The Witches was published in 1983, almost 20 years after Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and is a darker, slighter work. Roald Dahl, asked towards the end of his life to share his genius in eight tips on how to write children’s books, put at the top of his slightly flip list: Just add chocolate. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the chocolate is magnificent, gorgeous, an edible landscape. In The Witches, the chocolate, like almost everything else in the story, is poisoned. Lyndsey Turner’s no-expense-spared, no-talent-skipped evil jamboree of a production, with animated book by Lucy Kirkwood and catchy music by Dave Malloy, is unafraid of the dark. I am not sure what the minimum audience age for the show is but I found it terrifying, though for those happy to wallow in the black molasses of fantastical cruelty, these will be witching hours to savour.
The look is gothic Disney with tree trunks like talons – a predatory forest waiting to claw you into the afterlife (designer Lizzie Clachan). An army of women, ostensibly a society for the Protection of Cruelty for Children, convene at the Hotel Magnificent, but once their gloves and hairpieces are off, they are revealed to be bald, sinister and pitiless witches (Dahl was accused of misogyny when the book came out). Katherine Kingsley is fearsome as the shrieking head witch with a dash of Marlene Dietrich about her: a femme fatale who actually plans to kill you.
Sally Ann Triplett gives an eccentrically nuanced performance as the grandmother – a shouty, unhinged Norwegian with fur hat, splendid carpet bag and Cuban cigar – who adopts Luke after his parents die in a car crash. But the show-stealers are the children. Bruno, a greedy, posh little prig (a classic Dahl creation), was, on press night, pricelessly played by Cian Eagle-Service, who, like an infant Fred Astaire, brought the house down, adding in a hilariously world-weary smirk, as if disowning what he was doing. Bertie Caplan’s Luke had winning poise too, and Jersey Blu Georgia an artless charm as Helga (Gran’s gnome confidante). In this story, children get turned into mice, and it’s mouse management that is defeating the hotel staff. As the manager, Mr Stringer, Daniel Rigby is blissfully funny – his mounting stress wittily choreographed. The National’s show is sure to be a hit and I blame Dahl for my stubbornly ongoing reservations. Leaving a boy to remain a mouse, with only nine years to live, is not my kind of happy ending.
Ibsen’s Ghosts (1881) is a claustrophobic masterpiece and challenging to get right: it is a tragedy involving syphilis and incest that teeters perilously on the edge of melodrama. Although the candelabras with real candles in Rosanna Vize’s design are beautiful (lit at the beginning, blown out at the end), Joe Hill-Gibbins’s production at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse is not helped by the underfurnished set. Ibsen’s full, complex, upholstered drama does not lend itself to empty space, and the bizarre decision to have maroon fur underfoot seems to maroon (in the other sense) the actors. The result is that their accomplished performances come across like polished rehearsals.
Hill-Gibbins’s new version of the text takes on with aplomb its dysfunctional sparring and sustained adversarial pitch, but does not quite release it from a problematic starchiness. Having said that, the casting itself is irreproachable: Hattie Morahan brings hectic urgency to Mrs Alving, and Paul Hilton as Father Mandors is superb: a meddler who appears to be a virtuous bully until you realise he has no virtue in him. Stuart Thompson is moving as the stricken Osvald. His love-interest, Regine, is played with aggrieved dignity by Sarah Slimani, while Greg Hicks convinces as her unshaven rascal of a father, Engstrand (Norway’s answer to Eliza Doolittle’s dad in Pygmalion).
Two Strangers (Carry a Cake Across New York) is a British musical by Jim Barne and Kit Buchan that comes to us like a surprise gift – it’s fresh, funny, ironic, inventive and moving, adjectives that wilt in the face of a pick-me-up of a show, what we need in hard times. (Full disclosure: Buchan has freelanced at the Observer, though I have not encountered him.) What should be added here is that this musical never subsides into fairytale; its charm is in an intelligently calculated magic that does not lose sight of real life in all its bittersweetness and struggle.
Soutra Gilmour’s playful set looks like the Pompeii of baggage reclaim (a tower of grey suitcases). There is aircraft noise overhead and a single case sails repeatedly around the carousel until reclaimed by Dougal, irresistibly played by Sam Tutty, who won a best actor Olivier for Dear Evan Hansen. Dougal is an infuriating cherub of a Brit, thrilled to be in New York. When he sings “Are you ready for me in New York?” you cringe on his behalf as he whizzes his wheelie case around in ecstasy. Tutty brilliantly manages the shifts between assurance and gauche idiocy – his performance is a treat.
He is collected at JFK by Robin, sister of the young woman marrying his father (whom he has never met). He has been unexpectedly invited to the wedding and is in New York for 36 hours. Robin proves glamorously offhand, a foil to Dougal. She is played by the wonderful Dujonna Gift (the surname spot on). Robin works in a coffee shop and the barista’s question in her song “What’ll It Be?” opens out beautifully to interrogate her life. Throughout, the lyrics are novel, including a diverting song that sets the rhythm of swiping on Tinder to music. Tim Jackson’s production – no conventional romcom – is flawless. This show rings – and sings – true.
Star ratings (out of five)
Witches ★★★
Ghosts ★★★
Two Strangers ★★★★★
