Review: ROCKY HORROR SHOW at Casino De Paris

Paris was already melting when audiences took their seats at the Casino de Paris on Friday night: the capital had just hit a June record of 40.9 degrees Celsius, part of what Météo-France confirmed was the hottest day ever recorded in France — a country not exactly famous for air conditioning in its historic entertainment venues. The Casino de Paris, for all its belle époque grandeur on the rue de Clichy, is one of those. The venue had done its best, with management announcing reinforced ventilation, roof irrigation and misting stations throughout the evening, while audience members were treated to fans and invited to bring spray bottles and water. But nothing — not mist nor breeze nor collective goodwill — could entirely tame the heat inside that room, and yet what unfolded on stage was one of the most joyful, most alive, most genuinely communal evenings of theatre in recent memory.

Richard O'Brien's Rocky Horror Show needs no introduction after more than fifty years and performances in over thirty countries. The story — naïve Brad and Janet, their car breaking down, their refuge in the castle of the flamboyant Dr Frank-N-Furter — remains a gleefully deranged vehicle for glam rock excess, sexual liberation and cheerful transgression. What it requires, above all, is a company with the stamina, the precision and the sheer nerve to keep the anarchic engine running flat out for two hours — demanding enough on a normal night, but on this one, with the thermometer somewhere north of human comfort, it bordered on the heroic.

Several times during the evening, the production was forced to halt as crew members came on stage with mops to wipe the sweat from the floor while the actors retreated to the wings to recover. Each pause was met not with frustration but with sustained, warm applause — and each time the cast returned they were welcomed back like the brave soldiers they were. It transformed the evening into something collaborative, a shared ordeal cheerfully endured that, if anything, deepened the bond between stage and stalls. The Rocky Horror audience already arrives primed for participation, but this was something beyond the usual call-and-response — it was solidarity.

The production itself is the current world tour, directed by Christopher Luscombe — whose Nell Gwynn won the Olivier Award for Best New Comedy at Shakespeare's Globe — a man who has now been shepherding this show around the globe for the better part of two decades and knows exactly what it needs. His staging is precise without being rigid, leaving space for the audience interaction that is Rocky's lifeblood while keeping the narrative propulsive. This tour is reported to be the most successful in the show's history, with ticket sales exceeding £10 million at the UK box office and already playing to more than 250,000 theatregoers!

Stephen Webb (Jersey Boys and Titanic, national tours) has by now made the role of Dr Frank-N-Furter entirely his own — no small achievement given the long shadow of Tim Curry — his Frank a glam-rock menace wrapped in full corset and fishnet, alternating genuine danger with camp absurdity in a way that keeps you off-balance throughout. He sweated as lavishly as the rest of the cast on this particular night and did not miss a beat. Haley Flaherty as Janet (Miss Honey in Matilda on the West End) is a masterclass in comedic arc, her journey from wholesome fiancée to liberated adventurer traced with warmth and impeccable comic instinct; her "Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me" was an audience highlight — fizzy, knowing, perfectly pitched. James Bisp makes for an endearingly straight-faced Brad, his guileless bafflement a perfect foil for the madness around him.

But the performance of the night — the one that had the audience on their feet — was Morgan Jackson as Rocky (Heathers, Mamma Mia!, and Fame — West End and UK tour). The role is notoriously difficult to play: Rocky speaks almost nothing, exists largely as a physical presence, and risks becoming mere scenery, but Jackson makes him something else entirely — a creature of pure kinetic energy and unexpected pathos.

Equal credit goes to choreographer Nathan M. Wright (High Society, The Old Vic — nominated for both WhatsOnStage and Broadway World Best Choreography awards), who has been dancing since the age of six and whose career has encompassed everything from Baz Luhrmann films to the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony. This is, by his own count, his thirteenth production of Rocky Horror, and the fluency shows: he designs movement sequences that are easy to watch and easy to join in with, and the Time Warp, under his direction, remains the most reliably ecstatic five minutes in musical theatre.

The supporting company was uniformly strong: Ryan Carter-Wilson a menacing, reptilian Riff Raff; Laura Bird sharp and watchable as Magenta; Daisy Steere bringing genuine fizz to Columbia; and Edward Bullingham (Grease, Rent) relishing every second of his dual turn as Eddie and Dr. Scott. The show is performed in English with French surtitles, and the Parisian crowd had no difficulty keeping pace — the show's universal language of liberation transcends any linguistic barrier. Costumes are by the legendary Sue Blane, who designed the original 1973 production, and her aesthetic — bold, theatrical, timeless in its outrageousness — remains untouchable, while Nick Richings's lighting equally efficient.

This particular evening will be remembered as one in which a production triumphed despite extraordinary conditions — but more than that, as proof of something this show has always argued: that theatre, at its best, is a living contract between performers and audience, renegotiated in real time, night after night. On a record-breaking June night in a sweltering Paris venue, with mops appearing between scenes and the crowd cheering the cast home like marathon runners crossing the finish line, that contract was honoured completely!

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