ajhlovestheatre

CLOUD 9 

by Caryl Churchill

directed by Dominic Cooke

National Theatre/Lyttelton, London – until 13 January 2027

running time: 2 hours 45 minutes including interval 

https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/productions/cloud-9/

If ever proof were needed that challenging, thought-provoking art and rollicking good fun are not mutually exclusive, Caryl Churchill’s rarely seen 1979 play Cloud 9 is that proof. Dominic Cooke’s glittering, flawlessly cast production for the National is probably the finest account of this epoch-making piece tackling feminism, sexuality, colonialism and gender identity that we are ever likely to see. It is fascinating to note how Churchill’s play is simultaneously stuck in a sort of 1970s time capsule while still speaking to us urgently and movingly right now.

The playful, fluid approach to gender and sexuality (male-presenting actors play women and little girls, female-presenting actors play little boys and men, sexual confusion -some joyful, some painful- abounds) feels less bracing and surprising in 2026, but the play’s highly original structure and Churchill’s keen, kind but clear-eyed perception of humanity still has the power to properly floor us. And oh boy is it funny. 

Act one, set during Victorian times in a British colony in Africa, plays out like a cross between a satirical cartoon made flesh and a demented sex farce. Patriarch Clive (Sam Troughton delivering a masterclass in swivel-eyed, bloviating comic pomposity) is a raging snob, petty tyrant and hypocrite, ruling perpetually self-deprecating wife Betty (a witty, lavishly gowned Stuart Thompson) with a rod of iron while also having it off with local adventuress Mrs Saunders (Rebecca Humphries, an absolute riot). 

Meanwhile son Edward (Ellen Robertson) wants to play with dolls and, more troublingly, also their preposterously macho house guest, explorer Harry Bagley (Tom Mothersdale) whom Betty also has designs on. On top of all this, governess Ellen (the brilliant Humphries again) is in lust with her female employer, as Betty’s starchy mother (Charlotte Ritchie) drains the joy out of every situation, and African manservant Joshua (Eloka Ivo) appears to be entirely submissive (“my skin is black but oh my soul is white”) but has revolutionary plans of his own. 

It’s a bit Monty Python, and a bit French and Saunders in their heyday, superbly marshalled chaos that treads the fine line between truth and grotesquerie. While it’s laugh-out-loud hilarious, the undertow of disquiet under the absurdity of the constant toasts to Queen Victoria at the Christmas picnic, the resentful parlour games and frantic, furtive coupling, is impossible to ignore: why are the white men so awful, why do the women get such raw deals which they ongoingly self-perpetuate ….and what’s really going on with Joshua (a role played in the original production by a Caucasian actor, in an even more edgy comment on colonialism)? 

Designer Miriam Buether sets it sumptuously on a glossy black stage under a lush canopy of trees, all placed inside a chocolate box-y proscenium arch with ornamental plaster and gilt surrounds and deep scarlet curtains. Costume designer Samuel Wyer’s work is equally gorgeous and multi-faceted. The characters look like something from a Merchant Ivory film but heightened somehow, more flamboyant.

The production goes on to deliver a theatrical volte face that matches the one built in to Churchill’s astonishing script. Cooke and the design team blow the stage apart, in much the way the radically progressive plays of Cloud 9’s 1970s ilk rent asunder the staid theatrical conventions that came before them. When we return from an extended interval, Buether’s traditional pros arch is literally in pieces, upended and scattered across the playing area, the house curtain lying unceremoniously across the front couple of rows of the stalls, the act one occupants of which are now milling about onstage. As a metaphor, it’s both neat and unsettling.

We are now in the 1970s but for Churchill’s dramatis personae only twenty five years has passed. Betty (now played by Robertson, whose transformation from the precocious but messed-up little boy she embodied in the first half takes the breath away) is a sprightly elderly lady, with a personal style clearly modelled on Elizabeth II in late middle age, who has finally left the horrific Clive. Her daughter Victoria – a ventriloquist’s doll in the first half – is now a bisexual feminist in an unhappy relationship and with a child of her own. Again, the excellent Ritchie is almost unrecognisable as is Humphries, marvellous as Lin, the spiky working class mum who’s attracted to her. 

Mothersdale contributes another memorable portrait of appalling maleness as Victoria’s partner, the kind of man who considers himself such an ally to women that he’s writing a book all about the female experience, from the point of view of a woman. Yikes. Ivo plays the promiscuous, free-spirited lover of now grown up Edward (beautiful work from Thompson) and he nails the character’s emotional carelessness and priapic quest for adventure. He has a change of heart near the end that, though well acted, doesn’t feel fully earned, and is one of the few weaknesses in the writing. 

The sight of bearded Sam Troughton as Cathy, Lin’s six year old whirlwind of a daughter, alice-band in hair, play dress smudged with paint, discovering the world around her with wide eyes and clenched fists, is worth the price of a ticket by itself. She’s wildly amusing of course but it’s also a meticulously observed piece of acting. 

It’s a fabulous surprise in an evening full of them. I also never thought I’d be wiping away tears at an elderly woman’s monologue about masturbation and shame (delivered exquisitely by Robertson). There’s something touchingly naive about the depiction of adult Edward’s mulling over whether he wants to become a woman, but there’s never any doubt that Churchill is coming at her subjects with great compassion.

The inclusion of the Northern Ireland conflict in the second half inevitably resonates less in 2026 than it once did, but there’s an implicit suggestion that the British swapped one set of colonialism for another. More persuasive is the notion that compliance and acceptance in women can never be a positive way forward. 

Cloud 9 is a big-hearted, big-mouthed crackerjack of a play that still resonates down the years, full of imagination and well-honed anger. It’s an essential part of modern theatre history but one that feels scintillatingly alive in this glorious production. It’s late in 2026, but the National has given us one of the productions of the year. 

