UTS Rating: 🎭🎭🎭

They say a dog is man’s best friend, but what happens when our four-legged companions become rather more than that? A source of comfort, companionship, unconditional love and, sometimes, the very thing that keeps us going?

Written by Tate Elizabeth Hanyok and presented by EnActe Arts in association with Riding Lights, Dog Mom is a quirky, affectionate comedy exploring the extraordinary bond between humans and their animals. It’s funny, fluffy, occasionally frustrating and ultimately rather touching.

At the centre of the story is Sarita (Vinita Belani), a woman navigating the complications of life, relationships and expectations, who finds companionship and purpose through her relationship with her newly adopted dog, Foster. Belani gives a competent, understated performance, providing a relatively grounded presence amid the more exuberant personalities surrounding her.

And exuberant they certainly are! Patty Gallagher is quite superb as Foster, bringing her extensive experience in clowning and physical theatre to bear in a wonderfully observed portrayal. From the smallest mannerisms to the broader canine antics, she captures something instantly recognisable to anyone who has ever shared their home with a dog. It’s a first-class piece of physical comedy, frequently hilarious and thoroughly endearing.

Along the way, Sarita encounters an assortment of colourful characters, both human and canine, who help her discover that family, love and belonging can take many different forms. Tom Barnes is particularly enjoyable as Ruben, another canine companion, as well as Sarita’s ex-husband, Clay. His portrayal of Ruben is clever, funny and rather sweet, with an almost studied attention to canine behaviour that makes the character strangely believable. The physical skill involved in these performances is considerable, and both Barnes and Gallagher deserve enormous credit for making such an unlikely theatrical concept work.

The production also benefits enormously from the versatility of Jarreau Antoine, who slips effortlessly between a succession of supporting characters, bringing energy, humour and some wonderfully exaggerated characterisations to the stage. One particularly flamboyant canine creation reminded me of those gloriously pampered, rather superior poodles from old Disney cartoons. He’s terrific fun to watch, and it’s easy to see why his performance has attracted such praise.

But beneath the canine comedy lies something rather more thoughtful. One of the play’s central themes is the importance of finding your pack, those people, and animals, who understand us, support us and make us feel that we belong. Sometimes that pack consists of family, sometimes friends, and sometimes the furry creatures who share our homes and lives. Dog Mom reminds us that our pack needn’t look like anyone else’s, and that finding it can make all the difference.

This idea is particularly beautifully expressed through Nell (Joanna Holden), an interfering, opinionated New Yorker who initially comes across as rather irritating but gradually reveals herself to be one of the most compassionate and perceptive characters in the play. Holden captures the busybody exterior wonderfully, but it’s the warmth beneath it that ultimately makes Nell so memorable.

Indeed, one of the most affecting moments of the evening comes when Nell reassures Sarita that having children is not the only route to a meaningful, loving and fulfilling life. There are different ways to nurture and care, and the love we give to our animals is no less genuine simply because they happen to have four legs rather than two.

What makes the speech particularly lovely is that Nell is herself a mother, yet recognises that motherhood is neither a requirement nor the defining achievement of womanhood. As someone without children myself, I found this especially resonant. It’s a beautifully delivered moment, full of empathy and understanding, and a reminder that sometimes the quietest exchanges in a play can carry the greatest emotional weight.

Nell also becomes part of Sarita’s own expanding pack, offering friendship, support and some unexpectedly sensible advice. The play suggests that belonging isn’t necessarily something we’re born into. Sometimes it’s something we create for ourselves, one relationship at a time.

The theme of animals rescuing their humans as much as the other way around is, of course, hardly new. The extraordinary true story of James Bowen and A Street Cat Named Bob brought this very idea to a huge audience, demonstrating how the companionship of an animal can transform a person’s life. But Dog Mom finds a fresh and often very funny theatrical way of exploring that familiar emotional territory.

And perhaps that’s where its greatest charm lies. We talk endlessly about rescuing animals, giving them homes, safety and affection, but how often do we stop to consider just how much they give us in return? For those facing loneliness, loss or simply the everyday challenges of life, an animal can provide a sense of purpose, routine and unconditional love that is difficult to replicate.

All of that said, the production isn’t without its shortcomings. As accomplished as the canine performances undoubtedly are, the novelty does begin to wear a little thin as the evening progresses. What initially feels wonderfully inventive and charming becomes somewhat repetitive in the second half, and I found myself becoming just a touch irritated by the continuing doggy antics. There’s only so much canine capering one can enjoy before wishing the story would move along a little.

I also felt that the ending rather overplayed its emotional hand. Having established such a lovely, thoughtful message about companionship and the different forms that love can take, the play ultimately resorts to a fairly predictable tug at the heartstrings. It felt a little calculated, and I couldn’t help wishing the writer had trusted the emotional strength of the story without quite so much encouragement for us to reach for the tissues.

My companion, a devoted dog mom herself, was nevertheless in floods of tears by the end, so it certainly achieved its intended effect! And perhaps that illustrates something important about the production: its emotional impact will depend considerably on the experiences and attachments that each audience member brings with them.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the staging or design, and this isn’t a production that breaks new theatrical ground in its storytelling. But nor does it really need to. Its pleasures are simpler: accomplished performances, affectionate humour, recognisable characters and a message that will strike a chord with animal lovers everywhere.

Dog Mom isn’t a literary masterpiece, and it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s a charming, entertaining and occasionally moving piece of theatre that celebrates the extraordinary relationships we form with our animals, while gently challenging the idea that love, family and fulfilment must follow a conventional path.

Sometimes theatre doesn’t need to change the world. Sometimes it just needs to make us smile, recognise something of ourselves and perhaps appreciate our furry companions that little bit more.

A sweet, funny and thoroughly likeable evening, with plenty of heart, even if it occasionally lays the puppy-dog eyes on a little too thick.

Dog Mom runs at Southwark Playhouse, Borough, until 7th November, which tickets available here: Dog Mom – Southwark Playhouse Borough

UTS Rating:

Shakespeare’s Globe is always a rather special place to experience the Bard’s work, and this vibrant, imaginative production of As You Like It is a thoroughly enjoyable evening of romance, comedy and glorious theatrical invention. Bursting with colour, music and some wonderfully engaging performances, Sean Holmes and Charlie Josephine’s interpretation brings Shakespeare’s pastoral comedy to life with considerable charm.

