Theatr Clwyd/ Sherman Theatre’s bold restaging of William Golding’s timelessly-relevant novel follows an all-female main cast as they delve into the heart of darkness within us all. Marooned on an island after their plane crashes and their guardians perish, a group of schoolchildren in an ambiguously modernish wartime era band together to form their own society in a world that promises freedom and danger in equal measure.

I must confess to only a passing familiarity with the original text; it was something I read during my angsty teenage years and promptly forgot in large part, except for a vague awareness of conch shells and pig heads and descents into moral turpitude. For a more informed analysis of the production as adaptation, I direct you to superb reviews by Vicky Lord and Roger Barrington; as for my experience of the play, it’s more a collection of my thoughts experiencing the story as if for the first time. And what a play it is! Masterfully directed by Emma Jordan, the story is immediate and intense, dropping us into the cacophony of beautifully distinct and dynamically-drawn characters who hold our attention and empathy just as the audience holds its breath right up to the final moment.

Lola Adaja’s fantastic, multi-faceted performance as Ralph anchors the entire production; vibrant and assertive, Adaja brilliantly leads the excellent ensemble and believably transforms from self-assured schoolgirl to stricken survivor by the play’s close. Her fraught friendship with Gina Fillingham’s Piggy feels earnest and earned, aided by the lovely chemistry between the two. The play is of course rather dark overall – but I was surprised by how funny it was too, and though every character gets a comedic moment in which to shine, a lot of the most entertaining moments are there thanks to Fillingham and her superb comedic timing. Piggy is entertainingly bureaucratic, constantly suggesting meetings and memoranda – but she also gives the play its heart, which makes her poor treatment at the hands of her peers even more painful to witness.

One of the most compelling performances comes from Kate Lamb as Jack Merridew, who believes that the divine right of choirmasters/ prefects makes her the only and best choice to rule their new realm. Lamb is delightfully domineering and priggish as the overbearing Merridew, so authentic in her arrogance that she feels like That Person we all remember from our own school days – which makes her twisted transformation all the more powerful. Hannah Boyce’s militant, murderous Roger is genuinely scary and violently unpredictable, nicely contrasting with Lowri Hamer’s uber-innocent Percyval. Olivia Marcus’ Simon adds a welcome serene presence and a calm gravitas to the increasingly grave proceedings. Lowri and Mari Izzard are charming as trouble-making twins Sam and Eric, while Laura Singleton’s Henry and Leah Walker’s Maurice make for an absolutely hilarious double act.

Matthew Bulgo’s anonymous, officiously angry naval officer arrives at the eleventh hour; a Fortinbras-like newcomer to the brutality only the audience had yet borne witness to. Scolding the surviving children for acting in a way he ‘wouldn’t expect of British girls’, the role of moral arbiter disappointingly defaults to the only white man in the story – but we the viewers are the true judges; what he infantilises as a ‘game’ we know to be a complexly brutal social hierarchy that acts as a microcosm for our own vicious world. After all, this is a story in which war rages both across the world and within the human psyche.

Nigel Williams’ adaptation neatly balances character and narrative growth with political commentary, though that means some elements are more developed than others: the major ones being the rivalry between Ralph and Jack, and the strange bond between Ralph and Piggy. Although the remaining characters are all very believably performed, they are given little time to craft their own unique transformations. It doesn’t help that the timeline is a bit confusing, making the inevitable moral downturn feel slightly rushed; and after the macabre mic drop of Act 1’s breathless climactic moments, Act 2 seemed like a hectic sprint through the falling dominoes.

The show is a marvel of innovative design – James Perkins’ jagged, fractured staging combines with Philip Stewart’s chilling music and sound design to convey an uneasily tangible feeling of being right there on the island as the action unfolds. There are a few particularly striking moments when Tim Mascall’s sensational lighting transforms the stage into a living painting – the most astounding of which centres on the hunters, crouched with spears at the ready, silhouetted against a blood orange sky (I haven’t seen such powerful use of chiaroscuro since Bram Stoker’s Dracula).