NERO

Book and lyrics by Steven Sater

Music by Duncan Sheik

directed by Lindsay Posner 

Southwark Playhouse Elephant, London – until 5 December 2026

running time: 2 hours 30 minutes including interval 

https://southwarkplayhouse.co.uk/productions/nero/

Incest, murder, insanity, perversion, sexual coercion, self-mutilation, matricide, Glam Rock ….any musical that features stuff like this has no business being as tedious and bland as Steven Sater and Duncan Sheik’s Nero turns out to be. Although billed as new, Nero has actually been twenty three years in the making. If this version, currently serving up tonal whiplash and bewilderment to game Southwark Playhouse audiences, is the finished article after all that time, the mind boggles at what the earlier drafts must have been like.

Since this off-West End run was announced before the untimely death earlier this year of composer Duncan Sheik, one can’t accuse the producers of cashing in on a tragedy. But it remains a mystery what attracted them, or a director of the quality of Lindsay Posner, whose work here might best be described as unobtrusive, to this bizarre project. 

Creating a musical about one of the most horrifically corrupt and perverted Emperors of the Roman Empire isn’t an intrinsically terrible idea – indeed one could argue that it’s uniquely timely for 2026 – but Nero just doesn’t know what it is. It starts out as unadulterated camp, with Andrew Barth Feldman’s titular Roman performing a rocky number all decked out in swishy, flamboyant gear before being interrupted by his mother Agrippina (Sally Dexter) enquiring why he’s wearing her clothes…again. But then the tone changes to contemplative and disturbing with the introduction of the much sinned against step siblings Octavia (Nabi Brown) and Britannicus (Timo Tatzber). The lightning fast switches between showbiz excess, history lesson and bad taste humour have a cumulative effect of making it seem that nobody on the creative team is in control of the themes or the material.

Fans of Sheik’s work on Spring Awakening and American Psycho will enjoy spotting the echoes of those scores but the music here is largely unmemorable, lacking the punch of the former and the nihilistic exhilaration of the latter. The style is mainly folky and melancholic, frequently feeling underpowered and ill-matched to the drama of the story being told. There are a couple of other musical styles thrown in for eclectic measure – a bit of rock, some tango, a sub-Kander and Ebb number for Seneca (Stephen Carlile) with the chorus wielding briefcases that open to reveal tongues and teeth for no very intelligible reason – and the lyrics are mostly fine, but it just never gets off the ground. Rhianne-Louise McCaulskey’s attractively disdainful Poppea, here reconceived as a sort of amoral pop star pitched half way between Beyoncé and Josephine Baker, gets a fun disco number that wouldn’t sound or look out of place at the Eurovision Song Contest. The choreography by James Cousins utilises every cliché in the book but is quite effective.

Sater’s script veers wildly between sub-Shakespearean portentousness and half-hearted Carry On… style humour that seldom lands. It never falls into “so bad it’s good” territory, but neither is it ever funny or dramatic enough. Nor, given the extremity of the tale being told, does it ever feel shocking enough. The current off-Broadway hit Slam Frank, which satirises the super-woke as it retells the Anne Frank legend, last year’s Midnight Cowboy on this same Southwark Elephant stage and Sheik’s own American Psycho all prove that musical theatre can be provocative and downright uncomfortable, but Nero never quite has the courage of its convictions.

Given the weakness of the material, the cast are doing stellar work. While obviously one wishes that rising star Feldman was making his UK debut in a stronger work, he’s still pretty terrific. Although unfortunately saddled with costumes that look like somebody ran riot in the M&S ladieswear department during the mid 1980s (Posner’s staging is big on anachronisms), he is magnetic and fearless, investing the anti-hero with a twisted charisma and palpable sense of dangerous instability, with a rangy rock voice. If cis men are still allowed to play Hedwig (of the Angry Inch fame) then somebody needs to cast Feldman as soon as possible. 

Sally Dexter, one of this country’s finest but most underrated actresses, brings a throaty intensity and classical gravitas, as well as a hint of glorious camp, to the role of his murderous mother. She really is so much better than her material here, but she just about makes it work, which is damn impressive under the circumstances. That’s true also of Stephen Carlile’s supercilious, gimlet-eyed schemer Seneca. Brown and Tatzber sing beautifully but aren’t otherwise required to do much more than stand around looking mournful.

There are some striking visual moments, including one where the entire cast is engulfed in Nero’s voluminous golden cloak, that serve to slightly deflect attention away from the underwhelming songs. Most of the staging is ponderous though, and not always visible unless you’re in the front row, although that may be a blessing. The heavy red drapes of Georgia Lowe’s set in the first half, which makes the whole thing look a bit like an unusually racy school play put on possibly by the Classics department, gives way after the interval to a giant mirrored wall so that you can at least watch other audience members yawning and checking their watches. Tony Gayle’s sound design is well judged and allows us to hear every harmony and every instrument (including a harp) in Phil Bateman’s band.

Nero has a list of trigger warnings on the theatres website as long as your arm – “strong language, retching, blood, gore, incest, nudity and violence” – but the one they missed out was boredom. Worth seeing for Feldman and Dexter perhaps, but this is quite a slog. Like the title character fiddling while Rome burnt, Nero is a hot mess. 

THE STANDARD OF LIVING

by James Graham

directed by Nicholas Hytner

Theatre Royal Haymarket, London – until 12 December 2026

running time: 2 hours 30 minutes including interval 

https://trh.co.uk

The importance of the arts to the overall quality of life is an ongoing conversation between the moneyed and the creative, and it runs through James Graham’s new play like words through a stick of rock. Despite an oil smooth staging by Nicholas Hytner and a magnificent central star turn by Rory Kinnear, The Standard Of Living is an uneven, only intermittently focused piece, but it’s heart is undoubtedly in the right place.

