Edinburgh

Six by Nico: American Murder Mystery

12/11/26

Hanover Street, Edinburgh

Our experience of Six by Nico so far has been mixed. During the Covid lockdowns, we enjoyed a couple of their ‘at home’ meals so much that we bought them as gifts for several friends and relatives, certain they’d be well appreciated. When the world opened up again and we were free to visit an actual restaurant, we wasted no time. Sadly, we were disappointed by the Ancient Rome menu we sampled.

A murder mystery though? That’s enough to draw us back in. We’re suckers for a story.

Our waitress, Alex, introduces the concept with enthusiasm, no mean feat considering how often she has to repeat it, service after service, day after day. We order some sparkling water (me) and a 0% Asahi (Phil) and settle down to read the character profiles. Just who are these suspects we’re dealing with?

The premise is simple. We’re in Hollow Creek, a small American town where, thirty years ago, best-selling crime writer Maggie Sawyer was killed. Her husband, Daniel, was convicted of the murder, but new evidence suggests he might be innocent – and it’s up to us to solve the case. With each course, we’re given more information, bringing us closer and closer to discovering the truth. Will we be able to work out whodunnit?

It’s a Thursday lunchtime and, even though it’s just the two of us non-drinkers, we have a lot of fun. I imagine the experience is even more entertaining if you’re out with a larger group for an evening, relishing paired wines and differing opinions.

The first three courses are starters, and we kick off with crispy fried chicken on a buckwheat waffle. I’m expecting to be able to eat this (buckwheat is gluten free) but my chicken comes served on a tater tot instead, so I guess there must be some wheat flour in the waffle mix. The kitchen clearly takes allergies seriously: the coating on my chicken is different from Phil’s too, and there’s a little GF sticker on the plate, which I find reassuring. There’s a smoked bacon dressing, which adds some flavour, but generally we both find this course a little bland. It’s fine. Just not special.

Next up is an ox cheek croquette served with a pumpkin velouté. My croquette comes without the breadcrumb coating, and it’s delicious. The velouté lacks seasoning though, and there’s no salt on the table. We request some and there’s an immediate improvement. What’s more, we get to play with a coloured lens to read a secret message that might help us find the murderer…

For course three, Philip has a Cuban Sandwich, which is a chorizo & smoked ham hough, while I go for the veggie option of goat’s cheese bomba. The food seems to be getting better with each successive course; Philip’s in particular is bold and flavoursome. And there’s another piece of evidence coming our way. We start to theorise about motives.

The fourth dish (the first of two mains) is billed as a clam chowder but it doesn’t look like any chowder I’ve had before. I thought ‘deconstructed’ dishes were considered passé these days, but the concept is alive and kicking here. Nonetheless, the roasted ling is well cooked, and perfectly complemented by a yummy crab bisque.

Coming in at number five is a chicken and wild mushroom casserole. Again, this isn’t so much a casserole as elements-of-a-casserole-arranged-on-a-plate – but there’s no denying how tasty it is. It’s certainly the best thing we’ve eaten so far. And what’s this? A UV light to uncover a hidden clue? Yes please.

Last but not least are the puddings. The maple apple cobbler is an absolute triumph, comprising a gloriously decadent baked apple delice, along with some oat and rye whiskey ice cream for Phil and an apple sorbet for me. Candied pecans add some extra punch (and crunch), and we both find ourselves eating as slowly as we can, trying to make it last as long as possible while we consider the various characters and why they might have killed Maggie.

We fail to identify the killer (we have elaborate theories that come to naught) but the real answer is satisfying. which is what really counts. We console ourselves with an add-on extra dessert: a cherry pop tart soft-serve ice cream. Phil’s comes in a cornet and mine in a bowl, and it’s a refreshing way to end the meal.

All in all, we have a grand old time. The food is decent enough but it’s the game-playing element that makes this work. If you’re looking for something different to entertain you, this American Murder Mystery is sure to hit the spot. But hurry, it ends soon!

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Gateway New Writing Festival

02/11/26

The Studio at Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

It’s a fecund time for emerging playwrights as, hot on the heels of Saturday’s Trajectories by the Scottish Youth Theatre, comes The Gateway New Writing Festival, where six plays (still in development) will be shown over three evenings in the Festival Theatre’s studio. We’re here on opening night to see the first two.

