Belting, as it does, straight into ‘Largo al factotum’ (‘Figaro’, anyone?), and featuring a soundtrack humming with the likes of Aerosmith, Frank Sinatra and The Four Seasons, it isn’t difficult to conceive of the idea of 1993 smash hit Mrs Doubtfire being given a musical makeover all of its own. For sure, there’s alway going to be the not-inconsiderable challenge of finding someone who can navigate stepping out from the buxom, smoking shadow of the late Robin Williams’ iconic, Golden Globe-winning performance, but much like another renowned musical theatre offering… get your ‘Effie’ right, and you’re halfway there, surely?

Well, after a successful two-year stint on the West End, Kevin McCollum, Jamie Wilson and Jerry Zaks are taking everyone’s favourite Scottish nanny with a big secret on the road. The Birmingham Hippodrome is the first leg of a multi-venue UK tour, and it’s hard not to feel like this is the perfect life for this spirited, family-friendly, funny, big-budget production.

And perhaps their biggest coup is undoubtedly retaining the ‘lady’ herself, as OG cast member Gabriel Vick reprises the lead (and titular) role of Daniel Hillard, the divorced dad whose determination to see his children sees him donning the disguise of an elderly Scottish childminder. If the biggest litmus for Doubtfire was always going to be how confidently the magic of Williams could be either captured or reconfigured, Vick rises to the task masterfully. He possesses all the essential ingredients of the character – mimicry (everything from Yoda to, inevitably, Trump) and a barnstorming, almost infantile mania at the outset – and has the mannerism and voice of his greatest creation absolutely on point. Perhaps most admirably, as Daniel, deplete of the Doubtfire makeup, costume and prosthetics, Vick crafts a character all of his own, and doesn’t rely on just phoning in a Williams tribute act (no, not Robbie… though he curiously gets namechecked).

For sure, the broader strokes of this showy, colourful hoot don’t afford the character quite the breathing space or moments of introspection as the film, with the emotional beats here fairly on-the-nose or confined to some perfunctory soul-searching numbers. But when it comes to the comedy and sheer physicality of his Euphegenia, Vick is a powerhouse. Iconic and audience favourite moments, such as some razor-sharp choreography with a vacuum cleaner, are here and delivered to perfection, and as mentioned an early highlight keeps Daniel’s penchant for impressionism intact and showcased to Samuelle Durojaiye’s unimpressed court liaison.

“…when it comes to the comedy and sheer physicality of his Euphegenia, Vick is a powerhouse.”

Yet curiously, it’s when Mrs Doubtfire veers furthest from the film that it seems to find its strongest footing as a musical. Daniel’s ex-wife Miranda (Kara Lily Hayworth), memorably played by a steely Sally Field on screen, is repurposed here as a burgeoning fashion designer. A wholly new set piece where Mrs D is conscripted into modelling plus size sportswear for a fashion show is not only a hoot, but also one of the rarer moments the show really seems to fully flex its musical theatre muscles. Elsewhere, Daniel’s brother, hair and make-up designer Frank (Ryan Pidgen) and partner Andre (Jairus McClanahan) feature more prominently, incorporated into scenes such as a testing apartment visit and the climactic restaurant shenanigans, and they’re great fun throughout. They’re afforded some fun wrinkles and dimension, including an adoption subplot that Daniel’s escapades could put into jeopardy, and Frank’s hilarious tendency to shout whenever he’s forced to lie. And you can imagine how often that is, given they are the prime architects of the Doubtfire creation. In fact, their big number, ‘Make Me A Woman’ where Effie comes into being, is a riot, and arguably the best set piece of the entire show.

It’s just a slight shame that some of the musical connective tissue is a little less sure of itself, and doesn’t always make the most compelling case for Mrs Doubtfire being a musical. A Siri-focused cooking tutorial, that culminates in the iconic moment of smoking mammaries, is fun but superfluous, whilst a late-game aria from a scorned flamenco dancer (a fantastic Rhianne Alleyne) is not only hilarious, but probably the closest the show comes to having the music directly drive forward narrative, message and event. Some of the more character-centric numbers feel a little formulaic and stalling, though a brilliant Aaliya Mai thankfully gets to carry several of them as Lydia, the eldest of Daniel’s children.

Perhaps most surprisingly, Daniel himself gets precious few moments to carry musically. An Act II back-and-forth with James Darch’s handsome, burly love rival (whom Darch does an admirable job of shaping out beyond the fairly anaemic writing for the character) is peppy and characterful, but it does seem something of a missed opportunity that for a musical of Mrs Doubtfire, most of the musical numbers merely orbit around her.

By contrast, Karey Kirkpatrick and Jerry O’Farrell’s book is so on point you could easily imagine a world where this cast and company delivered Doubtfire as a non-musical comedy and it would still be a riot. There’ve been some inevitable modernisations – an aquarium-plunged tv remote is now withheld Wi-Fi, and as mentioned, many of the supporting cast are afforded a little more dimension. Durojaiye’s Mrs Sellner is a much more astute, no-nonsense and intelligent operator here, whilst Miranda is afforded more sympathy as we see her sitting alone in marriage therapy sessions, and later crooning her former marital woes to a disguised Daniel.

“…a carefully balanced homage that at the same time fleshes out its supporting cast, modernises where necessary, and crucially brings a beloved character to the stage in fairly faultless style.”