Kinnear plays John Maynard Keynes, the economist instrumental in establishing global financial stability while also bearing witness to some of the most extraordinary events of the last century and having one foot planted equally in the bohemian Bloomsbury Group. So, we get to meet such artistic luminaries as Virginia Woolf (Naomi Frederick), painters Vanessa Bell and Dora Carrington (Claire Price and Agatha Enecio respectively) and biographer Lytton Strachey (Pip Carter). More significantly, the play features both Keynes’ lover, painter Duncan Grant (Thomas Flynn in a beguiling West End debut) and wife, former ballerina Lydia Lopokova (played here, in a stroke of true luxury casting, by real-life Russian prima ballerina Natalia Osipova). 

John Maynard Keynes’ ongoing preoccupation with the question of what makes “a good life” informs most aspects of a play that’s suitably heady, and frequently deliciously witty. Graham has form in making subjects that might seem theatrically intractable – such as the football World Cup (Dear England), the dubious morality of Fleet Street (Ink), the machinations of British politics during the troubled 1970s (This House) – into plays that dazzle with their bravura entertainment value as much as their rigorous intellect. 

Ultimately though, The Standard Of Living feels more like a pageant of the great, the good and the downright batty through some of the seismic events of the early twentieth century rather than a satisfying, coherent piece of drama. When Graham writes about something that is really close to his heart (last year’s multi-award winning Punch, for instance, set in his hometown and dealing with community, consequences and healing) he is unmatchable, but this one feels like chilly, low-key Stoppard.

If the tendency to shuffle historical figures on and off stage with almost indecent haste, and an over-stuffed yet curiously shapeless structure that recalls Graham’s book for the middling Tammy Faye musical, means that The Standard Of Living is a play as conflicted as Keynes’ own loyalties, there’s still a lot to enjoy here. The dialogue frequently fizzes with bracing intellectual energy and naughty humour, and some of the acting is a source of genuine pleasure.

Osipova is a real treat as the tempestuous, tactless but loving Lydia, capturing both her diva tendencies and her staunch affection for her husband. Frederick suggests Virginia Woolf’s brilliance but also troubled brittleness, and Price beautifully delivers Vanessa Bell’s professional resentment yet personal warmth.  A couple of the other performances have a tendency to broad strokes and questionable accents. 

Kinnear really is remarkable, conveying Keynes’ brilliance but also his compassion, humour and his slight strangeness (note the vaguely prissy way he notes every male sexual conquest in a little book). He masterfully hints at an intellectual competitiveness within John, and his own surprise at his attraction to the fiery, abrasive Lydia is made wonderfully vivid. This is an immense performance, seldom grandstanding but full of truth and intelligence.

Hytner’s production, punctuated by bursts of recreated choreography for Osipova and a supporting cast of fine dancers, is an attractive synthesis of all the creative arts that so powered and spiritually enriched Keynes. Bob Crowley’s sliding panels set, inspired by Bell’s abstract canvases, also serves as a series of screens upon which paintings and period photographs are projected to sometimes dazzling effect. It’s striking how, as the evening progresses, the visual colour pallet, including Bruno Poet’s lighting, gradually drains of hue until we are looking at an almost entirely monochromatic stage, just as austerity engulfed Europe as it slid into two World Wars.

The Standard Of Living may lack the fire in its belly that ignites Graham’s finest work, but its themes are timely, and Kinnear’s performance soars over and above any shortcomings in the script. For all its flaws, this is a stylish piece of high quality theatre, and it’s hardly surprising that its limited West End season is virtually sold out.

CEILIDH

Book, music and lyrics by Scott Gilmour and Claire McKenzie

directed and choreographed by Sam Pinkleton

Shoreditch Town Hall, London until 28 February 2027

running time: 2 hours 30 minutes including interval

https://ceilidhmusical.co.uk

Pigeon-holing creative people is a hiding to nothing at the best of times, but it feels especially redundant when considering New York based wünderkind director Sam Pinkleton’s work on Ceilidh, the new immersive musical drawing audiences to the dance floor at Shoreditch Town Hall. The person who staged both Oh, Mary! and the current, joyous trashy-on-a-big-budget Broadway Rocky Horror has here helmed -as both director and choreographer- something unexpectedly communal, warm…..and quintessentially Scottish. Apart from a gay romance which is vaguely central to what plot there is but comes off as pretty irrelevant, this is nothing like Pinkleton’s higher profile productions. But it’s lovely. 

From a dramatic point of view, Ceilidh is pretty flimsy, but anyone with a beating heart must surely respond to its irresistible mix of mayhem, Caledonian tradition and glorious music. True, there are moments where you wonder what on earth is going on, especially during a number jokily exploring the origins of ceilidh through Scottish history, that’s rendered ponderously unintelligible by the venue’s muffling acoustics. True also is that while most of the comedy lands, it’s pretty basic and obvious, and a couple of characters feel like non sequiturs in human form. Furthermore, the revelation of the importance of an older character who initially seems like a bemused bystander can be seen coming a mile off, but that doesn’t blunt the emotional impact when it hits.

Fundamentally, Scott Gilmour and Claire McKenzie’s refreshingly uncynical musical works, and it works because it taps into the basic human need for connection. You can pick holes in the narrative and the sketchiness of the characters, but if the thrill of the music, the sight of strangers dancing together chaotically but enthusiastically and the sheer blazing talent of the actor-musician cast doesn’t put a smile on your face, then maybe it’s time to give up going out altogether. And gosh, is it unexpectedly moving by the end. It creeps up on you by stealth but this is a show that moistens the eyes as much as it quickens the pulse. A musical that is uplifting, jokey and cheerfully meandering suddenly, late in the second half, hits you with an emotion force that leaves you reeling, and not in the Scottish dancing sense. 

