Marianka Swain — Theater Critic

I confess I didn’t know much about the plays of Arthur Wing Pinero, but after seeing this absolutely knockout production of his 1890 farce The Cabinet Minister, brilliantly adapted by actress and debuting playwright Nancy Carroll, I’m now an ardent fan. This is, hands down, one of the funniest shows in London theatre right now.

Good as all these songs are, there are too many here – although I’d be sad to lose bonkers tangents like the operatic panic over a bee. But, since this is a full book musical rather than a SIX-style concert, it would help to have more breathing space for the raw, revelatory numbers, such as Nancy’s grief-fuelled ballad or Oliver’s electrifying, confessional “Disco Ball”.

Good as all these songs are, there are too many here – although I’d be sad to lose bonkers tangents like the operatic panic over a bee. But, since this is a full book musical rather than a SIX-style concert, it would help to have more breathing space for the raw, revelatory numbers, such as Nancy’s grief-fuelled ballad or Oliver’s electrifying, confessional “Disco Ball”.

What a pleasure to have Tom Stoppard’s brilliantly inventive 1982 Tony-winning play The Real Thing back in London. Even better, both its formal daring and its frank, subversive portrait of complicated relationships are thoughtfully handled in Max Webster’s stylish and strikingly cast revival.

An epic manhunt across the moors is achieved with shadow puppetry, Mic Pool’s sound design gives us instant changes of mood, such as sweeping strings for romantic tension, and Ian Scott’s clever lighting both aids the storytelling and supplies some atmospheric, even eerie, moments. There’s also a plethora of playful Hitchcock references if you want to fill your bingo card. It’s no mystery why this affectionate parody is still delighting audiences. Balancing suspense with slapstick, and a cracking yarn with theatrical in-jokes, it’s a welcome piece of thoroughly escapist entertainment.

Choreographer Julia Cheng keeps the best of Jerome Robbins’s work (like the famous bottle dance) while adding grit: one drunken reveller does a split jump off a table while spitting vodka. Mark Aspinall’s superb orchestrations find new details in the kletzmer-esque score, while onstage violinist Raphael Papo and Bristow, who supplies plaintive clarinet-playing, add to the spine-tingling atmosphere.

Hello, Imelda! It’s so nice to have her back where she belongs. And we’ve had quite the wait for the actress’s triumphant return to musical theatre: Dominic Cooke’s lavish revival of Jerry Herman and Michael Stewart’s witty 1964 Broadway favourite Hello, Dolly! was delayed four years by the pandemic. Yet somehow that makes this success all the sweeter, and contributes to an extraordinary production that is every bit as moving as it is utterly spectacular.

Hello, Imelda! It’s so nice to have her back where she belongs. And we’ve had quite the wait for the actress’s triumphant return to musical theatre: Dominic Cooke’s lavish revival of Jerry Herman and Michael Stewart’s witty 1964 Broadway favourite Hello, Dolly! was delayed four years by the pandemic. Yet somehow that makes this success all the sweeter, and contributes to an extraordinary production that is every bit as moving as it is utterly spectacular.

The irresistible immersive staging draws the audience in. Paul Farnsworth has filled his French bingo card: the square is framed by lush trees, dilapidated green shutters and ivy-clad wrought-iron balconies, plus there are adorable café tables (at which a few audience members are seated), men in flat caps playing boules, and constant, insouciant smoking. Matt Cole’s movement makes the entangled ensemble feel like one character.

The revelation here, playing Kaori, is Mia Kobayashi in a true star-is-born professional debut. She turns what could be an irritating Manic Pixie Dream Girl character into a charismatic delight, and she has a dazzling combination of exquisite vocal tone and a huge power belt – a Mariah Carey in the making.

Gabriella Slade’s fabulous retro-futurist costumes nod to both armoured Marvel superheroes and the Six queens, with cool details like smoke unfurling from the steam characters’ backpacks – although they must be heavy, making the cast’s silky skating all the more impressive. We’re talking SAS levels of fitness here. Ashley Nottingham, working with creative dramaturg and original choreographer Arlene Phillips, gives us everything from hip-shaking swing and a kick line to funky streetdance. The race marshals, riding scooters, do incredible upside-down flips off the ramp.

Matthew Warchus’s combative traverse staging, with a bank of the audience seated onstage, works a treat, creating a claustrophobic intensity and forcing us to look at ourselves – we are responsible here too. The scene changes could be much shorter though, especially in such a taut 90-minute piece. In a cynical world, Penhall’s play is notable for its empathy – a quality that Monica strives for, and which is baked into the show at a fundamental level. Fixing our system so that it supports everyone, including genuinely good MPs? That gets my vote.