But overall, it’s a carefully balanced homage that at the same time fleshes out its supporting cast, modernises where necessary, and crucially brings a beloved character to the stage in fairly faultless style. The prosthesis and transformation that Vick undergoes to the become the lady herself is, naturally, quicker and more perfunctory than on-screen, but even so it’s still a remarkable fusion of craft and performance that bring her so brilliantly to life.

And if some of the songs are is a little forgettable, Zaks, choreographer Lorin Latarro and their UK tour team keep it moving at a brisk, punchy pace, whilst a terrific company deliver everything from high-kicking chefs to Doubtfire clones, and even a glitzy chorus line featuring Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Thatcher and other iconic women of yesteryear. David Korins’ staging has been faithfully brought on the road, and looks suitably big-budget and impressive.

Much like the lady herself, Mrs Doubtfire is a show that is laugh-out-loud funny, immediately likeable, eventually loveable and a whole lot of fun along the way. It honours what has come before, and by going on the road will doubtless reach all new audiences for whom the show will resonate and entertain. It honours the film, whilst still managing to find its own voice and identity… even if you are occasionally left wishing that it had taken its search for individuality just a notch or two further.

Come what may though, it isn’t difficult to imagine it being a firm new family favourite for ‘poppets’ of every age, up and down the Country.

So people of Britain, be assured…

Help is on the way, dears.

Euphegenia Doubtfire is taking to the road, and she’s a hip old granny who can hip-hop, bebop, dance ’til she drops and yo, yo, serve up a very funny, fabulous show, show.

There comes a point, about midway through the second act of High Society, that you realise that it’s all a bit of a nonsense.

Charming, opulent nonsense, but nonsense all the same.

Characters bound on and off stage in romantic pursuits in almost Benny Hill fashion, as Helen George’s Tracy drunkenly flip-flops, dances and even dives between potential swooners and suitors.

Full disclosure – its first half is decidedly wittier and more structured. George’s young socialite prepares to marry terminally dull accountant (George Bray, admirably understudying in the performance reviewed), much to the quiet chagrin of her family, just as her ex-husband (Julian Ovenden) resurfaces after years of seafaring and a charming undercover reporter (Freddie Fox) turns up to dig up dirt on her recently-disgraced father (Malcolm Sinclair).

Flirtations, old flames and frustrations, naturally, abound.

In a sense, it’s a shame that the more intricate crossed purposes and subterfuge of the first Act don’t really amount to much more than fleeting folderol. There’s plenty of initial promise in Freddie Fox and Carly Mercedes Dyer’s secret shenanigans, laced with a light disdain for the upper crust as it is, and likewise an early spot of farce forces Tracy’s father and uncle to swap identities.

Yet it’s all fairly predictably rinsed out and wrapped up in a neat, decadent bow – perhaps an inevitability given the source material’s age (itself a spin on the nearly Century-old The Philadelphia Story).

“The personalities are writ large, the character dynamics fun and sizzling with banter and chemistry, and Kavanaugh keeps it all pacy and high-energy.”

For certain, director Rachel Kavanaugh has more to play with in the first half. The personalities are writ large, the character dynamics fun and sizzling with banter and chemistry, and Kavanaugh keeps it all pacy and high-energy. If the second Act gets messier, it at least boasts some of the stronger numbers and set pieces, with the likes of Fox and Ovenden’s ‘Well, Did You Evah?’ two-hander, the full company pelt of ‘Let’s Misbehave’ and Mercedes Dyers’ stirring take on ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ real show-stoppers. Choreographer Anthony Van Laast delivers up the goods throughout.

Aesthetically, here is one of the most opulent and gorgeous touring productions currently playing. Transferring from a recent sold-out run at The Barbican, Tom Rogers’ stunning, multi-levelled depiction of the Lord’s Newport Estate is truly lavish, well-met by Jon Morrell’s equally glorious costumes. It looks, feels and plays like premium theatre, of a calibre truly fitting of its title.

Likewise, the cast do great work in elevating the flimsy book into a compelling evening of comedy and crooning. Call the Midwife’s Helen George is a perfect avatar of the era – her Tracy carrying just the right balance of feistiness, poise and playful mischief. Freddie Fox and Julian Ovenden both deliver knockout vocals and are each suave, charming and frequently funny. Again, they each feel almost plucked from the period, in physicality and song both.

Carly Mercedes Dyer brings a dry, sardonic wit, but also real nuance and heart to her Liz, whilst the ever-dependable Nigel Lindsey comes close to stealing the whole evening as the rambunctious, gin-soaked Uncle Willie. Josefina Gabrielle and Naomi Pacquette are a lot of fun, too, as Tracy’s mother and sister, respectively.

“Helen George is a perfect avatar of the era – her Tracy carrying just the right balance of feistiness, poise and playful mischief.”

With this stage adaptation featuring extra Porter classics not present in the original 1956 Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly and Frank Sinatra film (‘Under My Skin’ being a prime example), enthusiasts will find here an updated, slightly modernised take on a classic with plenty of extra flourishes and flare.

Tackling one of musical theatre’s greatests well, greatest, can often prove a double-edged razor.

Pull it off, and the plaudit of ‘masterpiece’ is yours. Misfire – or even worse, miscast – and you risk a stagey hindenburg from audience expectation alone.

Of course, reviving Sondheim has never really been out of vogue. In recent years, the likes of Marianne Elliott’s gender-flipped Company, or Jordan Fein’s more sinister Into the Woods at the Bridge Theatre have scooped up audiences, critical acclaim and Oliviers alike.