At the press performance I saw, co-creator Gilmour was out and his alternate Kyle Gardiner gave a delightful, sweet-voiced account of Ramsay, the ceilidh caller whose family history is traced, albeit somewhat haphazardly, in the course of the show (“ceilidh is in your blood”). Gardiner’s rapport with the audience is joyful and unforced, and ultimately pays off huge emotional dividends. Kirsty Findlay and David Rankine are superb -relatable and sympathetic- as his parents, with Laura Lovemore and Charlie West providing riotous support as a brash secondary couple.

The casting throughout is just splendid: Star Penders is a roaring comic delight in a variety of roles, and there’s sensitive, note-perfect work from Jerome Lincoln as Ramsay’s life, as well as dance, partner, the prodigiously talented violinist and performer Rori Hawthorn in a role whose significance is never fully established, and veteran Scottish actor George Drennan in a heartbreaking cameo.

If, like me, your theatrical bête noire is enforced audience participation, then the constant invitations to get on the dance floor might initially seem enervating. The rough magic of Pinkleton’s production and sheer, irresistible ebullience of the cast surely draws you in as the show progresses though. Gilmour and McKenzie’s thunderously attractive score, alive with the sound of fiddles, guitars, drums, winds, drums and foot-stomping adds another layer of enchantment to a hugely enjoyable evening. And yes this Ceilidh even has bagpipes.

MARTIN GUERRE 

Book and lyrics by Alain Boublil

Book and music by Claude-Michel Schönberg

New lyrics by Annabel Mutale Reed

New lyrics and additional material by Paul Hodge

developed and directed by Matthew Warchus

The Old Vic, London – until 31 October 2026

running time: 90 minutes no interval

https://www.oldvictheatre.com/stage/martin-guerre/

Where Declan Donnellan’s original West End Martin Guerre (all three versions of it) at the Prince Edward was lush, expansive and, in the underrated final iteration with the replacement cast led by Jenna Russell, emotionally cathartic, Matthew Warchus’ bullet-point ninety minute revisal for the Old Vic is dour and dark. Billed as a semi-staged preview run (although I would argue that it’s way more fully realised than last season’s Broadway Chess, which was essentially a concert with choreo), this new look at Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg’s “problem child” third musical (how do you follow Les Mis and Miss Saigon?!) strips it right back, with results that are by turn powerful then frustrating. 

The medieval rural French village from which bullied, alienated Martin escapes to war, leaving new bride Bertrande high and dry, only to return a much changed man years later, is here a brutal place, plagued by land squabbles and drought. Warchus and his designer Rob Howell set the whole thing up as though it’s a satanic ritual, the company entering the circular playing space clad in black hooded robes and daubing their faces from a passed around bucket of paint (suggesting community perhaps? tribalism? collective guilt? it’s never clear) before emerging as individual figures in the grim tale. Although the mob’s treatment of Liv Andrusier’s grave, compelling Bertrande and Dan Hand’s young Martin is explicitly horrifying, the speed with which the show rattles through the story and the visual darkness that permeates the staging, sometimes making it difficult to distinguish who’s speaking or singing, makes it harder to connect with the characters.

Gone is the conflict between Catholics and Protestants, and also any light relief whatsoever. Bob Avian’s exhilarating, epic stomping dances are also gone, Lizzi Gee’s new work having a satisfyingly organic feel closer to movement than full-on choreography. The operatic scale and scope of the 1996 original (the opening of the first production which saw the sun coming up over the villagers toiling in the fields, the sound of a solo woodwind instrument giving way to full orchestral swell as the sun rose in the sky, remains one of the most beautiful starts to a musical I’ve ever seen) is replaced with a folky sensibility, which in some ways suits the unsophisticated setting and characters better. 

Boublil and Schönberg’s score in its present form, with new lyrics by Annabel Mutale Read and Paul Hodge that are decent enough but hardly a significant improvement on those in the later versions of the original, is a hybrid of new and old material. It has less of a poppy edge than either Les Misérables or Saigon but it is frequently just as catchy. At its most melodic, it’s heart-stirring and gorgeous, and at other times it has a curious, elliptical quality closer perhaps to modern opera than musical theatre. In Tom Curran’s reduced orchestrations which intriguingly includes a lute but no keyboards, it sounds rustic and attractive though it seldom soars the way it can. The singing, technically excellent throughout, is more about dramatic expression than sounding pretty which feels appropriate for a musical where romanticism is eschewed  in favour of trauma and starkness.

Andrusier is superb as Bertrande, vividly capturing her anger, her defiance but also her grace. As a childless woman abandoned by a husband she barely knew, she is treated abominably by her community; this new version leans into that but also beefs up her relationship with her conflicted mother (Caroline Sheen delivering fine, truthful work). Unfortunately though it also robs her of her agency by keeping her in the dark (as so much of the production literally is) over the fact that the ‘Martin’ returned from fighting is not the man she married. There was a heartstopping sequence in the original where the communal celebratory dancing stopped and a blindfolded Bertrande is ushered in to meet an also-blindfolded Martin (actually Arnaud Du Thil), and in that moment then the following duet it’s clear that she makes a conscious decision to maintain the deception. That gave her power and made their subsequent falling in love into something really urgent. For all the craft, fire and commitment in Andrusier’s performance, this Bertrande feels more like a victim than a heroine.

Shane O’Riordan brings warmth and gentle magnetism to Martin #2 but the genuine article is so thinly characterised that there is only so much Alex James-Hatton can do with him, although he does have a hugely impressive high tenor belt. Barney Wilkinson glowers effectively as villainous, aggrieved Guillaume driven by his equal obsessions over land and Bertrande, and Adam Pearce is ominously effective as a self-satisfied priest. Colin Ryan has some tender moments as the naive savant who also loves Bertrande but it’s interesting that this new Martin Guerre retains the idea of him constantly talking to a scarecrow he drags around with him, which was always one of the most head scratching aspects of the original.

