4.5/5 stars. We went back to Stratford-upon-Avon for our third RSC trip this year, this time to see Jonathan Groff take on Rosalind in Daniel Evans’ all-male production of As You Like It. I’ll admit, I went in with a little trepidation. Over the past few years, we’ve seen quite a few big American names come over to have a go at Shakespeare, with varying degrees of success. Unfortunately, some have demonstrated that perhaps being very famous and being able to deliver Shakespearean dialogue are not necessarily the same skill. So when Jonathan Groff was announced as Rosalind, in a production directed by Evans, I was intrigued but slightly nervous. That said, Groff is hardly a celebrity randomly parachuting into classical theatre. He is an accomplished stage performer, with Spring Awakening, Hamilton and his Tony-winning performance in Merrily We Roll Along among his Broadway credits. However, this marks his RSC debut. The only question was: could he do Shakespeare? The answer, rather pleasingly, is yes. Within minutes I found myself thinking about Kenneth Branagh’s film of Much Ado About Nothing, which made me wonder whether I had been unfair in assuming that American actors face a greater hurdle with Shakespeare simply because the form is so deeply embedded in British culture. Perhaps Shakespeare doesn’t require a British passport after all. For anyone whose school English lessons are now a distant and possibly deliberately suppressed memory, As You Like It follows Rosalind, who is banished from court and escapes into the Forest of Arden with her cousin Celia. Rosalind disguises herself as a young man called Ganymede, then encounters Orlando – the man she has already fallen in love with. Orlando, naturally, has no idea that the young man offering to cure him of his lovesickness is actually the woman he loves. It’s Shakespeare. Obviously nobody explains themselves and goes home. I was very pleasantly surprised by the production. It is creative, funny and enormously playful. Admittedly I found the second half more engaging than the first, but the performances make Shakespeare’s language feel accessible rather than something you need to have revised beforehand. The all-male casting also works far better than I expected. Evans uses it not simply to recreate Elizabethan conventions, but to explore the play’s ideas about gender, identity, attraction and performance. When a man plays a woman who disguises herself as a man while teaching another man how to woo the woman he doesn’t realise he’s speaking to, Shakespeare’s delight in theatrical confusion becomes impossible to miss. One of my standout performances was Fisayo Akinade as Celia. His physicality is brilliant: a movement, look or reaction often communicates more than words, and he remains watchable even when he isn’t speaking. In a production packed with comedy, he finds humour without constantly appearing to search for the laugh. Other noteable performances included Greg Haiste as Touchstone and Gareth Snook as Audrey. In truth though everyone excels in the ensemble cast. And then there’s Groff. His Rosalind genuinely surprised me. There is a wonderful directness to his performance, particularly in the second half when Rosalind, disguised as Ganymede, becomes sharper and more forthright with Phoebe (played brilliantly by Tim Preston). Groff’s American accent works especially well here, adding an unexpectedly modern edge to his delivery. There are occasions where it can be argued his enthusiasm and projection are perhaps a little too much, but ultimately he manages to be engaging whilst capturing both Rosalind’s intelligence and vulnerability as the play progresses. Elsewhere, the staging is deceptively simple but effective. I also loved the music (Luke McCall's voice is exceptional). The songs and arrangements arrive at exactly the right moments, adding another dimension without losing sentiment. Most importantly, this production is funny. The comic timing is excellent, and the production never becomes so reverential that it forgets the essence of As You Like It. Its warmth and silliness make the whole thing remarkably accessible. After seeing several productions in Stratford this year, this felt very different – less stately, perhaps, and considerably more mischievous. I went in cautiously wondering whether an American Broadway star playing Rosalind in an all-male As You Like It might be one theatrical idea too many. I came out thinking it was a roaring success. Groff and indeed the whole cast appear to be having a genuinely wonderful time and that sense of enjoyment is infectious. Admittedly the first half took me a little longer to settle into; Groff occasionally delivers enough energy to power most of Warwickshire, and I would have liked a clearer distinction between Rosalind and Ganymede but these are small criticisms of a production that is clever, warm, inventive and incredibly enjoyable. It’s only playing at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre until 7 November, and I appreciate that Stratford-upon-Avon isn’t exactly somewhere you casually pop into on the way home. But if you can get yourself there, go. It turns out Jonathan Groff can do Shakespeare. And rather annoyingly, he can do it very well. I'm beginning to think there is nothing he can't do! Accessibility at Stratford-upon-Avon Overall, I found the accessibility at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre really good, with helpful staff on hand throughout the building if you need assistance. There is one accessible toilet on the Stalls level, and the queue can get quite long depending on how many people need to use the accessible facilities. There were quite a few of us at yesterday’s performance, so there was a bit of a wait. The main theatre has several wheelchair spaces, and I had a great, unobstructed view of the stage without feeling as though I was blocking anyone behind me. There’s plenty of room, and companions can sit directly alongside you. One thing I particularly liked is that, if you book early enough, it’s possible to book the surrounding seats as well. There were four of us in our group and we were all able to sit together, which made a real difference and isn’t something you can always do at theatres. The shop and surrounding corridors can get very busy, particularly as everyone leaves after the performance, so if you can, I’d recommend making a fairly prompt exit before the area becomes too congested. Overall, it was a very positive and comfortable experience. The staff were friendly and helpful; there was plenty of space around the wheelchair position. It felt as though accessibility had been properly considered rather than added as an afterthought

4/5 Stars Wicked has officially celebrated an incredible 20 years in London, and we were lucky enough to be at the Apollo Victoria Theatre for the 20th Anniversary Gala performance. However, in truth, the ‘Gala’ element was a bit misleading; unlike Les Misérables or Mamma Mia, there were no alumni performances or additional show-stopping moments. There were a couple of speeches from the lead actors (which went on a bit too long, in my opinion), a glass of fizz, some balloons, and the original cast standing at the back of the stage. It was all a bit underwhelming. Ok, back to the show: if you’ve listened to some of our earlier podcasts, you’ll know we’ve reviewed Wicked before, back before the films came along. This was our first visit to Oz in a few years – and interestingly, I noticed things this time that I’d completely missed before. For anyone who somehow doesn’t know the story, Wicked takes the world of The Wizard of Oz and turns it on its head. Based on Gregory Maguire’s novel, with music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, it imagines what happened before Dorothy dropped into Oz and asks a very simple question: what if the Wicked Witch wasn’t actually wicked? At its heart, it’s the story of Elphaba, the green-skinned young woman who will eventually become known as the Wicked Witch of the West, and Glinda, who will become Glinda the Good. They meet at university, initially can’t stand each other, and somehow develop this extraordinary friendship before their lives take them in very different directions. For the 20th anniversary, Emma Kingston leads the company as Elphaba alongside Zizi Strallen as Glinda, with Jordan Litz as Fiyero. Claire Machin joins them as Madame Morrible, Michael Matus as The Wizard, Yara Fabricante as Nessarose, Ross Carpenter as Boq and David McKechnie as Doctor Dillamond. And the performances as you would expect are fabulous. Kingston has the huge vocal power you need from an Elphaba, while Strallen is wonderfully funny as Glinda. The two of them really sell the relationship at the centre of the show, which for me has always been much more interesting than the romance. Wicked might have witches, wizards and flying monkeys, but underneath all of that spectacle, it’s really a story about friendship, identity, betrayal, prejudice and the people who change us. I also noticed much more of the production itself this time. The huge dragon above the stage seemed far more active than I remembered, and there are lots of clever little details in the staging that completely passed me by on our previous visit. And musically, there are moments in Wicked that still absolutely destroy me. There are two songs in particular where I am basically a blubbering wreck every single time: “Defying Gravity” and “For Good.” For me, Defying Gravity is ultimately about empowerment. It’s that moment of realising that the restraints and expectations other people place upon you don’t have to define who you are. You can set your own limits. You can choose who you want to be and, actually, who you know in your soul you are. And then there’s For Good, this song is about the people who come into our lives at different stages. Some stay forever, some are there for a relatively short time, but the effect they have on us can be immeasurable. We’ve all had friendships like that. Someone enters your life and, whether they remain in it or not, you are fundamentally different because you knew them. There is such power in the female friendship at the centre of Wicked, and I absolutely love that the relationship between these two women is ultimately the emotional heart of the whole thing. BUT…Come on we all knew there was going to be a but! My issue with Wicked remains pretty much the same as when we first reviewed it: the story gets messy. The concept is brilliant. Taking a character we all think we know as a villain and asking us to reconsider everything we’ve been told about her is genuinely clever. Where I struggle is when Wicked begins trying to weave itself directly into the events of The Wizard of Oz. The final third, in particular, doesn’t completely work for me. Once we start getting explanations for characters such as the Tin Man and the Scarecrow, and Wicked begins intersecting directly with Dorothy’s story, I find myself questioning the timeline rather than being swept along. Obviously this is fantasy. I’m not demanding documentary levels of historical accuracy from a musical containing flying monkeys. But because the show deliberately places itself alongside such a familiar story, I think those connections need to feel seamless – and for me, they don’t always. I almost wish it had either stayed more firmly within Elphaba and Glinda’s own story or found a slightly cleaner way of connecting the two worlds. I also wish they'd explored the storyline of the animals losing their voices further, which I think could have been a really interesting