PATRICK MARMION reviews Into the Woods at the Bridge Theatre, London

Into The Woods (Bridge Theatre, London)

Verdict: Deep dark woods 

Rating:

The Brothers Grimm will be dancing with glee on top of their Berlin graves. Jordan Fein's revival of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine's musical mash–up of the Brothers' fairy tales is an absolute hoot – gorgeously dressed and designed by Tom Scutt and bottling all their stories' subversive enchantment.

Dark truths lurk in the composite tale of a childless baker and his wife who do a deal with a witch to secure a baby. They must go into the woods to find 'the cow as white as milk, the cape as red as blood, the hair as yellow as corn, and the slipper as pure as gold' if the wife is to get pregnant. And from that you may deduce that Jack of the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel and Cinderella all get involved, too.

We may think we know the tales backwards, but Sondheim's restless, tricksy score, and Lapine's cheeky adaptation, turn them into a mischievous delight. No one catches that better than Kate Fleetwood's wonderfully mad, bad, sad old Witch, distressed by her dysfunctional relationship with her daughter, Rapunzel.

Her big number, Stay With Me, gives huge vocal wattage to her anguished attempts to protect and control her daughter.

Jamie Parker's Baker is similarly tortured: too fearful of bad karma to steal Red Riding Hood's cape. But Katie Brayben's Baker's Wife has no mercy. Relieving hapless Jack (Jo Foster) of his puppet cow, Brayben growls that 'the ends justify the beans'.

Scutt's gorgeous design ensures we hardly notice the themes of personal growth and moral compromise. Instead, we are seduced by his woodland that looks like a murky Old Master come to life.

My only complaint is the second half reminds us, needlessly, that happy ever afters are fiction. Tales of self–delusion are musical theatre's stock in trade; there's no need to spell it out with a giant trampling all over fairyland. It's already in the stories – just ask the ugly sisters mutilating their feet to fit the slipper.

Into The Woods runs until May 30. 

Christmas Carole Goes Wrong (Apollo Theatre, Shaftesbury Ave)

Verdict: Not the Dickens

Rating:

Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol is almost inescapable on stage this year. Thankfully, Mischief Theatre's 'Goes Wrong' spoof is a welcome antidote to the Victorian schmaltz.

The setting is the fictional Cornley Drama Society's annual festive fiasco. Director Chris Bean (Daniel Fraser) is Scrooge, but is under threat from Henry Lewis as self–assured thesp Robert Grove, aiming to seize the lead with his battle cry: 'I am laughter, I am joy, I am Christmas!'

The disasters run like a Third Reich railway timetable. Jonathan (Greg Tannahill) gets stuck in Marley's chains; Jonathan Sayers' dim Dennis empties a flask of wine while reading his Bob Cratchit lines off the base; Tiny Tim is reinvented as a giant, set–crushing doll.

The set features an accidental massive Maltesers box, and a life–size Barbie kitchen (don't ask).

It could be sharper, but their fans will love seeing them lay waste to another institution. God bless them every one.

Christmas Carol Goes Wrong is on until January 25.

Also Playing

The Red Shoes (Sadler's Wells, then touring)

Verdict: The Bourne supremacy

Rating:

Budding ballerina Victoria Page catches the eye of impresario Lermontov. Her free–flowing, expressive style is a world away from twee Forties ballet, when mincing male dancers were lifting machines for twirling, tutued ballerinas with paste–on smiles.

Lermontov also hears some thrilling potential in the bold compositions of a young pianist, Julian, from whom music bursts in a wild, soulful whirl.

Victoria steps into the spotlight in Julian's new ballet, The Red Shoes, based on Hans Christian Andersen's dark fairy tale in which a pair of enchanted red shoes forces a girl to dance, feverishly, unstoppably.

Sir Matthew Bourne's adaptation of Powell and Pressburger's classic film becomes a drama about possession. Everyone wants a piece of the young star… with tragic results. As ever, Bourne makes bodies talk with a matchless eloquence.

At Sadler's Wells until January 18.