The story follows Rosalind, daughter of the banished Duke Senior, who is forced to flee the court of her usurping uncle, Duke Frederick. Accompanied by her devoted cousin Celia and the court fool Touchstone, she escapes to the Forest of Arden, disguising herself as a young man named Ganymede. There she encounters Orlando, with whom she has already fallen in love, and proceeds to test his affections without revealing her true identity. Add several more romantically entangled characters, a little mistaken identity and a healthy dose of Shakespearean wit, and the stage is set for a delightfully complicated comedy.

Visually, this production is a treat. The opening court scenes are a riot of extravagant costumes, towering wigs and colourful finery, with Rosalind and Celia particularly striking in their contrasting pink and blue dresses, almost like matching bookends to the action. Designer Paul Wills draws inspiration from the extravagance of the late 17th and 18th centuries, creating a wonderfully flamboyant courtly world. The transition to the Forest of Arden, however, is where the design really comes into its own.

Rather than presenting us with a conventional woodland setting, Wills employs a largely blank backdrop which gradually comes to life as trees and foliage are drawn and painted across it. It’s a wonderfully simple but effective concept, allowing the forest to grow before our eyes. As romance blossoms, splashes of red flowers appear among the branches, a lovely visual reflection of the relationships developing beneath them. The Globe itself becomes part of the canvas, with images projected onto its walls, adding another layer of theatrical magic. Credit must also go to scenic artist Emily Carne for her contribution to this striking visual world. It’s inventive, playful and beautifully suited to the space.

Music is another considerable strength. Katie Richardson’s compositions, performed by a talented group of live musicians, lend the production a warmth and energy that complement the action beautifully. Richardson herself provides vocals and guitar (I want that white one!!), and the delightful singing and rich harmonies are among the evening’s highlights. Rather than feeling like an interruption, the musical interludes become an integral part of the storytelling, contributing enormously to the atmosphere. The celebratory finale is particularly enjoyable.

Cast wise, Lola Shalam makes a terrific Rosalind, capturing both her intelligence and playful wit. Her transformation into Ganymede is convincing and entertaining, and she handles Shakespeare’s language with assurance. Rosalind is very much the driving force of the play, and Shalam brings an appealing combination of confidence, humour and vulnerability to the role.

Charlie Josephine delivers a wonderfully unconventional Orlando, bringing an unexpected Cockney swagger and an appealingly eccentric, slightly bumbling quality to the role. It’s certainly not the romantic hero one might anticipate, and the characterisation initially takes a little getting used to, but Josephine’s assured performance makes this unusual interpretation both entertaining and rather endearing.

Gracie Oddie-James is a likeable Celia, and the affection between the cousins is evident, although her vocal projection occasionally lets her down. The Globe is an unforgiving space for quieter voices, with no amplification to fall back on, and even from the lower-level seating some of Celia’s dialogue was difficult to hear. It’s a shame, as her relationship with Rosalind is such an important element of the play.

Katherine Pearce impresses as the melancholy Jaques, providing a welcome contrast to the romantic exuberance surrounding her. Her delivery of the famous ‘All the world’s a stage’ speech is a particular highlight, reminding us that beneath the comedy lie some rather more thoughtful observations about life, ageing and the human condition.

And then there’s Charles the wrestler, played by Jurell Carter. The wrestling sequence is great fun, but I confess that when Carter removes his top, his rather magnificent physique threatens to upstage the action entirely. My friend leaned over and whispered, ‘I hope you give him a good review.’ Well, consider it done! A most memorable appearance, in more ways than one (his acting ain’t half bad, either 😉

For me, however, one of the evening’s greatest delights is Jonnie Broadbent as Touchstone. His comic timing, wonderfully expressive delivery and effortless interaction with the audience make him an absolute joy to watch. He commands attention whenever he appears, and his scenes with Phoebe Naughton’s Audrey are particularly entertaining. There’s a real art to making Shakespeare’s humour feel spontaneous and accessible, and Broadbent achieves it splendidly.

The production makes excellent use of the Globe’s unique relationship between performers and audience, with plenty of physical comedy, lively exchanges and moments of direct engagement. The romantic complications involving Silvius (Busa Wickramasuriya) and Phebe (Molly Madigan) provide further amusement, while the various reconciliations and revelations build towards a joyous conclusion.

Not every performance is equally assured, and there are occasional moments when the exuberance threatens to overshadow the subtler emotional nuances of the play. Yet these are relatively minor reservations in a production that succeeds so wholeheartedly in entertaining its audience.

I often wonder what Shakespeare would make of the fact that, more than 400 years later, we’re still performing, dissecting and endlessly discussing his plays. As You Like It is one of his best-known and most frequently performed comedies, and while there’s no shortage of themes and symbolism for academics to pore over, I can’t help feeling that Shakespeare was simply having a bit of a laugh when he wrote it and the same for many of his other comedies. All those disguises, mistaken identities, unlikely romances and gloriously improbable happy endings! Would he be astonished by the endless interpretations and analysis of his work, or thoroughly amused by it all? I suspect the latter. And perhaps that’s part of the enduring appeal. Four centuries on, we’re still laughing at his jokes.

As You Like It continues at Shakespeare’s Globe until 25th October with tickets available here: As You Like It | Summer 2026 | What’s On

Catherine Bohart: Borrowing Trouble – Soho Theatre

UTS Rating:

I’ll start with a confession of my own: before walking into Soho Theatre last night, I had never heard of Catherine Bohart.

This, it turns out, says rather more about the gaps in my stand-up knowledge than it does about Bohart. The Dublin-born comedian, writer and actor has been steadily building an impressive career for the best part of a decade, with appearances on Live at the Apollo, QI, The Last Leg, Mock the Week, 8 Out of 10 Cats and The Mash Report, alongside several acclaimed solo shows. Her 2018 Edinburgh debut Immaculate announced her as a significant new voice, while Again, With Feelings was nominated for Best Show at the 2024 Edinburgh Comedy Awards and earned a five-star review from The Guardian.

