ajhlovestheatre

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.

SCHOOL GIRLS; or THE AFRICAN MEAN GIRLS PLAY

by Jocelyn Bioh

directed by Whitney White 

Samuel J Friedman Theatre, New York City – until 15 November 2026

running time: 80 minutes no interval 

https://www.manhattantheatreclub.com/shows/2026-27-season/school-girls-or-the-african-mean-girls-play/

Jocelyn Bioh’s gorgeous comedy-drama, only now making its Broadway bow but first seen in New York in 2017 and at London’s Lyric Hammersmith in 2023, is a rare, satisfying thing. School Girls; Or The African Mean Girls Play truly is a delightful time in the theatre, with more belly laughs per minute than anything else currently playing, except perhaps for Oh Mary! and Slam Frank. More interestingly, it also leaves you pondering the importance of education, some pretty unpalatable truths about colourism, and the universality of teenage peer pressure. It’s inspired by a true story about suspected corruption in a Ghanaian beauty pageant and, while the parallels with properties like Heathers and Mean Girls are easy to identify, Bioh’s work, ultimately, is its own marvellous beast. 

Whitney White’s vibrant but nuanced production for Manhattan Theatre Club gives full measure to the pathos as well as the rollicking comedy, and the disturbing, not to say ludicrous, idea that the more Caucasian looking a young Black woman is the more beautiful she’s considered is put over with considerable force. Set in the mid-1980s – tellingly, a time before young people were influenced by the internet and where their access to the outside world was mostly confined to what they saw on their television screen – in a rural Ghanaian school for girls, Bioh’s script looks at the tensions among a group of teenagers when a new, mixed race girl from the USA joins their number. 

To up the ante, these young women are in competition to be selected as entrants in the Miss Ghana contest, a victory in which would offer the opportunity for travel and financial security. Queen Bee Paulina (understudy iesha m. daniels at the performance I saw, instead of Denée Benton, and so gloriously venomous she takes your breath away) thinks she has it in the bag, until the arrival of paler-skinned American-Ghanaian Ericka (a flawless Jasmine Amy Rogers, once again cementing her reputation as Broadway’s truest breakout star of recent years). 

What follows could almost be described as a battle of good versus evil, with the other, less forceful pupils as collateral damage, but Bioh is such a good storyteller and dramatist that she gives Paulina and Ericka back stories that confound our initial impressions of them. She also creates a small gallery of delicious characters, all played with gusto and affection here, that you find yourself caring about in a very short space of time. There’s socially awkward cousins Mercy and Gifty (Jordan Rice and Nia Otchere-Sarfo), in thrall to the horrible but glamorous Paulina (“we just don’t want her coming after us”) but touchingly looking after each other. Lucia Aremu invests the exasperated best friend with information that could collapse Paulina’s house of cards, with an intriguing gravity and undercurrent of real rage. Erin Morton wins hearts as well-meaning, gauche Nana, the innocent who is the primary butt of Paulina’s cruelty and sarcasm but who exerts a wonderfully satisfying comeuppance.

The adults are represented, gloriously, by Heather Alicia Simms as the headmistress who is equal parts ferocity and kindness. Also, in a sparkling return to Broadway, there’s Patina Miller, regal as former beauty contest winner Eloise Amponsah, a woman with a definite agenda who wields her affected faux-British accent and her repeated assertion “I am Miss Ghana 1966” as though they’re weapons. Simms and Miller suggest, with formidable style, a backstory of rivalry and mutual loathing between these women that adds another layer of enjoyment to an already rich cake.

The technical elements from Teresa L Williams (whose school room scenic design backgrounded by dramatic West African mountains is simple but vivid), Stacey Derosier (nicely transformative lighting) and Cody Spencer (sound) are everything they need to be. Qween Jean, a Tony winner for last season’s Cats The Jellicle Ball, has gone all out on the costumes though, marrying realism with high camp and African opulence. Meanwhile, Nikiya Mathis’ wig for Ms Miller probably deserves its own show.

Running at a mere eighty minutes, there’s no chance of School Girls; Or The African Mean Girls Play outstaying its welcome, but what’s remarkable is how much good stuff Bioh, White and team pack into that brief playing time. The section where the party dress-clad schoolgirls try to out-sing each other (to Whitney’s ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ no less) may be like shooting fish in a barrel in comedic terms but it’s also helplessly, irresistibly funny. By the end though, what’s more striking, haunting even, is the sight of these young women watching an international beauty competition on television and pondering their place in the world at the large. The play is short but it packs a hell of a punch. The first opening of the new Broadway season and the bar is set incredibly high. This is a must-see.