In a Big Country by Ben Ramsay is an unnerving thriller set in a remote area of Scotland, where phone signals are mere phantoms and no one can hear you scream. Young couple James (Frederik Bang) and Maisie (Rachael Campbell) might be broke but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to celebrate their anniversary, so they’re exercising their right to roam and giving camping a go. Maybe a night under canvas will help to heal their troubled relationship? But they’ve reckoned without the overbearing landowner (Jamie Cowan), a strange, despotic man, who invites himself for a drink beside their campfire, armed with a knife and gun…

Directed by Rebecca Russel, Ramsey’s script bursts into life, with James and Maisie making a likeable and convincing couple. Bang and Campbell deliver sprightly, engaging performances, ensuring that we care about both characters, even as James’ insecurities bring out the worst in him. Posh weirdo Richard is perhaps less believably conceived, but Cowan imbues him with a suitably menacing presence, the tension ramping up as the couple’s dream of a romantic getaway slowly turns into a nightmare.

There are a few small issues that still need working out: the duo’s gullibility stretches credulity at times, and the ending is something of a damp squib. Nonetheless, In a Big Country has a lot going for it: the pace is kinetic and the atmosphere chilling. The couple’s problems serve as a microcosm, a commentary on wider social issues that affect us all. Ramsey is certainly one to watch.

Tonight’s second play, The Tide by Sophie Good, is a story of love and loss. Helen (Kirsten Maguire) and her husband, Grant (Paul Wilson), feel a strong attachment to their seaside town; it holds all of their memories. They had their first kiss in the local chippy and raised their little boy on sandcastles and ice-cream. Not that things are rosy any more: following an argument with his mum, their teenage son ran away and has now been missing for years, while coastal erosion means their clifftop cottage is in imminent danger of collapse. The council has issued an eviction notice, but how can Helen and Grant leave with Tom still unaccounted for? What if he comes back and can’t find them? And anyway, Grant doesn’t want to live in a ticky-tacky new-build. How will he distract himself without any repairs or renovations to do?

I love the premise of this piece: the symbolism of the crumbling home and the couple’s quiet desperation as they wait and wait for their son’s return. Under James Wood’s direction, their sadness is palpable, their fragile hopes almost unbearable.

There are places where the script could do with being pared back (the ‘partial sea view’ from the modern apartment is referenced too often, and we don’t always need words – such as ‘handcuffs’ – to tell us what is clearly visible). In addition, the exits and entrances slow down the pace; I think it would be better to keep the actors on stage throughout. For example, instead of playing to an empty stage, the recorded voices in the flashback would be more powerful if they were juxtaposed with the older iterations of Helen and Grant sadly muddling through their day. Niggles aside, The Tide has a lot of potential and I look forward to seeing more of Good’s work.

New writing festivals like Gateway are integral to the future of theatre, and it’s exciting to see what the next generation of playmakers has to offer. If you’re looking for something to do in the run up to Bonfire Night, why not take a chance on the next four plays (Stomach by Ben Kay, Dead People Don’t Have Data by Laura Tansley, ULTRAVIOLENCE! By Will Osbon and Steam by James Stedman)?

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Kitchen Dancer

30/10/26

Assembly Roxy, Edinburgh

The Assembly Roxy’s Downstairs theatre has been reconfigured for tonight’s event. We arrive just ten minutes before curtain up but no one’s been admitted yet. We join the other audience members hanging around the bar area and try to avoid the urge to peep behind the black curtain that’s separating us from the stage.

Suddenly, writer-performer Skye Loneragan appears, dressed in gym leggings and clutching a yoga mat. She tells us to follow her and so we do – around the outside of the curtain into a temporary corridor. Here, she reveals that the mat is in fact a red carpet. “It’s for you,” she says, rolling it out. The word ‘gratitude’ is printed on it. She tells us all the things she’s grateful for.

And then the curtain is pulled aside, the red carpet moved (we don’t get to walk on it after all) and we’re led inside. The square-shaped performance space has a single row of seating around three of its sides, and a set comprising a cardboard concertina backdrop and a large rug with strange patterns cut out of it. I’m intrigued.

