Edinburgh

Eurydice

01/10/26

Assembly Roxy (Upstairs), Edinburgh

Sarah Ruhl’s 2003 play reimagines Virgil’s Orpheus and Eurydice, centring the latter and relegating her lover to a supporting role. But this feminist retelling is a paradoxical one. Sure, the story is told from the heroine’s point of view; however, I don’t think the choice between three competing versions of male authority quite cuts it as real agency.

In this version, young lovers Eurydice (Erin Jederon-Hogg) and Orpheus (Shaun Hamilton) are immature and impetuous, carried away by romance and fantasy. They’re not especially well-suited: he’s airy, his head full of whimsy and song; she’s livelier, earthier; she likes to swim, dance and read. Nonetheless, they decide to marry.

Eurydice’s late father (John Beattie) is watching from beyond the grave, desperate to communicate with his daughter, to pass on parental advice. He writes her a letter and gives it to a worm, hoping it will somehow make its way to her. But a Nasty Interesting Man (Jimmy Kavanagh) intercepts the note, using it to entice Eurydice away from her wedding and to her death, to the Underworld where he presides…

Orpheus is devastated; Eurydice not so much. Of course, death is confusing at first. She’s bathed in the Waters of Lethe, so she can’t remember anything, not even how to speak. Once she reconnects with her father, however, things start to come back, and they’re happy together in their room of string, rebuilding their relationship.

But both Orpheus and the Nasty Interesting Man want to claim Eurydice as their own. Which of the three men will she choose?

Any issues I have with Eurydice are with the script, not Gutter.’s first-rate production. Jederon-Hogg and Kavanagh excel in the showiest roles, the former captivating as the lead, shining with youthful exuberance in the early scenes before recoiling uneasily from the INM’s creepy attempts at seduction. Kavanagh plays the INM with evident relish, his gaze eerily intense, his enunciation horribly slow and precise. He imbues this absurd version of Hades with real menace, even while dragging a small red tricycle behind him. The INM grows downwards, he says, and changes abruptly from toddler to playboy. Meanwhile, Hamilton and Beattie competently deliver the more understated performances their characters call for, Hamilton offering a palpable sense of loss and bewilderment, while Beattie provides a core of gentle stability.

The stones are my favourites though. Amelie Berry (Loud Stone), Aodhán Mallon (Big Stone) and Lisa Gilham (Little Stone) form a hilarious Greek chorus, whinging and whining in perfect unison, like bored children given too much responsibility.

The design of this piece belies its shoestring budget. The set (by Iris Ollier and Lydia Miller) makes ingenious use of cellophane, string and bent wire, while the costumes (by Eliza Beecroft) are bold and evocative. I especially like the over-sized suits worn by the stones; ragged, sleeveless and threaded with bits of old jewellery, they have a curious jarring effect.

Could there be more actual music in the play, especially when Orpheus is onstage? It would certainly help if we were shown how musical he is, rather than merely told. That aside, co-directors Jane Morgan and Rue Richardson have done a sterling job. This is a pacy, compelling production and the ninety-minute running time seems to fly by.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Wallace

30/09/26

King’s Theatre, Edinburgh

It’s an auspicious night. We’re finally back at the King’s Theatre after a four year absence and the Old Lady of Leven Street is looking absolutely glorious, every surface gleaming after a £41 million upgrade. Ironically, similar observations might be made about Wallace. We were lucky enough to catch its humbler iteration last year as part of the Traverse’s A Play, A Pie and A Pint Season. It was clear from the get-go that this Scottish hip-hop bio-musical had the potential to fill more than the stripped-back propulsive hour it occupied then.

One glance at Neil Haynes’ magnificent set design, where the carcass of a deer dangles over a series of steps and ramps, confirms that the show has indeed taken a big leap – though ironically, composer/lyricist Dave Hook has taken a literal step back. He’s still cast as the titular Scottish hero but spends most of his time behind a sound deck, only stepping out to perform specific songs. The bulk of the narration goes to ‘Scotsman’ (Ross Mann), who proudly boasts that he is a direct descendent of William Wallace – and who has a hissy fit when he’s informed, later in the show, that his hero (if he existed) might not even have been Scottish.