Warchus’s mastery of the circular playing space is formidable and he is aided immeasurably by a beautiful, sculptural lighting design by Hugh Vanstone, Luca Panetta and Toby Ison. The face paint is a mixed blessing though, distractingly making some cast members look as though they are suffering from vitiligo, and the use of swirling flags and dry ice to denote battle and the passage of time is overdone. There’s also a flashback sequence, vaguely reminiscent of act two of Miss Saigon, but it doesn’t show us anything we haven’t already seen. 

What really does work though is starting and ending the show at the same point, with all the interim scenes explaining why Bertrande is in despair and who the pleading hooded man being led away to execution actually is. It’s just a shame that, in trying to find the sweet spot between folk parable and bloated musical, so much emotional resonance and breadth of tone has been jettisoned. In fairness, this month long run at the Old Vic is billed as a “preview production” so it’s to be hoped that, as the work continues, Warchus and team can find a way of putting a little more meat onto these slightly undernourished bare bones. Musically though, Martin Guerre remains a rare treat. 

FENCES 

by August Wilson

directed by Daniel Bailey

Lyric Hammersmith Theatre, London – until 31 October 2026

running time: 3 hours including interval 

https://lyric.co.uk/shows/august-wilsons-fences/

August Wilson’s great urban tragedy, number six and arguably the greatest in his cycle of ten plays about the Black American experience in all its glory and pain, gets a respectful but considered production by rising star director Daniel Bailey. This Fences is a joint venture between the Lyric Hammersmith, Leeds Playhouse, Manchester Home and Headlong, and is another fine example of world class drama far away from the bright lights and extortionate seat prices of the West End.

Fences won the Tony and the Pulitzer when it premiered in 1987 and it’s not hard to see why. It’s a magnificent play, albeit an imperfect one. It takes its sweet time (three hours including interval, but that’s ok, nobody goes to a Wilson drama for the brevity) but by allowing us to really live with and bed in with this working class Black Pittsburgh family in the 1950s, it’s ensured that when the emotional catharses come they hit hard. It has effortless breadth of scope but is full of telling detail and rich humanity. It also looks particularly striking in this version: Lily Arnold’s spinning house and dusty backyard set grounds the play most convincingly before being periodically plunged into a fanciful, neon-edged twilight by Jai Morjaria’s lighting design.

Ray Fearon, in what must surely be career highlight work, plays Troy Maxson, formerly a star of the baseball pitch in the Negro Leagues (by the time segregation in the sport ended he was past his prime) but now reduced to being a garbage collector, living for payday Friday. Fearon makes every aspect of this flawed, brilliantly drawn character (created onstage by James Earl Jones and subsequently played in a Broadway revival and immortalised on film by Denzel Washington) thoroughly convincing. He has the arrogance both of the sportsman who achieved a degree of celebrity and of the swaggering man of the house, providing for his wife and kids while assuming that he also has control of them, but also hints at the weariness and defensiveness of the former jailbird, and the sense that he is almost trapped as trapped in his workaday life as he was when incarcerated. Fearon invests Troy with irresistible charm and virility but he also gives us tantalising glimpses of uncertainty beneath the alpha male bravado, of the discomfiture that comes from the creeping realisation that, for some folks, you can try to do everything right but the great American Dream will always be just out of your grasp.

Realism and symbolism (Troy’s brain-damaged, trumpet-playing brother, beautifully played with a unique mixture of sweetness and danger by Simon-Anthony Rhoden, is called Gabriel, as in the Archangel….) sit slightly clumsily alongside each other in Wilson’s text. Wisely, director Bailey lets the play speak for itself, also placing particular emphasis on the music that underscores these people’s lives. Jazz and blues (superb contribution by Khalil Madovi) runs through and alongside the action, as if to console, enliven and just occasionally to taunt.

Madeline Appiah is wonderful as Rose, holding the Maxson house together even after the usual bonds of marriage have been cruelly shucked away. Viewed through a 2026 feminist prism, Troy’s betrayal of his wife might just be unforgivable (the expressions of disgust from the audience on opening night were as loud as anything on stage), his protestations and excuses actively diminishing him before our very eyes. Appiah and Fearon play it unflinchingly.

Similarly thrilling is the showdown between Troy and the son who would love to follow in his sporting footsteps. Josh Tedeku is heartbreakingly good in this role, and there’s further sublime work from Michael Ahomka-Lindsay as his half brother, and from Everal A Walsh, memorably grizzled as Troy’s great drinking buddy. 

Fences is a tough play. Its length is challenging but so are truths it imparts about America, about race, about responsibility and about family. It’s worth the effort.  

THE HUNGRY GHOST

by Mei Leng Yew

directed by Ailin Conant

Bush Theatre Studio, London – until 31 October 2026

running time: 1 hour 50 minutes including interval 

https://www.bushtheatre.co.uk/event/the-hungry-ghost/

It’s a tonic to see a new play that feels so genuinely original. Comedy-horror on stage is hardly an overpopulated genre anyway, but then to get it served up with the twin saucings of lesbian romance and authentic Chinese folklore, and you have something pretty special. It’s fitting that The Hungry Ghost completes it’s sold out season in the Bush Theatre’s Studio on Halloween but it would be even more appropriate for it to be playing during the Chinese 7th lunar month, also known as Ghost Month when the gates of the underworld open and restless spirits are briefly free to roam the earth again. 

Mei Mac plays unnamed Girl, a contemporary Chinese-Brit planning to leave the over-protective confines of the family home to move in with her girlfriend Naomi. Isabella Wei plays the relentlessly ravenous phantom that invades Girl’s body to rampant comic effect, while also providing some moments of genuine shock and revulsion. It’s probably not fair to give away too much of what happens, but it’s quite the wild ride: I mean, how often do you get to see onstage a lesbian romcom and demonic possession mash-up. Visceral, preposterous and strangely charming, it’s the kind of show that the audience responds to vocally. A section where Girl/Ghost goes on the food rampage in Sainsbury’s is particularly funny, and also borderline revolting. 