Yet by any metric, a decadent, bombastic staging of one of his most ubiquitous hits, Sweeney Todd, is an ambitious undertaking as an in-house piece for the Birmingham Rep.

The first sign that Artistic Director Joe Murphy was onto a good thing came with the announcement of West End and Broadway favourite Ramin Karimloo as the titular antihero. Throw in an inspired but slightly out of left field choice for Mrs Lovett in international cabaret artist, Meow Meow, and multi-Olivier winner David Bedella poached as Judge Turpin, and if nothing else, audiences knew they were going to get vocals.

Perhaps the biggest and most welcome surprise then, is the grandiosity and sheer scale with which Murphy and his creative team have forged this Sweeney to meet the wattage of talent on stage.

Elin Steele’s imposing staging is a thing of stark, harsh monochrome majesty. A tapestry of Lucifer’s fall gives way to the ever-looming presence of a colossal Lady Justice, sitting centre in the Rep’s already sizeable stage. Here is a London akin to a grand, unyielding courtroom, with justice, revenge and judgement all bloodily intertwined. Morality is, naturally, various permeations of grey. And much of Rory Beaton’s haunting work underlights proceedings – not least of all the almost Brechtian chorus who intermittently chant Sondheim’s tale to the audience.

This is sweeping, operatic musical theatre of a scale and quality scarcely seen even in such established and excellent spaces as the Rep. The likes of which would not feel out of place in the likes of the London Coliseum.

“This is sweeping, operatic musical theatre of a scale and quality scarcely seen even in such established and excellent spaces as the Rep.”

For those unfamiliar with the broad strokes of Sweeney Todd’s tale, it is a ‘musical thriller’ following the thirst for revenge from a wrongly convicted barber (Ramin Karimloo), who returns to London in the hopes of reuniting with his family and righting those who wronged him. Unsurprisingly, things have changed during his fifteen years in the penal colonies, and the down-on-his-luck Todd ends up lodging, and later co-conspiring, with the eccentric Mrs Lovett (Meow Meow), proprietor of a shop selling ‘The Worst Pies in London’. Together, they settle upon a nefarious fusion of their purposes, as Todd begins providing customers with a barber’s visit so sharp they end up spiking the sales of Lovett’s baked horrors.

Widely regarded as one of Sondheim’s finest accomplishments – itself no faint praise – whilst many may be familiar with the 2007 Tim Burton film adaptation featuring Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, it is on the stage where Sweeney truly soars. Almost entirely musically underscored and featuring a bloody, funny lashing of complex characters, intricate storytelling and, naturally, fantastic songs, there’s no understating how good a quality production of Sweeney Todd can be.

The extra character beats afforded on stage (such as a truly repulsive solo number from Judge Turpin) are so viscerally leant into here by Murphy and the cast that it makes this iteration both lighter and darker at once. It is frequently funny, not least owing to some of the perfectly realised supporting turns such as Julius D’Silva’s scene-stealing, odious bootlick, Beadle Bamford, or Silas Wyatt-Barke as a venal rival barber. Jack Gibson delivers a beautiful renditon of young ‘Toby’s’ ‘Not Whilst I’m Around’, whilst Meow Meow is having tremendous fun throughout with a kaleidoscopic, whirlwind Mrs Lovett who runs the full gamut from eccentric to haunting and every shade in between. A quiet moment where she offers a glimpse at her true, pathetic self, hunched over and untangling her hairpiece, is masterful and unnerving in its simplicity and rawness; this opportunistic, manipulative devil exposed as just another broken shell pushed to ever more desperate measures.

At just shy of 3 hours, it’s a testimony to Murphy’s taut direction and the cast’s chemistry that the time flies by. For certain, there are places where sub-plots such as young sailor Anthony’s (a spirited Shem Omari Jones, in fine voice) longing for Todd’s stolen daughter Johanna (Jo Stephenson, also delivering beautiful vocals) can languish, or it serves up a reprise or incidental number that could probably be cut (pun intended) without the show suffering for it. But Murphy and company keep things moving (quite literally), with the excellent use of levels on Steele’s monolithic staging coupled, with the tremendous performances, meaning it all rarely lulls.

“His utterly roof-raising ‘Epiphany’ is a blistering reminder of just how good he is…”

Which leaves the tale of Sweeney Todd himself. Already a firm musical theatre favourite, Karimloo boasts the likes of Phantom, Miss Saigon and multiple roles in Les Mis on his MT rap sheet. He unsurprisingly takes to the conflicted rage and reserve, and booming baritone of Todd like a silver blade to the jugular. There is a stillness and dignity here, too, even a charm, to his murderous barber, one that makes the eventual eruptions of hatred and venom all the more shaking. His utterly roof-raising ‘Epiphany’ is a blistering reminder of just how good he is, and is one of many peaks of a titanic central turn.

So get Sondheim right and you have a surefire hit on your hands.

It’s a credo that Murphy and his team have ran with, serving up an epic, uncompromising, raw and full-throated Sweeney. Karimloo and Meow Meow more than earn their (mouldy, dry) crust, delivering a pair of knockout performances as fantastic as they are so perfectly, complementarily different, all encapsulated in a grand, grim playground of theatrical stagecraft.

If it’s a sumptuous evening of musical theatre you are after in Birmingham this Summer, you’ll find few better options, and no closer a shave, than this razor-sharp, funny and thrilling Sweeney Todd, the gleaming showstopper off Broad Street.