It’s always a privilege to be invited to speak on the post-show panel, and the discussion following this show was among the most interactive and illuminating yet. Chaired by Timothy Howe, the Sherman Theatre’s Communities & Engagement Coordinator, the panel featured myself alongside the play’s Assistant Director Jesse Briton, and David Mellor, Senior Lecturer of Sociology at the University of South Wales. Jesse spoke about how the creative team focused on the play’s emotional turning points, in which one moment, decision or mistake changed the course of the story irrevocably. David spoke of the gendered expectations of women, highlighting the sexist media response to Serena Williams’ recent on-court behaviour. And I spoke of the play’s excellent exploration of responsibility, the fracturing of mens rea/ the guilty mind across many, and the notion that even the audience bears tacit culpability for the characters’ crimes.

When there are no formal rules to follow, no pressure from the state and no loss of personal liberty or status to act as a deterrent, what else is there to ensure enforcement of order but the threat of violence? The scene in which the group commit a ritual-esque murder whilst already hopped-up on the glory of their first animal kill is distressing and soberingly gruesome. It’s the first breach of the unspoken moral code that only opens the floodgates to more bloodshed; what role can ethics play in a society that holds such depravity as currency? Ultimately, the malleability of the conch’s power reveals that laws only carry the meaning we assign to them.

The fact that the play translates so well with an all-female main cast demonstrates the emptiness of the concept of gendered (mis)conduct. Rather than proving the inherent monstrosity of men (as one reviewer of the novel argued), this version speaks to the notion that everyone has the potential to indulge their baser instincts if the ethical frameworks of law and order are removed; that everyone is fighting the duality of light and darkness with them. But the gender-swapped casting choice also facilitates a reading of the play as a rare exploration of female criminality, and a brutal reclaiming of women’s autonomy and agency in the #MeToo era.

Lord of the Flies is an utterly unrelenting, unmissable journey into our most uncomfortable, unconscious urges. In the characters’ stead, it asks what world you would build; who, or what, would you become?

Over the years I’ve had the distinct privilege of seeing excellent theatre productions in which a pared-down cast take on multiple roles to great success: 2016’s The 39 Steps at the New Theatre Cardiff (in which 4 actors played 150 roles between them), and, one of my favourite theatre productions ever, 2009’s Two Gentlemen of Verona at the Sherman Theatre Cardiff (in which two actors masterfully inhabited every role in that particular Shakespeare play). The Watermill Theatre’s new UK tour of the Off-Broadway smash hit Murder for Two, in which two actors play thirteen characters AND the piano, now ranks among those hallowed productions in artistry, energy and pure, no holds barred brilliance.

Murder for Two reassembles the Olivier-award winning In the Heights’ producer-director double act, Paul Taylor-Mills and Luke Sheppard, in the furtherance of a cleverly comical take on the murder mystery genre – it’s like Poirot, but with songs. With such a madcap mashup of genres and a huge burden placed on its only two actors, it’s a miracle they pull off the show at all, let alone do it so well.

Ed MacArthur (left) plays Officer Marcus Moscowicz, the hapless yet hopeful would-be detective who gets embroiled in the crazy case of a famous novelist who was murdered at his own birthday party. Jeremy Legat (right) plays, well, everyone else, infusing each of the numerous suspects with their own distinct physicality and stage presence, from speech patterns to mannerisms to a creative use of props and accessories. There’s no lull in the action or the hilarious antics on display as Moscowicz desperately tries to uncover who the killer is before time runs out.

Legat is a one-man tour-de-force who commands the stage like the manic lovechild of Martin Short, Eddie Marsan and The Hoosiers’ flicky-haired frontman Irwin Sparkes. His credits in this play alone are as numerous as the characters on a Guess Who? board, and he flips through each with the ease of changing the channel on your tellybox. MacArthur plays a commendable straight man to Legat’s rollcall of affably eccentric characters; channelling the leading likability of musical contemporaries like Aaron Tveit and Santino Fontana, MacArthur grounds the madcap antics and ably conveys that put-upon charm of someone just waiting for their chance to come. The chemistry between the two is delightful, balanced and mutually supportive, and the joy they take in playing these characters is utterly infectious – talented, hilarious AND they’re excellent pianists too? The level of skill on display here is simply stunning.