Original show performers, ‘Sasenach'( Manasa Tagica) and ‘wummin’ (Patricia Panther) return to the fray. This time, Panther is accompanied by Madeleine Grieve and Kimberly Mandino, the three of them popping and locking in perfect time as they belt out the lyrics, making the most of the opportunity to sing about how women usually get overlooked in these alpha-male historic recreations.

What makes this musical really distinctive is that it has the guts to question its hero. Was William Wallace really any better than his adversary Edward “Longshanks?” (Yes, he was.) Didn’t they both emerge from cauldrons of calamity and cruelty, taught to be savage by the very savagery heaped upon them as they grew up?

There has been much talk of Wallace as the Scottish Hamilton, and perhaps that’s as good a description as any. Suffice to say, it makes a confident, swaggering transition to this bigger, longer production and the new material blends seamlessly with the old. Derek Anderson’s dynamic lighting designs add some truly dazzling effects and I love the perfectly-timed drop that ends the first act.

Of course, some things can be lost in translation. Perhaps this isn’t quite as sleek as that leaner, meaner original – and yes, occasionally in the sonic fury of the sound mix, those whip-smart lyrics are harder to follow. But nonetheless, Wallace is a satisfyingly epic production that confirms the suspicion I had when I saw it in its original guise: this is a winner – and as it moves on to an extended Scottish tour, it can only get better.

4.6 stars

Philip Caveney

The Whaler’s Wife

29/09/26

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Hurrah! A Play, A Pie and A Pint is back! There’s something so alluring – almost illicit – about sneaking in a bit of culture in the middle of a working day; surely this is how all lunch hours should be?

This new season kicks off with The Whaler’s Wife, written by Izzy Gray and directed by Beth Morton. Set in 1820s Orkney (Gray hails from the islands), the script is arguably too complex for its one-hour running time. As the play opens, we are introduced to three women whose husbands’ whaleboat, The Diamond, is missing. Marion (Joyce Falconer), a no-nonsense matriarch to whom the others usually defer, is all for carrying on as normal, but Elsie (Shawney Henderson) is keen to write the men off as dead. She’s glad the boat hasn’t returned; she’s not a fan of married life. Meanwhile Bess (Emma Tracey), who has a lot to say about the whalers’ ethics, is clearly nursing a secret…

Woven into this framework is a tantalising mix of folklore, tradition, sea shanties and social history. We learn about the pitiless nature of the women’s lives, as they scrape a living from the sea and land, gutting mackerel and smuggling booze. The men have an even harder job – and it’s brutalised them. Bess deplores not only the whalers’ bloodlust, but also their new habit of seizing ‘wives’ from the lands they visit. It’s all fascinating – but a lot to take in. The unfamiliar (to me) Orcadian dialect lends the piece both lyricism and authenticity, but it does make it harder to follow the – at times literally – labyrinthine plot.

The Whaler’s Wife is handsomely staged, Gillian Argo’s set and costume design belying the limited PPP budget. The songs (arranged by Bethany Tennick) somehow manage to be both haunting and rousing, reinforcing the contradictions at the heart of the story: the poetry and savagery of island life.

Morton’s direction works well: the play ebbs and flows like the tide, from raucous to thoughtful, horror to hope. I’m left with the abiding image of billowing sheets, concealing and then revealing. I’m hooked, but also frustrated. This needs to be a full-length play to give the myriad ideas more breathing space.

3.4 stars

Susan Singfield

Revel

26/09/26

The Studio at Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

Company Chordelia’s latest production is Revel, a “60+ coming-of-age story” told through a mesmerising blend of dance and physical theatre. Two dancers (Kally Lloyd-Jones – who also writes and directs – and Steinvör Palsson) have arrived backstage a mere nine hours before their evening show. They’re “middle-class women of a certain age” (™Gregg Wallace) and the bodies they took for granted in their youth now require an awful lot of maintenance. These days, their preparation involves pills, creams, massages, yoga and more; the list is long and it is brutal. “I used to be able to drink,” Palsson laments. “I used to be able to sleep,” counters Lloyd-Jones.

Of course, the duo are professional performers so, even as they’re mourning their former physical prowess, I’m in awe of what they can still do. I’m a decade younger than they are and I like to think I’m in reasonable shape, but these two give the lie to that conceit. Sure, they might not be able to do the splits any more, but they can contort themselves into some highly impressive positions, and the section where Lloyd-Jones dances to Odyssey’s Use It Up and Wear It Out is just magnificent.