So, I arrived at Soho Downstairs completely new to Bohart and left wondering why on earth it had taken me this long.

Borrowing Trouble, her brand-new hour of stand-up, takes its title from a phrase used by Bohart’s father: essentially, why worry about things that haven’t happened yet and which you cannot control? For someone whose own brain has not always been particularly willing to follow that advice, it provides fertile ground.

What follows is an hour of what I can only really describe as confessional comedy: intensely personal experiences offered up to a roomful of strangers, picked apart and turned into something both very funny and unexpectedly relatable.

Bohart is Irish, was brought up Catholic, is queer and has spoken openly about living with OCD, ADHD and serious mental illness. Borrowing Trouble draws on all of this, alongside relationships, family, sexuality, adulthood and the many peculiar social conventions we collectively accept without stopping to ask why.

There is potentially heavy territory here, but the show never feels weighed down by it. Bohart finds humour in experiences that have plainly not always been funny to live through, without either trivialising them or asking the audience for sympathy. The intensely personal continually becomes universal: you don’t need to share Bohart’s particular background to recognise the anxiety, family expectations, social awkwardness and general absurdity of being a person trying to navigate other people.

She can also make the gloriously mundane very funny. Home ownership, neighbours, dogs, weddings and a particularly disastrous encounter with a new television all become comic territory. At one point, Bohart describes herself as a “lesbian screaming in a basement”, a line that feels especially well chosen while sitting in the subterranean Soho Downstairs.

Catherine’s delivery is phenomenally fast. For the first few minutes I felt as though my brain was jogging slightly behind her mouth, trying to catch up before the next punchline arrived. You have to tune into her rhythm. Once you do, the pace becomes part of the pleasure, with jokes, asides and callbacks tumbling over one another.

That speed becomes even more impressive when she abandons the prepared material and starts talking to the audience.

My friend and I both, somewhat unexpectedly, ended up participating.

During a routine involving pelvic physiotherapy, my friend offered an unsolicited but enthusiastic declaration of solidarity from our table. Bohart heard her, stopped and immediately turned the exchange into another laugh.

Later, while discussing weddings and the increasingly elaborate expectations placed upon their guests, Bohart asked whether anyone had ever contributed towards somebody else’s honeymoon.

Reader, I had.

“Costa Rica,” I told her, just as a rather startling green spotlight swung across the room and illuminated me. Bohart duly commented on my sudden radioactive appearance before asking whether the honeymooners were still my friends.

“No.”

Sometimes the audience supplies the punchline for you.

What impressed me about both exchanges was that Bohart never made the audience feel like prey. Her crowd work is playful rather than combative. She listens properly, catches something interesting and instantly finds the funny route through it before slipping effortlessly back into her material. The audience becomes part of the show without becoming its victim.

There is something enormously endearing about Bohart, too. She is candid about parts of her life that could easily be treated with solemnity, but there is no sense of asking for sympathy. Nor does the comedy diminish the seriousness of what she has experienced. Instead, humour becomes a way of taking ownership of it. Bohart jokes about comedy itself as a kind of hour-long therapy and, given her Catholic upbringing, there is something pleasingly confessional and cathartic about the whole enterprise.

I don’t see nearly as much stand-up as I do theatre, and Borrowing Trouble also reminded me just how much I admire the art form.

There is nowhere to hide in stand-up. No character to disappear inside, no company around you, no lavish set, choreography or score to carry a moment. One person walks onto a stage in front of a roomful of strangers and effectively says: I am going to talk to you for the next hour, and I am going to make you laugh.

And then they have to do it.

Bohart did it. The room roared.

This is an extraordinary skill, and seeing somebody do it this well made me think I really ought to watch more comedy. Bohart is quick, candid, warm, fiercely self-aware and genuinely very funny. Even when the subject matter wanders into anxiety, mental illness and all the trouble our brains can borrow before it has even happened, the evening feels joyous rather than heavy.

I went into Borrowing Trouble knowing nothing about Catherine Bohart.

An hour later, glowing faintly green and having publicly disclosed the holiday destination of two former friends, I was very glad to have met her.

Catherine Bohart: Borrowing Trouble plays Soho Theatre until 3 October before touring the UK and Ireland until 25 November 2026.

Catherine Bohart: Borrowing Trouble – Soho Theatre

UTS Rating:

There can surely be few better places to see Shakespeare than Shakespeare’s Globe, particularly when a production embraces everything this extraordinary space can offer. Chelsea Walker’s Much Ado About Nothing does exactly this: it is bright, playful, physical and gloriously aware of its audience, while still allowing the darkness beneath Shakespeare’s comedy to creep in when it needs to.

Sami Fendall’s clean white set and contemporary costumes immediately establish a world of money, leisure and rather too much time on its inhabitants’ hands. Linen suits and sparkles abound, while the masked ball becomes a parade of extraordinary animal heads, simultaneously ridiculous and faintly sinister. Joseph Potter’s Don John sporting a snake feels especially apt.

But the heart of Much Ado is always Beatrice and Benedick, and Pippa Nixon and Ken Nwosu establish their sparring relationship almost instantly. Their exchanges fizz, but it is Nwosu in particular who proves irresistible. His Benedick seems to regard the Globe audience as several hundred additional scene partners, constantly addressing it, reacting to it and even interacting with the musicians.

That relationship pays off spectacularly during the eavesdropping scenes. Benedick’s attempts to conceal himself while his friends knowingly manipulate him develop into an elaborate piece of physical theatre involving stairs, boards, flowers, water and increasingly desperate attempts not to be discovered. Nwosu’s comic timing is superb. When Beatrice subsequently finds herself subjected to much the same treatment, the production cleverly mirrors the earlier sequence, right down to the soaking.

There is something deliciously silly about watching two intelligent people being so comprehensively manipulated into admitting what everybody else can already see.

Walker surrounds them with a strong company. Marlowe Chan-Reeves is particularly enjoyable as Borachio, making the troublemaker funny, sly and enormously watchable even as his actions propel the play towards its darkest episode. Richard Katz’s Dogberry, meanwhile, heads up a wonderfully comic security-guard-style Watch.