It almost feels rude to wrest any sort of sociopolitical commentary into a review of The Choir of Man.

Nic Doodson and Andrew Kay’s Fringe favourite-turned-global phenomenon is such an unpatronising, nuanced beast, one that deftly avoids any overt commentary or gender politics even when they’re right there for the plucking, that it feels clunky to go there.

But there’s no shying away from it.

In a world of Incel culture horrors, heinous social media algorithms and the sobering lessons born of the likes of Adolescence, The Choir of Man is the ultimate tonic (no gin required).

Set in a microcosmic boozer (‘The Jungle’… yes, the Guns’ N’ Roses classic features) the likes of which the show opines as being something of a vanishing creed, Choir is a buoyant, irrepressible celebration and reclamation of so many things that seem to have otherwise collectedly given modern society the ick.

“…a buoyant, irrepressible celebration and reclamation of so many things that seem to have otherwise collectedly given modern society the ick.”

It is distinctly, unabashedly British with nary a trace of jingoism. It is a kaleidoscope of healthy, positive, relatable masculinity, without any lingering shadow of misogyny or toxicity.

But more than any and all of that, it’s a bloody good time with the lads.

A jukebox affair that musically bounces through everything from The Proclaimers to Sia and even Toy Story, if you strip Choir back to its brawny bones then it is, essentially, a series of vignettes brilliantly performed and winningly staged by a loveable troupe of nine very talented actor-musos.

Think of it as Six, gender-flipped, period-jumped, and plonked into your local.

From the outset, Choir of Man is an almost folksy piece, more interested in being contemplative and evoking a sense of place, or state of mind, than telling a story, per se. What inference of a narrative there is is mainly scene-setting, framing the eponymous musical troupe who take residence at ‘The Jungle’ (We didn’t know pub choirs were a thing, but on the merit seen here, sign us up!).

The Jungle’s resident poet-cum-narrator, Oluwalonimi (Nimi) Owoyemi is the warm, engaging centre of the piece, incrementally introducing us to what are the pub’s archetypal finds. There’s the ‘romantic’ who soulfully belts to Adele, the ‘hard man’ who roars John Farnham’s ‘You’re the Voice’, and even the ‘bore’, who delivers some Andy Williams, even as an audience member pulled onto the stage sits building a house of cards beside him.

Yet as the show jaunts through colourful musical numbers and a lock-in’s load of audience participation, it’s the blending of fiction and reality that truly sings. Owoyemi’s poignant, touching monologues infuse the IRL backstories, trials and dreams of the cast into the show, lending all the spirited bravura real heart and pathos. Credit to Doodson and monologues writer, Ben Norris, for the affecting work done here.

“For a show that speaks so much of community and a sense of welcome, it’s a credo that carries through to every minute of this infectious theatregoing experience.”

But if that all sounds like it’s threatening to get a little morose or self-indulgent, fear not – The Choir of Man is relentlessly cheery, upbeat and fist-pumpingly enjoyable throughout. Even before the show begins, audience members are invited to purchase a pint on stage. In the interval, the bar opens once again, with members of the cast jaunting about to chat and take selfies. For a show that speaks so much of community and a sense of welcome, it’s a credo that carries through to every minute of this infectious theatregoing experience.

A truly ensemble piece, to single out any of the remarkable lineup of principles assembled for the tour would definitely be a disservice. In the performance reviewed, all but one of the principles took to the stage, with swing member Niall Woodson on – and doing a terrific, toe-tapping job – as the ‘Handyman’. But genuinely, every single one of the company – Sam Walter, Joshua Lloyd, Gustav Melbardis, Levi Tyrell Johnson, Rob Godfrey, Aaron Pottenger, Ben Mabberley and the aforementioned Owoyemi – are tremendous. The vocals are knockout, the harmonies pitch-perfect, the character work is funny in crowd-pleasing, inoffensive fashion, the energy levels never falter and the multiple uproarious, well-earned standing ovations were amongst the most fervent and impassioned this particular reviewer has experienced in the past fifteen years. Sure, it probably could do without an extended urinal sequence but, hey, it still got the laughs.

And that’s all without going anywhere near one of the highlights of the evening, where the local, 200-strong Got2Sing choir were invited to stand and join in with the lads for a rousing reprise of ‘Chandelier’ which left nary a dry eye in the house.

In all (the gaffer just called last orders), The Choir of Man is, like any good night down the pub or simply shared with friends, a joyous remedy for whatever ails you. Brilliantly and immersively staged, boldly and tirelessly performed, it is, measure for measure, one of the most irrepressible and rhapsodic evenings of theatre you could ask for.

And at a lean, perfectly-judged 2 hours (including interval), pulsing with bonhomie and feel good to spare, it is a vibrant, energetic and rollicking good night out and, in difficult and divisive times, exactly the kind of show the world needs right now.

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 current visit to the Alexandra Theatre.

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 wheels back into town with its now practically annual stop at the Alexandra, Birmingham, 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 boasts, however, is what is arguably one of its strongest, if not the strongest, casts in the 12 plus years that this particular reviewer has been doing a jump to the left, a step to the right… and the whole timewarp shebang. 

For its most revent visit – a pitstop at the Wolverhampton Grand back in April – an assemblage of covers and understudies were praised for putting on a great show, so be assured you’ll be getting a high voltage, sassy, sexy ride whoever dons the stage for this current production.

