You wait a lifetime for a Little Mermaid origin story and then two arrive in London at once. Hot on the heels of Unfortunate opening at The Other Palace, Kristopher Russell and Michael David Glover’s Sea Witch made its world‑premiere appearance at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane on Sunday (1 March) in what was billed as a concert production.
At the start, Michelle Visage took to the stage to warn that the cast had just five days’ rehearsal and asked for patience with any technical mishaps. It’s the second time in as many weeks I’ve heard this pre‑emptive plea, and it hardly fills paying audiences with confidence. Still, in this case the cast had learned their lines, their harmonies, and seemingly half a staging too, a near fully realised performance that far surpassed the modest promise of “concert production”.
Unfortunately, praise for the cast is largely where the good news ends. Almost everything else about Sea Witch felt out of its depth. It was apparent from the outset that no expense had been spared: the costumes (Gail Gifford) and lighting were some of the most extravagant seen in a one‑night‑only showcase, and the starry cast added further sheen. Yet spectacle alone cannot save a show with such a muddled core.
The story, and that word is used generously, is an incoherent patchwork of Cinderella, The Little Mermaid and Wicked. Add in a Hunger Games‑style sequence, a smattering of witch trials, and plot twists that border on the farcical, and the result becomes near impossible to follow. As the evening wore on, the atmosphere shifted into full pantomime, with the audience hissing and booing villains and laughing at developments that were surely not intended to be funny. Confusion slowly gave way to a kind of collective disbelief.
Segun Fawole’s score fares much better. The music is strong overall, as if classic musical‑theatre numbers had been reimagined for a club remix album. Even the power ballads pulse with dancefloor energy, and I’d happily listen to a cast recording over and over again. The problem is that the songs are dramatically inert. The structure becomes predictable: a few lines of dialogue, then a song vaguely matching the mood but giving us nothing to advance the plot. Many numbers also feel at least twice as long as they need to be, with choruses repeated until they blur together. During the interval, one audience member remarked that they wondered why the last song had been “repeated three times” except it hadn’t. It was just one song, stretched to the point of déjà vu.
Joshie Harriette’s lighting design is among the most ambitious the West End has seen, conjuring an aquatic world without the aid of a set. Ironically, all the action takes place on dry land, yet the lights evoke constant submersion. But even this becomes excessive: by the end, it feels less like storytelling and more like a demonstration of everything the lighting desk is capable of. While theatrical lighting is typically meant to illuminate performers, Harriette repeatedly shines lights directly into the audience, which seems less an artistic choice and more an attempt to distract from the show’s other shortcomings.
Where the production truly shines is in its performers. Natalie Paris and Amy Di Bartolomeo are compelling leading ladies, and Mazz Murray delivers the powerhouse performance one would expect. Natalie Kassanga and Jay McGuiness do their best with underwritten roles, while Djavan Van De Fliert’s King Nik stands out for his rich vocals. The unusually large ensemble impresses throughout, earning one of the biggest cheers of the night during a high‑octane second‑act number fuelled by Dean Lee’s energetic choreography.
Sea Witch is based on Sarah Henning’s novel, so its struggle with basic storytelling is surprising. Theatre is, at its heart, about narrative clarity and emotional connection. No amount of vocal talent, no wall of sound, and certainly no catalogue of flashing lights can disguise a fatally compromised book. For all its glitter and ambition, Sea Witch ultimately proves that even the most lavish production cannot keep a story afloat when it’s already sinking before the curtain rises.