The live music is another pleasure. Angus MacRae’s score threads through the action rather than simply decorating it, performed by musicians including cellists Maddie Cutter, Zosia Jagodzinska and Richard Phillips, guitarist Charlie Laffer and music director/percussionist Zands Duggan. A beautiful cello trio in the second half is a particular highlight.

And then the sunshine disappears.

The public humiliation of Assa Kanouté’s Hero at her wedding remains an extraordinarily brutal gear change, particularly after so much exuberant comedy. The production doesn’t shy away from it. The subsequent funeral procession, with the bright white world replaced by black figures and shadows, is simple and extremely effective.

It also makes Beatrice’s famous instruction to Benedick, “Kill Claudio!!” land with tremendous force. On this particular night it was greeted by a huge cheer from the Globe audience. Joshua John’s Claudio may be painfully easy to manipulate, but by this stage the audience’s sympathies are emphatically elsewhere.

Of course, this is Shakespearean comedy, so death gives way to revelation, reconciliation, marriage and, naturally, the now almost customary slightly bonkers Globe dance to send everyone home smiling.

This is a Much Ado that understands that Shakespeare doesn’t need to be treated reverentially to be taken seriously. It is funny, accessible and exuberantly theatrical, making tremendous use of the Globe’s unique relationship between actor and audience, but finding space for genuine darkness within all the fun.

And in Ken Nwosu’s endlessly inventive Benedick, it has a comic performance worth the ticket price alone.

Much Ado indeed. And very much enjoyed.

🎭 Much Ado About Nothing
📍 Shakespeare’s Globe, London, until Saturday 24^th October, with tickets available here: Much Ado About Nothing | Summer 2026 | What’s On

There is always something magical about taking a taxi home from London late at night. I’ve made that journey down the Old Kent Road myself, cocooned in the back seat while the city flashes past the windows, familiar streets transformed by darkness and artificial light. You watch London, but you’re temporarily detached from it. Eventually you reach your destination, pay the driver and disappear behind your front door.

But what about the person behind the wheel?

That change of perspective lies at the heart of Max Wilkinson’s Night City, a sprawling, ambitious portrait of London after dark that takes us into the lives of the people who keep the capital moving while the rest of us are sleeping, partying or simply passing through.

At its centre is Jack (Jack Ambrose), a driver for the fictional GoGo Cars. Jack’s life is lived largely at night, fuelled by stimulants, pounding clubs, casual encounters and an endless succession of strangers climbing into his car. Through them, and through the parallel stories of care worker Tamara (Helena Pipe) and waitress and aspiring writer Tia (Bex Smith), Wilkinson builds a picture of a city populated by people working precariously, dreaming of something better and making fleeting connections with one another.

There is something distinctly Dickensian about it all. Not the London of fog, gas lamps and hansom cabs kind of Dickens, but a recognisably modern equivalent: the glittering city viewed from its underbelly, sustained by people whose work is often barely noticed by those benefiting from it. The workhouse has been replaced by the app and the star rating, but exploitation, inequality and the struggle to escape your circumstances remain horribly familiar.

That comparison isn’t entirely accidental. Wilkinson has spoken about Dickens as one of the influences on the play, alongside writers including James Joyce and Jean Rhys, and about wanting to create something almost novelistic in scope. The play itself was partly inspired by a night-time journey along the Old Kent Road, when Wilkinson passed the aftermath of an accident involving a delivery rider. That image ultimately found its way into Night City.

The resulting play is enormous in ambition despite the intimacy of the space and the simplicity of Olivia Jamieson’s set. Its most striking feature is a series of heavy chains suspended across the stage. They are moved, manipulated and navigated by the performers, sometimes seeming to divide the space into cages, sometimes becoming part of the architecture of the city itself.

For me, those chains became one of the most powerful images in the production. They suggest the forces binding these characters to lives from which escape is difficult: money, work, technology, responsibility and circumstance. Throughout the play the actors also smear black grease from a tin onto one another’s faces. The meaning of this is left open to interpretation, but I found something rather moving in the idea of these lives literally leaving their mark: the dirt and residue of the city accumulating on the people who keep it functioning.

However, the chains also contain a contradiction. Threaded through them are lights which, when illuminated by lighting and video designer Arnim Friess, can become almost blindingly bright. Suddenly the very objects that appeared oppressive are transformed. The chains still bind, but they also carry the light. There is a way through.

The lit chains are a beautifully simple visual representation of something Night City repeatedly explores: these characters may be trapped by economic and social forces, but they are not merely victims. There is humour here, alongside music, sex, ambition, affection and moments of genuine connection. Darkness and possibility exist side by side.

The design is particularly effective when Jack disappears into London’s nightclubs. Chains, hard white light, pounding sound and bodies in constant movement create a remarkably convincing industrial club environment. I’ve been in those clubs, and the sensory assault here feels unnervingly authentic. With very little physically on stage, director Ebenezer Bamgboye and his creative team repeatedly conjure entirely different corners of nocturnal London.

Running at around 90 minutes without an interval, the production barely pauses for breath. That feels entirely appropriate: Jack keeps driving, London keeps moving and characters flash in and out of one another’s lives. An interval would only break the spell.

And they do all of this with just three actors.

Ambrose, Pipe and Smith populate Wilkinson’s city with a dizzying succession of passengers, workers, patients and strangers, switching age, accent, physicality and personality at speed. All three are superb, and Bamgboye’s direction demands extraordinary versatility from them.

It seems almost unfair to pick a favourite from such an accomplished trio, but Bex Smith’s Gigi particularly stayed with me. Her transformation into the elderly woman cared for by Tamara is wonderful, funny and deeply human. Helena Pipe brings warmth and vulnerability to Tamara, particularly as the pressures of a care system that allows too little time for the people who need it most begin to take their toll, while Jack Ambrose gives the restless driver at the centre of the story a compelling mixture of swagger, recklessness and fragility. Pipe also has a beautiful singing voice, used to lovely effect.