“Previously, Carter-Wilson impressed when understudying the role, but it is this full realisation, the role being his, where he’s really crammed it full of nervous, quirky little beats and measures all of his own.”

Birmingham’s press night boasted the full cast of principles, meaning Daisy Steere with a giddy, hyperactive and delightful Columbia, and Ryan Carter-Wilson‘s twitchy, idiosyncratic and fantastic take on the iconic Riff-Raff. Previously, Carter-Wilson impressed when understudying the role, but it is this full realisation, the role being his, where he’s really crammed it full of nervous, quirky little beats and measures all of his own. Of course, he still belts for the stratosphere when needed, but it’s in the quieter, even sillier, moments of the character that he really commands a role that has been so indelibly performed by others in the past.

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.

“…it’s particlarly impressive to see Webb still having fun and trying new things out with his Frank ‘n Furter (…leave it).”

On a similar note, it’s impressive to see such an expansive, ongoing tour and production still playing with new beats and ideas – little moments popping up that weren’t even in the show a few months ago, such as some notable playabout with panties. And the leads are still giving it their all; 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…

 Ihave to say something exciting-

–quiet, Maggots, when I’m writing!

…Something, I’m scarcely wont to do.

Even the finest shows don’t get it,

but I give when its due,

It is the odour of exception,

It’s the rare, six star review!

And you may bet for sure,

This review-er,

Finds nothing de rigeuer,

Giving such a great score willy nilly.

And so stop the cries of scorn,

A fuller review has been born,

To show six stars for ‘Tildy isn’t silly…

Attempting to come within even a country mile of mimicking the lyrical gymnastics, rhythmic playfulness and boundless whimsy of Tim Minchin’s music for Matilda only makes you appreciate its brilliance even more. It underpins just how much lightning-in-a-bottle genius he and the other creatives behind the show captured.

The RSC‘s Olivier-gobbling smash hit, Matilda the Musical returns to the Birmingham Hippodrome for a Summer engagement this week, and it has lost precisely none of its magic, charm and potency.

On the contrary, the fizzing, boundless imagination that continues to be on display in this gorgeous, spirited touring production not only honours the seminal Roald Dahl classic off which it is based, but in many ways surpasses it. And, in delightfully Dahl fashion, it is suitably nasty, unsanitised, mean and joyful all at once. These ‘revolting’, ‘naughty’ children have it rough, and the real villains (clue: most of the adults) are despicable, and even dangerous. It’s what Dahl always managed to capture in his writings (IRL red flags aside) – to care for your protagonist and their plight, there have to be stakes.

For the remarkably talented – possibly even gifted – bookish, sweet-natured but determined Matilda, the ‘stakes’ come in the form of truly horrible, neglectful and abusive parents and the tyrannical Olympian headmistress of her new school, Agatha Trunchbull (truly a musical theatre creation for the ages). Thankfully, amidst the hardships and abuse, she has friends in the form of an encouraging librarian (Esther Niles), her newfound school friends, and her kindly, supportive teacher, Miss Honey (Tessa Kadler).

“…in delightfully Dahl fashion, it is suitably nasty, unsanitised, mean and joyful all at once.”

Those familiar with the book (or even the transatlantic 1996 Danny DeVito film adaptation) will know the broad strokes of Matilda’s tale. But on stage, Dennis Kelly’s witty, heartfelt book gives it new places to go and things to say. Matilda’s library visits as she gradually recounts a new story about an Escapologist and Gymnast ties in to both her burgeoning abilities and another major character, all the while reflecting this little girl’s own desire to be seen, wanted and loved. The villainous Trunchbull’s backstory as a hammer-throwing medalist isn’t just exposition, it informs everything from her hilarious, intimidating, top-heavy character design through to her idiosyncratic musical numbers.

What’s perhaps most remarkable about Matilda the Musical is, for all of its flights of fancy and genuinely amazing set pieces (see: an early exquisite and dextrous number revolving around the alphabet, or any time the full classroom of kids are allowed to go full throttle), it’s also a genuinely excellent piece of musical theatre. Minchin’s music has wit, wordplay and character to spare, with the soundtrack stuffed with everything from the hilarious, up-tempo samba stylings of ‘Loud’ to the instantly hummable earworm of ‘When I Grow Up’ right through to thumping, anthematic triumph of ‘Revolting Children’. Even the more conventional musical theatre fare, such as the I Want of Miss Honey’s ‘My House’, is beautiful and searing.

Front and centre of leading the charge of all this revolting excellence are a core company of incredibly talented young performers. The central role of Matilda herself is shared across the tour by Madison Davis, Mollie Hutton, Olivia Ironmonger and Sanna Kurihara, with the latter putting on a beautiful, confident leading turn in the performance reviewed. The irrepressible Bruce Bogtrotter, meanwhile, is played by one of Oison-Luca Pegg, Carter-J Murphy, Brodie Robson and Takunda Khumalo. Pegg sung, danced and sassed up an absolute storm as Bruce for press night, giving some brilliant vocals and joyous character beats.

Of the grown-ups, Tessa Kadler is the perfect Miss Honey, embodying the gentle timidity, but unleashing one hell of a belt when needed. It’s a beautiful supporting turn, perfectly contrasted by the broader, comedic strokes of Rebecca Thornhill and Samuel Leon as Matilda’s odious, yet undeniably funny, parents.