SLAM FRANK

Music and lyrics by Andrew Fox

Book by Joel Sinensky

directed by Sam LaFrage

Orpheum Theatre, New York City – booking to 30 November 2026

running time: 1 hour 50 minutes no interval

https://www.slamfrankmusical.com/

Anne Frank, the German-born Jewish diarist murdered by the Nazis while still a teenager, reimagined as a rapping, pansexual Latinx named Anita? Um, er, ok. One of the first things to realise about this literally sensational show, which has Jewish creatives by the way, is that it’s essentially offensive to almost everyone (neurodivergent folks, toxic males, Black divas, non-binaries, feminists, pretentious artists, bleeding heart liberals: they’re all lambasted with indecent relish). So, if you can get on board with nobody emerging unscathed, it’s possible to have a hell of a time at Slam Frank. If not, then maybe it’s not the show for you.

Inspired by a series of bonkers 2022 social media posts discussing whether Anne Frank ever acknowledged her white privilege (yep, seriously), this is certainly the most talked-about new musical in New York right now, and it’s not hard to work out why. First seen last year at Asylum, the same underground venue that premiered Titanique straight after the pandemic (pandemique?!), this edgy yet gleeful off-Broadway confection has been expanded and cosmetically enhanced to fit the still-intimate but more obviously theatrical Orpheum over in the East Village. 

Storied American dramatist George S Kaufman famously opined “satire is what closes on a Saturday night”. However, this provocative tuner, centred on “a highly respected and forward-thinking” (for that, read painfully right-on) regional theatre company attempting to filter the Anne Frank legend through a bunch of modern hang-ups and mores, eclectic cultural and social influences, and barely any grasp of good taste, feels like it could run and run. It’s as joyful as it’s outrageous and, just occasionally, profoundly disturbing.

American humour can tend either towards the extremely obvious or the jawdroppingly offensive without too much in between. With Slam Frank, writers Andrew Fox (songs) and Joel Sinensky (book) have created a show that encompasses both extremes, then enhanced it with authentic musical theatre know-how, a rambunctiously queer sensibility, and a gift for melodic parody that’s as bracing as it is cheeky. The MT references come thick and fast, but the biggest influence (heavily acknowledged, incidentally) must be Lin-Manuel Miranda: a section derived from In The Heights proves almost as exhilarating as the real thing, and the Slam Frank logo bearing an uncanny resemblance to that of Hamilton is surely no coincidence. Fox writes great tunes in his own right though, inflected with hip hop, calypso, rock, salsa, folk and occasionally full anthemic-pop bombast. His lyrics have a tart, potty-mouthed wit that occasionally leave us with our jaws on the floor.

Fox, Sinensky and their tremendous director Sam LaFrage really aren’t afraid to freeze the smile on audiences faces, leaving them reeling in genuine discomfort and shock. There’s a strong sense that these prodigiously talented equal opportunities offenders, in tandem with a cast stuffed with wild, crackerjack talent, know exactly what they’re doing, even if the sublime chaos they’ve created occasionally threatens to bewilder more sensitive onlookers.

Olivia Bernábe’s caffeinated but charming, and thrillingly sung, Anita (Anne) is a major palliative between some of the show’s wilder excesses and those wedded to their traditional view of our doomed heroine. Equally engaging and, in their own way, sympathetic, are Austen Horne as her mother, here reconceived as a fiery, fabulous Black woman because, well, why not (“mighty gurl, you can’t panic / Cause every woman is a Jew / Hiding in her own attic”), and Rocky Paterra, adorable as unexpectedly neurospicy, deeply closeted, father Otto Frank. 

Amelia Louise Barr demonstrates serious pipes and comic dexterity as reserved, devout sister Margot and Anita’s insistent Abuela. John Anker Bow is masterfully, queasily hilarious as the theatre company’s self-regarding artistic director, embarrassingly unable in an introductory speech to remember the name of the Native American tribe upon whose land this bad taste musical is about to be performed (“okay, well, whoever they are, they were here first, and we are here now, and shame on us”). He’s also magnificently horrible as prototype chauvinist Van Daan whose family is sharing the Amsterdam attic with the Franks, and in a late show cameo reminiscent of, but perhaps not quite as funny as, Mel Brooks’ The Producers (come see to find out).

Alex Lewis is terrific as Peter, his conflicted non-binary offspring, and potential partner for Anne/Anita, his full-throated ‘Fighting Expectations’ cri de cœur and costuming a sly nod to Evan Hansen: “out there there’s blood and gore / in here there are hard conversations”. As the compliant (initially anyway) kewpie-doll-like Mrs Van Daan, Jaz Zepatos seems to be channelling Ellen Greene’s Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors (the Orpheum’s longest running tenant until Stomp moved in, and the kookiness and anarchic spirit of which infuses this current offering). She’s an absolute scream, and ‘Herstory’, her Wilson Phillips-adjacent anthem of female empowerment (“they are brave, they are strong! Women are never wrong!”) rightly brings the house down.