If Night City occasionally loses me, it is in Wilkinson’s writing rather than the performances or production surrounding it. The play moves through a huge number of characters and scenes, its stories colliding and overlapping in a deliberately fragmented way. At times I struggled to establish immediately who someone was or precisely how a particular strand connected to another.

Ambiguity can be exciting; it asks an audience to do some of the work. But there are moments here when Night City risks becoming too inaccessible for its own good. Wilkinson’s ideas are fascinating, but they are not always communicated with the same clarity with which they have clearly been conceived. Knowing something about the premise beforehand certainly helped me find my way through it.

Yet perhaps the greatest compliment I can pay Night City is that I was still unpicking its imagery on the journey home. The chains, the grease, the bursts of almost painful light and the disparate lives intersecting for a few minutes before separating again all continued to reveal connections after the play had finished.

And then there is Jack’s heart.

His lifestyle is chaotic and physically punishing, but his heart problems also provide Night City with its most potent metaphor. Night after night, Jack drives through London’s arteries, carrying people from one part of the city to another. Around him are Tamara, Tia and countless other largely invisible workers, driving, delivering, caring, serving, cleaning and keeping the metropolis alive while somebody else gets to enjoy its magic. They are its circulation. They are its pulse.

Whilst Night City may occasionally make us work harder than it needs to in order to understand its characters and events, Wilkinson, Bamgboye and an exceptional cast make a compelling case for turning our attention away from the view through the taxi window and towards the people whose labour keeps the lights of the city burning.

The next time I find myself travelling home down the Old Kent Road late at night, I suspect I’ll look at the person in the driver’s seat rather differently.

Night City continues at Southwark Playhouse, Borough, until 3^rd October 2026, with tickets available here: Night City – Southwark Playhouse Borough

UTS Rating:

#nightcity #southwarkplayhouse #maxwilkinson #fringetheatre #londontheatre #offwestendtheatre #newwriting

I knew within the opening moments that I was going to love this show. Ride the Cyclone is gloriously strange, wickedly funny, camp, clever and bursting with theatrical invention. But beneath all the glitter and absurdity lies something unexpectedly profound: a celebration of being alive.

Written by Jacob Richmond and Brooke Maxwell, who share credits for book, music and lyrics, the musical began life in Canada in 2009 before travelling through various incarnations around the world. Its UK premiere at Southwark Playhouse in 2025 sold out and set a box-office record for the theatre, making this return engagement perhaps inevitable.

The premise is ingenious. Six members of the St Cassian’s Chamber Choir have been killed in a freak rollercoaster accident. Suspended in limbo, they encounter The Amazing Karnak, a mechanical fortune teller who offers one of them the chance to return to life. Each must make their case.

What follows is essentially six very different young lives bursting onto the stage, each teenager given the opportunity to show us who they really were, or perhaps who they dreamed of being. Richmond and Maxwell’s score is terrific, moving effortlessly between musical styles and, crucially, giving every character a genuine moment in the spotlight. There’s no musical filler here. Every number seems to reveal another layer.

The cult following was evident before the show had even started. The theatre was packed, the atmosphere fizzed and audience members had come dressed as characters. You could feel the affection for this musical in the room.

At the centre of proceedings is Divina De Campo as Karnak. Positioned above much of the action, it’s potentially a difficult role, yet De Campo commands attention with tremendous charisma, a superb voice and delicious little pieces of movement and choreography. Karnak may be a machine, but De Campo gives the evening its flamboyant master of ceremonies.

The six teenagers are an exceptional ensemble. Kayna Montecillo makes the insufferably competitive Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg enormously entertaining while allowing her gradual transformation to register; Grace Galloway’s haunting Jane Doe brings an otherworldly quality to proceedings; Bartek Kraszewski’s Mischa combines swagger with surprising tenderness; and Jack Maverick throws himself into Ricky Potts’ extraordinary fantasy world.

There is something particularly exciting about seeing performers at the beginning of their careers tackle material this good. Gilbertson, Kraszewski and Maverick all made their professional debuts in the original London production, which makes the assurance and individuality of these performances all the more impressive.

At my performance, swing and dance captain Nathaniel Purnell stepped in as Noel Gruber, and what a performance he gave. Noel’s gloriously extravagant fantasy is one of the show’s great crowd-pleasing sequences, and Purnell absolutely slayed it, receiving the biggest cheer of the night. He also provided one of those little moments that could only happen in live theatre. During his costume change, his microphone became thoroughly entangled in his jumper. Another cast member came to his rescue while Purnell, utterly unfazed, told us to “bear with” and instructed the musicians to ‘keep riffing’. They did, he escaped, and the show thundered on. It was funny, but also a lovely demonstration of an assured performer completely in command of an unexpected situation.

Yet for all the showstoppers, it was Robyn Gilbertson’s Constance Blackwood who became the emotional lynchpin of the evening for me.

Constance has spent so much of her life believing there isn’t anything particularly remarkable about it. Then comes her recollection of the accident: flying through the air, everything suddenly silent, seeing and feeling with extraordinary clarity as fragments of her seemingly ordinary existence take on an entirely different significance.

Gilbertson’s monologue is beautifully delivered and the writing sensational, her subsequent song only deepening its impact. In a musical about young people desperately arguing for another chance at life, Constance reaches something simpler and more moving: the realisation that the life she already had was actually rather wonderful. Perhaps this struck me particularly strongly because it is something I believe myself. Life doesn’t have to consist entirely of monumental events to be extraordinary. The people, places, ridiculous moments, pleasures and experiences scattered through an ordinary existence are what make life special. Every day we are here to witness them is a blessing.

And suddenly this fabulously camp musical about dead teenagers, a mechanical fortune teller and a doomed rollercoaster has quietly become rather philosophical.

Constance’s revelation also makes Ocean’s journey considerably more affecting. Initially convinced she can effectively rank the worth of human lives, her certainty is gradually challenged as she comes to understand the others beyond the roles she has assigned them. It’s a beautifully handled character arc, allowing genuine growth without ever sanding away the hilariously objectionable character we’ve enjoyed along the way.