Although Revel is specific in its exploration of dancers’ relationships with their ageing bodies, it also has universal appeal. This morning at the gym, for example, mulling over this review, I find myself groaning in wry recognition as I squint at my padlock, trying to read the combination, my carefully-packed reading glasses the other side of the locker door…

I particularly enjoy the clowning sections: Palsson’s lark-like morning energy versus Lloyd-Jones’ slug-a-bed refusal to get up; the frantic, repetitive routines they perform in a bid to outrun time. I also love the elegy to a high-heeled shoe, which is strangely affecting.

Revel is a gentle show, amusing and stirring in equal measure – with an upbeat, almost celebratory ending that means we leave the theatre smiling, happy to be granted the gift of growing old.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Sense and Sensibility

25/09/26

Cineworld, Edinburgh

If there’s a Jane Austen adaptation available, of course I’m going to see it. The advance press hasn’t been too kind to this latest version, scripted by Diana Reid and directed by Georgia Oakley, but that doesn’t deter me. Am I expecting to love it as much as I do the book? Of course not. Do I think it’ll measure up to Ang Lee and Emma Thompson’s superb Oscar-winner? Again, no. But it’s thirty-one years (THIRTY-ONE YEARS!) since Thompson and Kate Winslet represented the titular traits so it seems reasonable to revisit Austen’s first-published novel and open it up to a whole new audience.

Daisy Edgar-Jones and Esmé Creed-Miles are credible as the older Dashwood sisters, Elinor and Marianne, whose fortunes have taken a sudden tumble following their father’s death. Their half brother, John (Tom Brooke), has inherited Norland Park and, egged on by his ghastly wife, Fanny (Stacy Martin), not only declines to offer his stepmother (Caitríona Balfe) any money but also wastes no time in turfing his three sisters out of the only home they’ve ever known. Thirteen-year-old Margaret (Bodhi Rae Breathnach) is distraught.

Enter kind-hearted distant relative, Mrs Jennings (the ever-fabulous Fiona Shaw), whose son-in-law, Sir John Middleton (Turlough Convery), just happens to have a spare cottage on his Devonshire estate. It’s a bit of a comedown for the Dashwoods but they’re grateful to have somewhere to go, not to mention relieved to escape from Fanny’s mean-spirited carping. All would be well – if it weren’t for Elinor’s unspoken attachment to Fanny’s brother, Edward (George MacKay). Devonshire is an awfully long way away from Sussex…

Still, they soon settle down in Barton Cottage, enjoying the beaches and beautiful countryside and befriending the taciturn Colonel Brandon (Herbert Nordrum). And when Marianne falls (quite literally) for the charming, raffish Willoughby (Frank Dillane), it seems her future, at least, is secured.

Except, sadly, it’s not.

The three sisters are well-cast, and I like the easy, naturalistic way they speak to one another in private. They’re tactile, which cements the realistic nature of their relationship, and their mutual care is palpable. Elinor’s sense (rationality) and Marianne’s sensibility (emotionality) are heightened, the juxtaposition between the two brought into sharp focus. Arguably this is a tad overdone but I don’t really mind.

Reid’s script foregrounds the perilous position of unmarried women in the Regency period, so that we can clearly see what’s at stake for Elinor and Marianne – and how much Elinor is prepared to give up for her principles. I love the party scenes: the dancing is far less mannered and restrained than we’re used to seeing in period drama; instead it’s wild and unfettered, an escape valve for all the lust and passion the characters are forced to repress. I also love the the atmospheric soundtrack by Roger Goula, which draws upon traditional English folk music.

Less successful are the numerous outside scenes. Austen’s interiority is integral to her books, reinforcing the constrained nature of her heroines’ lives. Although the cinematography (shot in 35mm by Arnaud Potier) is undeniably gorgeous, the emphasis on vast woodlands and open vistas belies that somewhat, suggesting an almost Brontë-like connection with the wider, natural world.

In addition, some of the minor characters are criminally underused, most notably Eliot Sumner’s Mr Palmer and Chloe Pirrie’s Lady Middleton. These two intriguing personalities are nicely set up and then given nowhere to go. And don’t speak to me about the barely-contextualised duel, which appears out of nowhere and jars horribly with the rest of the film.

