BWW Reviews: SWEENEY TODD, Twickenham Theatre, September 19 2014

"Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd" - and you should, you so should.

Theatre affords many pleasures, but the rawest is the thrill, the sense of seeing something (better still, being part of something) that isn't happening anywhere else in the world, except right here, right now. And Sweeney Todd (at Twickenham Theatre until 4 October), with The Demon Barber himself, up close and personal, pointing his beloved blades at your throat, is as thrilling as theatre gets.

If the Sondheim classic is familiar - it's not been short of adaptations or revivals these last 30 years or so - it still packs a helluva punch. Back in London - a grimy, crimey, slimy place - on the run after 15 years in Botany Bay on a trumped up charge concocted by the evil Judge Turpin so he could get to his wife, Sweeney sets up his barbershop above Mrs Lovett's failing pie emporium and plots his revenge. Soon he's chopping off pretty much every head he has the pleasure to know and the people are coming and going downstairs, demanding more and more of Lovett's remarkable, uniquely tasty, pies. If the fare downstairs in piping hot, upstairs revenge will be served, as is traditional, cold.

David Bedella and Sarah Ingram bring big West End charisma to this tiny stage, charisma so supercharged you can almost touch it. Bedella has enormous fun, staying just the right side of panto when cackling with evil intent, but oh so full of righteous anger when he contemplates the hand Fate has dealt him. It's no mean feat to match his singing chops, but Sarah Ingram does that - and more - getting plenty of laughs with little more than a raised eyebrow or well-timed shrug. The principals get excellent support from the ensemble cast, with Mark McKerracher the standout as Judge Turpin, ably supported by an oily Chris Coleman as his sidekick, Beadle Bamford.

Musicals like this - well, it feels much more a boutique opera than a musical - demand as much of the musicians as the players, and Benjamin Holder leads his band wonderfully well, the balance of instruments and voices perfectly set for the venue (not something one can always say). A word too for Rachel Stone's set, full of surprises and never less than convincingly Victorian. These talents are marshalled with some panache by first-time director Derek Anderson, whose Act Two opener, God, That's Good, uses the ensemble with such skill that you feel that there must be half a dozen of the audience recruited in the interval.

£15 buys a seat - it would be a bargain at triple that price.

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