plot point but gets overlooked. Furthermore, Wicked is 20 years old – and in places, I think it is beginning to look it. That might be sacrilege to some Wicked fans who argue the beauty is in the nostalgic sense of the production, but hear me out. When this production opened in London in 2006, it was enormous. The scale, the mechanics, the flying, the sets and the visual effects were spectacular. They’re still impressive, but theatre technology and stagecraft have moved on enormously in 20 years. We’re now seeing productions doing extraordinary things with projections, video, automation, lighting and immersive scenic design. Against that backdrop, there are moments when Wicked no longer feels quite as visually magical as perhaps it once did. Without question, the show is doing something very right – you don’t survive in the West End for 20 years otherwise – and it has now passed 7,000 London performances and been seen by more than 13 million people in London. But prehaps importantly, it’s not selling out anymore. This could be in part because the Apollo Victoria itself is also enormous (officially more than 2,300 seats – so even a very healthy audience for another West End theatre can leave empty seats in this one, and it regularly does), but could it also be because it just doesn’t hit the same anymore? Before the films arrived, we saw Wicked on a Saturday night with noticeably large areas of empty seats, and it made me contemplate its next chapter. I know there will be Wicked devotees screaming at me for saying this but, I wonder whether the London production might benefit from stopping at some point, taking a little break, and eventually returning with a fresh look at how the story is delivered on stage. Not a completely different Wicked. I wouldn’t want to lose what makes the show special. Just a little bit of theatrical Botox. A spruce up. A bit of a zhuzh. A sprinkling of new magic dust. Because Wicked is unquestionably a London theatre classic, twenty years in one theatre is an extraordinary achievement, but the question for me isn’t whether Wicked has stood the test of time. It absolutely has. The question is whether this exact production can stand another 20 years without evolving. Despite my reservations about its future, twenty years after Wicked first arrived in London, there is still something pretty special about sitting underneath that giant dragon, hearing those opening notes and watching Elphaba take flight. It just might need a little sprinkling of new magic dust around the edges… but whatever happens when “Defying Gravity” kicks in, I’ll still be crying like a baby. ACCESSIBILITY Accessibility at the Apollo Victoria Theatre is interesting because it is a beautiful old Art Deco theatre dating from 1930, and access has essentially been retrofitted into a building that was never designed with wheelchair users in mind. The wheelchair-accessible seating is in Row F of the Dress Circle, where there are four wheelchair positions, located at either end of the row. You can also transfer into a theatre seat in Row F and have your wheelchair stored nearby. We personally prefer transferring because I think you get a better view. Getting there, however, is a bit of a journey. Step-free access is through the Vauxhall Bridge Road entrance, and you need to use two platform lifts – one taking you from street level into the foyer and another taking you from the foyer up to the Circle. The theatre recommends arriving around 30–45 minutes before the performance if you need to use them. And this is something you absolutely need to check before booking because the lifts have quite specific restrictions. The theatre currently states a maximum wheelchair size of 72cm wide by 93cm long, with a maximum combined weight of 150kg for the wheelchair and its user. Personally, I have to take my footplates off my powerchair to fit safely onto the lift. My chair isn’t particularly enormous, but with the footplates attached it’s too long for the lift’s safety flaps. So if you use a longer powerchair or scooter, or have fixed footplates that can’t easily be removed, please speak to the theatre before booking rather than assuming you’ll be able to use the lifts. The accessible toilet is on the foyer level, which creates another slight complication because if you’re sitting in the Dress Circle you need to use the platform lift again to get back down to it. And that became a genuine issue for us during the anniversary gala. The theatre was extremely busy and there was quite a queue for the accessible toilet. By the time we’d got down on the lift, queued for the toilet and then gone through the whole process of getting back onto the lift and up to the Dress Circle, the second half had already started before we got back into our seats. That’s worth knowing because a standard West End interval doesn’t leave you with masses of spare time when two lift journeys are involved. What I will say is that the access hosts were wonderful. They were attentive, patient and did everything they could to make the process as easy as possible. And the Apollo Victoria itself really is spectacular. It’s this huge, glorious Art Deco building that feels like part of the Wicked experience in its own right. So if the lift dimensions work for your wheelchair and you’re prepared for access to involve a little more faffing around than at some theatres, I certainly wouldn’t let it put you off.

4/5 stars Thelma & Louise: A New Musical is making its world premiere at the Young Vic, and I’m sure you’re probably thinking exactly what I was thinking: do we really need another screen-to-stage musical adaptation? Because, let’s face it, we’ve had a lot of them. Dirty Dancing, Ghost, The Devil Wears Prada, Heathers, Mean Girls, Back to the Future, Trainspotting, Mrs Doubtfire, Beetlejuice, Paddington… the list goes on. Turning a well-known film into a musical has become something of an industry in itself. So the prospect of another one was, if anything, slightly underwhelming. And Thelma & Louise presents an additional problem: it’s a road movie. For anyone who hasn’t seen the 1991 film, Thelma & Louise follows two friends who set off for a weekend away from their fairly unfulfilling lives. Thelma is trapped in an unhappy and controlling marriage, while Louise is more independent but carries her own scars from the past. Their weekend takes a devastating turn when Louise shoots a man who sexually assaults Thelma. Believing the authorities are unlikely to accept their version of events, the pair go on the run, beginning a journey across America that gradually transforms into something much bigger: an escape from the lives, expectations and people that have controlled them. What begins as a weekend road trip becomes a story about friendship, freedom, consequences and two people discovering what it feels like to take control of their own lives. More than 30 years after the film starring Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis, original screenwriter Callie Khouri has returned to her story and written the book for this new musical. Singer-songwriter Neko Case provides the music and lyrics, with Trip Cullman directing and Bobbi Jene Smith and Or Schraiber responsible for the choreography. Almost immediately, the production made me forget some of m initial reservations. From the moment the music started, I was transported to the American Deep South. There’s country music, line dancing and a roadside honky-tonk atmosphere that feels somewhere between Texas, Louisiana and Alabama. The choreography spills through the space and gives the opening a wonderfully immersive quality. It genuinely made me want to book a holiday to the southern United States, which probably wasn’t the intended outcome, but there we are. And then the songs and singing started. In fairness, they’re pretty good. Are they revolutionary? No. Did I leave the theatre singing them? Not really. But they are enjoyable and, more importantly, they don’t all merge into one another. Each has its own melody, mood and purpose. They feel like part of the storytelling rather than songs that have been inserted simply because somebody remembered they were making a musical. That makes a huge difference. At the centre of everything are Rachel Tucker as Louise and Amy Lennox as Thelma, and both are superb. I’ve seen Tucker in many productions over the years, and once again her voice is extraordinary. But this isn’t simply an opportunity for powerhouse vocals. Tucker gives Louise a toughness that gradually reveals something much more vulnerable underneath. Amy Lennox is every bit as charismatic as Thelma. She captures the character’s evolution from someone living within the confines of an unhappy controlling marriage into someone discovering what freedom might actually feel like. Crucially, Tucker and Lennox convince you of the friendship between these two people. Without that relationship, the entire story falls apart. Around them is an excellent supporting company. Trevor Dion Nicholas is particularly good as Hal, the detective pursuing the pair while increasingly understanding that what has happened isn’t quite as simple as the police investigation might suggest. And then there is Jordan Luke Gage as JD. Gage has been making quite a name for himself in musical theatre recently and he’s ridiculously charismatic here. His JD is charming enough that you completely understand why Thelma falls for him while still leaving just enough unease underneath. But the biggest challenge for this production was always going to be the car. You cannot really do Thelma & Louise without creating a sense that these two people are travelling across America. For most of the production, they solve that problem rather cleverly. Rather than attempting to squeeze a realistic car onto the Young Vic stage, strips of light race across the space, creating the impression of highways, movement and passing traffic. It’s simple, but surprisingly effective. As their journey moves further into the desert, the physical environment changes too. At one point sand is spread across the stage, transforming what had previously felt like an interior space into something much more open and exposed. Again, very simple. Very effective. Although my mind did wander slightly to who has the uneviable job of vacuum all that up every night? But I digress. There is, however, one moment where the stripped-back approach didn’t work for me, and unfortunately it’s probably the most famous moment in the entire story. So, spoiler warning — although the film came out in 1991, so you’ve all had 35 years to watch it. The ending. In the film, Thelma and Louise make that final decision together and drive towards the Grand Canyon. It’s one of the most recognisable endings in cinema. Here, the back of the stage opens to reveal the canyon, which is visually striking, but Thelma and Louise essentially stand together at the front of the stage holding hands. And it just didn’t quite land for me. It gave me slightly similar feelings to Jamie Lloyd’s Romeo & Juliet, where the famous balcony scene was stripped back and played at the front of the stage. I understand the theatrical argument for minimalism, but sometimes the physical image is an important part of the storytelling. I overheard someone leaving the theatre asking, “I thought they were in a car at the end and drove off a cliff?” They were. They do, but if you didn’t already know the film, I’m not entirely convinced this production makes that moment clear enough. Perhaps that is something that could develop if the musical has a future life on a larger stage. The reveal of the