Directed by Stewart Ennis, the piece is part of the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival, and its premise is quirky and engaging. The Olympic Games have added a new category, Coping Strategies, and SkyeC (an Australian) has been selected to represent Scotland. She’s a Registered Kitchen Dancer, who uses her untrained capers as a mechanism to help her deal with her problems. The trouble is, it doesn’t really seem to work… Like Shirley Valentine before her, SkyeC is reduced to talking to inanimate objects, although things have moved on since the 1980s, and – unlike Shirley’s wall – SkyeC’s Roomba can actually reply.

SkyeC has a lot to contend with. Her tiny, cramped flat is full to bursting. Her husband is working from home and must not be disturbed. Her mother is in another room, making querulous demands. There’s a daughter, who’ll need picking up from school shortly, and someone else (another relative?), who’s been sectioned and phones to plead with Skye to get them out. As if that weren’t already too much, there’s a film crew too, here to record Skye’s Kitchen Dancing routine.

She’s just hoping they don’t know about the online furore that’s led to her being cancelled…

There are a lot of interesting ideas here, but many of them feel under-explored. It’s all very scattershot and I can’t help feeling a more traditional story arc would improve things enormously, allowing the tension to build and the revelation about SkyeC’s cancellation to serve as a pay-off.

Apart from the narrow corridor to the mother’s room, I don’t really get a sense of the cramped space SkyeC performs in. She tells us about low ceilings and crawl spaces, but doesn’t realise them physically. In addition, the film crew seem to appear and disappear, so that I’m never fully convinced they’re actually there.

All in all, Kitchen Dancer has the kernel of a good idea but – in its current guise – it’s under-developed. I’d love to see a version of this where I feel fully immersed in SkyeC’s world and can really empathise with her situation.

3 stars

Susan Singfield

1984

27/10/26

The Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

George Orwell’s 1949 novel is embedded into our cultural landscape, its ideas spreading far beyond the confines of the page. In the seven decades since it was published, its terminology has become ubiquitous: thought police, doublethink, Room 101 – and, most famously, Big Brother, who always knows what we’re up to, thanks to surveillance devices installed in our homes.

What time did you get in last night? Your doorbell knows. Hey, Siri. Alexa! Are you listening?

Of course, this means that it is endlessly adaptable (and endlessly adapted), horribly applicable to almost every political regime. So what’s a theatre-maker to do if they want to offer a fresh perspective? In this instance, playwright Chris Hannan has opted for a framing device highlighting 1984‘s Scottish origins, as Orwell builds his dystopia from a bed in Glasgow’s Hairmyres Hospital, where he’s being treated for TB. It works well, binding the fictional world to the real one, reminding us how easily Oceania could become our actuality.

The first act is impressive. Jack Tarlton convinces as both Orwell and his protagonist, the world-weary Winston Smith. It’s a demanding job (the actor is in every scene) and he handles it with aplomb, engaging us in the two men’s inner struggles: Orwell coming to terms with his physical decline, and Winston trying to retain his sense of self in the face of ruthless authoritarianism.

Tom Piper’s imposing design creates an immediate sense of oppression, with metal bars and grating dominating the prison-like set, where silent guards patrol an upper mezzanine. When Winston and his co-conspirator, Julia (Jessica Hardwick), venture out into the forbidden countryside for a tryst, the naif-style roll-on scenery is over-bright and fake looking, accentuating the couple’s wilful delusion. They’re not fooling anyone except themselves; Big Brother is just biding his time.

Unfortunately, the second act is not as successful as the first. Once Winston and Julia have been apprehended for their transgressions, the storytelling becomes more fragmented and we are afforded less insight into their characters. Winston’s torture is shown in a series of vignettes which, although visually arresting, are punctuated by long blackouts, which soon become tiresome. What’s more, although I like the idea of gender-swapping O’Brien, I can’t help thinking Irene MacDougall has been miscast here, exuding neither menace nor authority.

Perhaps the most disappointing element is the Room 101 sequence. I share Winston’s phobia of rats and yet I’m not at all moved. The box on Winston’s face means that we can’t see his reactions, while Heather Scott’s video design – a strength of the production up to this point – is too understated here, the images of the rodents too dark and close-up to really make out.