Lizzi Gee’s direction and choreography understand exactly when to unleash the show’s glorious excess and when to strip everything back. Ryan Dawson Laight’s set is relatively simple but hugely effective, creating a strange carnival limbo without trying to reproduce an amusement park literally. Lighting and haze expand that world beautifully, while the fantastic costumes allow each teenager’s fantasies to explode into something much bigger.

But Gee saves perhaps her most powerful piece of staging until the very end.

The teenagers recreate that final ride on the Cyclone together, their bodies moving in slow motion through the smoke. After all the comedy, fantasy, competition and spectacular musical numbers, suddenly there they are again: six young people on a rollercoaster, moments before everything changes.

It is an extraordinarily simple and moving image which I will never forget.

Ride the Cyclone is riotously entertaining, brilliantly performed and musically exhilarating, but its greatest trick is that underneath all that eccentricity it has something genuinely beautiful to say about mortality, possibility and the value of an ordinary human life.

I came off this particular Cyclone wanting only one thing.

To get straight back on.

UTS Rating:

#ridethecyclone #southwarkplayhouse #divinadecampo #musicaltheatre

More than 130 years after the brutal murders of Andrew and Abby Borden shocked America, the question still lingers: did Lizzie Borden really kill her father and stepmother with an axe, or was she the victim of one of history’s most enduring rushes to judgement?

Out Of The Forest Theatre’s Bury the Hatchet revisits the infamous 1892 case, but this is no dry historical retelling. Blending true crime, courtroom drama, folk music, comedy and audience participation, writer Sasha Wilson and director Vicky Moran have created a slick, inventive and hugely entertaining 70-minute piece that manages to feel both educational and thoroughly modern.

One of the production’s greatest strengths is the sheer amount it packs into its running time. The story explores the murders themselves, the investigation, Victorian attitudes towards women, developments in forensic science and the media frenzy surrounding the trial, all without ever feeling rushed or overloaded. The pace rarely slackens, and the show constantly finds new ways to engage its audience. Remarkably, despite cramming so much into just 70 minutes, it is never boring.

The production rests in the capable hands of three exceptional actor-musicians: Sasha Wilson, Lawrence Boothman and David Leopold. All three switch effortlessly between acting, singing and playing instruments, bringing energy, humour and versatility to the storytelling. There is not a weak link among them, although Wilson brings an extra dash of panache to proceedings, delivering her own material with obvious confidence and flair.

Music proves one of the evening’s highlights. Familiar songs including Wicked Game, Feelin’ Good and Ain’t No Grave are woven seamlessly into the narrative, while the cast’s musicianship adds texture and momentum throughout. The performances are uniformly strong, with some particularly impressive vocal work.

The production is also visually striking. Damien Stanton’s minimalist set, combined with Helen Stewart’s costumes and Will Alder’s lighting, creates a distinctive Victorian world dominated by a bold red-and-black palette. The blood-red and black floor is especially effective, while cleverly labelled props and costume pieces add a playful theatricality that perfectly complements the show’s blend of history, humour and performance. Stewart’s black-and-red Victorian costume for Lizzie is particularly memorable, capturing both the period setting and the production’s mischievous, heightened theatrical style. Rather than striving for strict realism, the production embraces storytelling and imagination, resulting in several memorable moments of inventive physical theatre.

Humour is another key ingredient. Despite dealing with a double murder, the show is frequently laugh-out-loud funny. The three performers throw themselves into proceedings with infectious energy. Lawrence Boothman, in particular, embraces the show’s physical comedy with gusto. At one point he commits so wholeheartedly to a comic sequence that I spent a few seconds genuinely concerned he might be sick on my foot! Fortunately for my shoes, and the rest of the audience, he wasn’t. And David….the bonnets are absolutely you! The comedy never undermines the darker elements of the story, however, and instead serves to make the historical material more accessible.

Perhaps the production’s cleverest device comes at the end, when the audience is invited to deliver its own verdict on the way out of the theatre. More than a century after the real trial ended in acquittal, opinion in the room remained divided, a testament to how effectively the show presents competing interpretations of the evidence. The truth remains elusive, and Bury the Hatchet wisely resists the temptation to offer easy answers.

Slick, clever and packed with invention, Bury the Hatchet demonstrates how fresh and engaging historical theatre can be. By combining true crime, music and playful theatricality, Out Of The Forest Theatre have transformed a familiar story into an evening that is as thought-provoking as it is entertaining. It is a production that wears its considerable intelligence lightly and leaves audiences with plenty to discuss long after the final verdict has been delivered.

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#BuryTheHatchet #SouthwarkPlayhouse #LondonTheatre #TheatreReview #UnderTheStarsByGirloutside #lizzieborden

A motel room. Two old friends. A cassette recorder. And a conversation about the past that gradually becomes something altogether more uncomfortable.

Stephen Belber’s Tape is a deceptively simple three-hander, and Cellar Door Theatre brings its claustrophobic world to the intimate Lion & Unicorn Theatre as part of this year’s Camden Fringe. At just 52 minutes, it’s a compact production built around fast-paced dialogue, shifting recollections and a question that becomes increasingly difficult to avoid: when two people remember the same encounter very differently, where does the truth lie?

First performed in 1999, Tape centres on Vince and Jon, old high-school friends reunited ten years later. What initially appears to be an awkward catch-up gradually becomes an interrogation about an encounter from their past involving Amy, a former girlfriend of Vince’s.

Vince remembers the encounter as rape. Jon remembers it very differently.

Cellar Door Theatre’s production certainly commits to that pressure-cooker atmosphere. Paul Kelvin as Vince and Nick Chinn as Jon establish an immediately combative relationship, their exchanges delivered at a rapid-fire pace as the balance of power between the two continually shifts. Both give committed, energetic performances and handle the considerable amount of dialogue impressively. There is a convincing sense of history between them too, although I did feel that the initial exchanges between them went on for rather too long before the real purpose of their reunion became apparent. More significantly, Vince’s motivation for pursuing Jon so relentlessly never felt entirely clear to me. That’s less a criticism of Kelvin’s performance than of the material itself: the production gives us the intensity, but the text doesn’t always provide enough psychological depth beneath it.