The play itself is just so much fun to watch; the audience’s responsiveness alone is a testament to that fact, genially engaging with the actors’ fourth-wall breaking interactions – and I haven’t laughed this much in a non-Mischief Theatre production for quite some time. The music is also wonderful, not only entertaining to listen to, but which also proves integral in delivering plot points and character motivations. Some standouts include Protocol Says (Moscowicz’s ode to order), A Lot Woise (a Gee, Officer Krupke!-style ditty about having seen too much too young), and the show’s first act-closing magnum opus So What? which simply has to be experienced live.

Gabriella Slade’s set design is appealingly ramshackle in a suitably Sherlockian fashion, all elegantly worn furniture and exposed brick walls gradually dissipating into the ether – the perfect amount of things with which to interact, without seeming too cluttered, and every bit of which serves the story and sets the mood. The lighting (designed by Chris Withers) and sound (co-designed by Michael Livermore and Tom Attwood, the latter of whom was also responsible for musical direction) are both innovatively intertwined into the action, and highlight the emotions of any given scene with subtlety (whilst applying appropriate bombast to a scene near the end I won’t spoil, but which involves a disco ball and lots of bubbles).

This dazzlingly dynamic production will, as the tagline promises, ‘put the laughter in manslaughter’ and bring a smile to your face. Anchored by two tremendously talented leads, this exhilaratingly excellent show never lets up for a second; it’s the Deadpool of musical theatre: a magnificent meta masterpiece that plays like a love letter to theatre in the guise of a farce. It’s at the New Theatre through to Saturday 27th October, and if it’s humanly possible for you to see this show, you absolutely should (though perhaps think twice about getting an aisle seat in the stalls…)

The multi award-winning Mischief Theatre company, of The Play that Goes Wrong fame, returns to Cardiff with their new Olivier Award-nominated show: The Comedy About a Bank Robbery. Branded as Ocean’s Eleven meets the Marx Brothers, it follows the zany antics of a motley crew of would-be crooks as they attempt to steal a priceless diamond from the city bank.

Written by, but not starring, Mischief makers Henry Lewis, Jonathan Sayer and Henry Shields (who were last seen at the New Theatre as a Disney hero, a sadistic narrator, and an anthropomorphic Sylvester Stallone-voiced lasagne respectively), Bank Robbery is yet another winning production in Mischief Theatre’s highly-renowned repertoire.

The cast are brilliant across the board, from Liam Jeavons’ mercurial mastermind Mitch Ruscitti (channelling Nicolas Cage via Peter Serafinowicz), to Damian Lynch as the suavely slippery bank manager Robin Freeboys, and Julia Frith as his creatively cunning daughter Caprice. However, a few performers stood out among the excellent ensemble: David Coomber as the enthusiastic prison guard-turned-amateurish-crook Neil Cooper, Seán Carey as lovable con artist Sam Monaghan who becomes increasingly (and grudgingly) embroiled in the progressively perplexing con, and George Hannigan who is credited as ‘everyone else’, and impressively performs a fight scene as three different characters.

There are some absolute standout scenes here: the prison escape  (no spoilers, it’s right at the start) is hilarious and endlessly inventive, on the level of Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr Fox. They manage to draw lots of laughs from the way in which the actors portray windscreen wipers, and there’s a really entertaining car chase using laundry hampers (yes, really). And if you do go (which I recommend you do), just look out for a flock of seagulls who might just be the jewel in the crown of this show.

This being a scripted show, I hold it to a higher standard than the completely-improvised Mischief Movie Night – and, as such, not everything lands. Jon Trenchard plays Warren Slax, the bank’s (Paul) Reubens-esque pariah, and is often used as the show’s whipping boy, to the point where it oversteps into upsetting territory – culminating in the scene where Freeboys hits him repeatedly with a book, a cane and a desk. The Freeboys/ three boys confusion wears out long before they give up the ghost; and some scenes, storylines and character interactions feel a little forced or on-the-nose (even for a farce). But the enthusiasm and talent of the cast more than make up for any missteps.