canyon creates the perfect opportunity for some representation of the car — it doesn’t necessarily need to be completely realistic — but I think it would give that final moment significantly more emotional impact. Because this production deserves that impact. Underneath the road trip, country music and humour, Thelma & Louise remains a surprisingly complex story. At its heart, it’s about two people who have spent years being controlled, diminished and hurt, and what happens when they finally decide that enough is enough. There’s something exhilarating about watching Thelma and Louise begin to live on their own terms, but the tragedy is that by the time they truly take ownership of their lives, the choices available to them are disappearing. And that’s what makes the story so emotionally compelling. The choices Thelma and Louise make, and the strength they find in each other, allow them to become more fully themselves. Yet just as they begin to take control of their own lives, the world around them seems determined to take that control away again. More than three decades after the film was released, it still makes you think about how much has changed — and perhaps how much hasn’t. I went into Thelma & Louise wondering whether the world really needed another movie turned into a musical. I came out thinking that maybe there is a place for this one. It isn’t perfect. I’d still like a stronger solution to that final iconic moment. I’m also not sure the score contains the sort of songs you’ll find yourself humming three days later andon balance I think it would have worked just as well as a play. However it’s enormously entertaining, visually inventive and performed brilliantly, with Tucker and Lennox giving the whole production a friendship worth rooting for. Most importantly, it understands what made Thelma & Louise endure in the first place. I walked in asking whether we really needed another 1990s film turned into a musical. By the time the lights came up, I had my answer: perhaps we don’t need another one — but I sure enjoyed this journey. Accessibility at the Young Vic From an accessibility perspective, the Young Vic worked really well for me. There is step-free access into the building, and the wheelchair position was reached via level access around to the bottom of the stalls. A chair was removed to create the wheelchair space, and the position at the corner gave me a genuinely good, unobstructed view of the stage. The only slightly bizarre issue was other audience members attempting to climb over me to reach their seats rather than going down three steps and back up three steps into their row. That’s obviously an audience issue rather than a theatre one, but it was an interesting experience nonetheless. The bar and foyer can also become very busy. On my visit, the Young Vic was hosting Shedinburgh elsewhere in the building, which made the space particularly crowded before the performance, so that is worth bearing in mind if busy spaces are difficult for you. There is an accessible toilet, and staff were excellent throughout my visit. An access host met me at the entrance and showed me through to the wheelchair position, which made the whole process very straightforward. So accessibility-wise, I’d happily return to the Young Vic.

3/5 stars We saw Sting’s musical The Last Ship at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, and I went into it really, really wanting to love it. We have such a strong personal connection to the North East. Diarmuid and I met there, we’ve spent a huge amount of time there and I spent a good proportion of my life living there. It’s somewhere that means a lot to both of us. The people are incredibly warm and welcoming and there's such a strong sense of community. Those communities were often built around huge industries: steel, coal mining, gas and shipbuilding. These weren’t simply places where people worked; they were the pillars of entire communities and became part of the identity of generations of families. Many of those industries have now disappeared, and that’s the world Sting is trying to capture with The Last Ship. Inspired by his childhood growing up in Wallsend, in the shadow of the shipyards, the musical feels almost like Sting’s love letter to his native land and to the people of the shipbuilding communities there. This reimagined production has music and lyrics by Sting, a new book by Barney Norris, direction by Leo Warner and Sting himself playing shipyard foreman Jackie White. Set in the 1980s, the story follows a shipyard that is closed down by the government and the community’s fight to reclaim their identity in the aftermath. The staging was incredible. It was fabulous, very cleverly done and atmospheric. The projections on the back of the stage of the ship were particularly impressive; it genuinely three-dimensional. During the welding sequences, the way the screen reacted to the performers made it look as though they were actually welding onto the ship. The production really captured the scale and physicality of the shipyard, and the dark industrial atmosphere was beautifully realised with the attention to detail for example with the shipyard gates. The acting was also excellent. In particular Jackie Morrison, who plays Sting’s wife, Peggy, was phenomenal. Her voice is absolutely stunning, and she delivered some of the strongest musical moments of the evening. And then, of course, there is Sting. He has an extraordinary presence, which also created one of my problems with the production. At the very beginning, Sting comes on stage and is raised above the action on a platform, with a spotlight on him while important narratives are happening underneath. The problem is… it’s Sting. You put Sting on a raised platform, shine a spotlight on him and expect me to watch everyone else? Absolutely no chance. He is so engaging and iconic, particularly because it’s the first time he appears on stage, that you are completely drawn to him. Everything else happening around him just passes you by. Later in the show, when they referred back to things that had happened in the opening scene, I realised I had missed most of it because I had been at a Sting concert. He is not somebody who naturally fades into the background – quite rightly so – but I found that piece of direction frustrating because it came at the expense of watching the rest of the action. We were also looking forward to seeing Shaggy, but apparently, despite the production only running for two weeks, he was only performing two days a week and wasn’t in the performance we saw. However my main disappointment was with the script itself. Although this version has a new book by Barney Norris, I still found some of the dialogue and transitions quite clunky. Too often, it felt as though a conversation simply stopped and a song began, almost as if the script said insert song here, rather than the music emerging naturally from the story. I also struggled with some of the storylines and, more specifically, just how believable they were. I found it difficult to believe that in a small, close-knit community nobody would have worked out that the father of the bar owners child was the boy she had been dating when she became pregnant. Then there’s the small matter of finishing a ship in just a few hours when it quite clearly appeared to have months of work left to do. These are just a couple of examples, but there were several moments where the plot required more thought and finesse beaucase the leap required for it all to work was too great. I’m absolutely willing to suspend disbelief in the theatre — sometimes that’s half the fun — but here there were just too many moments that pulled me out of the story rather than drawing me further into it. I also struggled with the tone and flow of the storytelling and direction at times. Without giving too much away, there is an incredibly emotional scene towards the end of the show where you have been completely emotionally devastated. Then, within the same scene the production moves into a big song-and-dance number. I found myself thinking: Am I supposed to be crying or happily dancing? Those two emotions just didn’t sit comfortably together. Instead of heightening the moment, the staging took me out of it. Don't get me wrong, I love Sting. I love his voice and I love his songs but within the music and lyrics, I felt that many of the songs blended into one another. There are some beautiful melodies and wonderful harmonies, particularly when the full company sings, but I didn’t leave with any song stuck in my head. Honestly I don't particularly want to hear any again. Most of the songs occupied a similar emotional and musical space, and it just didn’t quite work for me. And that probably sums up my experience of The Last Ship. There is much to admire and I appreciate the opportunity to see Sting and hear him sing. This is clearly a deeply personal project for Sting, and his affection for Wallsend and the shipbuilding community is unmistakable and commendable. The production looks spectacular, the performances are excellent and some of the staging is genuinely breathtaking. But emotionally and musically, it never completely connected with me. Given my love for the North East, my personal connection to the area and the fact that I already love Sting’s music, I really thought this was going to get me. It just… didn’t. There is a beautiful story here about community, identity and what happens when the industry around which generations have built their lives disappears. I just don’t think the book and score always allowed that story to land as powerfully as they could. Overall, The Last Ship just never really set sail for me. ⭐️⭐️⭐️ 3/5 ♿ ACCESSIBILITY – THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE Accessibility-wise, we have always found the Theatre Royal Drury Lane very good. There is a separate step-free entrance on Russell Street, where an access host will greet you as you arrive. They have a list of everyone on the access list, so they know who you are, where you are sitting and what assistance you need. They check your tickets and then escort you to your seats. We choose to transfer at Drury Lane. When we first started going, one of the reasons was that the wheelchair park spaces were positioned in a way that meant a wheelchair could potentially block other people’s views. I didn’t want to do that, so transferring felt like the best option. The wheelchair park spaces have since changed, so that may no longer be an issue, but we have continued transferring because it works well for us. The access team will check on you during the performance, and depending on how many mobility aids are in the auditorium, they may need to move your wheelchair outside. This has happened to us on a couple of occasions. On one occasion, when Diarmuid went to collect my wheelchair after the performance, people had placed empty glasses on it and were using it almost like a discarded table. Not ideal! Since then, staff have been able to cordon the wheelchair off when it needs to be stored outside the auditorium, which will hopefully stop people from doing that. So, if your wheelchair or mobility aid does need to be moved outside, it’s worth asking them to cordon it off. It's worth noting that Dury Lane is one of the few London theatres where two wheelchair users can sit together, either in the Royal Circle if they both wish to remain in their chairs or in the stalls transfer seats. Overall, we’ve always found the access team organised, welcoming and experienced in supporting different access requirements, which makes the whole visit much easier.