The arrival of the subject of the duel changes the dynamic again, turning what has essentially been a two-handed verbal confrontation into something more complicated. Brittany Rex’s Amy brings a different energy to the room as the person whose experience has until then existed only through the recollections and interpretations of two men. Amy also has considerably less time in which to establish herself than Vince and Jon, arriving relatively late in such a short play, which inevitably leaves the character with less room to develop. Her presence nevertheless destabilises everything we think we have understood.

And this is where Tape should perhaps become most fascinating. Its themes of consent, memory, sexual assault and the different ways in which people can interpret the same event remain every bit as relevant now as when Belber wrote the play. Yet, for me, the writing never quite explores those ideas with the complexity they deserve.

That was ultimately my difficulty with the evening. I admired the commitment of the company considerably more than I admired the play itself. The premise is provocative, but the writing sometimes feels more interested in engineering confrontation and bullying than genuinely interrogating the questions it raises. Most problematically, I never found myself sufficiently invested in these characters, or ultimately caring very much about what had happened between them. Given the seriousness of the subject matter, that emotional distance felt significant. Again, this wasn’t for want of commitment from the performers; for me, the writing simply never gave the characters enough depth to make their predicament truly involving. Given how much our conversations around consent have developed since Tape was first performed, I was left wondering what this particular play adds to that conversation today.

There are, however, some very effective production choices. The cassette recorder at the heart of proceedings is a wonderfully tangible reminder of the era in which the play was written, and there’s something rather pleasing now about seeing a good old cassette being used on stage.

I particularly enjoyed the music choices, which gave the production a strong late-90s alternative-rock texture. Alice in Chains’ ‘Man in the Box’, Mötley Crüe’s ‘Bastard’, Tears for Fears’ The Hurting’ and Butthole Surfers’ wonderfully distinctive ‘Pepper’ all worked extremely well with the atmosphere of the piece. The latter prompted one of those satisfying moments of half-recognition where I spent ages convinced I could hear Beck before discovering what it actually was.

Director Jaimee Doyle, assisted by Donovan Lenten, keeps the action moving briskly and makes good use of the Lion & Unicorn’s intimate performance space. There’s nowhere for these characters to hide, either from each other or from an audience sitting only feet away, and that proximity suits a play entirely dependent upon discomfort and confrontation.

Most importantly, this was clearly a production that connected strongly with its audience. The performance I attended was full and warmly received, culminating in a standing ovation. Theatre is subjective, and while Tape itself didn’t resonate particularly strongly with me, there were clearly plenty in the room for whom it did.

Cellar Door Theatre have approached a difficult piece with conviction, created an appropriately tense and claustrophobic environment and assembled a cast willing to throw themselves fully into some challenging material. While I remain unconvinced by Belber’s play, there was plenty here to suggest a company with interesting instincts and a willingness to tackle uncomfortable subjects.

For me, then, a stronger production than the play it serves, and an interesting contribution to the Camden Fringe.

UTS Rating:

There are few experiences in theatre quite like standing on the stage of the London Palladium.

Having spent years sitting in its auditorium watching everyone from major musical theatre stars to legendary bands, stepping onto the very stage where so many iconic performers have stood felt special before Jesus Christ Superstar had even begun. Add to that the opportunity to see behind the scenes of one of London’s most famous theatres, and it became far more than simply another visit to a musical.

This was my second encounter with Timothy Sheader’s acclaimed Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre production, now transferred to the Palladium. While I was already familiar with the staging, watching it from one of the on-stage platforms offered an entirely different perspective. Thanks largely to luck in the queue, I found myself right at the front for both acts with an uninterrupted view of the action.

That different perspective inevitably comes with compromises. You lose some of the sweeping visual impact of the staging, the carefully composed lighting and the performers’ facial expressions as they sing out towards the auditorium. Yet what you gain is something impossible to recreate from a theatre seat. Rather than observing events from afar, you become part of them, standing like one of the silent bystanders witnessing the final days of Jesus unfold around you.

One of the unexpected joys was turning away from the action and looking out into the Palladium itself. Instead of staring towards the stage, I found myself gazing across the stalls, dress circle and upper circle, imagining the countless performers who have looked out at exactly that view over the decades. Throughout the evening I could also watch the audience’s reactions. Faces shifted between delight, awe and sadness, while one gentleman in the front row remained utterly captivated, visibly moved during the Crucifixion. It was a fascinating reminder of theatre’s unique ability to create a shared emotional experience.

The production itself remains as striking as ever. The industrial scaffolding set is deliberately sparse, allowing Andrew Lloyd Webber’s extraordinary score and Tim Rice’s lyrics to take centre stage, while the towering illuminated cross gradually becomes an unforgettable visual centrepiece.

Being so close to the performers also gave me a renewed appreciation for the ensemble. Having recently performed in the ensemble of Kinky Boots myself, I know they are the beating heart and engine room of any musical, and nowhere was that more apparent than here. Rarely leaving the stage, they sing, dance, act and drive the story forward with astonishing stamina. Standing just a few feet away, I could hear individual voices within the harmonies, see the precision of every movement and even hear performers catching their breath between phrases. It offered a fascinating glimpse into just how physically and vocally demanding musical theatre really is. The diverse company performed with remarkable commitment throughout, each individual contributing to a cohesive whole.

Sam Ryder proves an inspired choice as Jesus. His vocal ability is nothing short of extraordinary, delivering Andrew Lloyd Webber’s demanding score with remarkable ease, warmth and emotional conviction. His interpretation of Gethsemane, one of my favourite songs in musical theatre and one I have performed myself, was outstanding. While echoes of Ted Neeley’s iconic portrayal can be heard, Ryder brings his own humanity and vulnerability to the role, making it entirely his own.

David Thaxton, a performer I have admired ever since seeing him as Enjolras in Les Misérables, delivers a commanding and intimidating Pilate. His chilling delivery during the sequence leading to the thirty-nine lashes is genuinely unsettling, while seeing the character up close only heightened his imposing presence.

Opposite him, Tyrone Huntley brings immense energy and complexity to Judas. Possessing one of the finest voices in the company, his performance balances anger, doubt and desperation, creating a Judas whose inner conflict remains compelling throughout.