Even if the show wasn’t great (it is), it would be worth seeing for the innovative production design alone. David Farley’s set design is incredible, starting out with a silhouetted skyline of New York at night that effortlessly folds out into a whole slew of different settings as the play goes on. The set design works hand in hand with David Howe’s sublime lighting design, which at one point transforms a bare stage into an utterly entrancing underwater environment. And there’s an incredibly effective bit of staging where they make the back wall look like the office floor from a birds eye view, and simply has to be seen to be believed. This is the kind of magic you can only get at the theatre, and worth the price of admission alone.

Performing at the New Theatre through to 13^th October, The Comedy About A Bank Robbery is an absolutely unmissable night of splendidly silly fun!

Starring Vika Bull and the Essential R&B Band, this smash-hit Australian production tells the story of soul icon Etta James’ remarkable life and career through the incredible songs that have rightfully earned her six Grammys, a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and a place in history and our hearts.

This is the finest tribute to a musical legend I’ve seen since This is Elvis at the New Theatre; whereas that show dramatized it’s titular star’s two major comeback concerts in the style of a biopic, At Last: The Etta James Story punctuates an excellent narration of the singer’s tumultuous life with gems from her extraordinary musical repertoire – and it works beautifully.

Vika Bull’s effortless, extraordinary voice and charismatic performance achieves the almost unthinkable and does James justice. Along with her sumptuous vocals and charismatic narration, Bull possess that same raw gift of storytelling through song that set Etta apart, which is put to glorious effect in dazzling versions of I’d Rather Go Blind, All I Could Do Was Cry, and an absolutely staggering rendition of James Brown’s It’s a Man’s World. The titular At Last, arguably the most iconic song of Etta’s spectacular career, was so powerfully performed that the audience rose to their feet before the song was even finished.

Bull is supported by an amazing band, and her rapport with every musician was such a wonderful aspect of this production. The love for music was palpable between this talented bunch, and their enjoyment of performing Etta’s songs was palpable. Musical director John McAll, musical director on piano, Chris Bekker on bass guitar, Anton Delecca on saxophone – not to mention a joyous John Watson on drums, and Dion Hirini gloriously shredding that electric guitar like the lovechild of Jimi Hendrix and Mark Knopfler. Ben Gillespie on trombone also duetted with Vika Bull on a fabulous version of Wallflower (Roll with Me, Henry), and Tibor Gyapjas on trumpet also fantastically co-narrates the show with Bull as a truly dynamic master(s) of ceremonies double act.

There are too many excellent renditions to recount here, but I’m gonna give it the ol’ college try. Bull and the band perform sultry, soulful versions of I Just Want to Make Love to You, Spoonful, and Tell Mama, while Something’s Got a Hold On Me, Tough Lover and In the Basement made me want to get up and jive. And yet they approach the more sorrowful, soulful ballads with the same skill and passion, ascending to the heart-breaking heights of Sugar on the Floor, Would it Make Any Difference to You and Fool That I Am. And, if that wasn’t enough, the show closes with an emotionally epic encore performance of the Eagles’ Take it to the Limit, a song which Etta felt best described her tumultuous life.

At Last: The Etta James Story treats its eponymous icon’s songs and life story with respect, care and love – and I can only hope they return to the UK for a third time next year. Meanwhile, the show is touring around the UK through October, and if you can make it to one of these performances – whether you’re an Etta obsessive or an Etta amateur – I promise you won’t regr-etta it.

Starring the original cast and creators of the critically-acclaimed The Play That Goes Wrong, Mischief Movie Night is yet another improvisational show, which this time involves improvising an entire movie onstage and off the cuff.