The hospital scenes ameliorate things somewhat, with Robert Jack and Irene Allan convincing as Dr Dick and Nurse Rankine respectively. Director Dominic Hill creates a palpable sense of Orwell’s desperate situation in these moments, illuminating both subtle and not-so subtle links to the novel.

All in all, this co-production between Glasgow’s Citizens’ Theatre, Dundee Rep and Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum offers an interesting and uniquely Scottish take on a modern classic. Despite some mis-steps, it’s nonetheless well worth seeing, especially in these post-truth times.

3.6 stars

Susan Singfield

Thrice

24/10/26

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

“Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up nine. Peace! The charm’s wound up.”

Thrice is a visually compelling hour of dance theatre, set – according to Al Seed Productions – in the aftermath of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The king is dead; long live the witches!

Lina Limosani’s choreography is impeccable, the nine-strong ensemble moving with eerie precision, first in perfect unison, then spinning out of control. They writhe, they twist, they play – and they march. These women are moving from the margins and claiming centre stage.

Although there is no clear narrative, Judith Milligan has directed some arresting scenes. I like the repeated chanting of Lady Macbeth’s lines (“The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?”), suggestive of the way that nursery rhymes often originate in response to turbulent times before being stripped of their context and transformed into children’s songs. The sequence where the witches re-enact Macbeth’s beheading is another highlight.

Set, lighting and sound design (courtesy of Frankie Collier-Prickett, Alberto Santos Bellido and Guy Veale respectively) are the keystones of this piece, creating a suitably weird environment for the witches to inhabit. The set comprises two huge tree-like sculptures, as well as a circular stone structure, which seems to symbolise both water well and burial cairn. All the while, the pulsing soundscape ebbs and flows from pretty birdsong to pulsing menace. It’s a compelling mix.

However, without the anchor of a story arc, this feels fragmented and untethered, too slippery for me to hold on to. It’s like the films they show in art galleries: cleverly conceived and fascinating to watch, but a little of it goes a long, long way. Some of the later sections overstay their welcome, particularly the one where the women perform a kind of never-ending progressive folk dance.

Despite these misgivings, the production has much to commend it – and I’d truly love to see these particular witches as part of a production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

3.2 stars

Susan Singfield

Ottolenghi Edinburgh

22/10/26

George Street, Edinburgh

We mainly know Yotam Ottolenghi from his Guardian food columns, where he publishes the kind of recipes we drool over, despite knowing we’re never going to attempt to cook them (the ingredients lists are long and intimidating; the processes time-consuming and complex). We’re not expecting to actually taste his food – he has restaurants in Geneva, Amsterdam and London, but none elsewhere in the UK. So when we hear he’s venturing north of the border and opening a new place in Edinburgh, we know it won’t be long before we try it out.

It’s a perfect Autumn day: the sky clear and blue, the air cold and crisp. We’re booked in for a late lunch, so we take our time walking from our Old Town tenement to the New Town, where Ottolenghi sits between two clothing shops, its windows vibrant and enticing. The interior is light and bright with splashes of red and yellow, a long central bar dominating the space. The ceiling is double height, with a mezzanine over the back third. It’s not exactly a calm environment but neither is it overwhelming. There’s just the right amount of buzz.

We’re quickly seated and given our menus, as well as an allergy guide (because I can’t have gluten). I’m pleased to see that there are lots of dishes I can eat. While we consider our options, we order drinks: an alcohol-free cherry Americano for me and a 0% Cold Town lager for Philip. They both slip down very nicely.

We opt to share a single portion of the starter selection, which comprises six little dishes: roasted peperonata; miso butter bean mash with kalamata olive preserve; Fasolakia beans with feta cream; cucumber achar; burnt aubergine; and beetroot with cherry and sour cream. Neither of us likes the burnt aubergine, but the rest of it is delicious, especially the beetroot and Fasolakia. There’s a nice mix of the creamy and the acidic but, while Philip is able to slather the various dips onto a delightful flatbread, there’s no gluten-free equivalent available for me, which diminishes the experience somewhat.