Mei Leng Yew’s scripts gets some rather obvious fun out of spoofing Girl’s traditionalist mother but displays genuine wit in the presentation of the other relationships, and the aftermaths of some of the Ghost’s more extreme behaviour. If the jump-scares and brevity of scenes sometimes collectively suggest screen rather than stage, she has an impressive knack of blending together raucous, messy (literally!) comedy, goosebump-inducing horror and an ethereal poeticism that you definitely don’t see coming. No spoilers, but the conclusion is lump-in-the-throat-inducingly sad and beautiful, especially if you’ve recently had a bereavement.

Ailin Conant’s clever, pacy staging for New Earth Theatre Company plays out on a unit set by Yimei Zhao that’s rather less basic than it initially looks, and the lighting by Cheng Keng is a vital component in the production’s overall impact. Carla Ng’s music and sound are suitably discombobulating.

Both actors are fabulous. Mac is so engaging and lovable, with a creditable skill at morphing into other characters by changing stance, gait and facial arrangement. If there’s an issue with her performance it’s that she sometimes pushes a bit too hard, as though pitching her work for a theatre about four times the size of the one she’s playing in, but she’s very very good. Wei is thoroughly eerie as the ghost; worryingly volatile and with a gift for jet black deadpan comedy. When she transforms into the young woman that the ghost once was, the adjustment is quietly breathtaking.

As tangy and refreshing as the pomelos that the ravenous ghost feasts upon. It won’t be surprising if The Hungry Ghost follows the same route as the very engaging Heart Wall, with which it shares a bit of thematic DNA, and ends up in the main house when the next roster of Bush shows is announced. It fully deserves it. Yummy.

FRANZ AND MARIE 

inspired by Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck 

book and lyrics by Chris Broderick

in a new adaptation by Teresa Howard

music by Rob Shepherd and Chris Broderick 

additional music by Steven Edis

Charing Cross Theatre, London – until 14 November 2026

running time: 2 hours 20 minutes including interval 

https://charingcrosstheatre.co.uk/theatre/franz-marie

Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck, probably written in 1836 but left unfinished before the playwright’s death the following year, is a strange, unsettling play. A series of fragmented scenes the intended order of which is still unclear to scholars and dramaturgs, one wouldn’t imagine a musical version of it to be a barrel of laughs (Gawd knows, Alban Berg’s 1922 opera version certainly isn’t) but then again you wouldn’t necessarily expect it to be as engrossing and affecting as Franz and Marie turns out to be either. 

Adapted by Teresa Howard from a Korean-commissioned distillation of the Büchner original, this folk-rock actor-musician led adaptation of the grim tale of privations, manipulation and murder that gives the women more agency than its source material, it exerts considerable power. It also pulls few punches in evoking the shadowy, cruel world of impoverished soldier Franz Woyzeck (Brenock O’Connor, heartrending), forced alongside his military activities to endure humiliating work as a sort-of human guinea pig in the scientific experiments of an unfeeling doctor so that he can help feed the newborn baby he has conceived with local village girl Marie (Jade Oswald, absolutely terrific). Sounds like tough going, right? 

Well, yes it is, insofar as degradation, desperation and suffering should never be an easy watch, but the story is told in Michael Oakley’s production with such theatrical flair and psychological insight, plus a fascinating, accomplished score that it turns out to be more of a pleasure than a chore. The exhilaration of the music by Rob Shepherd and Chris Broderick (collectively known as Kentish folk-punk band The Singing Loins), with additions by Steven Edis who’s also responsible for the gratifyingly earthy orchestrations, goes some way towards mitigating against the sadness of the story. The folky flavour is inevitably likely to draw comparisons among musical theatre aficionados with Once, Come From Away and Benjamin Button and, if there’s nothing in Franz and Marie that is quite as memorable as those heart-soaring, tear-soaked tuners, this score has a vitality and soul-stirring urgency all of its own. The songs are very good indeed, even if the second half couple maybe afford to lose a couple of them.

As well as the folk influences, there are hints of Kurt Weill in the distressing act one finale that sees Franz reach the apotheosis of his mishandling by the horrible doctor and his cohorts and, later, when the wheels really come off Franz’s mental health and his relationship with Marie, the music goes full rock, which proves tremendously effective. Broderick’s lyrics have a similar duality: simple rhymes that never quite tip over into banality for the working class villagers, raw crudity for the fecund Drum Major who fancies Marie and high camp verbosity for the cosseted Captain whose casual lack of regard for flailing Franz is appalling. 

If the presentation of the suffering of the poor, of which Franz Woyzeck is the emblem, versus the self-serving callousness of the rich and privileged, is a little on-the-nose, that’s a criticism that can be levelled at the source material as much as the musical. The outrage may be a tad lacking in nuance but it’s deeply felt and the anger burns white-hot.

O’Connor’s tortured soul hero and Oswald’s pragmatic, tough but kind Marie are utterly convincing, and force you to care from the very outset, while keeping cheap sentimentality entirely at bay. They lead a company of impressive multi-disciplinary artists. Matthew Haywood is hot and horrible as the priapic Drum Major whose attempts to rent asunder the central relationship drives much of the plot, Richard Emerson Gould and Mark Meadows are equally unpleasant and equally brilliant as the exploitative Doctor and Captain who contribute to Franz’s pain. Elaine Hua Jones makes a strong impression as Kat, initially Marie’s antagonist but eventually her staunchest supporter, as does Steve Simmonds as a snarling Sergeant. Max Alexander-Taylor does shining, lovely work as Franz’s only real friend, who gets a conclusion that makes wonderful dramatic sense while providing a real gut punch.