Overall, however, I quite enjoy this iteration of Sense and Sensibility. It’s lively and engaging and successfully embodies the heart of Austen’s novel.

Whatever your persuasion, try to bypass any prejudice. You know it makes sense to see this film.

Sorry (not sorry).

3.8 stars

Susan Singfield

NT Live: The Misanthrope

22/09/26

Dominion Cinema, Edinburgh

This is Molière as you’ve never seen him before – unless, of course, you witnessed earlier iterations of Martin Crimp’s adaptation in 1996, 1999 or 2009. The key difference in 2026 is that there’s much more at stake.

The French playwright’s 1666 comedy of manners satirised French salon culture, where superficial manners and flattery were social currency. His aristocratic protagonist, Alceste, rails against the hypocrisy, refusing to play by the generally-accepted rules. But in King Louis XIV’s court, his principles cost him everything: a lawsuit, his social standing – and the love of his life.

Directed by Indhu Rubasingham, the National Theatre’s new version replaces Alceste with Alice (Sandra Oh), a Booker-winning novelist known for her bold political opinions. And, while previous productions of Crimp’s Misanthrope were criticised for a lack of jeopardy (Michael Billingham famously wrote that he could see this Alceste being offered “a Guardian column or a spot on Channel 4), the times have changed. Cancellation culture and social media pile-ons are very real threats. Alice really is risking her neck.

It’s astonishing how apposite the plot is. Alice is supposed to be travelling to Berlin to collect a literary prize of €200k – but the press have unearthed an old interview where she expresses an opinion at odds with current thinking. Her playwright friend, John (Paul Chahidi), urges her to issue a generic apology but Alice refuses. Why should she bow to public pressure and lie about how she feels? If the prize committee renege on their deal, then so be it. She has her film star lover, Stefan (Tom Mison), to comfort her, doesn’t she?

Well, to a point…

Stefan is everything that Alice usually despises: vain and vacillating, with no hidden shallows, let alone depths. He’s charming and handsome, attentive and sweet, but he’s hardly someone to rely on. Just ask his ex-wife, Elaine (Jemima Rooper), who has to dash to London from Paris when Stefan fails to collect their kids from school.

When superfan Esmée (Imogen Elliott) asks for an autograph in her battered copy of Alice’s critically-acclaimed novel, John persuades Alice to give the girl (“It’s woman, actually”) a hearing. Predictably, Esmée has a manuscript of her own that she’d like Alice to read. Like Alceste before her, Alice offers a scathing critique of the deliciously dreadful prose – with terrible consequences. Esmée, it transpires, is an influencer with hordes of followers. If Alice was in hot water before, she’s about to feel the temperature rise…

Crimp’s script is witty and lyrical, written in rhyming verse to mirror Molière’s original. It’s so cleverly done that it takes me a while to notice; when I do, it’s to laugh out loud at some of the more audacious pairings (“We’ve fucked it / why not just sit back and deconstruct it?” or “People will praise a pile of shit / if they’ve dressed up and paid fifty quid for it.”). The juxtaposition of highbrow and lowbrow works really well, reinforcing the theme of a social veneer obscuring the gritty truth.

Rubasingham’s direction is pacy and fluid; the ninety-minute running time flies by, reflecting Alice’s almost manic mood. Robert Jones’ set reveals a series of drawing rooms – each more stifling than the last – until the final party scene, where the walls disappear and scores of chandeliers drop from above. Alice’s isolation is emphasised by Tim Lutkin’s lighting, a single spot highlighting her variance from societal norms, as everyone around her is dressed in Baroque costume while she’s still wearing her customary trouser suit.

Oh is fabulous in the central role, giving us a complex character we can both admire and despise. Cannily, Crimp never reveals what Alice’s objectionable opinion was, so we’re not able to judge her based on our own position. Instead, we have to consider the abstract premise: what is the point in demanding outward conformity to a set of beliefs that are not truly held? And who are the gatekeepers deciding what’s acceptable?

Once again, I find myself mentally thanking whoever it was who came up with the idea of live-streaming theatre. I love being able to see London shows for the price of a film ticket – and Edinburgh’s luxurious Dominion Cinema offers a real sense of occasion.

4.5 stars

Susan Singfield

Bad Apples

18/09/26

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Based on Rasmus Lindgren’s 2020 Swedish novel, De Oönskade, Bad Apples is both a dark comedy and a scathing critique of a results-driven education system. It’s provocative – and I love it.