For our main, we have one of the menu’s ‘claypot sharers’ – a lamb and aubergine rice pie, served with chopped dill pickle. This is an absolute triumph. Essentially a pimped-up shepherd’s pie, it consists of a richly flavoured lamb, lentil and aubergine filling, topped with rice, pecorino cheese and sour cream. It’s comfort food dialled up to eleven.

The pudding menu looks appealing but only two of them are available to me. No matter: I’m sold on the idea of the miso clotted cream fudge, and as happy as Larry (whoever he is) nibbling on the five pieces of sweet, salty goodness that come my way. Philip selects a kumquat marmalade steamed pudding, served with a delectably light sabayon. He declares it the star of the show and eats it slowly, savouring every mouthful, not wanting the pleasure to end.

Executive chef Neil John Campbell can be proud of what he’s achieved here, and so can the front of house staff, who are all friendly and attentive in a relaxed, authentic way. When we enthuse about our main course, we’re informed that the recipe is in Ottolenghi’s latest cookbook, Simple Too – and that all the dishes in this book are, as the title suggests, relatively easy to make. We waste no time in buying a copy.

And then we leave, replete and satisfied, back out into our beloved city. I can’t think of a better way we could have spent this afternoon.

4.6 stars

Susan Singfield

Bottom’s Dream

20/10/26

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Bottom’s Dream is the last of this season’s A Play, A Pie and A Pint productions (boo!) but, as final flourishes go, this one is rather fabulous (hurrah!).

Writer/performer Martin O’Connor plays Nick Bottom. You know the one: Shakespeare’s rude mechanical, the amateur player who’s turned into an ass for the fairies’ amusement, the butt of all the jokes. In this iteration, he’s still a weaver and wannabe actor, but it’s 2026 and he lives in Glasgow. Oh, and he speaks in iambic pentameter. In Scots.

The monologue opens at an audition, where Bottom is trying out for Hercules. He doesn’t know the protocol; heck, he’s not even sure how to pronounce the character’s name. Still, what he lacks in experience, he makes up for with enthusiasm. He’ll give anything a go if they’ll offer him a chance. But there’s the rub: they won’t. He doesn’t fit the industry’s idea of an actor. The only parts he’s cast for are junkies and thugs.

O’Connor imbues Bottom with both a weary dignity and a righteous anger, illuminating his frustration with a world that pigeonholes him as a tradie and blocks him from fulfilling his dreams. He’s proud of his work – there’s a gloriously lyrical section about weaving as the bedrock of language and art – but he doesn’t want to be reduced to it. He attends acting lessons, but he doesn’t fit in with his middle-class peers, who assume he got his place because he “ticked a box” (as if they’re not there because they tick all the invisible boxes). Why are there so many obstacles?

Debbie Hannan’s direction keeps everything building. By the time we get to his end-of-term showcase, we’re fully invested in Bottom’s dream – and devastated for him when it all goes wrong. There’s a lot resting on the performance: the grande dame of casting agents, Titania Peaseblossom, has deigned to leave London for her native Glasgow in order to offer feedback to the students. Bottom is disappointed to have been cast as a donkey, but he tries to make the most of it, desperately pushing himself further and further into the role. He gives it his all.

To no avail. No one gets it. They think he’s ridiculous. So ridiculous, in fact, that one of his classmates films him and posts a clip online. He goes viral – and not in a good way. He’s meme fodder.

But it takes a lot to keep Bottom down. Working-class actors don’t have many routes in – and it turns out being a social media ass can open doors. There’s a lot of snobbery about influencers and reality TV celebs, but there aren’t many other ways in for the dispossessed, for those aspiring creatives with neither family money nor industry connections. O’Connor’s bravura one-man performance illustrates just how un-level the playing field is, and how the working-classes often have to abase themselves to get a foot on the first rung.

There’s a lot to this play. The script is clever, combining wit with sharp political commentary. And in the end, Bottom roars loud enough to “do any man’s heart good to hear [him].”

4.5 stars

Susan Singfield

Whirlybird

15/10/26

Victoria Street, Edinburgh

We’re halfway through painting our kitchen. It’s not a difficult job (we have a small kitchen and a banging playlist) but there are two negatives:

  1. The flat feels messy with all our kitchen stuff cluttering up the living room; and
  2. It’s difficult to cook.

If only we lived in a foodie city with lots of options for a decent lunch.