Richard Armitage may seem an unexpected choice for Herod, but he throws himself wholeheartedly into the role’s gloriously camp absurdity. Herod’s Song has never been my favourite number in the score, yet Armitage embraces every glittering, theatrical moment with infectious enthusiasm.

Desmonda Cathabel is a wonderful Mary Magdalene. Her rendition of I Don’t Know How to Love Him was one of the evening’s vocal highlights, delivered with warmth, clarity and effortless control. It is a song I know and love well, and I particularly appreciated the beautifully traditional orchestral arrangement, which remains faithful to the classic recordings that first made the number famous.

Some of my favourite moments, however, were the ones almost nobody else in the theatre could see. At one point, Cathabel found herself standing just feet away from our platform, playfully acknowledging us as she gestured towards Jesus, creating a fleeting but memorable connection. Later, during a scene in which members of the company lay hidden behind the cross, invisible to the audience, I noticed her quietly holding the hand of one of the younger ensemble members. It was a simple act of kindness that perfectly captured the warmth and camaraderie within this company.

The entire on-stage experience was impeccably organised. From arrival to departure, the staff were warm, friendly and reassuring, ensuring everything ran smoothly, including the temporary locking away of mobile phones. Although I had experienced being on a West End stage before, this felt every bit as special.

The evening concluded with one final surprise. After taking their bows and applauding the orchestra, the company turned towards those of us standing on the stage and applauded us in return. It was a small gesture, but one that perfectly summed up the generosity of spirit that had characterised the entire experience.

Standing on the stage of the London Palladium doesn’t offer the definitive way to experience Jesus Christ Superstar, nor should it. Instead, it provides a unique and deeply immersive perspective on one of musical theatre’s greatest works. I left with an even greater appreciation for the extraordinary talent required to bring this iconic rock opera to life and, perhaps most importantly, already planning a return visit from the auditorium to admire it all over again from a completely different angle.

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#jesuschristsuperstar #london palladium #samryder #andrewlloydwebber

There are some shows that defy description. Attempting to explain Otto & Astrid to someone who hasn’t seen them would probably result in a few raised eyebrows. A fictional German electro-punk sibling duo, childhood trauma involving a lion, original songs and increasingly absurd storytelling sounds like complete chaos on paper. On stage, however, it becomes one of the funniest and most joyously original evenings I’ve spent in a theatre.

Fresh from acclaimed runs in New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco, Otto & Astrid: The Stages Tour arrived at Soho Theatre last night for its final two London stops before heading to the Edinburgh Fringe. It proved the perfect setting for a show that feels equally at home in an intimate cabaret space and on a much larger stage.

Like Spinal Tap before them, Otto & Astrid never wink at the audience. Every bizarre anecdote, every sibling argument and every outlandish revelation is delivered with complete sincerity. Otto’s recurring references to the childhood trauma of his parents being eaten by a lion are so earnestly recounted that you somehow find yourself laughing while simultaneously feeling sorry for him. Lesser performers might chase the laughs. Clare Bartholomew and Daniel Tobias trust their characters completely, and that’s exactly why the comedy lands.

The comparisons with Spinal Tap extend beyond the deadpan delivery. The music itself is genuinely excellent. These aren’t throwaway comedy songs. They’re witty, inventive, surprisingly catchy and performed by two exceptionally accomplished musicians. Switching effortlessly between guitar, synths, percussion and keytar, the pair demonstrate that beneath the absurd personas lies serious musical talent. There are affectionate nods to synth-pop acts such as Pet Shop Boys, Depeche Mode and Tom Tom Club, alongside flashes of punk attitude, but the duo never feel like an imitation. Instead, they lovingly send up those influences while creating something entirely their own.

Numbers including Kitten, Second Best Friend and Tasty Snack prove that the songwriting is every bit as clever as the comedy. During Kitten, Otto dons a cute pair of cat ears, one of many gloriously daft visual touches that perfectly complements the duo’s offbeat humour. Long after the final bow, it’s the songs, as much as the jokes, that linger in the memory.

While both performers are outstanding, Daniel Tobias’s Otto completely stole my heart. Beneath the swaggering rock-star persona lies an unexpectedly vulnerable character. It’s not that his “unauthorised” songs reveal a softer musical side. If anything, they’re some of his boldest moments, complete with synth-heavy arrangements and Depeche Mode-style lighting that Otto enthusiastically requests himself. Rather, it’s the act of sneaking them into the set behind Astrid’s back that reveals his vulnerability. Like an excited child trying to get away with something before being caught, Otto’s eagerness and quiet determination make him impossible not to root for and this audience was absolutely on board.

Otto’s antics, however, only work because Clare Bartholomew’s Astrid is such a magnificent foil. Commanding the stage with delicious authority, she combines theatrical flair, impeccable comic timing and an almost maternal determination to keep Otto firmly in line. Their dysfunctional sibling relationship feels utterly authentic, every interruption, glare and squabble suggesting decades of shared history. Their chemistry is exceptional, and together they create characters who feel astonishingly real within their wonderfully warped universe.

Audience interaction is woven naturally throughout, drawing everyone further into Otto and Astrid’s peculiar world without ever feeling forced. The packed Soho ‘downstairs’ quickly surrendered to the madness, happily embracing every bizarre story and increasingly ridiculous revelation.

It’s easy to dismiss comedy music acts as novelty performances, but Otto & Astrid are something much richer. Their meticulous character work, razor-sharp writing and genuinely impressive musicianship combine to create an evening that’s as accomplished as it is hilarious.

Somewhere between the deadpan humour, brilliantly crafted songs, tales of lions and Otto completely stealing my heart, Otto & Astrid gave me one of the most joyously uplifting evenings I’ve had in a long time and I smiled all the way to the tube.

Next stop: Edinburgh! Otto & Astrid: The Stages Tour runs at Assembly Roxy during the Edinburgh Festival Fringe from 5 to 30 August 2026. If you’re heading to the Fringe this summer, I’d strongly recommend adding them to your list.

UTS Rating: 🎭🎭🎭🎭