★★★

“a neat little fable, with a good deal of darkness within”

The source material for the new musical, “Dark of the Moon”, goes back a long way. Originally billed as a ‘legend with music’ it opened on Broadway in 1945. That, in turn, was loosely based on English/Scottish folklore of the mid seventeenth century. ‘The Ballad of Barbara Allen’ was taken over to America by the earliest pioneers and gained the status of being one of America’s best-known ballads; some say laying the bedrock that bluegrass music was based on. The current version of the story has made its way into a new musical – with a book by Jonathan Prince and music and lyrics by Lindy Robbins, Dave Bassett and Steve Robson – that allegedly builds on that bluegrass foundation. Although the mix is dominated by contemporary rock music, a touch of Southern Gothic and a whole witches’ brew of Musical Theatre tropes. And, of course, ballads.

Indeed, it opens with a balladeer. Kiah Lindsay bookends the show with her mandolin and gift for storytelling. But in between, tradition gets swept aside for more homogenous crowd pleasers with predictable orchestrations. Lindsay’s words cut through the sparseness, whereas elsewhere the lyrics are often lost in the over-produced numbers, despite the belting form that the two leads are renowned for. John (Glenn Adamson) is a non-human, ‘witch’ creature who lives in eternity amongst his coven in the Appalachian Mountains. Barbara Allen (Lauren Jones) lives in the fictional, God-fearing town of Buck Creek. Both are misfits in their own communities. Having fallen in love with Barbara, John desperately wants to cross over to the human world but, of course, there are conditions. He has a year to prove the match is worthwhile. Otherwise, he is condemned to return to his life as an immortal witch. Barbara must remain faithful to John in that time. That sounds like no big deal, except that all the witches are convinced that Barbara isn’t up to the task – given her past promiscuity. Or so we are led to believe. There is no hint whatsoever of this in her characterisation.

Characterisation is, in fact, thin on the ground. Prince’s book churns out dialogue that drifts in a no-man’s-land somewhere between high school romcom and scary movie. The lyrics, when they are heard, follow suit like impressionable wannabes. The Faustian deal is struck, but the stakes are never high. Being human is heartbreaking. We learn this from a recurring message, delivered either through song or platitude. The staging, nevertheless, is well executed. Director Georgie Rankcom mixes the two worlds distinctively, letting them overlap and collide with force. Jonathan Chan’s lighting reinforces the disparity of these worlds, and a committed cast belt out fine vocals that complement the lush visuals of the show. But the heart is bland. Small town vigilantism and intolerance are explored as much as the supernatural, and a couple of dubious subplots attempt to subvert the predictability. John asks what it takes to be a man. Barbara justifies infidelity in the cause of saving her man. There is a twist, however, courtesy of our balladeer, that is a welcome diversion.

While the musical numbers follow a safe formula throughout, the second act fares better in terms of narrative flow. It’s a neat little fable, with a good deal of darkness within. This production doesn’t plumb the depths, but it does seem to have fun on its shallow surface. There is a Glam Rock versus Hillbilly duel going on, and the devil has all the best tunes, as usual. There are moments of magic but, unlike the protagonists, you won’t be spellbound.

FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

Barbican

★★★★★

“Fein’s direction and Julia Cheng’s muscular choreography is marked by sublime precision”

In its Barbican transfer, director Jordan Fein’s revelatory Fiddler on the Roof retains the elemental power that made it a five-star phenomenon in Regent’s Park. He strips the beloved 1964 musical of its nostalgic veneer to expose something more potent and contemporary: a raw and resonant meditation on tradition, displacement, and the endurance of community.

Fun, too, in case there should be a misunderstanding. Great fun.

Set in 1905 in the menaced Jewish shtetl of Anatevka before the Russian revolution, Fiddler follows Tevye, a weary but devout milkman, as his five daughters begin to choose love over arranged marriage, and the outside world encroaches upon his way of life.

Anchored by songs like Tradition, If I Were a Rich Man, and Sunrise, Sunset, it’s long been cherished for its warmth and wit. But Fein’s version – subtly but decisively restaged – asks more interesting and topical questions too: what happens when the traditions that once sustained a community begin to fracture under the weight of change? What is the true impact of displacement, of a people menaced from their homes?

Where the musical was once critiqued as “shtetl sentimentalism,” this staging leans into pared-down grit, stoic humour, and haunting lyricism. There is a modern feel to the witty script – and to the resolutely ambiguous ending.

Tom Scutt’s gorgeous design is emblematic of the approach: instead of quaint rooftops, we see cornstalks uprooted and suspended above the stage, evoking both harvest and trauma. The titular fiddler (a magnetic Raphael Papo) becomes not just a symbol but a shadowy companion, echoing Tevye’s inner world with eerie cadenzas and an eventual duet with Hannah Bristow’s Chava – whose marriage outside the faith breaks her father’s beleaguered heart.

The huge cast is potent, using impressive numbers to magnificent effect, a dream sequence appearing like a fully-realised Hollywood dance number. Meanwhile, Adam Dannheisser’s Tevye is no grandstanding showman but a wry, tired father trying – and failing – to hold his family together through reason, prayer, and rueful monologues. His comedic timing is sharp and he plays out with great relish the classic sitcom paradigm of the father and husband who declares his dominance only to have it slyly eroded by the headstrong women around him.

But it’s his gentleness that resonates most, particularly opposite Lara Pulver’s commanding Golde, whose grounded and wary pragmatism keeps the domestic scenes taut and touching.

Fein’s direction and Julia Cheng’s muscular choreography is marked by sublime precision. The Bottle Dance at Tzeitel’s wedding is performed under a canopy that rises and falls. On top of that precarious canopy, and ominous, the fiddler makes clear that everything is poised on the brink of a mighty disaster. The Russians are coming.

The cast functions as a true community, especially in the spine-tingling finale as they sing Anatevka, their voices braided with longing, resilience, and bitter clarity. In a final image, the toppled milk cart, beautifully lit, appears like an oil painting. Everywhere, indeed, there is beauty and catastrophe.

One of Fein’s many achievements lies in his refusal to oversell modern parallels. The production trusts its audience to make the connections – to recognise in Anatevka’s forced dispersal the long shadow of global displacement. It neither moralises nor rants; it simply tells the story with integrity and emotional intelligence.

For all its sumptuous visual invention and musical flair, Fiddler is most powerful in its silences: a father cut off from his daughter, a community carrying candles into the dark, a fiddler playing an aching lament.

Tag Archives: Sue Appleby

DARK OF THE MOON

★★★

Charing Cross Theatre

DARK OF THE MOON

Charing Cross Theatre

★★★

“a neat little fable, with a good deal of darkness within”

DARK OF THE MOON

Charing Cross Theatre

Reviewed on 26th May 2026

by Jonathan Evans

Photography by Tom Bowles

DARK OF THE MOON

DARK OF THE MOON

DARK OF THE MOON

FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

★★★★★

Barbican

FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

Barbican

★★★★★

“Fein’s direction and Julia Cheng’s muscular choreography is marked by sublime precision”