Oh, wait…

Of course, we have our go-to favourites but today we feel like trying somewhere new. Whirlybird has been popping up on our TikTok and Instagram feeds so we decide to check it out. Predictably, we’re not the only ones who’ve caught the social media hype, so – even on a dull October weekday afternoon – the restaurant is busy and we can’t see any spare seats. No matter, it’s bigger than it looks, with a spiral staircase winding up to two further (and just as stylish) dining rooms, all warm tones and exposed stone.

The staff are friendly and knowledgeable, reassuringly matter-of-fact about gluten-free options. We order drinks (a ‘Nae’ alcohol-free pale ale for Phil, from Leith’s Newbarns Brewery and a Bon Accord rhubarb soda for me) and begin to peruse the menu.

We’re focused on the ‘lunch favourites’ section because neither of us wants a heavy meal in the middle of the day (we’ve still got painting to do). I opt for the brûléed goat’s cheese with heritage beetroot, pickled pear, a balsamic reduction and pecans. I also order a side of chicken-salt fries, while Phil goes for the chargrilled chicken, which comes with fries already included, as well as sourdough, feta, poached plum, jalapeno and mint.

I enjoy my meal. The goat’s cheese is thick and creamy, the flavour enhanced by the charring (or brûléeing). The beetroot and pear complement it well. The chicken-salt fries are delicious – and very necessary, as I think I’d be hungry without them.

Philip gets a lot more bang for his buck; indeed, all of the other lunches we see are more substantial than the goar’s cheese. The chicken is succulent. the feta punchy and the poached plums “just perfect.”

All in all, we’re very happy with our lunch. Whirlybird is a rare creature, managing to be “quietly Scottish,” understated and authentic, despite its tourist-trap location on Edinburgh’s most photogenic street.

In that same vein, it’s time for an Honourable Munchion. Our way home takes us through the Grassmarket, so of course we have to stop at Mary’s Milk Bar for a scoop of the city’s finest ice cream (pumpkin and berry jam for me; cherries and cream for Phil).

Some places go viral for good reason.

Now, where’s my paintbrush?

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Contact

13/10/26

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Play number three of the Traverse’s current PPP season is top-notch: a taut two-hander about a complex mother-son relationship.

Although the subject matter is serious – covering generational trauma and domestic violence – it’s served with a generous helping of playwright Jonny Donahoe’s trademark wit, so that there is plenty of light to make the shade palatable.

Blythe Duff plays Mother, a lonely Gen X-er with a tough protective layer of sarcasm and defensiveness. Her Gen-Z son (Mark Barrett) is fed up of her constant needling so he issues her an ultimatum. His wife is pregnant and he wants things sorted before his child is born. Otherwise, he’ll never see his mum again.

Mother reluctantly agrees to a weekly meeting, although she finds it hard to open up in the way he wants her to. She’s all for (metaphorically) sweeping things under the carpet and (literally) burning old photographs; meanwhile, he wants to take her to task about the way her parenting has shaped him, to talk about his abusive father and the myriad ways Mother has always let him down.

They’re both in therapy but it doesn’t really seem to help. Maybe they need to go together instead of separately. As it is, Mother’s counsellor tells her Son has stifled her potential, while Son’s mentor has instigated this all-or-nothing plan. It doesn’t seem as if there’s any way through.

The humour comes from Mother’s unfiltered sniping. “You’ve put on weight,” she tells him – and that’s the nicest thing she says. No wonder Son thinks she’s brutal and uncompromising. But Duff’s nuanced performance allows the audience to see more: a brittle, damaged woman, just trying to survive.

The writing is superb, presenting a thorny situation without pretending there is an easy answer (or, indeed, any answer at all). Director Ben Standish keeps things simple, allowing the dialogue to do the work. I like the contrast between the abstract style of the confrontations and the hyper-realistic ending, perfectly complemented by Gillian Argo’s set design.

Contact is a compelling, provocative play – and an ideal fit for the one-hour lunchtime slot. Catch it if you can!

4.6 stars

Susan Singfield

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

09/10/26

The Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

The titular educator is an Edinburgh icon, her legacy woven into the fabric of the city, from the Vennel’s Miss Jean Brodie Steps to Bruntsfield’s Muriel Spark Walk. Her very name references Deacon Brodie, one of the city’s most infamous 18th century luminaries, a thief and philanderer she proudly claims as her ancestor. Perhaps her duplicitous nature is part of her DNA.