Oakley’s production has an appropriately organic, earthy feel, from Ben Wright’s expressive choreography to having the cast pull on ropes to manipulate the rising and falling sails of Bretta Gerecke’s striking set. The sound design by Andrew Johnson gets the balance right between voices, instruments, and sometimes unsettling aural effects, and lighting designer Christopher Nairne bathes everything in the expressionistic blood red moon of Büchner’s imagination and original text.

Shows such as Les Mis, Miss Saigon, Blood Brothers, Rent and even Sweeney Todd repeatedly proved that human despair can translate into potent musical theatre, and Franz and Marie is a worthy addition to the canon of melodic misery. If the adage “life is hard and then you die” were to be encapsulated into a show, then this is it. The sheer talent and depth of accomplishment are uplifting though. I loved it. 

RENT

Book, music and lyrics by Jonathan Larson 

directed by Luke Sheppard

Tom Stoppard Theatre, London – booking until 29 May 2026

running time: 2 hours 45 minutes including interval 

https://rentthemusical.com

Time has been pretty kind to Rent. Thirty years after its shatteringly successful New York debut, the original impact heightened by creator Jonathan Larson’s shockingly sudden death aged just 36 on the eve of the show’s first off-Broadway preview, it still has the power to propel audiences out of their seats into a spontaneous ovation. The ongoing appeal of Rent isn’t surprising; the source material -the sentimental tragedy of Puccini’s La Bohème– has been pleasing crowds for generations. In reimagining that story of struggling artists and terminal illness to New York’s grungy, AIDS-shadowed East Village in the 1990s, Larson fashioned a score of spine-tingling bangers, melodically profligate and drenched in adrenaline and raw emotion, and a gallery of characters that have become iconic down the years.

‘Rent-heads’ is the affectionate term coined for super-fans of this epoch-making rock tuner, and Luke Sheppard’s electrifying thirtieth anniversary production -based on, but significantly upgraded from, his pre-pandemic staging at Manchester’s Hope Mill Theatre- is likely to create a whole new generation of them. Sure, some aspects of the story have dated, such as the idea of AIDS being a death sentence (people really are now “living with, not dying from, disease” thank God), and the ‘cyber-arts’ these penniless creatives are so passionately opposed to, have now become worryingly normalised. 

But the belief in community, friendship, and “no day but today” remains movingly relevant and urgent. Additionally, the proliferation and acceptance of same-sex relationships makes Larson’s Bohemians feel less outlandish to your average, enlightened straight folks than they perhaps once did, ditto the raising of the profile of drag in mainstream entertainment. 

Then there’s the music, oh God the music! Rent is a feast of pulse-quickening, eye-moistening beauty, by turns thunderously exciting then lyrical and transporting; arguably the finest rock score ever created for the stage. There are hints of reggae, disco, r’n’b, emo, even a cheeky reference to Puccini, all served up with a grandiose theatricality that leaves us breathless with delight. Is it a little overwrought at times? Sure, but so is grand opera, and in many ways Rent is nearer to that extravagant art form than to traditional musical theatre.

The score has seldom, if ever, sounded better than in this production. Not only is every voice magnificent, but technology has sufficiently advanced in the last three decades so that, finally, in Paul Gatehouse’s sound design, the show is satisfyingly, bone-shakingly loud but you catch almost every harmony and lyric. Even the show’s biggest UK fans (and I’m guilty as charged) can pretend that some of the original Shaftesbury production didn’t turn into aural soup whenever multiple people were singing. 

This new Rent is such an embarrassment of riches it’s hard to know where to begin. The first iteration for Hope Mill was already good (and introduced a newly graduated Tom Francis as tortured singer-songwriter Roger) but this version builds on that and also serves as a useful demonstration of how Sheppard has developed as a director during the intervening years. Every character is clearly delineated and reminted, while still honouring the unforgettable original creations. So much of the show is chaotic but it’s always clear where we should be paying attention. The semi-immersive setting, which has audience onstage and cast entering and exiting up and down the aisles of the theatre, lends a sense of intimacy, immediacy and, at times, danger. A central revolve is used sparingly but potently. This is propulsive, top level work that matches and builds upon the gritty vitality of Michael Greif’s first staging.

Tom Jackson Greaves’ choreography has a sinewy desperation and hard, rhythmic intensity that is extremely compelling, and at times downright inspirational: the explosion of movement in the segue from the heartfelt but static cri de coeur of a group of AIDS sufferers (“will I lose my dignity / will someone care / will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare”) into the messy nocturnal prowling of chemically strung-out dancer Mimi (Alexa Lopez in a star-making turn) is as thrilling as it’s unexpected. It also feels completely organic…the dancing is consistently strong but it feels like real people vibrating and gyrating at the extremes of their existences, which is so very Rent.

With its fencing, neon signage, scattered chairs, multitudes of TV screens, shrines of candles suspended half way up walls, photographers umbrella doubling as the moon, and strings of fairy lights stretching out and around the auditorium, David Woodhead’s set evokes the makeshift, artsy glamour of ‘90s New York at its seediest. Gabriella Slade’s costumes match this aesthetic perfectly, and the whole thing is lit with plenty of dazzle and drama by Howard Hudson. Katy Richardson’s band, perched behind the onstage seating, play up an absolute storm, with Bill Sherman’s orchestrations and Steve Skinner’s arrangements unerringly finding the sweet spot between rock music and theatre. Technically, the show is flawless.

So is the casting, some of which is among the very best I’ve ever seen in the lead roles: Alexa Lopez makes an incendiary UK debut as Mimi, making fully convincing in a way few of her predecessors have, both the feral drug addict and erotic dancer, and the frightened, vulnerable child. Opposite her, Travis Ross embodies Roger’s restless, broken heart and hopelessness with rare conviction. Gaten Matarazzo finds exactly the right mixture of cute chumminess and detachment as film maker Mark (his and Roger’s ultimate, roof-raising duet of grim acceptance, ‘What You Own’, is staged here like a boxing match without the physical punches, and is tremendously clear and effective).