Bartlett Sher’s sumptuous production is particularly well attuned to Sam and Bella Spewack’s wittily Shakespearean play-within-a-play conceit, using a busy revolve that constantly whisks us between on- and backstage (marvellous lofty design by Michael Yeargan). In one bravura sequence, an argument erupts mid-show, then continues as Lilli and Fred storm into the wings and then their dressing rooms, the fast-changing set matching their rising tempers and blurred boundaries.

Bartlett Sher’s sumptuous production is particularly well attuned to Sam and Bella Spewack’s wittily Shakespearean play-within-a-play conceit, using a busy revolve that constantly whisks us between on- and backstage (marvellous lofty design by Michael Yeargan). In one bravura sequence, an argument erupts mid-show, then continues as Lilli and Fred storm into the wings and then their dressing rooms, the fast-changing set matching their rising tempers and blurred boundaries.

The show is buoyantly funny, teeming with macabre gags and Victoria Wood-esque specific one-liners, the pop-infused songs are instantly catchy (I keep humming “We’re Gonna Wow Felicia Taylor”), and there are narrative twists a-plenty. However, the suspects aren’t filled out enough to make guessing whodunit truly satisfying, and it lacks a killer Agatha Christie-level denouement (her enduring The Mousetrap sits next door).

The show is buoyantly funny, teeming with macabre gags and Victoria Wood-esque specific one-liners, the pop-infused songs are instantly catchy (I keep humming “We’re Gonna Wow Felicia Taylor”), and there are narrative twists a-plenty. However, the suspects aren’t filled out enough to make guessing whodunit truly satisfying, and it lacks a killer Agatha Christie-level denouement (her enduring The Mousetrap sits next door).

Although this is a love letter to Sheffield and its community (Henderson’s relish gets a cameo role), Bush articulates the opposing argument too: that your hometown can sometimes be a trap, and you might need to leave to grow. Likewise, she gives us swooning declarations of love, yet has an exasperated Poppy call out the grand-gesture-profferring Nikki’s “Richard Curtis bullshit”.

The aesthetics and sound world suggest Depression-era New Orleans, although its exact location and time period are left deliberately vague. Even more so in this superb new British incarnation, in which the cast all use their natural accents. That means we get Dónal Finn’s Irish Orpheus (rooting him in another great folk tradition), Grace Hodgett Young’s grounded, no-nonsense East Midlands-accented Eurydice, and, most strikingly, Melanie La Barrie’s Trinidadian Hermes. In fact, with her dapper silver suit, expressive patois and roof-raising, soulful vocals, La Barrie just about walks off with the show.

Ibsen goes punk in German director Thomas Ostermeier’s shockingly audacious, fourth-wall-smashing An Enemy of the People. Adapted by Ostermeier and Florian Borchmeyer for the Berlin Schaubühne in 2012, and translated by Duncan Macmillan, it’s an eerily apt commentary on our current woes – and, thanks to a dynamite set-piece, is unlike anything else you’ll see in the West End right now.

At times, when we’re plunged into darkness, with only torch beams to guide us, it feels like a return to telling spooky tales around a campfire. Budding director Joyce also preaches the power of stories – and that becomes a key Hamlet-riffing plot point. This astounding show definitely feels like a new chapter in theatre. It’s out of this world.

At times, when we’re plunged into darkness, with only torch beams to guide us, it feels like a return to telling spooky tales around a campfire. Budding director Joyce also preaches the power of stories – and that becomes a key Hamlet-riffing plot point. This astounding show definitely feels like a new chapter in theatre. It’s out of this world.

There are some pointed lessons in here: the other guests wrongly mistreat Gran just because she’s different (and foreign). Kirkwood also reverses some of Dahl’s own dubious messaging – yes, the witches are bald, but so is the heroic Gran. The show bravely keeps Dahl’s ending, but makes it a life-affirming battle cry. Seize the moment – and seize tickets to this total triumph of a show.

One night just wasn’t enough. Happily, Cameron Mackintosh’s all-star revue tribute to the late Stephen Sondheim, a one-off event in 2022, has returned for a full run. Gone are celebrity cameos (Judi Dench, Damian Lewis), but in their place is a slicker and a more evidently company endeavour, with noted stage names generously trading the spotlight.

Sylvia also zips through the years, giving us little time to really dig into the lead characters’ lives and motivations. I wished we could have seen the Pankhursts interacting as a family, rather than just spouting slogans at one another, so we could feel the weight of what is sacrificed here – or that Christabel’s queerness could be characterised as more than just a potential PR problem.