This vibrant production (from the National Theatre of Scotland, The Royal Lyceum and Pitlochry Festival Theatre) breathes new life into the old favourite, amplifying the teacher’s allure as well as her failings.

It’s 1935. In Europe, Adolf Hitler is a rising threat but Benito Mussolini, although polarising, is admired by many for his bold authoritarianism. Primary school teacher Miss Jean Brodie (Gayle Rankin) is certainly a fan: she shares his aesthetic obsession with order and control. Like the Italian fascist, she is a charismatic leader – and her classroom is her country.

Miss Brodie’s eleven-year-old pupils are in their final year of Juniors and she’s supposed to be preparing them for their Senior school entrance exam. Instead, as soon as her classroom door is closed, she kicks off her shoes and denounces the system. She lambasts the conservative Miss Mackay (Maureen Beattie), encouraging the girls to mock their headmistress. In lieu of maths, she shares bon mots; rather than history, she tells tales of her holidays. In short, Miss Brodie casts a spell over her students, inspiring a cult-like devotion that feeds her monstrous ego.

Of course, we’d call it grooming nowadays. Miss Brodie’s ‘set’ are carefully selected for their pliability and romanticism, wooed with flattery, sex-talk, secrets and booze. For preteens Sandy (Bobby Rainsbury), Jenny (Shreya Khaund Marshall), Monica (Tallulah Greive), Mary (Liberty Black) and Joyce Emily (Sophie Fortune), it’s a heady, irresistible mix, in stark contrast to Miss Mackay’s moribund regime. But children have a habit of growing up and noticing their heroines’ feet of clay. And who is Miss Brodie without her posse of adoring fans?

Written by David Harrower and directed by Vicky Featherstone, this adaptation of Sparks’ best-known novel is a triumph, with a clarity of vision that renders the play every bit as engaging as its protagonist. The three-hour running time flies by. Rankin is mesmerising as the charismatic lead; it’s easy to understand why the girls are so in thrall to her, not to mention her two suitors, drippy, devoted Mr Lowther (Brian Ferguson) and brooding badass Mr Lloyd (Dyfan Dwyfor).

Chloe Lamford’s spectacular set design – a giant semi-circle of tiered steps – resembles nothing so much as a Roman amphitheatre (with the auditorium completing the circle), the perfect venue for the gladiatorial-style battle Miss Brodie believes she is engaged in, determined as she is to promote individualism and free the girls from the tyranny of ‘team spirit’. Behind the steps, Lewis den Hertog’s enormous video projections throw up ever-changing images, from Proto-Renaissance art to fascist marches, Miss Brodie’s adult worldliness dwarfing her young acolytes’ limited experience. No wonder she clings to her job so passionately; in this arena, she appears all-knowing.

I love Anna Orton’s costume design, Miss Brodie’s outfits reflecting the different stages of the girls’ relationship with her. When Rankin first enters, striking a powerful pose centre stage, she’s dressed flamboyantly in a fitted pink leather skirt and a green shirt with oversized, wing-like sleeves. We see her through her pupils’ eyes as she morphs from exotic and exciting to strong and commanding, changing into a structured suit with sharp lines and pagoda shoulders. As the girls grow older and she confides in them about her love-life, she begins to dress in a more overtly sexy way (cue tight-fitting zebra print) before finally being cut down to size, literally undressed and relegated to a nursing home and a dull dressing gown.

The girls’ costumes are interesting too. In the first act, they wear simple black smocks, complete with white collars and black knee socks. After the interval, it takes me a few minutes to notice a subtle difference: the dresses are now sheer, the girls’ sensible underwear clearly visible beneath. The imagery is clever in its simplicity, showing how the girls are becoming young women, their sexuality burgeoning despite the school’s strictures.

It’s also a sign that Miss Brodie’s reign is coming to an end.

To be honest, when I re-read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie a few years ago, I didn’t enjoy it, and I wondered if the story had lost its potency. Thanks to this magnificent production, I now know that it has not.

5 stars

Susan Singfield