3/5 stars Tilda Swinton returning to the stage was always going to be a major theatrical event. But returning to the same role she first performed almost 40 years ago makes Man to Man something rather more unusual. Swinton first played Ella/Max in the UK premiere of Manfred Karge’s Man to Man at the Traverse Theatre and subsequently the Royal Court in the late 1980s. This new production reunites her with director Stephen Unwin, designer Bunny Christie and lighting designer Ben Ormerod, all of whom worked on that original production. Karge’s German text is translated by Anthony Vivis and has been revised for this production by Unwin. And that history is important, because I think it goes some way towards explaining what this production is. We were fortunate that the performance we attended was followed by a Q&A with Swinton and Unwin. Listening to them discuss the production, their friendship and a creative relationship stretching back decades actually changed the way I thought about what I’d just watched. It became clear that Man to Man isn’t simply another revival. It feels intensely personal to the people making it. Written by East German playwright Manfred Karge, the play follows Ella Gericke, a working-class woman in 1930s Germany who assumes the identity of her dead husband, Max, in order to survive. From there, Ella’s extraordinary life carries her through some of the darkest chapters of 20th-century German history, including Nazism, war, division and eventually the fall of the Berlin Wall. Swinton is the only performer, playing Ella/Max as well as conjuring the other people who move through her life. At its heart is a fascinating idea. By becoming the man she loved, Ella survives, but that survival comes at an enormous cost. She loses something of herself in the process. She carries grief for the man she lost, for the woman she might have been and for the life she might otherwise have lived. There is also tremendous loneliness in that existence. Ella can survive as Max, but she can never completely reveal herself to the people around her. As an exploration of identity, sacrifice, grief and survival, there is something incredibly powerful here. Did I always find it fascinating to watch? Unfortunately, no. There is absolutely no questioning Swinton’s commitment to this performance. Her physicality is extraordinary, and watching one performer fill the Royal Court stage for around 85 minutes is impressive in itself. She shifts between characters, moods and periods of Ella’s life with remarkable confidence, and there are moments when you become acutely aware that you’re watching an actor with an enormous range at her disposal. But some of the creative choices left me puzzled. Perhaps the biggest was the voice. Swinton gives Ella/Max a broad London accent, despite the story being so specifically rooted in Germany. I kept waiting for that decision to click into place for me, but it never quite did. That doesn’t necessarily mean it is the wrong choice. During the Q&A it became apparent just how thoroughly Swinton and Unwin have interrogated this text and how deliberate the details of the production are. But there’s a difference between understanding that a choice has been carefully considered and actually connecting with it as an audience member. For me, that gap remained. Visually, Man to Man is packed with ideas. Bunny Christie’s design is relatively sparse, but objects, projections and physical actions accumulate meaning as Ella travels through German history. Ben Ormerod’s lighting, Elena Peña’s sound and Matt Powell’s projections all contribute to a production that often feels more like fragments of memory than a conventional narrative. One image I found particularly effective was the line of red tape dividing the stage, its eventual removal echoing the fall of the Berlin Wall. It’s a simple visual device, but one whose meaning is immediately clear. Other moments were far harder for me to decipher. At one point Swinton pours beer over herself. At another, ketchup is thrown against the wall. I’m sure these moments have significance within the production’s visual language, but sitting in the audience I couldn’t always find my way into them. And that became my difficulty with the evening as a whole. There were lots of individual images, actions and ideas that I could admire. But I couldn’t always connect them into a satisfying whole. It sometimes felt like looking at an elaborate collage: you can recognise the individual pieces and appreciate the thought that’s gone into arranging them, but when you stand back, the overall picture doesn’t necessarily become any clearer. This is where the conversation afterwards became unexpectedly important. Listening to Swinton and Unwin talk about Man to Man, you could sense their affection for the material and for the production they first created together decades ago. This isn’t a case of dusting off an old show and simply recreating it. The text and staging have been revisited and reconsidered for a different world and for artists who are themselves almost four decades older. The current version has been revised by Unwin, and the production is due to continue to Edinburgh, Berlin and New York. It made me reconsider something. Perhaps my problem was that I was looking for Man to Man to communicate everything directly to me, whereas much of what I was watching had emerged from an extraordinarily long and personal creative conversation between these artists. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the production isn’t for its audience — ultimately, theatre has to communicate with the people sitting in front of it. But this particular production does feel like a passion project: an opportunity for Swinton and Unwin to return to something that clearly means an enormous amount to both of them and ask what it means to them now. Seen from that perspective, I found it rather moving. It didn’t suddenly make all the moments I had struggled with work. But it made me appreciate why the production exists. Man to Man left me in the unusual position of admiring a production considerably more than I actually enjoyed it. Manfred Karge’s central idea remains powerful. Bunny Christie’s design contains some striking imagery, Stephen Unwin’s production is clearly extraordinarily considered, and Tilda Swinton gives a fearless and completely committed performance. But I also found it fragmented, occasionally baffling and, despite the fascinating life at its centre, not consistently engaging. And that’s okay. The Q&A reminded me that you don’t necessarily have to love a piece of theatre to find something worthwhile in experiencing it. I left with considerably more appreciation for what Swinton, Unwin and their collaborators were attempting than I’d had when the applause initially began. Nearly four decades after they first explored Ella’s story together, they’ve returned to it as very different people in a very different world. I’m glad I saw it. I’m glad I heard them explain what it means to them. But ultimately, I admired it more than I connected with it. ★★★☆☆ – 3/5 ♿ Accessibility at The Royal Court Theatre The Royal Court Theatre is located just off Sloane Square in Chelsea. The accessible entrance is separate from the main entrance, situated to the side of the building, but it’s clearly signposted and easy to find. Once inside, there’s a lift providing access to the relevant levels. The main Jerwood Theatre Downstairs is, as the name suggests, downstairs, while the smaller Jerwood Theatre Upstairs is on an upper level. There are accessible toilets within the building, as well as a bar which is normally reached using a platform lift. Unfortunately, the platform lift wasn’t working when we visited, so I wasn't able to access the bar (don't worry I sent Diarmuid!). There is, however, a small waiting area outside the auditorium where we could comfortably wait for the theatre doors to open. When I originally booked these tickets, I wasn’t particularly familiar with the Royal Court’s booking system. They were also booked quite some time ago, alongside Gary Oldman’s show. With both productions being incredibly sought-after, I simply grabbed what I could and booked an end-of-row transfer seat. As it turned out, that worked brilliantly for me. The seats at the Royal Court are surprisingly comfortable, which isn’t something you can take for granted in a London theatre! The armrests lift up, making transferring from a wheelchair relatively straightforward, and my wheelchair could then be stored safely in the cloakroom during the performance. I’ve also found the productions we’ve seen here tend to have relatively manageable running times, so combining a shorter show with a genuinely comfortable seat makes transferring a much more practical option for me. At the end of the performance, I personally find it easier to remain in my seat while the majority of the audience leaves. The space around the auditorium can become quite tight when everyone is exiting at once, so waiting a few minutes until it has cleared gives me much more room to transfer back into my wheelchair and leave comfortably. There wasn’t a dedicated access host during our visit, but in this particular theatre I didn’t feel that I needed one. The Royal Court is relatively compact and straightforward to navigate, and the staff we encountered were incredibly helpful whenever we needed anything. My only real disappointment on this visit was the platform lift to the bar being out of action. Otherwise, I’ve found the Royal Court a very manageable theatre to visit as a wheelchair user. If you’re planning a visit and have specific access requirements, I would recommend contacting the theatre beforehand to discuss the different wheelchair and transfer options available. Everyone’s requirements are different, and what works brilliantly for me won’t necessarily work for another wheelchair user. And if, like me, you can transfer comfortably, don’t immediately discount the transfer seats — those Royal Court seats are considerably more comfortable than I was expecting!

