Adapted and Directed by Emma Rice

Written by Carl Grose and Anna Maria Murphy

Review by Dominic Corr

The Royal Lyceum Theatre

To dismantle a twelfth-century epic of doomed romance and reassemble it as a raucous, cabaret-infused inquiry into human isolation requires a very particular brand of theatrical audacity many think they can achieve — but one that Emma Rice’s legendary adaptation of Tristan & Yseult delivers with staggering, anarchic grace. Arriving at The Royal Lyceum Theatre, this modern classic immediately dissolves the barrier between stage and auditorium, enlisting an anorak-clad army of observers from the “Club of the Unloved” who scrutinise the breathless, dizzying highs of the genetically blessed through binoculars. This profound, infectious love for the medium itself radiates from every scene, establishing a playfully porous fourth wall where balloons are blown up and shared, transforming the house into a collective celebration of performance art.

Part circus mayhem, part cabaret seduction, and part sweeping medieval tragedy, the production dances effortlessly across genre lines, refusing to let solemnity anchor its flight. Visually and spatially, Bill Mitchell’s industrial warehouse design – refreshed with striking clarity by Vicki Mortimer – harnesses a versatile central structural rig that seamlessly morphs from a rolling ocean vessel into soaring treetops and cosmic expanses. This kinetic environment is energised by Etta Murfitt’s immaculate choreography, which elevates physical combat and athletic aerial acrobatics into a primary storytelling language, ensuring that every clash of steel or dizzying suspension mirrors the emotional turbulence of the characters.

Amplifying this sweeping physical momentum is the pulsating heartbeat of Stu Barker’s onstage musical accompaniment. Positioned dynamically to one side of the stage, a phenomenal live band weaves an eclectic, atmospheric sonic tapestry that spans folk instrumentation, Wagnerian grandeur, Nick Cave’s brooding lyricism, and Roy Orbison’s aching romance. Music does not merely decorate the background here; it operates as a living, breathing participant in the narrative, driving the emotional tide forward and infusing the production with an otherworldly, folk-infused pulse that keeps the audience utterly spellbound. While the sheer sensory velocity of the staging occasionally threatens to swallow its quieter dramatic interstices, this relentless, intoxicating momentum is precisely what preserves its enduring vitality.

Within this dizzying ecosystem, the supporting ensemble delivers masterclasses in characterisation that brilliantly anchor the production’s tonal oscillations. Matthew Churcher brings a sharp, fleet-footed agility and delicious dramatic tension to Frocin, capturing the bitter complexities of a spurned right-hand man with impeccable timing. Equally magnetic is Tom Fox, whose tour de force portrayal of the maidservant Brangian effortlessly bridges the gap between uproarious farce and devastating sorrow. Fox anchors the emotional core of the evening with staggering vulnerability, brilliantly subverting early comedic expectations into a heartbreaking display of loyalty and sacrifice.

These remarkable supporting turns are matched in intensity by the central quartet, where John Leader’s swaggering, commanding Tristan collides with Nandi Bhebhe’s spellbinding Yseult in a dazzling display of all-consuming obsession. Yet, the production wisely complicates this romance through Edward Rowe’s grounded, steadfast King Mark, whose quiet, agonising dignity prevents the narrative from collapsing into cliché.

More joyful than a pantomime, more intense than a thriller; as balloons whip through the Lyceum auditorium and melancholic notes fade into final murmurs, Tristan & Yseult leaves behind an indelible reminder of why we gather in the dark. It is a ferocious, joyous love letter to the transformative magic of live performance, proving that even the oldest tragedies can be resurrected with sweat, music, and an unshakeable, beating theatrical heart.

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