The central conceit of the show is that we, the audience, control the performance – it’s our suggestions for genres, titles and locations that dictate what goes on onstage, and the ensemble cast must employ their considerable talents to realise the barrage of random demands yelled at them from the stalls in the moment.

I have to admit that I was rather sceptical and a little scared as I sat down to watch my very first long-form improv stage show. You see, the fear of audience participation has haunted me ever since my first traumatic pantomime experience at age 5. And yet, five minutes in to Mischief Movie Night, I was merrily shouting out genres along with the rest of the raucous audience!

The true joy of the improv show is that every performance is unique – you will quite literally never see it’s like again, because each one depends on the whim and the wants of its particular audience on a particular night. So I can’t comment on the quality of plot or characters, because they are ever-changing – but to give you a little taste of what Mischief Movie Night may entail, last night’s performance ended up being a Disney film set in Pontpandy, which featured chainsaw juggling, police propaganda and an anthropomorphic lasagne who talked like Sylvester Stallone. You know, your standard Disney fare.

It’s no wonder that Mischief Theatre has become so nationally and internationally beloved – the ensemble cast is superb across the board, catering to every silly request and daft diversion that’s demanded of them. Dave Hearn, Henry Shields, Ellie Morris and Charlie Russell were particular standouts, and Harry Kershaw was responsible for one of the show’s most hilarious running gags about not getting above your station. Jonathan Sayer gamely leads proceedings as a Gruff Rhys Jones-esque master of ceremonies in whose vast library is contained, so he says, every film ever made. Sayer guides us through the night’s entertainment, wryly commenting on the increasingly chaotic proceedings and making progressively silly demands of the cast who enthusiastically attempt to comply.

Often, these things don’t go off with the precision of a studio picture – and that’s why they are so much fun to watch. Much like Starkid – purveyors of peppy parodies about everything from Harry Potter to Pangea – the joy of Mischief Movie Night is seeing the performers tackle big ideas equipped not with fancy sets and special effects, but with skill and imagination only.  In many ways, the show possesses the same frenetic, joyful energy, cineliterate references and talented ensemble cast as Horrible Histories, a compliment I wouldn’t give lightly. And even with the random onslaught of events onstage, the team manage to bring things to a surprisingly coherent climax, in which twists are revealed and happy endings are tied up in a neat (if slightly battered) bow.

Mischief Movie Night is yet another feather in Mischief Theatre’s increasingly crowded and critically-acclaimed cap. The same creative team will be bringing The Comedy About a Bank Robbery to the New Theatre on its UK tour in the autumn, and I can’t wait to see what they come up with next! Until that rolls around, do yourself a favour and see Mischief Movie Night – what could go wrong?

Barbara Hughes-Moore

We grow up with our heroes, and they grow with us; when we are young, they seem like giants, gods – incomparable, unbeatable, undefeated. But legends fade and heroes grow old. They even die, sometimes. In The Final Curtain (a new play presented by Theatre Royal Bath Productions and Kenny Wax), even the great Sherlock Holmes is fading; slower, frailer, more frayed at the edges, as he faces the phantoms of mystery and mortality – and its one of the best theatre experiences I’ve ever had.

Companionably estranged from his partner in crime/ life, Dr John Watson, a retired Sherlock Holmes (Robert Powell) is living out his twilight years on the South coast of England, with bees to keep, and rheumatism and paranoia to keep at bay. His adventure-less existence is thrown into disarray when a figure from his past re-emerges: Mary Watson (Liza Goddard), the estranged wife of his dear Doctor, who claims to have seen visions of her long-dead son James in 221B Baker Street, and wants Sherlock out of retirement and on the case.

The story is beautifully, intricately crafted by writer Simon Reade; the language is elegant and artful, and Reade captures the heart, soul and style of these iconic characters whilst also holding the audience in delicious suspense right to the very last second. The title, The Final Curtain, evokes another literary sleuth’s final investigation – namely, Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case, by Agatha Christie. Both Poirot and Holmes’ final cases are filled with melancholy meditations on their lives and careers, and whether they were right to sacrifice their own potential happiness for the good of Queen and Country. After all, their deeds are history, and their godliness is tarnished by the undeniable proof of their mortality.