4.5/5 stars Last night we headed to the Almeida Theatre to see the much-anticipated revival of Golden Boy, starring Josh O’Connor, Daniel Mays and Hayley Squires. Written by Clifford Odets in 1937 and directed here by Sam Yates, it is a play about ambition, identity, love and what we are prepared to sacrifice in pursuit of success. The production is currently sold out, although the Almeida advises checking for returns and trying the returns queue at the theatre. If you don’t manage to get a ticket, there is some good news: Golden Boy will be screened in cinemas worldwide through National Theatre Live from 5 November. And this is absolutely one I would suggest looking out for. It’s a simple story, exceptionally told. Set in Depression-era New York, Golden Boy follows Joe Bonaparte (Josh O’Connor), a gifted young violinist who finds himself drawn away from music and towards the far more lucrative world of professional boxing. What begins as an opportunity for money and success gradually becomes a battle over who Joe really is and what he is prepared to lose in order to become the person he thinks he wants to be. In its essence, it’s actually a relatively simple story. What makes this production exceptional is how beautifully every element comes together. Rosanna Vize’s set and costume design transports us straight into 1930s New York without ever feeling unnecessarily elaborate. James Farncombe’s lighting, Dan Balfour’s sound and Isobel Waller-Bridge’s music add enormously to the atmosphere, while a live string quartet provides a constant connection to the musical life Joe is in danger of leaving behind. There are some wonderfully clever pieces of staging too. Boxing matches aren’t recreated literally. Instead, a punch bag becomes central to depicting the fights, allowing your imagination to do much of the work. Similarly, the sliding window that alternately reveals and conceals the musicians is used particularly effectively at key moments in the story. These aren’t theatrical tricks thrown in simply because they look impressive. Everything feels purposeful. Josh O’Connor is sublime as Joe. It’s an incredibly thoughtful performance because he never allows Joe to become simply the ambitious young boxer. The moments of anger and rage are interspersed with vulnerability, insecurity and a genuine sense that this is a young man who doesn’t quite know where he belongs. O’Connor makes those contradictions feel completely natural. You can see Joe changing as the play progresses, but you can also see the person he was underneath the person he is trying to become and it makes his journey all the more powerful. Daniel Mays plays Joe’s manager, Tom Moody, and gives another terrific performance. Initially, there is something almost lovable about him – a fast-talking, slightly roguish womaniser who feels as though he knows exactly how this world works. But Mays gradually strips that confidence away. The flashes of rage and fear reveal something much more vulnerable underneath. For all his bravado, you begin to see a man who is perhaps far less in control than he wants everyone around him to believe. It’s a transformation Mays handles brilliantly. As good as O’Connor and Mays are – and they really are excellent – the standout performance for me personally came from Hayley Squires as Lorna Moon. Firstly, her singing voice is quite frankly incredible. However, what struck me most wasn’t simply how good she was when she had dialogue. It was what she did when she didn’t. Even when Lorna was standing silently in the background, Squires never seemed to switch off. She was still listening, thinking and reacting. You could watch her while another conversation was taking place elsewhere on stage and Lorna’s story would still be happening. That sounds like such a small thing, but I think it’s one of the things that separates very good acting from something exceptional. At its best, Golden Boy stops feeling like you’re watching actors performing a play. It feels as though you’ve somehow been allowed into a room and are simply watching these people’s lives unfold. And surely that’s one of the great secrets of theatre. The chemistry between Squires and O’Connor is also electric. There is a rawness to their scenes together – attraction, frustration, anger and vulnerability all sitting incredibly close to the surface – that creates some of the strongest tension of the evening. It would be unfair, though, to make Golden Boy sound like a three-person production. The wider cast includes Jason Barnett, Richard Fleeshman, David Ganly, Patrick Martins, Oliver Ryan, Stanley Townsend, Zubin Varla and Nicholas Woodeson, alongside O’Connor, Mays and Squires. There genuinely isn’t a weak link. At times there is so much happening on stage that your attention is being deliberately pulled in one direction while another little piece of life continues somewhere else. Yet it never descends into chaos. Instead, the whole production operates like an incredibly well-oiled machine. And that’s where Sam Yates’ direction really shines. There is enormous control behind something that frequently feels completely spontaneous. We’ve seen numerous plays recently featuring some unquestionably incredible actors that just haven’t quite hit the mark so finding one that not only holds your attention but makes you genuinely emotionally invested in its characters is surprisingly rare. Golden Boy did exactly that. Diarmuid even shed a tear or two! Odets’ script gives the actors plenty to work with, but for me it is the performances that ultimately elevate this production. O’Connor is superb, Mays is terrific and Squires is quite extraordinary. Around them is an ensemble where seemingly everyone – actors, musicians and creatives – is at the top of their game. I left the Almeida thinking that perhaps exceptional theatre doesn’t need to be complicated. Give me a beautifully constructed set, intelligent direction, a great script , a phenomenal cast and sometimes that’s all you need. Golden Boy has all four. In boxing terms, the obvious conclusion is almost impossible to resist. It delivers one hell of a knockout. ♿ Accessibility at the Almeida Before visiting any theatre, I always check its website to find out what accessibility information is available. And I have to say, hands down, the Almeida has one of the best accessibility sections I have come across at any London theatre. It is so comprehensive that, if every theatre did this, Wheelie Good Show might find itself out of a job! The information covers pretty much everything you could want to know before your visit, including a video walkthrough showing you how to enter the theatre, what the auditorium and seating are like, and where to find the accessible toilet. For someone with access requirements, being able to see all of this in advance removes so much of the uncertainty that can come with visiting somewhere new. I arrived feeling completely prepared. I knew what the theatre looked like, where I needed to go and what to expect when I got inside. That is exactly what good accessibility information should achieve. There was, however, one issue that I hadn’t anticipated. I’d contacted the theatre beforehand and explained that I use a relatively high power wheelchair. My wheelchair position was in the front row which, on the surface, sounds fantastic. However, almost immediately I became concerned that my chair and I might obstruct the view of the people sitting directly behind me. Knowing how sought-after Golden Boy is and how difficult these tickets have been to get, I really didn’t want somebody else’s experience of the production to be negatively affected because they couldn’t see over me. I raised my concerns with the Almeida staff and they were brilliant. They were reassuring, helpful and did everything they could to put me at ease. I even offered to transfer into a theatre seat, but they assured me that this wasn’t necessary. I also spoke to the gentleman sitting behind me, whose view I was most concerned about, and thankfully he was equally kind and reassuring. Despite that, I remained quite self-conscious. During the first half I found myself trying to make my body smaller and sit lower in my wheelchair so I wouldn’t obstruct anyone’s sightline. Unfortunately, that quickly became physically painful and wasn’t something I could sustain, so during the second half I simply had to sit normally. I think this raises an interesting point about accessible seating that isn’t always considered. As a wheelchair user, I absolutely believe that my experience of a production should be equitable to that of every other audience member but equally, I don’t want my access provision to compromise somebody else’s experience. Ideally, good auditorium design should mean that neither person has to make that compromise. In hindsight, I think a different wheelchair position might have made me feel more comfortable. Even being at the end of the row or further back could potentially have reduced my concern about blocking someone’s view. If I returned to the Almeida, I would personally consider a transfer seat, although that obviously isn’t an option for every wheelchair user and shouldn’t have to be the solution to a sightline issue. Most importantly, none of this detracts from how impressed I was with the Almeida’s overall approach to accessibility. The information available before my visit was exceptional, the staff couldn’t have been more helpful when I raised my concerns, and I had a fantastic evening. A small consideration around wheelchair positioning aside, this was a really positive access experience — and I would absolutely return.

