here before, but it’s devilishly good to be back.

And it’s great to have some familiar faces along for the ride, too – Stephen Webb slips back into the suspenders with rich ease as the iconic ‘Frank n Furter’, with his full-bodied, handsomely-sung and admirably unique spin on the role once again a joy. Any Rocky Horror worth its smut needs a ‘Frank’ that commands the stage, and Webb does so with delicious relish – soaring vocals at the ready, figure-hugging corset strapped tight, ridiculously oversized whip in hand.

Elsewhere, veteran ‘Narrator’ Philip Franks – who played the role in that very same inaugural review of mine back in the halcyon days of 2012 – is clearly still having a ball and showing no signs of languishing. This time round, he had plenty of topical detours to toy around with (‘Suella the Musical’, anyone?), slotting in natural alongside the tried-and-tested, fan-favourite shoutouts and double entendres.

Perhaps most inseparable of all, Kristian ‘Riff Raff’ Lavercombe pulls off the genuinely quite breathtaking feat of still serving up a sizzling, giddily energised tour-de-force as Frank n Furter’s right-hand man, even after some two-thousand performances in the role. He is, in many ways, the show’s MVP – good luck finding a performer with such an indelible stamp on a character, whilst still knocking it out of the park, still finding new wrinkles and beats and still serving up a turn that crackles with the freshness of the first flushes of previews, never mind over a decade on.

Nipping at his heels though, are probably the most uniformly-excellent Rocky cast that this particular reviewer has had the pleasure of shouting ‘c*ck’ at …and there have been many. Richard Meek (another returnee) seems perfectly plucked from the era as a stroppy, boyish Brad with a tender, soulful voice, whilst stage veteran Haley Flaherty struts, slinks and shimmies back into the show with a masterclass Janet – comfortably the best reviewed to date (again, this is no small praise – she’s in some fine company).

“…the irresistible, hilarious, unabashedly camp and infectiously naughty Rocky Horror with its sonic oscillator dialled all the way up to ‘perfection’”

Darcy Finden’s Columbia? Exquisite. Ben Westhead’s Rocky? Fabulous (and certainly passes the Charles Atlas test). Joe Allen’s Eddie-Dr Scott duality? My favourite to date. Suzie McAdams, also on dual duty, as both Usherette and Magenta? Lavercombe-levels of definitive and excellent.

If you notice a pattern emerging, it’s no science fiction, nor have I been seduced by an errant transducer.

This is, quite simply, the irresistible, hilarious, unabashedly camp and infectiously naughty Rocky Horror with its sonic oscillator dialled all the way up to ‘perfection’.

Sure, if you trawl wide and far enough, you’ll likely find some commentators taking pot shots at its representation of transvestism. Others, still, will probably pluck at a thread and find themselves arriving somewhere in the ballpark of perceived transphobia, but again, it feels very much like ‘square peg, round hole’ kind of revisionism.

In truth, for what is now five proud decades, Rocky Horror has championed and celebrated diversity and expression. It has sung from the hymn book of sex positivity, of gender fluidity, and of not just dreaming it, but being it. All whilst going nowhere near a soapbox, and staying effortlessly entertaining throughout.

Heck, in terms of staying power alone, and indeed one that commands even more fervent fan engagement, dressing up and love than ever before, it demands respect.

But strip away all of the socio-cultural framing, and even just as an evening of sinfully good musical theatre, this is Rocky Horror at the top of its game. A raucous, laugh-out-loud night of non-stop earworms, toe-tapping gems and plenty of post-modern mischief, there may be many informed by its influence, there may be some who consider themselves challengers to the throne (hint: they’re not), and even a merry band of naysayers to its cause, but the truth is quite simple…

There is only one Rocky Horror Show. And it’s still here; loud, proud and still captivating the crowd, performed this time round by across-the-board perfection.

Roll on the centenary.