Alun Hood

Not every joke works, and some of them (Robert trapped in a giant gift box, a garish, anachronistic toy kitchen made to human scale that bursts into life at inopportune moments) outstay their welcome. Mostly though, this is an irresistible Christmas treat, and it has real heart too: Scrooge-like Chris has an outlook change worthy of Ebenezer himself and in keeping with the spirit of the original Dickens.

Hayes inhabits his role so completely and with such detail that he’s equal parts mesmerising and painful to watch. He nails flawlessly the fluttering hands and slack-jawed terror of a person living on their very last nerve, the obsessive-compulsive tics that make sense to him but nobody else, the acidic wit as self-deprecating as it is mean (“I’m controversial, they either dislike me…or they hate me”). It’s a stunning performance that reaches its apotheosis in the production’s ultimate coup de theatre: like Levant, Hayes is an accomplished concert pianist and, at the show’s climax, he plays a driven, enthralling version of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue” that seems to represent Oscar channeling and exorcising all his demons at once.

The material is weaker than the structure and mechanics. Lewis and Shields clearly understand what makes great farce work, but could afford not to sling every funny idea at the wall to see what sticks, especially at this stage in their successful careers and with budgets and resources at this high a level at their disposal. It’s nice to see a non-musical with universal appeal arrive in the West End, despite a cringe-inducing running gag about threesomes involving close relatives that threatens to give a whole new meaning to the words “family show”. Elsewhere, the script is tamer yet, mercifully, funnier.

The Great Gatsby isn’t a great tuner: it’s neither cynical enough to really explore the dark underbelly of the F Scott Fitzgerald story with which it flirts, nor is it distinguished enough to provide the uplift of musical theatre at its best, but it’s the epitome of a slick, escapist West End night out. Shallow, loud and sumptuous.

Gals and gays, welcome to your new favourite musical. Clueless, the West End tuner adapted from the 1995 teen film comedy, isn’t going to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, but my goodness, it’s a lot of fun. If you cheered on Elle Woods, harbour a secret crush on Regina George or fancied shopping in the Heathers’ candy store, you’re probably gonna love this.

Sondheim stated that musicals aren’t written but rewritten, and watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’s evolution from a tiny but profound gem in Southwark Playhouse’s smallest space to a fully-fledged West End show has been an extraordinary pleasure. I reckon the great Stephen would’ve approved of Jethro Compton and Darren Clark’s distillation of F Scott Fitzgerald’s tall tale about a man born old who ages backward to infancy, with its intelligent storytelling through song, piercing wit, and an electrifying emotional charge that seldom lapses into sentimentality. Already one of the best British musicals in decades, in this newest iteration, it looks like a world-beater.

Currently, Greenberg’s technically ambitious production is tonally inconsistent and sometimes lacks urgency: it feels as though it needs slightly longer to bed in. However, with its luxury casting and lush visuals, this satisfying, delicate confection is already a heady delight.

As a star vehicle for Corden and Maxwell Martin, The Constituent works well enough. There’s some cracking dialogue and the balance between comic and bleak is exquisitely handled, but it smacks of a very fine writer wanting to dash off something relevant and timely, without really offering anything genuinely illuminating or new. The abrupt ending is unsatisfying but, to be fair, that may be Penhall’s point: that for people in Alec’s precarious position, there is no satisfying ending.

Ultimately, not every story lends itself to the musical treatment, and with its low level menace and murky remembrances and recriminations, Rebecca might work better as a modern opera, something along the lines of Britten’s The Turn of the Screw. As a tuner stuffed with big belting numbers, it’s too sincere to be high camp (although the final image of Lane’s Danvers, her immaculate coiffure all let loose, processing up an apparently burning staircase for one last time, comes pretty close), and too schlocky to take seriously. This show has a passionate worldwide fan base which will probably grow even further here, but once was more than enough for me.

One of the things that makes The Little Big Things, and indeed Luke Sheppard’s visionary, career-best production, so special is that it doesn’t just represent disability on stage, it actively celebrates it, which feels like a beautiful, uplifting thing. Nowhere is this better demonstrated than by the show-stealing performance of rising star Amy Trigg as Agnes, the physiotherapist instrumental in turning Henry’s life around. Agnes is in a wheelchair following a devastating car accident but has carved out a new life as a health professional, has a sexy husband, and a ferociously ‘can-do’ attitude matched only by her compassion. Trigg makes her witty, horny, bossy, completely inspiring and about as far removed from being a victim as it’s possible to imagine. She reinforces the point that when something life changing happens, a refocused set of expectations is essential for survival.