And standing padded shoulders, pleated skirts and knee-high socks over them all is the indomitable presence of Richard Hurst’s looming, almost Frankenstein-esque Agatha Trunchbull. At once both terrifying and ridiculous, towering and snivelling, Hurst’s booming, idiosyncratic turn as the Headmistress from Hell is worth the admission alone. Like Matilda’s parents, this Trunchbull is truly awful, hurling children around by their pigtails (in one – of several – of the show’s extraordinary bits of visual trickery) and it pulls no punches in her cruelty and malice. And yet, as with all great villains, there’s no denying how utterly infectious and hilarious she is to watch.

“At once both terrifying and ridiculous, towering and snivelling, Hurst’s booming, idiosyncratic turn as the Headmistress from Hell is worth the admission alone.”

As mentioned, this touring production is a stunning piece of craftsmanship. Very little, if anything, from the decorated West End production, is dialled down here, and the show’s realisation of Peter Darling’s choreography seamlessly weaving in, out of, and even swinging from, Rob Howell’s gorgeous, rich staging, feels as authentic (and even occasionally shocking – are they really swinging that far?) as ever. This feels like rich, immediate and boundless theatre.

So what more do you little squits need to be told before you convince yourselves to go and catch Matilda the Musical? Don’t make this reviewer do a riff on more of Minchin’s music… it is too damned clever to try. I’ll end up in the chokey for sure.

But thematic flourishes aside, here is a gorgeous, funny, witty and endlessly charming tale about righting wrongs, being true to yourself and the virtues of even sometimes being a little bit naughty. It’s a deliciously individual musical, with performances, songs and characters for the ages and enough flights of imagination to keep even the biggest kids enthralled.

So hopscotch, scooter or swing your way along to the Hippodrome this month for what is, measure for measure, newt for newt, one of the greatest musicals of the 21st Century.

Either that, or spend the Summer in the Chokey.

The choice is yours, Maggots.

Within the few gaps left by a rampaging horde of musicals, the good old fashioned thriller on stage still gets a relatively fair crack of the whip when it comes to the UK touring scene.

The quality, as ever, proves variable. For every prestige Christie (Murder on the Orient Express) or satisfying new chill (Paranormal Activity) there are the campy, screaming duds (Picture You Dead, anyone?).

And with pulpier churners such as Harlan Coben and Peter James doing more than their fair share of monopolising stage and screen with their conveyer belt ‘thrills’, it ironically sees the likes of a sturdy, old-fashioned John le Carré arrive feeling somehow fresh and inviting.

Based on le Carré’s breakthrough 1963 Cold War hit, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold comes to the stage courtesy of this handsome and polished David Eldridge and Jeremy Herrin adaptation. It follows weary intelligence officer, Alec Leamas (Ralf Little) as he embarks on one risky, final operation; a fake defection that hopes to ensnare a sinister German counterpart, responsible for the death of one of Leamas’ best and closest agents.

For starters, it certainly looks the part – Max Jones’ sets and costumes and Azusa Ono’s pulsing, foreboding lighting casting a gloomy, almost discomforting environ that is quite literally overshadowed by an effigy of the Berlin Wall. It’s visually arresting, for sure, perfectly striking the cold, oppressive reality of espionage of the era.

Perhaps owing to a combination of le Carré having been himself an operative for the security and intelligence forces, coupled with its age, Spy certainly carries some trappings for mordern audiences to be aware of. For one, it’s very talky, with an exposition-heavy first half in particular occasionally languishing. Similarly, with its abundance of characters, agencies, titles, pseudonyms and subterfuges, it can occasionally be thick on information and a little light on any sort of kinetic incident.

“…eye-watering (quite literally) interrogation scenes and high-stakes tribunals giving Herrin the opportunity to inject some palpable danger and propulsion to the production.”

A tighter, tenser second Act alleviates things considerably, with eye-watering (quite literally) interrogation scenes and high-stakes tribunals giving Herrin the opportunity to inject some palpable danger and propulsion to the production. And simmering beneath it all, threads of uncertainty and accusation will leave those unfamiliar with the source material likely second-guessing themselves right up to the powerful, poignant finale.

TV favourite Ralf Little is a strong centre around which the paranoia and danger can pulse. His Leamas is world-weary and suitably sardonic, yet still displays flashes of former youthful vigour and cheekiness. If it isn’t as gnarly or uncompromising a portrayal as some have gone for in the past, the odd beats of levity or comedic frankness that Little injects throughout being a welcome, sporadic puncture to a rather bleak whole.

Little is bolstered by an impressive supporting company about him, too. Peter Losasso is suitably odious as the enigmatic target of Leamas’ operation, whilst Eddie Toll commands much of the second half with an engrossing and impassioned turn as the communist deputy willing to take on his sinister superior. Tony Turner and Nicholas Murchie, meanwhile, give dignified and grounded turns as Leamas’ British seniors, never quite escaping the encroaching shadow of suspicion and uncertainty themselves.

Turner also gets to grandstand up a storm as a bloviating German defence attorney. Gráinne Dromgoole, meanwhile, is earnest and likeable as potential love interest, Liz, though her ties to the communist party and parallels with Alec’s recently-deceased agent hover ominously over her, too.

“…administers a dose of gnawing, biting cold war tension and paranoia that culminates in a devilishly tangled net of double and triple crosses, surprises and tragedy.”