Danielle Fiamanya’s lawyer Joanne, funny, warm and fierce, is absolutely wonderful: she soars vocally and also finds unexpected seams of humour in the role. Lazy Violet nails performance artist Maureen’s unique mixture of self-absorption, kookie kindness, and steel. Billy Nevers’ iconoclast and academic Collins is vividly benign with a suitably wild streak, and a voice that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. As Angel, Jeevan Braich, in a really lovely turn, embodies every contradictory facet we are told about the outrageous yet loving drag queen and street musician, but perhaps most of all just how appropriate their name is. Joaquin Pedro Valdes, in another cracking performance, conveys newly moneyed Benny’s exasperation with his former friends, his ruthlessness but also, unusually and crucially, how much love he still has for them. I’ve never seen his tranche of the story make so much sense before.

That’s just one detail in a production packed with them, making a now-canonical musical feel fresh and enthralling once again. This Rent has its roots in the 1990s but Sheppard and his team make it resonate powerfully in the here and now. An incandescent, unforgettable night where, as always with this musical, the catharsis and exhilaration is tempered slightly by the sad thought that we’ll never know what Jonathan Larson might have gone on to achieve. Don’t even think about missing it.

LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS

book and lyrics by Howard Ashman

music by Alan Menken

directed by Carrie-Anne Ingrouille

running time: 2 hours including interval 

Hope Mill Theatre, Manchester- until 28 November 2026

https://hopemilltheatre.co.uk/event/little-shop-of-horrors/

Playhouse, Liverpool – 3 December 2026 to 9 January 2027

https://everymanplayhouse.com/event/little-shop-of-horrors/

What is it with Little Shop of Horrors at the moment? Just as the current off-Broadway revival celebrates being the show’s longest ever running version and a critically lauded new staging at Exeter’s Northcott sets out on a mini tour, the Hope Mill Theatre premieres yet another iteration, playing in Manchester before moving on to Liverpool. 

In all honesty, it’s not hard to see the appeal of Alan Menken and Howard Ashman‘s quirky 1982 tuner, inspired by a schlocky Roger Corman B-movie from the 1960s. Little Shop just WORKS. It’s hilariously funny but has so much heart, it feels naughty and subversive but without alienating a family audience, it’s daft but the plot is propulsive and involving, and the score -a joyful amalgam of do-wop, rock’n’roll qnd sentimental showtunes- contains not a single dud. 

Although it could afford to ramp up the tension and sense of much being at stake, particularly in the short second act, director-choreographer Carrie-Anne Ingrouille gets a heck of a lot right, and it is likely to get even better as the run progresses. It’s not quite perfect (yet) but it’s a rollickingly enjoyable time in the theatre, one that will easily convince newcomers to Skid Row that they are watching a modern classic. 

Maisie Smith plays flower shop assistant Audrey, loved by Jed Berry’s timid coworker Seymour but in thrall to her abusive dentist boyfriend (Benjamin Yates), and offers an unusual, but mostly effective, slant on a well-loved role. A million miles from the bubble-headed ditzy blonde originated by Ellen Greene (and subsequently immortalised in the film version), Smith’s Audrey is a sensitive, neurotic young woman, clearly living with ongoing trauma. She’s palpably fragile, and deeply affecting. Playing it so straight robs the role of much of its comedy but the pay-off is that you really care about her as a fully rounded human being from the get-go. Smith sings like an angel. When the show leans into its old school B-movie tropes, Smith, pert and exquisite even when slightly dishevelled, really looks like the heroine from such a film.

In the past, Little Shop of Horrors has come under fire for trivialising domestic abuse but in this version, with this Audrey and this Orin the dentist, that’s hardly a valid accusation. Benjamin Yates as the nitrous-oxide addicted mouth medic is handsome, charismatic….and absolutely deadly. It’s a performance as audacious as it’s athletic and impressive. Once he has revealed himself as an abuser, there’s no attempt to ingratiate himself with the audience or indeed the other characters, and it’s authentically chilling. Jed Berry and Michael Starke are more conventional readings of Seymour and money-grabbing shop owner Mushnik, but they’re both excellent.

 Marcus Ayton is gloriously over-the-top as the voice of giant man-eating plant Audrey Two, although some of the comic and shock value is lost since the manipulators of the giant puppets (designed by Morgan Large, made by Robert Allsopp, and thoroughly marvellous) don’t seem as yet to be able to keep the plant’s ‘mouth’ moving in sync with what’s being sung and said. Rio Maye, Psalms-Nissi Myers-Reid and Gabrielle Davina Smith are huge fun as the trio of attitude-y street urchins who form a sort of full-throated Greek chorus. 

Large’s attractively cluttered set and appropriately vivid costumes, all lit with mood-shifting, colourful flair by Rory Beaton, looks terrific in the small space. The neon sun overhead and general ‘postcard’ look to the show, as well as the accents, seem to indicate, unusually, that this Skid Row (the seedy neighbourhood where Mushnik’s flower shop is situated) is on some point much further West than the show’s conventional New York setting. 

This is a beloved musical done with considerable imagination, freshness and indeed budget. Unless there’s a particularly bold concept in place, such as wth Maria Aberg’s astonishing pre-pandemic Regents Park production set in a forbidding, semi-apocalyptic cityscape with a drag queen as Audrey Two, the smaller scale employed here definitely works best. It’s not truly revelatory and I’ve seen funnier Little Shops (the usually galvanising ‘Meek Shall Inherit’ section falls particularly flat, the actor playing the various agents and managers out to exploit Seymour and his plant coming across as bizarrely aggressive instead of inventive and zany) but it has just enough new insights to delight those who think they know the show very well. Menken’s earwormy music still rocks, Ashman’s lyrics are sassy and witty, the whole thing is preposterous but such great entertainment. The magic persists.