Scenic designer Adam Koch has clearly had a ball turning the Orpheum auditorium into an immersive, ramshackle dual level riot of colourful graffiti, metallic staircases, upturned boxes and platforms, with extensive (and hilarious) use of video (by Zack Lobel) that sometimes looks like a grungy knock-off of Jamie Lloyd productions and at others like a Disney fantasia. LaFrage and choreographer Esosa Oviasu keep the action generously spread throughout the house, and the staging throughout is fleet, funny and wildly inventive. It’s all lit with flash and primary colours by Jamie Roderick, and Gage Baker’s sound design is pleasurably overwhelming but, crucially, still allow us to hear the words. Sarah Lockwood’s costumes may look deliberately tacked together but they are very witty. The show is spoofing community theatre but the stagecraft on display is actually top drawer, and the visual aesthetic is more cool downtown NYC than 1940s war-torn Europe.

You’ll notice I haven’t talked in detail about the content of the show and there’s a reason for that; the surprise value is vital. You can get a feel of it from listening to the (excellent) cast album but nothing can, or perhaps should, prepare you for the way this bonkers spectacle takes a wrecking ball to expectations and sensibilities. For a piece that is huge fun, Slam Frank confronts some pretty fundamental questions over human beings and their ability to co-exist, and what the limits of tolerance really are. The victims of the satire are emphatically not the Frank family, who are presented with equal parts affection and fanciful irreverence. Almost everyone else is fair game though….

Will you feel offended at times? Probably: there is a brief section in the last twenty minutes that really pushes the envelope and you can almost feel the temperature in the theatre drop….I’m still processing it days after seeing it. Will you be hugely entertained and invigorated by a concentration of bracingly fresh theatrical ingenuity? Oh absolutely. It’s pretty dumb and puerile and yet it’s also fiercely intelligent and sophisticated. Honestly, it could lose a couple of sight gags and about ten minutes playing time and be none the worse for it, but it still has more true originality and vitality than anything currently playing on Broadway. 

Be part of the conversation, and have a rollicking good time in the theatre while you’re at it. Slam Frank is post-woke and worryingly irresistible. 

HAY FEVER

by Noël Coward

directed by Emily Burns 

Wyndham’s Theatre, London – until 12 December 2026

running time: 2 hours including interval 

https://hayfeverplay.com

It’s almost inconceivable that it’s only now that Christine Baranski is making her West End debut. With her willowy elegance and martini-dry wit, plus a sly, underlying hint of real naughtiness, she is, on paper at least, an ideal Noël Coward leading lady. She’s presumably the main raison d’être for this sumptuous if hardly revelatory revival (the sixth in London in thirty years) by Emily Burns of Coward’s crowd-pleasing ‘Comedy of Bad Manners’.

In Hay Fever, Baranski plays starry former stage actress Judith Bliss, blasting and sashaying through her idyllic rural retirement with the help of her eccentric novelist husband (Richard E Grant) and Simon and Sorrel (Will Close and Ophelia Lovibond), her equally histrionic grown-up children. It’s a peach of a role, ripe with opportunities for high camp self-dramatisation and comic excess. 

The biggest surprise about Baranski’s performance is just how understated she is. Instead of the selfish yet irresistible grandstanding glamour-monsters many of her predecessors (Penelope Keith, Maria Aitken, Judi Dench, Lindsay Duncan, Diana Rigg, Felicity Kendal) have delivered, this Judith is more sweet and dotty, often archly funny but seldom lethal. Her voice is fascinating, ranging from the timbre of a breathy flute to the basso profondo of an aggrieved bullfrog whenever she’s especially outraged or offended. Her comic instincts are, as expected, sublime (she makes something gloriously off-kilter out of the line “David’s been a good husband to me, but he’s wearing a bit thin now”) and she’s incredibly lovable, maybe too much so.

Her accent sometimes verges on mid-Atlantic but that works perfectly well, since there’s nothing in the text to dictate that Judith should be native English, and anyway the character was inspired by the veteran American actress Laurette Taylor. But she’s just a bit too sane and nice to really satisfy. There should be an unhinged savagery lurking just underneath the actress’s grandeur and verbosity, and Baranski seldom lets us glimpse that. It probably doesn’t help that, in the role of vampish Myra, invited for the weekend by besotted Simon, Nancy Carroll possesses every single attribute required to be an absolutely outstanding Judith. 