2.5/5 stars Yesterday we headed to the National Theatre to see The Story, a much-anticipated production starring Letitia Wright, probably best known to many audiences for playing Shuri in Black Panther. Written by American playwright Tracey Scott Wilson and directed by National Theatre Associate Artist Clint Dyer, The Story is advertised as a newsroom thriller examining race, ambition, journalistic ethics and, ultimately, the difference between the truth and the version of the truth that makes the best story. And honestly, I really wanted to love this. There are some genuinely excellent elements to the production, and technically there are moments when it is incredibly clever. Unfortunately, as a complete piece of theatre, it just didn’t quite come together for me. So, what’s it all about? Letitia Wright plays Yvonne, an ambitious young Black journalist who just started working within a newspaper where she is expected to concentrate largely on positive stories from the Black community. However she has ambitions to progress as quickly as possible to the newsdesk. When a white teacher is murdered in a predominantly Black neighbourhood, his wife identifies the attacker as a Black man. Yvonne becomes convinced that there is a bigger story to uncover and, despite resistance from her editor Pat, played by Lorraine Toussaint, she begins investigating. Then she gets what appears to be an extraordinary break when a young woman comes forward claiming to have been involved in the shooting. And that’s where I’m going to stop, because saying much more would potentially spoil the story. Alongside Wright and Toussaint, the principal cast includes Aliyah Odoffin as Latisha, Ashley Thomas as Neil and Wilf Scolding as Jeff, with Antonia Bernath and Josh Goulding playing Jessica and Tim Dunn. It’s a strong company. Some of my favourite elements actually came from Clint Dyer’s direction and the technical production. There is a particularly clever use of overlapping dialogue. At various points, several characters speak simultaneously, sometimes in sync and sometimes at deliberately different levels, creating something resembling multiple television channels or newsroom conversations happening at once. It gives the production a sense of noise, pressure and information overload without simply having people running around the stage pretending to look busy. I thought that was really effective. I would, however, be interested to know how these sections translate for audience members using hearing enhancement or other assisted-listening systems, because the deliberate layering of voices is such an important part of the effect. Paul Anderson’s lighting design is also excellent and does a huge amount of work in creating atmosphere and directing your attention around the enormous Olivier stage. Anna Fleischle’s set is much simpler. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but for me it never added much to the storytelling. The Olivier is an enormous space and I’ve seen productions where the set almost becomes another character; equally, I’ve seen sets deliberately fade into the background and allow the performances to shine. Here, it seemed caught somewhere between the two. Like the play itself, I never really understood what it was trying to accomplish. And unfortunately, that sense of uncertainty extended beyond the set. Honestly I really struggled with The Story. This should have been exactly my kind of play. There are so many interesting storylines and genuinely thought-provoking questions that The Story raises but, for me, never explores deeply enough. Who gets to decide what the truth is? At what point should a journalist be held accountable for the consequences of their reporting? When does shaping a narrative cross the line into fabrication, and what happens when the pursuit of a powerful story becomes more important than the truth itself? There was also another potentially fascinating theme sitting underneath all of this: what happens when someone who wants to champion a marginalised community ultimately causes further harm to the very people they believe they are representing? That was actually my biggest takeaway from the play. Yvonne is a young journalist who appears determined to tell stories that establish herself professionally and rather than uncovering a truth that might genuinely serve the community she is reporting on, her actions ultimately contribute to a false narrative that fuels division, suspicion and further hostility within that community, ultimately undermining much of what Pat, Lorraine Toussaint’s character, had worked so hard to establish. That is an incredibly powerful, complex and uncomfortable idea. The problem is that I never felt the play explored it enough. I came away unsure what Tracey Scott Wilson ultimately wanted us to question. Was this about journalistic integrity? Ambition? Racial stereotyping? The pressure placed on Black journalists to represent their communities? The danger of allowing our own beliefs and ambitions to influence the truth? Or the consequences of creating a narrative because it fits the story we want to tell? It could absolutely be about all of those things — great theatre doesn’t have to give us a single neat answer — but it does need to give us enough to wrestle with. For me, The Story didn’t. Rather than feeling deliberately ambiguous, it felt muddled. I wasn’t left debating what the play meant; I was left wondering what it had been trying to say in the first place. And despite being described as a thriller, I never felt particularly thrilled. There wasn’t enough tension to put me on the edge of my seat, and I didn’t become emotionally invested enough in the characters to desperately care about what happened to them. I’ve left productions such as Man and Boy and Pride still thinking about what I’d witnessed hours later. They gave me something to chew over — an idea, a perspective or an uncomfortable question that followed me for days. I didn’t get that from The Story. Race, truth, prejudice, representation, journalistic responsibility and the power of the media to influence how we see one another are enormous subjects. A play tackling them should leave me challenged, uncomfortable, angry, inspired — perhaps even arguing about it on the way home. Instead, I left feeling strangely indifferent. And I suspect that if somebody asks me in a year’s time what I thought of The Story, I may struggle to remember much about the production at all. With themes this powerful, that really shouldn’t be my takeaway — and perhaps that’s why I found The Story so disappointing. I went in desperately wanting to love it; I came out wishing it had given me more to think about. ♿ Accessibility at the Olivier Theatre Now let’s talk about access, because unfortunately this is an area where I think the National Theatre really does need to do better. If you’ve listened to the podcast or read the website before, you’ll know I’ve had issues with wheelchair access at the National Theatre — not necessarily because you can’t access the building, but because the experience once you’re inside isn’t always as good as I believe it should be. Getting to the Olivier itself is relatively straightforward. Once inside the National Theatre, you can use the lifts to reach level 2, and there is an Access Desk offering information and assistance. For this performance, accessible provision included options such as hearing assistance and large-print information. Our wheelchair spaces were towards the rear of the Olivier stalls, in Row R. The conventional seats surrounding these spaces benefit from the rake of the auditorium: as the rows go backwards, the seats become higher, improving the audience’s sightlines over the people in front. But the wheelchair space isn’t raised in the same way. And that creates an obvious problem. The person sitting in front of you is directly in your sightline. As an ambulant or able bodied audience member, the architecture of the auditorium has been designed to give you a reasonable view over the person in front. As a wheelchair user, you’re positioned on a flat section without that same elevation. Surely the goal should be for the wheelchair user’s sightline to be comparable to that of the audience members sitting alongside them. At the moment, it isn’t. In my particular space, there also wasn’t enough room to position my wheelchair between the heads of the people in front. To get a reasonable view of the stage, I had to move at least half of my wheelchair into the aisle. That’s not a particularly satisfactory solution — either for me or potentially from an evacuation and safety perspective. And there appear to be relatively simple options worth exploring. A temporary raised wheelchair platform with appropriate ramped access and edge protection could potentially improve the sightline considerably. Other theatres have used variations of raised wheelchair platforms successfully. Alternatively, could the seat immediately in front of certain wheelchair positions be removable? When the wheelchair space is occupied, that seat could be taken out; when it isn’t required, it could remain part of the normal seating configuration. Simply not selling the seat isn't sufficent in my opinion as I am sure the tempatiopn of an empty seat would prove too much! I’m not pretending to be a theatre architect, and there may well be technical or safety considerations I’m unaware of. But the current situation doesn’t feel like the best solution either. And that’s important because we’re talking about the National Theatre — arguably the flagship institution of British theatre. Accessibility shouldn’t simply mean being able to physically enter the auditorium. It should mean being able to experience the production on genuinely comparable terms. I also think the National could look at the wider experience of navigating such a large and busy building. I appreciate that staffing costs have increased enormously and the theatre has faced significant financial pressures, but perhaps a volunteer access-host scheme could be explored. Organisations such as Shakespeare’s Globe have demonstrated how effective and valuable having people available to guide and assist visitors can be. Sometimes relatively small changes can make an enormous difference to somebody’s experience. I’ve contacted the National Theatre directly about the Olivier wheelchair sightlines and included photographs showing the problem. I’ll let you know what they say in my next Olivier Theatre review.

4.5/5 Stars. Death Note had been a long time coming for us. We’d rearranged our tickets several times because of Diarmuid’s changing work commitments, and with it only playing a limited season at the Barbican, I was beginning to wonder whether we were actually going to make it. I’ll be completely honest: I knew almost nothing about Death Note. I knew it was Japanese, had a huge cult following and had been an manga series and a Netflix film. Then, on the way to the theatre, Diarmuid casually informed me that it was a horror. Excellent. He told me everything I needed to know would be explained by the programme, so I bought one. The cover featured a man in a suit holding a notebook, standing inside a giant apple surrounded by black feathers. It explained absolutely nothing. If anything, I wondered whether we were heading into some sort of extremely dark Japanese version of Snow White. Guys, this is not a Snow White situation. Based on the hugely successful Japanese manga by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata, Death Note: The Musical has music by Frank Wildhorn, lyrics by Jack Murphy, additional lyrics by Morgan Reilly and a book by Ivan Menchell. The basic premise is simple. A supernatural god of death called Ryuk drops a mysterious notebook into the human world. Student Light Yagami, played by Xander Pang, discovers that if he writes someone’s name inside it while picturing their face, that person will die. Light uses the notebook to kill criminals, convincing himself that he’s creating a safer, more just world. But his actions attract the attention of eccentric detective L, played by Colin Ryan, and the two become locked in a battle of intelligence as Light’s idea of justice becomes increasingly distorted by power. That’s really all you need to know. Going in knowing very little probably made it better because I genuinely didn’t know what was coming. And despite Diarmuid’s warning, it isn’t particularly scary. Thank God. Death Note feels much more like a supernatural psychological thriller than something actively trying to terrify you. The