Directed by Jonatan Etzler, the film’s opening is depressingly realistic. We’re introduced to Maria (Saoirse Ronan), an inexperienced young teacher struggling to cope in an underfunded rural state primary. Her nemesis is a troubled ten-year-old called Danny (Eddie Waller), who disrupts every lesson – and she gets little support from her stressed head teacher (Rakie Ayola). There’s no money for a learning support assistant. Maria will just have to soldier on.

From here, the story evolves into a dark fantasy, where Maria makes a devilish pact with her own id. She’s already in a panic when she finds Danny bashing her car with a metal bar. OFSTED are coming tomorrow and she can’t bear to think about what they’ll see in her classroom. Trying to wrest the bar from his hands, she accidentally knocks the boy out. On the way to A&E, he suddenly comes round and threatens to tell everyone she’s attacked him; impulsively, she drives him to her house instead.

And locks him in her basement.

If the ‘bad apple’ metaphor is a bit on the nose, the Jungian allegory isn’t exactly subtle either. Maria’s house represents her self (it’s messy, unloved and in need of repair, but clearly full of unrealised potential), while the basement symbolises the unconscious – both personal and collective. After all, she’s surely not alone in her belief that everyone would be better off if Danny just disappeared.

At first, it seems Maria has stumbled on some kind of panacea. She and her are pupils are thriving: she now has time to spend with them, to encourage them to develop their skills; she can finally become the teacher she’s always wanted to be. And Danny is thriving too. His desperate anger has given way to a resigned acceptance and he’s revealed that he can neither read nor write. Maria leaps at the chance to teach him, appeasing her moral qualms (or superego) with the positive results yielded by her kidnapping.

But, of course, dark secrets and Faustian deals always manage to bite back. Danny’s dad, Josh (Robert Emms), might be a bit rubbish at the whole parenting malarkey but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his son, and it’s not as if the police are going to ignore a missing child. Most dangerous of all is Maria’s star pupil, Pauline (Nia Brown). Because when Pauline smells a rat, she’s not the kind of girl to ignore the stench…

Ronan makes for a spell-binding protagonist, earning our sympathy even as her behaviour crosses line after line into shocking iniquity. The two lead children are also perfectly cast: Waller delivers a heartbreaking performance as the angry, broken Danny, while Brown’s portrayal of the manipulative Pauline is both eerie and compelling.

Jess O’Kane’s script is witty, incorporating many laugh-out-loud moments amidst the horror. (My favourite line is, “As the head of the PTA…” – although, admittedly, it’s only funny in context. You’ll get it when you see it.) Nea Asphäll’s cinematography works well, the bright, light colours of the primary school belying Maria’s experience even as the darker tones of her home emphasise the grim reality.

A searing indictment of the way society deals with “problematic” children, Bad Apples forces us to acknowledge that our current arrangement simply doesn’t work. No individual – parent or teacher – can effect change on their own; nor can a single institution make a big enough difference. We need a systemic solution if we want things to improve. We can’t just keep sweeping uncomfortable truths under the carpet – or locking them in basements.

Because, to misquote Dr Jekyll, when devils are long caged, they have a tendency to come out roaring.

4.8 stars

Susan Singfield

A Simply Beastly Murder

29/08/26

Pleasance Dome (Jack Dome), Edinburgh

Rachel E Thorn’s A Simply Beastly Murder is our last show of this year’s Fringe, and it’s a spiffing one to end on. If you’re thinking ‘British film noir’ and ‘Enid Blyton adventures’ is a ludicrous idea for a genre mash-up, then you’re not wrong. It is ludicrous – gloriously so.

Although the Famous Five famously remained the same age for at least seven years’ worth of school holidays, they have – at last – grown up. For some reason, the often-overlooked middle kid, Dick (Alistair Mckay), prefers to be known as ‘Richard’ these days. He’s a PI, capitalising on his childhood experiences of solving crimes. Several years in the States have eliminated his English accent; he’s now a hard-boiled Marlowe-wannabe, complete with trilby, trench-coat and a drink problem.

But now he’s back in London, and he’s called his sister for help. Anne (Thorn), the baby of the group, has barely changed at all. Goody-two-shoes earnestness is still very much her thing, and she’s shocked to find her brother embracing a dissolute lifestyle. She urges him to return to Kirrin Island with her, but Dick – sorry, Richard – has a mystery to fathom first…

Who killed his girlfriend, Margot?