As opposed to being a breakneck, rollicking thrill-ride, The Spy Who Came In From the Cold administers a dose of gnawing, biting cold war tension and paranoia that culminates in a devilishly tangled net of double and triple crosses, surprises and tragedy.

A classy, sophisticated and supremely polished piece of theatre, if it may be a little too talky or expository in places for some, stay at the very least for the finely observed performances and rich, intricate drama that leaves no great mystery as to why this is a story that remains as popular – and welcome – as ever some six decades on.

In the two decades plus since its release, Tina Fey’s breakout teen comedy has garnished us all with a healthy supply of now staples memes and cultural fodder.

We know that it’s pink on Wednesdays. Always ask the date on October 3rd.

And for heaven’s sake, Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen.

Given its lasting power, and once its spiritual predecessor (and, whisper it – superior) Heathers got the musical treatment, it was perhaps inevitable that Mean Girls would receive its time in the stagey sun.

With Fey returning for book duties, alongside hubby (and long-time 30 Rock collaborator) Jeff Richmond taking on the tunes, with a splash of Olivier-winning flair from lyricist Nell Benjamin, the most pressing question of all is; does Mean Girls as a musical smash the limits, or elicit little more than a ‘Boo, you whore’?

Following a fairly short-lived run in the West End, Casey Nicholaw’s spirited, bubblegum pop production is currently touring, arriving at the Wolverhampton Grand this week.

And it has to be said from the outset, as the UK swelters under a record-breaking heatwave, kudos to the phenomenally talented and spritely ensemble for the tireless energy and hutzpah with which they performed the show’s demanding, hyper-kinetic choreography throughout. Beads of sweat flung out across the stage, and ‘Damian’, Max Gill, even gave a cheeky characterful nod to the oppressive hit during the curtain call, but no ‘burn book’ needed – these consummate professionals put on one hell of a show.

Stamina and professional admiration aside, there’s a fun time to be had with Mean Girls on stage. Sure, much like its filmic forebear, it’s fairly tame when compared with the nihilism and black comedy of, say, Heathers, and it wears its teen-friendly vibes proudly on its fuchsia sleeves. Homeschooled, socially-awkward Cady (Emily Lane) arrives from Kenya into the scariest habitat this side of the Serengeti – the American High School.

“…fairly atypical teen movie fare, but it’s punctured by Fey’s witty and characterful writing and barbed dialogue.”

In attempting to find her footing and crowd, she befriends two fellow outcasts, Damian (Max Gill) and Janis (Georgie Buckland) whilst also catching the eye of the trio of fearsome ‘Plastics’ – neurotic Gretchen (Kiara Dario), delightfully ditzy Karen (Sophie Pourret) and ultimate ‘It’ girl and alpha female (there’s literally a track about her called ‘Apex Predator’), Regina George (Vivian Panka).

The ‘cautionary tale’ that follows – intermittently narrated by Damian and Janis – is fairly atypical teen movie fare, but it’s punctured by Fey’s witty and characterful writing and barbed dialogue. As Cady ventures into the Plastics’ sphere of influence to sabotage them from within, she finds the allure of their power, position and privilege irresistible to resist.

And, naturally, she develops a thing for class heartthrob – and Regina’s ex – Aaron (Ben Oatley).

Anyone familiar with the film will be pleased to know all the fan favourite lines and quips are present and accounted for. Benjamin and Richmond do a solid job repurposing it as a musical, with some fun pop tracks peppered throughout. It doesn’t succeed in its transition to the extent that the likes of Benjamin’s work on Legally Blonde did (adapting similar material), but there are enough bangers, winningly performed, and Nicholaw keeps it all moving at a punchy enough pace that it never lags.

“Anyone familiar with the film will be pleased to know all the fan favourite lines and quips are present and accounted for.”

Helping the touring production immeasurably is a terrific cast assembled for the year book. Sure, Faye Tozer (of Steps fame) feels horribly underutilised despite playing three roles, but she at least gets to have fun as Regina’s ersatz, gin-swigging wannabe influencer mom. Gill whips up loads of laughs and characterful hijinks, too, as a suitably flamboyant Damian – his ‘Where Do You Belong’ song and dance number an early highlight.

But perhaps unsurprisingly, it is Cady and the ladies who command the stage and really deliver on the promise of Mean Girls as a musical outing. Emily Lane is a confident and engaging leading lady, and tackles some of the big sings with real relish. Kiara Dario and Sophie Pourret are a scream as Regina’s doting disciples; Dario bringing nuance to her paranoid, needy Gretchen, and Pourret absolutely hilarious as the somehow knowingly clueless Karen.

Vivian Panka, meanwhile, knows the assignment only too well when it comes to playing such an iconic role as Regina George, devouring the stage as the ruthless, conniving leader of the pack. She belts for the back rows and beyond, but is just as intoxicating in George’s quieter or more sultry moments. And she is perfectly met by former bestie and complete yin to her yang, Janis – a quite sensational Georgie Buckland, who continues to prove herself a formidable musical theatre talent to watch with a soaring, powerhouse and giddily punk take on the scorned outsider.

So, come for the quotes about heavy menstruation and sizeable vaginas, stay for the electric performances, terrific ensemble, a bus load of pop bangers and overall a zesty, high-energy musical that is even more fetch than Spring Fling.

Sorry, we’ll stop trying to make that happen.

Anyway… get in, loser, we’re going touring.