Because Holmes isn’t as young and spritely as he used to be; he suffers from rheumatism, so much so that, with a heavy heart, he cannot play his beloved Stradivarius. and this is shown in stark relief by one of the most subtly heart-breaking exchanges of the play. With his iconic self-assured straightforwardness, Holmes informs the Lestrade-like policeman at a crime scene that he is familiar with 140 different types of tobacco; to which the officer replies, ‘Didn’t it use to be 220?’ In one interaction, Holmes is heartbreakingly marked out as being barely half the man he used to be.

The same cannot be said of the sensational Robert Powell, who, after a long and celebrated career, is at the very pinnacle of his acting prowess. His Holmes isn’t a performance as much as it is a complete inhabitation of the character, so natural that you really feel he has lived a whole life in Sherlock’s shoes. From the first moment he appears, in which he mischievously introduces himself as Sherlock Smith, Powell commands the stage with effortless elegance and a strength of purpose that grounds the character even as Holmes fears he is somewhat losing his touch. His interactions with Roy Sampson’s superb, sophisticated Mycroft were particularly touching; they inhabit the classic characters so fully, so intricately, that I quite forgot I was watching a play and felt as though I truly was observing an actual conversation between two real brothers.

As a lifelong fan of Doyle’s detective duo, I am always very particular about how Dr Watson is portrayed; the danger is that he has the potential to fall somewhere on the extreme ends of the scale, being alternately portrayed either as a priggish grump (like Ian Hart in BBC’s 2002 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles) or as a bumbling idiot (like Nigel Bruce in Basil Rathbone’s series of Holmes movies in the 1930s/40s). Happily, then, that Timothy Knightley portrays a wonderfully avuncular, earnest and sweet take on the character that is true to the spirit of Dr Watson, whilst amusingly emphasising his pulpy over-dramatization of his and Holmes’ cases. Seeing Holmes and Watson side by side, in the flesh, was a real treat, and their interactions – and it’s adorable that, even after all this time, Watson is still falling for Holmes’s disguises.

Although Holmes and Watson only infrequently share the stage, their relationships forms a huge part of the tale – as ever it should. No explicit reason is given for the duo’s relative estrangement, though it’s heavily implied that the cracks began to form when Watson got married and started his own family. Although Watson contributes little cerebral value to their investigations that Holmes does not already possess – other than his medical training and military experience – Watson’s primary role is as Holmes’ chronicler and humaniser. And, more than that, Watson is the beating human heart to Holmes’ more clinical mind.

Though there is a Watson who can match Sherlock beat for beat in terms of intellect and eloquence: Mary, wonderfully played by Liza Goddard, who is definitely not a member of the Sherlock Holmes fan club. Goddard, famous for more comedic roles, thrives in the complex, dramatic character of Mary Watson, who isn’t afraid to confront Holmes with his demons and his duty. Mary points out that the only mystery Holmes couldn’t solve was marriage; and although Watson perceived himself as primarily a ‘whetstone for Holmes’ mind’, Mary observes that Holmes’ relationship with Watson – ‘my Watson’, as he refers to him at one point – was more a marriage than hers ever was. The full extent of their affection – fraternal, romantic, spiritual – is left for us to decide.

Deftly and dynamically directed by David Grindley, the drama zips along at a deceptively breakneck pace, and I was genuinely shocked when the curtain fell to signal the end of act 1. As important as the impassioned speeches and melancholy monologues are, Grindley isn’t afraid to let the quiet moments linger – one of the most tense, characterful and gripping parts of the play is the scene in which Powell’s Holmes calmly and methodically puts on a dressing gown and adjusts the chairs in his room. Really. It’s but a microcosm of this production’s talents across the board.