With a central performance that tends more to subtle rather than barnstorming, Hay Fever feels like much more of an ensemble piece, despite Baranski’s undeniable presence, and that ensemble is, on the whole, excellent. Carroll is sublime and so is Charles Edwards as another suitably appalled house guest. Grant is winningly strange and socially clueless as eccentric writer David. Lovibond and Close nail the volatility and self-absorption of the offspring, although the characterisations will feel very mainstream to anybody who caught Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Freddie Fox in the same roles in the 2012 Lindsay Duncan-led revival where the Bliss kids were hilariously reconceived as a pair of gawky, near-feral bohemians.

There’s excellent work from Ash Hunter as Judith’s hunky, eager-to-please guest Sandy, and from Lucy Karczewski, unrecognisable from her West End debut in last year’s Stereophonic, as a nervy, uptight flapper David is studying for research purposes. As often happens in Coward revivals of recent years, the ‘servant’ role comes close to stealing the show, and so it proves again here with Jo McInnes getting lugubrious comic mileage out of Judith’s former dresser and now housekeeper Clara, the kind of taciturnly judgemental but low level bonkers woman accustomed to huge swathes of her life in the backstage gloom. 

As if to point up the theatricality of Judith’s moneyed existence, Frankie Bradshaw’s utterly gorgeous setting is an extension of the Wyndhams auditorium’s own decor, down to the powder blue wallpaper, golden cornices, twinkling chandelier, and the deep navy of the carpets. Her costumes are equally opulent and pleasing to the eye.

Director Burns gives Hay Fever to us straight. There’s no attempt to comment or recontextualise or, as in the aforementioned Howard Davies-directed 2012 production which presented the Bliss country pile as a wildly disarrayed, barely functioning house of artsy squalor, find any psychological depth. This is a solid, attractive staging, the kind of show you talk about for about fifteen minutes at dinner afterwards then barely remember the next day. It’s fun, and glamorous, and starry…and for many people that will be more than enough. 

COSMETICS OF THE ENEMY 

 

Adapted from Amélie Nothomb’s novel and directed by Benedetta Scuto

 

Seen during a developmental run at Bread and Roses Theatre, London – September 2026

 

A thrum of unease and a tang of surreal humour runs through this short, sharp, gender-flipped stage version of Amelie Nothomb’s 2021 novel Cosmétique de l’ennemi. Being set entirely in an airport, the book lends itself especially well to theatrical adaptation, and author-director Benedetta Scuto has done a capable job of balancing dramatic tension and the ennui of the departure lounge. What starts as a Pinter-esque verbal cat-and mouse game between a pair of travellers awaiting developments on their delayed flights takes several unexpected, bizarre turns before exploding into recriminatory, thriller-like territory. 

Businesswoman Jenna Angust (a magnetic Jessica Mattarelli) just wants to read her book in peace but Jiminy Cricket-like, strangely named fellow passenger Texta Texel (Meghan Mabli) has other ideas. The show gets decent comic mileage out of Jenna’s irritation versus Texta’s bonkers relentlessness but there is clearly something else at play, and it’s consistently intriguing.

 Running at a tense forty five minutes, Cosmetics Of The Enemy is, in its present form, too brief to become fully engrossed in perhaps – the brevity inevitably means that the characters feel more like sketches than fully rounded human beings – but Scuto skilfully creates an atmosphere of chilly sophistication that creeps stealthily into hysteria as the play progresses. There’s a pretty seismic twist which explains some of the unanswered early questions – why is Texta so irritating and why won’t she leave Jenna alone? Who is the enemy she portentously refers to? Why doesn’t Jenna just walk away? – and, for the surprise to really work, it’s better not to have any knowledge of the book or any earlier adaptations. Some of the language and imagery is authentically startling.

 Mattatrelli displays flawless comic timing and impressively conveys undercurrents of real disquiet under Jenna’s elegant surface, goaded into sarcasm and, ultimately, outright aggression by Mabli’s hyperactive intruder. Mabli’s high energy turn as Texta reads more insane than sinister, and might benefit from dialling down the voluble mania in favour of something a little more subtle. To be fair, the play’s brief duration is probably the reason for such a go-for-broke interpretation, and Mabli is an undeniably engaging stage presence. Adam Wadge provides excellent support in a pair of contrasting cameo roles, but the show is really all about the women.

 Another interesting consideration in refocusing this story on women rather than men is that it arguably changes perceptions of what is male pattern behaviour as opposed to female; is the undercurrent of threat more or less acute depending on who’s involved? Scuto’s script and staging – décor-free apart from an airport terminal departures board – doesn’t offer answers, only a troubling but entertaining journey. Cosmetics Of The Enemy unquestionably deserves a further, possibly expanded, life. Invigorating, thought-provoking stuff.