And will they try to frame him for the simply beastly murder?

Directed by James Stone and with additional voices provided by Alistair McGowan, A Simply Beastly Murder is a cleverly-crafted spoof, intertwining the contrasting styles to great comic effect. Immersing Anne amid the grit and grime of the sleazy underground club Dick frequents allows for plenty of square-peg-round-hole humour. Thorn maximises this by playing her role completely straight. The incongruity is delightful.

The show is playful, utilising a range of theatrical devices which we have been asked not to reveal here. Suffice to say, the invention is impressive. Perhaps the section where Dick is alone on stage, talking to pre-recorded voices, goes on too long; perhaps the plotting could be more ambitious. No matter; the production is slick and accomplished, a perfect digestif to say goodbye to Edfringe 26.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

Sanctuary

27/08/26

Pleasance Dome (Ace Dome), Edinburgh

Set in the 1990s and based on real events, Sanctuary is a compelling play about the AIDS epidemic, offering a brand new perspective on those dark and dreadful days as the UK death toll neared its peak.

Michael (Matthew Tennyson) is ill. He’s moved from London into a remote Suffolk farmhouse, which owner Wendy is planning to turn into an AIDS hospice. She wants to provide a place where sufferers can die in dignity, away from judgement and stigma. Sadly, she’s met with local opposition, so there are currently only two patients: Michael and a trans woman, Mary, who is very close to death.

Michael isn’t too sick yet, but he is frightened and lonely, dithering about whether or not he should just pack up and leave. But then an elderly stranger (Richard Cant) appears in the kitchen. He’s a friend of Wendy’s, he says; he’s hoping she’ll be able to give his hair a trim. Michael is suspicious – and rightly so, it turns out, as the man reveals that, actually, Wendy has asked him to come. She’s worried about her young house guest and thinks that talking to an older homosexual might help.

She might not know much about planning permission or council licenses, but Wendy is canny when it comes to human connection. Although he bristles at first, Michael soon opens up to the unnamed man, sharing his anger, his fear, his shame. He talks about hedonism and drug-fuelled sex; about longing and lost love and the sickening number of funerals he’s been to. The stranger is gentle and understanding, offering just the slightest glimpse of hope…

It’s easy to see why Jacob Sparrow’s spare, uncompromising script caught the eye of the judges of the inaugural Leodis Prize for playwriting. Directed by Josh Seymour, the play is at once tender and raw, the artifice of its clever construction never overpowering its humanity.

There are only four more performances of Sanctuary at this year’s Fringe. Don’t miss your chance to see it!

4.8 stars

Susan Singfield

Noted

26/08/26

Assembly Roxy (Upstairs), Edinburgh

I’m attracted by The Back Pack’s press release, which promises “playful invention” – a phrase that strikes joy into my heart. It chimes with the ideology of the youth theatre company I work with here in Edinburgh so I arrive with a smile this morning, clutching my coffee, expectations high.

The Back Pack’s dizzying mix of clowning, illustration and animation doesn’t disappoint. We whirl from one scene to another with barely time to catch our breath. A short film – gently amusing; a group of school kids with cartoon backpacks – lots of lols. Puppetry, dance, video, cine-theatre – it doesn’t get more eclectic than this.

Twenty minutes in and there are hundreds of pieces of paper discarded on the stage. I’m grinning like a fool, loving every minute – even though I’m struggling to understand how the performers are managing to keep everything under control. There’s so much of it. Including the entire history of the world…

The live-delay is especially impressive (it’s all impressive, but this stands out). The performers are on stage, moving; we can’t tell what their contortions mean. Thirty seconds behind them, an overhead shot is projected onto the backdrop, creating an array of scenarios: horse-racing, moon walks, synchronised swimming. What’s not to love?

The choreography is stunning. The performers – Pete Betcher (who also directs), Katie Kohler, Alec Silver and Lauren McFall – are all excellent dancers, and they form a perfectly drilled quartet, making this most complex of productions look effortless (which logic tells me cannot be the case).

Noted is family-friendly in the best possible way. There really is something here for everyone. It’s silly, funny, clever and astonishing. An ideal start to the day.

5 stars

Susan Singfield