Direction and Choreography by Matthew Bourne

Design by Lez Brotherston

Review by Dominic Corr

The Festival Theatre

Had your cold shower? No? Well, there’s still time.

Oil-stained coveralls, cigarette smoke curling under the unforgiving glare of a neon sign, and the suffocating heat of a dusty Midwestern outpost: welcome to Harmony, population 375. Sir Matthew Bourne’s legendary dance thriller The Car Man arrives at The Festival Theatre as a high-octane collision between Bizet’s Carmen and the hard-boiled pulp of James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice and similar rebel stories of the fifties and sixties. Transporting operatic tragedy into a grease-slicked, 1960s American garage-diner, the production operates as a magnificent cinematic mash-up that gleefully dips its toes into film noir, Shakespearean jealousy, and grease-monkey melodrama. It is a world where boredom is a toxic poison and testosterone flows thick enough to choke an engine block.

Lez Brotherston’s multi-tiered set design immediately anchors this sweaty micro-universe, featuring actual life-sized automobiles that double as mobile stages, hiding spots, and instruments of passion. Chris Davey’s moody, searing illumination cuts through the garage haze, bathing the stage in an atmosphere that is as visually arresting as it is relentlessly claustrophobic. Bourne’s choreography bypasses traditional balletic decorum in favour of a raw, physical vocabulary where athletic leaps, militaristic posturing, and languorous ensemble numbers collide. Admittedly, the production leans so heavily into its melodramatic pulp-fiction roots that the narrative can occasionally border on exhausting; its relentless parade of violence, misogyny, and unbridled eroticism leaves very little room to breathe. Yet, this unapologetic excess is precisely what gives the work its hypnotic pulse, seasoned with flashes of pitch-black, tongue-in-cheek humour that brilliantly punctures the testosterone-fuelled solemnity.

Shattering the fragile equilibrium of this small-town powder keg is a drifter whose magnetic, loose-hipped confidence sends ripples of desire through both sexes. Entering the fray with a swagger that challenges the garage’s rigid macho posturing, Will Bozier embodies Luca with a terrifying, gravity-defying charisma. Bozier moves across the stage with an effortless, predator-like fluidity, turning his athletic solos – particularly a booze-fuelled encounter – into masterclasses of physical seduction that leave the audience entirely spellbound, and conjures sounds from some audience members that most of their husbands haven’t heard in years…

Trapped in a suffocating, passionless marriage to the establishment’s tyrannical owner, the garage’s resident femme fatale provides the explosive catalyst for the unfolding tragedy. Cordelia Braithwaite infuses Lana with a volatile, petulant hunger, capturing the restless desperation of a woman ready to burn down her entire world just to feel a spark of genuine heat. Their explosive first tryst – a rampantly acrobatic display of animalistic passion executed against the metal shutters – is so fiercely charged it fizzes with friction, setting off a chain reaction from which nobody in Harmony will escape unscathed.

Surrounding this central vortex of destruction is an ensemble operating at the absolute peak of theatrical coordination. Alan Vincent anchors the narrative’s heavy-handed authority as the sleazy, cuckolded garage proprietor Dino, bringing a menacing gravity to a man hurtling blindly toward his own demise. Caught in the crossfire of this toxic environment is the deeply vulnerable mechanic Angelo, brought to life with heartbreaking sincerity and physical tenderness. Anna-Maria De Frietas complements this emotional core as Rita, offering a poignant, doomed purity amid the aggressive posturing of the mechanics. Every single member of the company treats a costume change or shift in stance as an invitation to completely reinvent themselves, ensuring the stage is never anything less than alive with kinetic drama.

As the final, haunting notes of Terry Davies’s inventive orchestrations fade and the garage lights click off on a shattered community, The Car Man leaves behind an indelible, oil-smeared imprint. It is a wildly sensual, filthy, and gloriously entertaining triumph that proves narrative dance can be just as thrillingly cinematic as any Hollywood projector screen. Lock your doors, buckle up, and surrender to a theatrical joyride that refuses to hit the brakes.

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