Review: Young Frankenstein at the Liverpool Playhouse ****

It’s five years now since the Liverpool Playhouse last staged an overt ‘Christmas’ production – Dickens’ A Christmas Carol for a socially distanced season mid-pandemic.

Since then, while they’ve continued to rock ‘n’ roll up the road in Hope Street, the Playhouse has experimented with its festive offerings, from Fantastically Great Women and fantastically feisty female monarchs (SIX the Musical) to the spookily supernatural (The Woman in Black) and the outrageously camp in the form of last year’s Rocky Horror Show.

How to follow the mad Transylvanian transvestite scientist Doctor Frank-N-Furter? With a riff (raff) on the same theme; another entertaining piece of silly schlocky horror in the form of Mel Brooks’ musical adaptation of Young Frankenstein.

Like Richard O’Brien’s Rocky Horror, Brooks’ original 1974 film – which is an almighty 95% ‘fresh’ on reviews website Rotten Tomatoes by the way – was both a lampoon of and a love letter to the horror genre.

The stage version retains the screenplay’s irreverent streak as it sings and dances merrily through the story of Dr Frederick Frankenstein (pronounced ‘Fronkensteen’), a pompous professorial expert on the brain – think Frasier Crane - who inherits his grandfather Victor’s Transylvanian castle lair complete with hunchback sidekick, mysterious and sinister housekeeper and busty lab assistant straight out of a Benny Hill sketch.

Despite categorically denying he is going to follow in his infamous forbear’s footsteps, a chance discovery and a bit of persuasion later and Frederick too is tempted into creating his own ‘monster’ (the lofty Pete Gallagher) with suitably hilarious and catastrophic results.

No stick is left un-slapped in this merrily un-PC romp (the ‘content warning’ is impressively extensive, ranging from sexual innuendo and comic horror violence to animal references, sex stereotypes, death and corpses) which at times has a distinct panto-esque quality to it.

Above: Dr Frederick Frankenstein (Daniel Brocklebank) and his creature (Pete Gallagher). Top: Gallagher 'Puttin' on the Ritz'. Photos by Cian O'Riain.

Daniel Brocklebank is an urbane presence and a nifty song and dance man as the ‘young’ Frankenstein of the title, while the rest of the cast have great fun with a range of Brooks' typically larger-than-life characters and wild-eyed grotesques.

They include a limber Curtis Patrick as Igor (pronounced Eye-gore), holding his own against the cinematic spectre of Marty Feldman, Julie Yammanee as assistant Inga – imagine a lab coat-wearing Yvette to Frankenstein’s René Artois, and Jessica Martin as housekeeper Frau Blücher. Amelia Adams is a delight as Frankenstein’s glamorous but icy socialite fiancée whose ice is melted by an unlikely figure.

Meanwhile Simeon Truby clearly relishes the role of Inspector Kemp, the Kaiser helmeted lawman who rouses a gang of pitchfork-wielding villagers to storm the castle and string up the latest Frankenstein to threaten their peaceful existence.

Truby ventures into the auditorium in the second half where he becomes a voluble member of the audience (incidentally, on press night he settled in the handy aisle seat I’d vacated at the interval in search of a clearer view of the stage – you’re welcome).

Above: Frankenstein's fiancée Elizabeth Benning (Amelia Adams) and ensemble. Photo by Cian O'Riain.

He was still sitting there when a black-clad, headphone-wearing member of the crew emerged from the wings stage left, called a halt to the scene and the house lights went up. Truby cheerily carried on with some ad libbing until he was finally extricated by another crew member.

It turned out Yammanee had injured herself and there was a 10-minute hiatus while understudy Jessica Wright was decanted into Inga’s costume to carry on for the remainder of the show. Chapeau to Wright for a silky-smooth transition including a big song and dance number. Word is she’s due to play Inga again tonight while Yammanee recovers.

The big song and dance number in question is the irresistible Puttin’ on the Ritz, translated directly from screen to stage in a glorious flurry of tip-tapping hot-hoofing, with Gallagher’s endearing creature touching hearts and winning cheers as he taps and scats at the centre of it all.

Under director and choreographer Nick Winston the action is kept bright and breezy, and the big ensemble musical numbers are impressively polished. The Playhouse's pit has been opened for the first time in years to house the Hope Mill Theatre production's live band.

Not everything works. The ‘Fronkensteen’ pronunciation scene feels rather laboured and the revolving fireplace routine between Frederick and Inga lacks the sense of haplessness and sharp comedy timing it really needs.

That aside, there’s still a monster amount to enjoy in this wily, warm-hearted and wonderfully exuberant theatrical treat. If you’re blue when you go in, you certainly won’t be when you leave.