The splendid set was cannily designed by Jonathan Fensom to make the titular curtain central to the story both metaphorically and literally, swathed as it is in dark green drapes and featuring just enough props to suggest such diverse locations as a 1920s BBC recording studio, a lush London park, and Holmes’ private beach. Jason Taylor’s excellent lighting and Gregory Clarke’s evocative sound design really brought the sets to life, making forests and oceans out of the minimalist scenery. Between each scene, the curtains would be drawn across the stage, revealing new locations with the effortless artistry of a magic trick. The first reveal of 221B’s Baker Street’s elegantly ramshackle bachelor pad was, for a Holmes fan, just like stepping into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, and seeing it brought to life on the stage in such a way was profoundly emotional – even more so when Holmes and Watson were reunited in their purgatorial paradise.

The play grapples with heavy themes of legacy, responsibility, and the changing times – how it feels to grow old, when one has lived such a life as Holmes has, and where one fits into the ever-evolving landscape of modern life. 221B Baker Street has been irrevocably changed by the time Holmes finally returns to it, filled with a messy juxtaposition of past (represented by the Renaissance-era paintings Mary hangs on the wall) and the future (represented by the electronic doorbell Miss Hudson recently had installed). A disguised Holmes even poses the question ‘Who needs a god when you have a gadget?’, vocalising our present-day fears about the increasing indispensability of technology in our daily lives. Holmes and Watson are pre-analogue relics in an analogue age, obstinately clinging to the past, mistrustful of the new technologies and mindsets. But, it’s the bringing together of the old and the new that solves the mystery and brings closure. And yet, in a chilling final scene, the play refuses to fully give us that closure we crave; the final mystery, the lingering questions, are ours to ponder as the titular curtains falls for the final time.

And for all you horror fans out there, there are some seriously Gothic undertones that lend an entertainingly unearthly quality to proceedings. The world’s only consulting detective is called onto examine his own demons as well as investigating the possibility that some supernatural shenanigans are afoot. The name of Professor James Moriarty surfaces more than once, a spectre of Sherlock’s greatest adversary, and There’s also a fair bit of doubling, one of the most effective uses of which comes quite early on and which was so well done it really has to be seen in person. Mary Watson visits Holmes’ seaside abode to see him lounging in a sun chair near his bee hives – only to realise it’s not Holmes at all, but a waxwork duplicate. As the scene goes on, the double sits in the chair between Holmes and Mary, eerily present and unmoving. Does it represent Holmes now, stagnating and useless in his retired life? Or perhaps it represents the other Watson, the one Holmes has distanced himself from, but who remains a stalwart presence in Holmes’ mind? Or does it represent James, the Watsons’ dearly departed son, for whose death his parents are locked in a frozen state of perpetual grief? Again, the play entrusts these questions to its audience, for them alone to judge and decide.

The play likewise leaves the question of heroism up to us: does the intent or the action make you heroic? The short term successes, or the long term lessons? Holmes has always been an enigmatic, complex hero, and his incarnation here is no different. Now, more than ever, he is a hero for our times: the kind who, despite personal trauma and sorrow, keeps fighting the good fight against wickedness, and to hell with the odds.

Thrilling, enthralling and insightful, Sherlock Holmes: The Final Curtain is theatre as it should be. If you’re a Holmes fan, you’ll be enraptured by this new play; if you’re not, you’ll be swept along by the remarkably talented cast and crew the dynamic, haunting mystery at its heart.

Directed by Daniel Buckroyd, this new stage version of Henry James’ Turn of the Screw is a chilling tale of intrigue that keeps you guessing (and shuddering) long after the curtain falls. It follows the story of a young Governess in Victorian England who agrees to look after the niece and nephew of a charming but distant man. At first her new post seems idyllic, but it isn’t long before she discovers that the house is haunted – by secrets and spirits alike.

