The Witches review: A bona fide Christmas cracker

Hooray! After the overstuffed and overcooked turkey that was Hex, the National Theatre has a bona fide Christmas cracker on its hands with the musicalisation of Roald Dahl’s The Witches. And fans of Dahl’s spooky story needn’t fret; there’s been controversy about attempts to sanitise his work for contemporary readers but there’s no ‘wokery’ at play here.

The show is a deliciously naughty scare-fest about female empowerment gone horribly wrong. I won’t spoil the joke but Katharine Kingsley’s Grand High Witch uses a very adult word to describe children before singing a song about why she hates them so much.

Dahl’s darkness is evident from the start, when a young boy named Luke (a very spirited Frankie Keita at the performance I saw) loses his parents in a car crash. His Norwegian grandma takes him under her wing, enthralling him with tales of the witches she’s determined to wipe off the face of the earth. And when they stay at a seaside hotel in Bournemouth, Luke learns just how vicious the witches of England can be. They’re gathered there for their AGM under the guise of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children but cruelty is all they have on their minds.

Directed by Lyndsey Turner and adapted by Lucy Kirkwood, it’s a family show (with a recommended minimum age of eight) that’s geared toward kids and adults alike. The young uns will delight in being scared while there are references – Dignitas, Greta Garbo, mum jeans – that will sail right over their heads.

“If The Witches doesn’t go on to have a second life somewhere I’ll eat my broomstick”

Kirkwood co-wrote the lyrics with composer Dave Malloy and the songs are every bit as catchy and clever as the ones in that other Dahl West End show Matilda. Choreographer Stephen Mear puts the ensemble through their paces, starting with an opening number that presents the coven as Stepford Wives-alikes in cardies and cashmere as they sing “We are not women, we are hell”.

Here and elsewhere Lizzie Clachan’s set and costume designs are splendid. There are such surreal sights as children with hot dogs and TV sets on their heads. The Hotel Magnificent – which is run by Daniel Rigby’s hilariously flustered Mr Stringer – is a riot of pink and crimson. And the hexes are perils in pastel, with Kingsley at one point channelling Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard (the Elaine Paige version, not Nicole Scherzinger’s).

Kingsley is suitably menacing and Sally Ann Triplett is delightfully wacky as Luke’s grandma. Out to bring the witches down, she’s Van Helsing in a “Kiss Me Quick” hat with a hint of Julie Walters as Petula Gordino in Dinnerladies thrown in for good comedy measure.

If there’s a scene stealer it’s Cian Eagle-Service (at least at the performance I attended) as an underage dandy who does a camp-as-Christmas homage to Chicago. He’s on a sugar high, as indeed is the show itself. The pace may flag a little in the second act but it’s a twisted triumph. The curse of Hex has been lifted and if The Witches doesn’t go on to have a second life somewhere I’ll eat my broomstick.

The Witches is at the National Theatre, London, until 27 January. Get tickets here.