Written and Directed by Tony Roper

Songs by David Anderson

Review by Dominic Corr

The Dundee Rep

Mince, carbolic soap suds, and a couple of drams; oh aye, it’s good to be back. As the fading embers of a 1950s Glasgow Hogmanay crackle into life, we are not whisked away to a glamorous tenement party, but rather thrust wrist-deep into the soapy, gossip-filled basins of a public washhouse. Tony Roper’s enduring comedic script places audiences shoulder-to-shoulder with four working-class women racing to scrub their laundry before Hogmanay. Enduring for nearly four decades as a staple of Scottish theatre, this beloved play continues to draw guaranteed crowds eager to reunite with characters who feel inextricably linked to their own heritage.

In every avenue, there is a gorgeous meeting of the contemporary and heritage involved. Staged by Louise McCarthy (who plays Dolly) and Ryan Alexander Dewar’s new Rerr Terr production group, in association with more regular names Neil Laidlaw Productions, Selladoor and The Dundee Rep, the show comes to life once again; needed more than ever. With communities dissipating, or dying out – or worse, fighting – this collective of wummin strikes an immediate connection with crowds, as we done our gloves and wellies, and trudge into The Steamie.

Visually, the production is an accomplishment of atmosphere, anchored heavily by Kenny Miller’s monumental set design. The staging expertly captures the intense, clammy heat of the washhouse while incorporating the grand, deserted stone pillars of the city streets hovering directly above the women. What you initially feel as ripples of chatter in the crowd is the distant nipping of the others in the washrooms, thanks to Paul Smith for Apex Acoustics sound design. This architectural choice serves as a poignant visual metaphor: an oblivious society walking blindly over the exhausting, unseen labour of the working class. While this meticulously authentic, towering backdrop occasionally threatens to dwarf the intimate character moments, the sheer emotional warmth radiating from the ensemble quickly pulls the audience’s focus back down to the bubbling basins below.

Banter and emotional vulnerability flow as freely as the water, balancing uproarious patter with sobering glimpses into mid-century poverty, alcoholism, and relentless domestic fatigue. The legendary monologue concerning a Galloway’s mince remains a fever-dream for Higher drama students, triggering ripples of electric anticipation through the auditorium the second the topic is broached. Similarly, the imaginative sketch involving an imaginary telephone call – where the young, American-movie-obsessed Doreen (Eden Barrie) fantasises about a modern Drumchapel home equipped with all of the technological marvels – beautifully captures the shifting generational ambitions of the era. But it’s the more tender moments of reflection, accompanied by David Anderson’s songs, where we see the comedy give way to the Scots heart: Barrie is an anchor point for younger viewers, full of a hope many in the room have had – and seen diminish.

With the cannier use of Anderson’s songs, Ali Cleland’s Magrit may seem the sore thorn; but she may well be someone many in the audience connect with the most. Gruff, but humorous and proud, Cleland carries Magrit with a steely determination to maintain order and family – despite the unspoken difficulties at home, and the passed-out husband waiting on the sofa. The reverse, but equally as identifiable, is McCarthy’s Dolly. In the know, the gift of the gab, and spouting verbal diarrhoea until her breath runs out – there isn’t anyone you’d want fighting your corner more. McCarthy is a treasure to the theatre, and one who has the firmest command of the comedic is more than deserving of the opportunities to tackle more principled and heavier roles. You can see it in Dolly; laughter, yes. But something more: a depth of character creation, stature, and complexity.

If there is a slight stumble in this rhythmic shifting of song to performance, found within a handful of Anderson’s musical interludes. While the nostalgic ballads successfully drive the narrative forward and elicit fond recitations from the crowd, some of the cheerier, surface-level numbers feel a touch jarring, momentarily breaking the delicate pathos Roper so carefully constructs.

Providing the only male presence in this fierce sorority is Paul J Corrigan as the ever-suffering handyman, Andy – providing a different element of joviality, and a common target for the quartet. Yet, the true triumph of Roper’s text is its historical preservation of a much-eroded society. The elderly Mrs Culfeathers, gorgeously carried by the legendary Lesley Mackie, represents a retiring generation standing in stark contrast to an impending modern era of technological isolation and secluded high-rises. She is never depicted as feeble, but rather as an integral reminder of the fierce communal bonds that once tied these neighbourhoods together.

Celebrating its legacy as a definitive contemporary classic, this revival proves exactly why the washhouse sorority has stood the test of time. Despite leaning heavily into wistful nostalgia for a fading past, the script’s resonant themes of female solidarity, community resilience, and shared hardship remain profoundly vital today. It is an affectionately crafted homage to a bygone era that continues to enchant crowds and bring new audiences into The Steamie family.

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