As I haven’t read the original novella, I can’t speak to the quality of translation from page to stage, but I can say how excellently the play, adapted by Tim Luscombe, was written – the interactions between characters gently but gradually simmering to boiling point, interspersed with the sporadic but scary appearances of disturbing apparitions. After having been underwhelmed by promised but undelivered scares in The Ghost’s Touch, it was refreshing to see a play which actually frightened the living daylights out of me. I generally have a very low threshold for jumpscares and the like (all of which is to say, I jump at the sight of my own shadow) but Turn of the Screw’s frights are earned and eerie, the creeping dread winding a turn at a time until the tension breaks with a bang (or a scream, as the occasion calls for). The opening moments set the scene perfectly – a rocking horse starts moving, seemingly all by itself, its creepy creaking the only sound in a fear-silenced auditorium. Its an image that Susan Hill skilfully incorporated into The Woman in Black, and in both mediums is just about the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

As the Governess, Carli Norris capably carries the show as our besieged heroine who finds herself wading through a mystical mire. She portrays a grounded, realistic, complex character who finds herself in a seemingly insurmountable situation. As the supporting characters – flesh and phantasm alike – grow stranger and stranger with each passing scene, Norris keeps the action from descending into caricature whilst also straying into strangeness when the plot demands. You’re completely invested in her character, even – or perhaps especially – as the unexplained oddities begin to pile up around her.

Annabel Smith has the tricky task of playing two polar opposite personalities, characters who could hardly be less alike. The transformation between the two isn’t always smooth, but Smith plays both characters with enthusiasm and verve. Smith’s Mrs Conray is the listener of the tale, demanding the Governess’ confession from a far-flung future; as such, Smith stands silent and still and sombre, a spectral figure who is almost as creepy as the ghosts which besiege the Governess – and the audience – throughout the play. The other character she portrays – well, you’ll just have to see the play to find out for yourself.

Michael Hanratty, credited only as The Man, plays a number of different characters, which between them represent a variety of different forms of masculinity. He plays the charming but apathetic uncle, the unusual nephew, as well as a good few ghosts. Norris and Hanratty are asked the most in terms of conveying complexity of character – in Hanratty’s case, conveying multiple complex characters – and create a fascinating dynamic between the Governess and the myriad male characters she meets through the course of the story. There are a lot of weird, unsettling, and possibly unnatural relationships that the cast craft throughout the drama, which the cast admirably strive (and often succeed) to lend credence to. And Maggie McCarthy channels Jane Eyre’s Grace Poole as Mrs Grose, a canny housekeeper who looks after the house and guards its secrets.

Having concluded that two was too few in terms of cast in The Ghost’s Touch, the four-strong cast here feels like the perfect number for a smaller show – some of the actors take on double or triple roles, others are on stage almost constantly. Given its Gothic nature, the play toys with the idea of doubling, duality, and the juxtaposition between the true self and the self one projects to the world. There are shades of light, darkness and grey in every character, particularly in the Governess herself, whose true character is left for you to decide even once the curtain falls. Of course, there are ghosts a go-go, as one would expect, but their inclusion is intellectual as well as insidious. Perhaps they are revenants of the past; perhaps they are figments of the imagination; perhaps they are a little of both. The action is adequately ambiguous to allow for any conclusion you come to.

The excellent acting across the board is enhanced by a truly spectacular set, wonderfully designed by Sara Perks – in psychoanalytical terms, I often read the location of a story as an external manifestation of the characters’ internal minds. Here, the off-kilter, slanted set evokes the odd, off-centre antics of its inhabitants; just looking at it makes you feel uneasy. Visually and thematically, it called to mind the warped altar during the climactic wedding scene in Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice, framing the characters in a twisted, unheimlich way. Matt Leventhall’s lighting and John Chambers’ music and sound effects also do a great deal to enhance the eerie quality of the play; the way the light plays on the sheet-covered furniture gives them a ghostly quality; and the windows lent themselves to some spine-chilling silhouettes at the denouement of the play. In addition, there is a fissure running through the boards, which lights up in fiendish orange at certain key points in the play, which not only heralds the arrival of a diabolical presence, but also looks like the gateway to some hellish dimension.

Scary and scintillating, Turn of the Screw proves itself to be just as gripping to modern audiences as it was to those of Henry James’ heyday. If you like your theatre to be thrilling, and you don’t mind sleeping with the lights on, this is a must-see.

Barbara Hughes Moore