Adapted by Stephen Mallatratt after Susan Hill’s Book

Directed By Robin Herford

Review by Dominic Corr

The Theatre Royal

There’s something deliciously perverse about watching a ghost story unfold in a grand Victorian auditorium, especially one as storied as the Theatre Royal Glasgow. In an age where horror is often filtered through screens, algorithms, and jump‑cut editing, this stage adaptation of The Woman in Black feels like a reclamation of the genre’s roots. It’s a reminder that the most potent scares are born not from CGI, but from imagination, silence, and the slow tightening of atmosphere. And in this 2026 tour, that atmosphere is as meticulously crafted as ever.

The production, directed by Robin Herford, remains a masterclass in theatrical minimalism. With only two performers: John Mackay as Arthur Kipps and Daniel Burke as The Actor, the stage becomes a shifting landscape of memory and dread. Mackay, a more local-lad Scottish performer whose presence grounds the entire evening, brings a raw, lived‑in quality to Kipps. His performance is not merely haunted; it is burdened, as though every word he speaks costs him something. Burke, meanwhile, is a nimble counterpoint; energetic, playful, and increasingly unnerved as the tale spirals into darkness.

What strikes first is the intimacy. Despite the scale of the Theatre Royal, the production draws the audience inward, shrinking the space until it feels as though we are huddled around a campfire, waiting for the next shadow to move. The simplicity of the staging—little more than a wicker trunk, a few chairs, and a handful of cloths- invites the imagination to do the heavy lifting. The heart in adapting Susan Hill’s tremendous story has always been the exquisiteness of the storytelling, and the trigger points of the horror and anticipation. They remain entirely whole here.

The scares, crucially, are genuine. Not cheap, not telegraphed, not reliant on volume. They creep. They stalk. They arrive half a second after you think you’re safe. The Woman herself appears sparingly, but each appearance is a jolt, an intrusion rather than a set piece. In a digital age where horror often numbs rather than terrifies, this analogue approach feels almost radical. The production trusts the audience’s instincts, letting silence and suggestion do the work. And when the audience screams (and they do) it feels earned; even better, they’re doing it half of the time when there’s nothing to jump at, there is nothing to jump at… right?

Much of this success lies in the design. Michael Holt’s set is deceptively bare, a canvas onto which the mind projects its own nightmares. Kevin Sleep’s lighting design is the real conjurer here: a flicker, a shadow, a sudden absence of warmth. Light becomes both storyteller and tormentor, guiding the eye and then betraying it. Sebastian Frost’s sound design completes the trinity: creaking boards, distant cries, and the kind of low, almost subliminal rumble that makes your spine tighten before your brain catches up.

If there is a drawback, it lies in the pacing. The first section, where Kipps and The Actor rehearse the retelling of the story, occasionally feels overly drawn out. The meta‑theatrical framing – clever though it is – can momentarily dilute the tension. But once the narrative fully commits to Eel Marsh House and the marshes beyond, the production snaps into focus with ruthless efficiency.

What elevates this 2026 staging is its resonance. Horror stories endure because they speak to something primal, something that resists the sanitising glow of screens. In a world saturated with digital noise, The Woman in Black thrives precisely because it strips everything back. It asks us to listen. To watch. To fear what we cannot quite see. And in Glasgow, on a cold January night, that fear feels wonderfully alive in a gripping, atmospheric revival, proof that the oldest scares are still the most potent.

---