prospect of Death Note being a musical was also interesting. On paper, a supernatural Japanese story about a notebook that can kill people doesn’t immediately scream musical theatre, and I did wonder whether the songs might feel slightly shoehorned in. Thankfully, they absolutely don’t. More importantly, the songs actually drive the story forward. They reveal something about the characters, move the plot along or heighten the tension rather than stopping everything for three minutes while somebody sings because, well, it’s a musical. And honestly, some of the voices coming out of these people were ridiculous. Stephanie Zaharis as Misa — WOW. Diarmuid immediately announced that he wants to see her play Sally Bowles in Cabaret, and having heard that voice, I completely understand why. She has extraordinary vocal power but also makes Misa feel vulnerable, chaotic, obsessive and strangely sympathetic. Grace Mouat as Rem is equally impressive, bringing an enormous voice and surprising emotion to a character who could easily have been little more than a supernatural spectacle. Then there’s Telly Leung as Ryuk, whose voice, again, is incredible. He has tremendous fun with a character who sets the whole thing in motion because he’s bored. There’s something wonderfully mischievous about him simply watching the chaos unfold. At the centre are Xander Pang and Colin Ryan. Pang takes Light from an intelligent young man who believes he is doing something good to somebody increasingly consumed by power. Ryan’s L is scene-stealing: a brilliantly strange genius — physically distinctive, unpredictable, and completely fascinating to watch. The idea of somebody being given extraordinary power, believing they’re using it for good and gradually becoming corrupted by it isn’t particularly new. But the moral question underneath it is interesting. If you had the ability to remove genuinely terrible people from the world, would doing it make you a good person? And more importantly, who gets to decide who deserves to die? And how far would you go to protect your power? I would have liked the show to explore Light’s psychology a little more because that, for me, is the most interesting part of the story. But ultimately, the plot isn’t what makes this production extraordinary. It’s the unbelievable level of production that sets this show apart. I genuinely don’t think I can adequately explain how slick this production is. Directed by Stephen Whitson, with choreography by Fabian Aloise and set design by Jon Bausor, every movement, lighting cue, sound effect and visual feels precisely considered. There are huge LED screens, but they never overpower the performers. At one point, a police office sits beneath a digital Tokyo skyline that appears to stretch up towards the ceiling. It’s spectacular, but atmospheric rather than distracting. The staging constantly transforms around the performers, with screens, platforms, lighting, choreography and video working together so seamlessly that you’re rarely conscious of it. One example is the introduction of L. The choreography and synchronicity are amazing. When he appears to walk across a line of chairs, the precision involved is incredible. The visual impact of this scene, like many others, is also arresting. There’s even a tennis sequence between Light and L where the sound of the ball hitting the rackets is perfectly synchronised with their movements. It’s such a tiny detail, but that’s exactly what impressed me. Everything feels deliberate. The lighting, video, sound, choreography, set and performers all work together, creating a production that feels both spectacular and remarkably controlled. It feels fresh, stylish, intelligent and meticulously thought through. I went into the Barbican knowing virtually nothing about Death Note and came out absolutely blown away. The acting, vocals, choreography, lighting, video, sound, illusions and design combine into an incredibly cohesive piece of theatre. There have been several major Japanese productions arriving in London in recent years, and if Death Note is anything to go by, I’m very happy for that trend to continue. Whether you’re already a Death Note obsessive or, like me, walk in knowing very little and wondering why there’s a man standing inside an apple on the programme, I would absolutely recommend seeing it. It is genuinely phenomenal. Thankfully, the Barbican agrees because it is returning from 23rd March to 15th May 2027. Get tickets now if you can. ⭐ 4.5/5 ♿ Accessibility at the Barbican Theatre The Barbican is actually pretty good for accessibility once you work out where you’re going. And that last part is important. Finding your way around the Barbican can feel slightly like you’ve accidentally entered a puzzle. For us, Silk Street is the easiest accessible entrance. From there, you can make your way through the Barbican to the lifts towards the back of the building, take the lift down to Level -1 and then cross underneath to reach the theatre. There are accessible toilets close to the theatre, including facilities marked as priority for wheelchair users. In our experience, people have generally been very good about respecting that priority. The wheelchair spaces themselves are in boxes towards the rear of the stalls and the view is spectacular. You’re elevated enough to get a clear view across the auditorium, which is particularly important for Death Note because there’s so much happening visually across the stage. The boxes can usually accommodate two wheelchair users with companions and don’t feel particularly cramped. However, they narrow towards one end, almost into a triangular shape. If you or your companion need more legroom, I’d recommend choosing the outer positions rather than the seats further inside the box. There is one small logistical issue worth knowing about. Once two wheelchairs are positioned in the box, the person nearest the exit generally needs to leave before the wheelchair further inside can get out. It’s not a huge problem, but it’s useful to know beforehand — especially if you’re someone who likes to make a quick getaway at the end. Booking has also been straightforward in our experience. We had to change our tickets a couple of times because of Diarmuid’s work commitments and it was relatively painless, with only a small exchange charge. For anyone like me whose plans sometimes need to move around medical appointments or other commitments, that flexibility makes a genuine difference. Overall, the Barbican is a good accessible venue with excellent wheelchair sightlines. You just have to find the theatre first. And honestly, that might be the biggest challenge of the evening.

⭐ 2.5/5 Electra/Persona review Having seen Cate Blanchett in The Seagull last year, I was genuinely excited to get tickets for Electra / Persona at the National Theatre. Unsurprisingly, the Lyttelton Theatre was packed. Cate Blanchett is one of those actors I'd happily book to see without knowing much about the play, and this time she's appearing alongside the brilliant German actress Nina Hoss. I went in with incredibly high expectations. Unfortunately, almost from the beginning, I found myself more perplexed than captivated. I came out feeling that I'd watched something incredibly clever, beautifully acted and technically impressive — but I hadn't particularly enjoyed it. And sometimes theatre is just like that. So, what actually is Electra / Persona? This is where things get slightly complicated. Writer and director Benedict Andrews has taken two completely different stories and put them together into one production. Its an ambitious undertaking. The first is Electra, an ancient Greek tragedy by Sophocles. Very simply, Electra's father has been murdered by her mother, Clytemnestra, and Electra is consumed by grief, anger and a desire for revenge. So far, relatively straightforward. The second half is based on Persona, the famous 1966 film by Swedish director Ingmar Bergman. This follows an actress called Elisabet who suddenly stops speaking. A nurse called Alma is sent to care for her, and as the two women spend more time together, their personalities and identities begin to blur. There's actually a clever reason for putting these particular stories together: in Bergman's original film, Elisabet stops speaking while performing Electra. Benedict Andrews takes that connection and runs with it. The production explores women, mothers and daughters, identity, grief and the difference between who we really are and the roles we play for other people. It's a fascinating idea. I'm just not convinced it makes for a fascinating two hours of theatre. One of the most interesting things happens before the play even begins. Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss come onto the stage and flip a coin to decide who will play which characters that evening. One will play Electra in the first story and Elisabet in the second. The other plays Electra's mother Clytemnestra, followed by nurse Alma in Persona. Both actresses have learned both sets of roles. It's pretty incredible when you think about it. These are already demanding roles, and both women have effectively prepared two completely different versions of the show. On our night, Nina Hoss played Electra and Elisabet, while Cate Blanchett played Clytemnestra and Alma. I did get the impression that Nina Hoss was slightly happier with the result of the coin toss than Blanchett — although perhaps I was reading far too much into their faces! It's also a clever way of introducing one of the show's big themes: how much of who we are is simply the role we're playing at that particular moment? But this was also the beginning of my problem with the production. There were lots of ideas that made me think, “Oh, that's clever.” There were considerably fewer moments that made me think, “I'm really enjoying this.” And then came the mud... Before taking on their characters, the actors cover their faces in mud. It looks dramatic. It looks artistic. I'm sure it represents something. But if I'm completely honest, I had absolutely no idea why they were doing it. And that feeling followed me throughout much of the evening. There is no shortage of ideas in Benedict Andrews' production. In fact, at times I wondered whether there were simply too many. There were so many moments where I could appreciate that something was visually interesting or clearly had some deeper meaning, but I couldn't work out what it was adding to the story. At one point I realised I'd become more interested in watching the smoke slowly drifting down from the ceiling than in what was happening between the characters. When you're watching Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss and the smoke machine is winning the battle for your attention, something has probably gone slightly wrong. What makes my reaction particularly frustrating is that the acting is absolutely superb. Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss are phenomenal. Whichever combination of roles you happen to get, you're watching two exceptional actors. On our night, Hoss's Electra was full of anger, pain and grief, while later, as Elisabet, she had to communicate huge amounts while barely speaking. Blanchett, meanwhile, went from the powerful and complicated Clytemnestra to the very different Alma in Persona. Watching her switch between the two reminded me exactly why I had been so excited to see her again. The wider company is excellent too, including Ella Lily Hyland and Patrick Robinson. There really isn't a bad performance here. Which almost makes it more frustrating. I had some of the best actors you could possibly put on a London stage in front of me, and I still wasn't particularly engaged. The production itself is technically impressive. There's striking lighting, music, sound, smoke and a lot of live camera work. During Persona especially, cameras film the actors and their faces are projected onto large screens. I understand why. Persona was originally a film, so bringing cameras into the theatre connects the stage production back to its cinematic roots. There are moments where it works brilliantly because you can see tiny expressions on the actors' faces that you'd never normally see from your seat. But there were other moments when I thought: What is this adding? Sometimes the camera intensified a moment. At other times, I felt I was only looking at a screen instead of watching two extraordinary actors who were standing directly in front of me. There's something slightly perverse about having Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss live on stage and then spending significant periods watching images of them on a screen. At around two hours without an interval, it also felt surprisingly long. Normally, I'm a huge fan of interval-free theatre. When a production has momentum, I love being able to remain immersed in the story without having the tension broken halfway through. Here, however, I found myself becoming increasingly disengaged. Perhaps the absence of an interval was strategic — nobody had the opportunity to escape at half-time! I kept waiting for the moment where everything would suddenly click into place and I'd understand why these two stories needed to be presented together. That moment never really arrived. I understood the idea. I just didn't connect with it. There will absolutely be people who see this and think it's genius. They'll love pulling apart all the different meanings, discussing the symbolism and working out how the two stories reflect one another. And that's brilliant. For me, though, it crossed into being a little pretentious. At times I felt less like I was watching a piece of theatre and more like I was sitting through an experimental video installation in a contemporary art gallery. And I don't mean that as an insult. I quite enjoy those installations. You wander into a darkened gallery. Something strange yet captivating is projected onto a wall. You watch for five minutes, stroke your chin thoughtfully, decide you're not entirely sure what it means and wander into the next room. What I don't generally do is sit there for another two hours. And that, ultimately, was my problem with Electra / Persona. Dont get me wrong, Electra / Persona isn't a bad production. Far from it. The acting is exceptional. Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss are extraordinary. The staging is ambitious. The camera work is clever. The whole thing is clearly created by enormously talented people. I appreciated its ambition. I admired its artistry. I was enormously impressed by its actors. But did I enjoy it? Not particularly. And ultimately, I'm reviewing my experience of watching it. I don't need every show to be easy or straightforward. Some of my favourite theatre has challenged me, surprised me or left me thinking about it for days afterwards. But I do need to feel connected to something. Here, I spent so much time trying to understand what everything meant that I stopped caring about what was actually happening. Maybe you'll see it and think it's a masterpiece. But for me? There was an enormous amount to admire. There just wasn't enough for me to love. Incredible actors. Fascinating idea. Definitely not my cup of tea. ⭐ Wheelie Good Show verdict: 2.5/5 ♿ Accessibility at the Lyttelton Theatre From a wheelchair-access point of view, my experience at the Lyttelton was reasonably good, but there are definitely a couple of things worth knowing. The wheelchair spaces are positioned towards the back of the auditorium. The good news is that I had enough space to angle my wheelchair slightly so that I could see between the heads of the two people in front of me. Once I'd done that, my view was pretty good. The problem is that I needed to do it. The standard seats around the wheelchair spaces position people considerably higher than you are when sitting in a wheelchair. They can naturally see over the people in front of them. I can't. So if someone is sitting directly in front of your sightline, their head can potentially block quite a lot of the stage. Finding your way around the National Theatre The National Theatre itself is generally very accessible, but I do have one ongoing frustration: there isn't always much proactive access assistance. We've visited enough times now that we know where we're going. But if it's your first visit, the building can be confusing. There are three separate theatres within the National Theatre complex — the Olivier, Lyttelton and Dorfman — plus different levels, bars, restaurants and toilets. And before a performance, it gets busy. Really busy. If you're in a wheelchair and trying to navigate through hundreds of people while also working out which theatre you're supposed to be heading towards, it can be slightly overwhelming. The staff have always been helpful when I've asked. I just wish somebody occasionally spotted a wheelchair user looking completely lost and said: “Can I help you find where you're going?” It would make such a difference. If it's your first visit, I'd recommend arriving early and giving yourself plenty of time to find the auditorium and accessible toilet before the crowds build. And if you're not sure where you're going, ask.

⭐ 5/5 Every so often, you see a piece of theatre that feels almost like a unicorn: something that can make you laugh, make you cry, entertain you completely and, at the same time, leave you thinking about something genuinely important. For me, Pride is one of those shows. Based on the remarkable true story that inspired the 2014 film, Pride takes us back to 1984, during the miners' strike. Britain's mining communities were engaged in a bitter confrontation with Margaret Thatcher's government, while another community was fighting a very different battle. Gay men and lesbians were facing widespread prejudice and discrimination, alongside the emerging devastation of the AIDS crisis. Out of those two seemingly very different worlds came an extraordinary alliance. A group of London-based lesbian and gay activists, led by Mark Ashton, formed Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) and began raising money for striking miners. Their efforts eventually connected them with a mining community in South Wales. On the surface, these communities could hardly have appeared more different. But underneath, they understood something fundamental about one another: what it feels like to be marginalised, vilified and treated as though your voice doesn't matter. And that is where the magic of Pride lies. This isn't really a story about miners or gay rights. It's a story about people. It's about finding common ground where nobody expects it to exist. It's about friendship, solidarity and the extraordinary things that can happen when people stop concentrating on what makes them different and recognise what they share. The musical reunites Stephen Beresford, who wrote the screenplay for the original film, with its director Matthew Warchus. Beresford has written the book and lyrics for the stage version, while Warchus has developed and directed the production. That continuity really shows. Beresford's script is beautifully judged because it never allows the politics to overwhelm the people. These aren't characters who exist merely to represent a cause; they are funny, flawed, frightened, courageous and completely human. The writing moves effortlessly between broad comedy and genuine heartbreak. One minute you're laughing, and seemingly seconds later something catches you completely off guard emotionally. Crucially, the script doesn't sanitise the story either. There is prejudice and rejection. There is homophobia. There is fear surrounding AIDS. There is economic devastation within the mining communities. But none of that extinguishes the joy. If anything, it makes the moments of friendship, acceptance and solidarity considerably more powerful. This is a new musical, with an original score by Christopher Nightingale, Josh Cohen and DJ Walde, drawing on everything from pop, rock and disco to protest music and the Welsh choral tradition. And the songs are wonderful. Importantly, they don't feel as though they've simply been inserted because somebody decided Pride needed to become a musical. The music feels integral to the communities and the period being portrayed. There is an energy to the score that allows the production to move between the exuberance of London's gay scene and the very different musical identity of a Welsh mining community without either feeling like a caricature. The singing across the company is exceptional, but what impressed me most was how much the music contributes to the storytelling. These aren't simply songs designed to give individual performers their big moment; they build characters, relationships and a sense of community. Matthew Warchus's direction is equally assured. There's a danger with a story like this that it could become overly sentimental. Equally, push too far in the opposite direction and you risk losing the enormous emotional heart that makes the story so special. Warchus finds the balance beautifully. The production can be exuberant, funny and occasionally wonderfully ridiculous, but when it needs to become quiet, painful or intimate, it trusts the audience enough to let those moments breathe. And the cast is phenomenal. You care about these people. Whether it's a Welsh miner fighting for his livelihood or a young gay man tentatively trying to understand who he is, each character feels important. Nobody seems to exist merely to move the plot along. By the end, you don't feel as though you've been watching two communities. You feel as though you've watched them become one. And that absolutely broke me. I left the Dorfman with something I haven't felt leaving a theatre for a while: a renewed sense of optimism about people. There is something incredibly powerful about being reminded that communities don't have to look alike, think alike or live alike to stand beside one another. And perhaps that message feels particularly important now. Pride manages to be fabulously written, beautifully acted, brilliantly sung and enormously entertaining while still having something meaningful to say. It made me laugh. It made me cry. It made me angry. It made me hopeful. And ultimately, it left me feeling warm about humanity while simultaneously emotionally devastating me. That's quite an achievement. The Dorfman run was always frustratingly limited for a show this good, so I am delighted that Pride is transferring to the much larger Bridge Theatre from November. Diarmuid wasn't able to come with me this time, so naturally I'm taking him to the Bridge. And I genuinely cannot wait to watch him experience it. I don't think he'll just like it. I think he'll love it. If you love theatre, musicals, people, history, or simply stories that remind us that human beings are capable of extraordinary kindness when they choose solidarity over division, go and see Pride. It's funny, heartbreaking, joyful, political, uplifting and beautifully human. Quite simply, it's everything I want theatre to be. ♿ Accessibility at the Dorfman Theatre Accessibility-wise, the Dorfman is actually one of my preferred spaces within the National Theatre complex. It's the smallest of the National's three theatres and is situated around the side of the main building. That is probably the trickiest part on a first visit — actually working out where you're supposed to go. Once you're there, however, it's considerably easier to navigate than the larger National Theatre spaces. The Dorfman is particularly interesting because it's a flexible auditorium, meaning the seating configuration can change depending on the production. For Pride, my wheelchair position was on the first balcony/circle level, and it worked extremely well. The sightline was brilliant, there was plenty of space around my wheelchair and I felt properly connected to the performance rather than tucked away at the back of the auditorium. There are also two accessible toilets, which is always reassuring, particularly in a smaller theatre. The foyer and bar area can become extremely busy before a performance and during the interval, and that can make manoeuvring in a wheelchair slightly more challenging. Overall, though, I found it very manageable. Staff were helpful and, because the venue itself is relatively compact, I didn't feel that I needed the level of access assistance that can sometimes be necessary elsewhere within the National Theatre complex. ⭐ Wheelie Good Show verdict: 5/5 I rarely give five stars simply because the production has to not only be technically excellent, superbly written, impeccably acted but for me, a five-star show has to do something more. It has to make me feel something. Pride did that in abundance. Wonderful performances. Beautiful writing. Exceptional singing. A fabulous score. Brilliant direction. And at its heart, an extraordinary true story about what can happen when people who appear to have nothing in common decide to stand together. Funny. Devastating. Hopeful. Joyful. Human. This isn't simply a great new British musical. It's a piece of theatre magic. ⭐ 5/5 — without hesitation.