As we hunker down for another season of (somewhat controversial) Eurovision madness, Birmingham welcomes back the enduring stamp of one of its most notable and beloved alumni. Don your sunhats and snorkels, dust off those Super Trouper stomps and poses, and dig out a fresh pair of flares – the sun, sea and songs of Mamma Mia! are back.

A consummate crowd-pleaser, here is a show that audiences continue to flock to, on brand and name recognition along. Of course, a certain 2008 Meryl Streep-led Hollywood adaptation can’t have hurt.

It’s enduring popularity is no real mystery – here is a gloriously sunny, funny and uplifting tonic of a show, a story and stage experience built on good ‘bones’ and winning ideas, even before you throw Benny and Björn’s instantly recognisable earworms in. Landing in grim times of fractious politics, international conflict and such delights as cost of living crises, its unapologetic escapism and buoyancy are more welcome and infectious than perhaps ever.

For those unfamiliar with its premise, Mamma Mia! deftly weaves some of the biggest pop hits of ABBA into a fun jukebox romp that sees young Sophie (Lydia Hunt), on the eve of her wedding, attempting to discover who her father is, out of three potential candidates from mom Donna’s (Jenn Griffin) past. When all three turn up to the idyll that Donna has made for her and Sophie on a remote Greek Island, shenanigans ensue and a cluster bomb of old feelings explodes.

“…a breezy, effortlessly entertaining evening of crossed purposes, lost loves and burgeoning attractions, all hanging off of the ABBA bangers we all know and (most of us) adore.

It’s a breezy, effortlessly entertaining evening of crossed purposes, lost loves and burgeoning attractions, all hanging off of the ABBA bangers we all know and (most of us) adore. Sure, there’s the odd bit of mental gymnastics required to reframe, say, ‘The Name of the Game’ into something other than a romantic challenge, but even where the songs are almost entirely ancillary or something of a reach, they are always fun and wittily staged.

Sequences such as ‘Does Your Mother Know’ and ‘Dancing Queen’, for instance, technically do very little to advance the plot, amounting to little more than a battle of sexual wits and free spirited nostalgia, respectively. Yet they’re so energetically performed and characterfully staged, they end up being some of the best sequences of the night. It’s in the moments of unabashed fun with its colourful cadre of characters that the infectious joy of the show truly sings.

Full disclosure, though – on the basis of the performance reviewed, this isn’t quite Mamma Mia! fully firing on all cylinders. That isn’t to say it is bad, not by any stretch of the imagination (you’re practically guaranteed a fun night with any incarnation of this show). But for a production that has always delivered megawatt energy and talent, some of the key numbers and performances felt a little underwhelming. The toe-tapping titular ditty, for instance, came across a little too plodding and hesitant, whilst a later rendition of ‘SOS’ sadly felt a little too close to actually being one itself.

Similarly, some pitchy sound and even tempo issues, with members of the company momentarily lagging behind the score, leant a slight flabbiness to what has always previously been such a slick and polished evening of musical theatre.

With that all being said, there is still plenty of incredible talent on stage who more than smooth over the rough edges. Lydia Hunt is a sensational Sophie, comfortably one of the best to date, and is superb in terms of vocals and performance throughout. Rosie Glossop and Sarah Earnshaw, meanwhile, threaten to steal the whole thing as Donna’s good time gals, Rosie and Tanya, singing and dancing up a storm and imbibing their numbers with so much of the vocal oomph and character chops that other parts of the show occasionally lack. Elsewhere, Richard Meek, Mark Goldthorp and Joseph Vella all keep the energy and charisma high with great, spirited supporting turns.

Ultimately, niggles and shortfalls aside , the irrepressible bonhomie and delights of Mamma Mia! still make it an easy recommendation. Mark Thompson’s wheeling, transforming taverna set, bathed in Howard Harrison’s scene-setting, tranquil lighting still scream Aegean summer escapism in all the best ways.

“Lydia Hunt is a sensational Sophie, comfortably one of the best to date.”

Sure, if you have a vehement distaste for anything ABBA then it may not be for you, but even then, the original story and beats that Mamma Mia! brings to the stage – not to mention its innate joie de vivre – may be enough to convert even the most cynical Europop naysayer.

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.

When last reviewed, we spoke of the absence of fan favourite Kristian Lavercombe, who has appeared in show quite literally thousands of times, and continues to be missing from this particular picture show (he’s been busy donning his tome as the Narrator over in his native New Zealand…). Most audiences will instead be treated to the superb Ryan Carter-Wilson in the role, who is a fantastic and formidabble Riff Raff (having previously reviewed the show when, incidentally, Carter-Wilson was on understudying for Lavercombe at the time). In a curious flick of the sonic oscillator switch, in the performance reviewed this evening, we were again treated to an understudy Riff Raff, Jesse Chidera, putting on a fine show. Kudos that is to be shared with fellow understudy Bethany Amber Perrins who served up a brilliantly bonkers, hyper animated and ultimately heart-wrenching Columbia (Perrins’ take on Columbia’s eventual about-turn genuinely stirring). 

“In a curious flick of the sonic oscillator switch, in the performance reviewed, we were again treated to an understudy Riff Raff, Jesse Chidera, putting on a fine show.”

Chidera’s Riff Raff is a more sombre, brooding and occasionally even menacing take, and of course he sings – and time warps – a treat. It’s a testimony to the organic, living nature of Rocky Horror that you can take just one (admittedly iconic) role as Riff Raff and go on such a time warp of fun performances, legacies understudies, and never come out feeing short-changed.

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…