‘Effective situational comedy’
As a reviewer, you are often asked to appraise shows built for audiences very unlike you. A musical all about F1 drivers? Burger restaurants? Anything with children on stage? Empathy, as much as criticism, makes this job such a surprising joy.
With that in mind, I wound my way through the dripping heat of London’s mini-May El Niño. Steaming in my best 1970s jumpsuit and swinging heavy gold earrings, I headed for an evening back in Torquay’s premier guest house, Fawlty Towers, via the President Hotel, Russell Square.
Now, if you want a good background on John Cleese and Connie Booth’s seminal 1975 TV series, may I suggest you read my review of last year’s theatrical show? This production certainly won’t provide it on the night, as we dive straight into the fawlty world. No, this is for those who were bright and sprightly in the 1970s, when their halcyon days spun golden before their unappreciative eyes. Be warned: under-40s need not apply.
But assuming you beloved the original show, you may even have enjoyed its theatricalisation in 2025, so this is the logical next step-and you certainly would not be alone. Having visited 43 countries, worked through 56 actors per season, toured 1,000 venues, and clocked an amazing 400 shows in the UK alone, the production has become an international beast. They have been in London for 15 years and have been seen by more than a million people since their first performances at the Rydges Hotel in Brisbane on 24 April 1997. Alison Pollard-Mansergh, Andrew Foreman and Jared Harford (Creators) and Jack Baldwin (Director) have birthed an international phenomenon, so who am I to judge?
You know what? I’m not even going to… much. The President Hotel-by far the closest thing to the Towers in its area-works perfectly for the setting, with a geometric carpet that might genuinely have survived from the 1970s and a dining room that screams upward pretensions. We mill about, nervous, prepared for the onslaught, and so it begins.
Very quickly, Stanley Eldridge as Basil Fawlty lays into us, picking on personal attributes: the predominance of shorts, flip-flops and T-shirts (something we entirely agree on). Jacob Tanner appears as Manuel, and so the endless miscommunications stream from his ‘Spanish’ lips. Finally, the spiked, wig-buffeting Nerine Skinner as Sybil jolts the menfolk into action.
Tanner’s Manuel is more in control, less subservient, with a ruefulness that wrestle the xenophobia into slight submission. Skinner’s Sybil equally feels brighter, still hating her useless husband, but in a more modern, world-weary way. Eldridge, in appropriate Basil fashion, injures himself midway through, offstage, and therefore misses the final scene. However, from what I saw-and from the professionalism of the other two-all reinvents and revitalises these now-familiar characters with energy and dedication. It’s this kind of fighting spirit that won us the war… DON’T MENTION THE WAR (if you can’t beat them). Some of the highlights from the original 12 episodes are worked in, interspersed with improvised and, on the whole, effective situational comedy.
They all rush in and out, without a revolving door, sadly, but with plenty of slapstick. Dentures are pulled from an intentionally bland? tomato soup starter. Bread rolls are thrown at us, hair is combed, people are pulled up to dance, and wedding anniversaries are celebrated and then insulted. Throughout, a survivable dinner is provided, with plenty of wine (drink heavily, dear reader), including moist chicken on a bed of carrot purée and carrots, followed by a heavy, if slightly unimaginative, cheesecake. I have had worse in places claiming to be higher-brow in the last month, looking at you, Roses of Elagabalus.
Immersing fans in quite an unpleasant place is an unexpected flick of the wrist. What’s next? American Horror Story: Hotel? Benidorm? Succession? Quietly updating the characters, however, and allowing three very talented crowd-workers to thrive off an audience prepped, primed and slightly sauced on the concept is genius. It did exactly what it said on the tomato soup tin: reminding us of the harum-scarum brilliance of the original, while somehow making it feel new again.