Killer Night Out, and HEATHERS THE MUSICAL is a Ferociously Funny, Unforgettable Triumph. Welcome to Westerberg High. The school hallways are a cacophony of cliques, a Darwinian ecosystem where social survival hinges on the correct outfit, the correct friends, and the correct brand of cruelty. The school cafeteria is a gladiatorial arena of social status, and the air is thick with the angst of adolescence, aerosol hairspray, and the faint, sweet scent of murder.
This is the world of HEATHERS THE MUSICAL, a production that doesn’t just invite you to relive the brutal hierarchy of high school; it grabs you by your letterman jacket, slams you against a locker, and demands your attention, your laughter, and your empathy. This specific incarnation, under the vibrant and perceptive direction of Andy Fickman, with a powerhouse cast led by the phenomenal Ailsa Davidson and the mesmerizing Simon Gordon, the show transcends its cult film origins to become a singular, explosive, and surprisingly poignant theatrical event. Highly Recommended. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
This is not merely an adaptation; it is a reinvention, a full-throated, gloriously unhinged anthem for the damaged and disenfranchised that is as relevant today as it ever was. It is a show that understands that high school isn’t just hell; it’s a war zone, and the scars it leaves are both visible and deeply hidden.
From the moment the lights dim and the opening chords of “Beautiful” rip through the theatre—a deceptively gentle acoustic strum that quickly morphs into a powerhouse rock anthem—it is abundantly clear that this is not your typical, saccharine high school musical. Kevin Murphy and Laurence O’Keefe’s score is a masterclass in genre-bending, a deliciously wicked cocktail of 1980s pop, hair metal guitar riffs, sincere power ballads, and sardonic wit. The music doesn’t just accompany the action; it is the action, propelling the narrative with a relentless energy that mirrors the hormonal turmoil of its characters.
The band, a tight and thunderous entity in its own right, becomes the heartbeat of Westerberg High, pumping a rhythm that is at once infectious and dangerous. The lyrical genius cannot be overstated; these are not simple, repetitive show tunes. They are dense, clever, and character-driven, packed with wordplay, cultural references, and emotional subtext that reveal new layers upon each listen. From the complex three-part harmonies of the Heathers to the raw, grungy solos of J.D., the score is a character in its own right, defining the world and everyone in it.
The story, for the uninitiated, follows Veronica Sawyer (Ailsa Davidson), a sharp-witted, disillusioned nobody armed with a quick hand for forgery and a faster wit. She’s dreaming of a better day, chronicling her frustrations in a diary that serves as her only confidante. Through a combination of talent and desperation, she forges her way into the most powerful clique in school: the Heathers.
This triumvirate of terror, clad in their iconic primary colours are the walking, the talking colour palette of dominance, that rules the school with a mixture of beauty, wealth, and sheer, unadulterated cruelty. Heather Chandler (Maddison Firth), the Red Queen of the group, is the architect of their reign, a vision of pristine malice whose every word is a verdict. Heather Duke (Vivian Panka), in green, is the envious lieutenant, a coiled spring of resentment waiting for her moment, her copy of Moby Dick a not-so-subtle symbol of her obsessive ambition. Heather McNamara (Teleri Hughes), in yellow, provides a flicker of vulnerability, the follower who knows the cost of disobedience but lacks the strength to break free, her sunshine hue belying a deep interior shadow.
Veronica’s initial ascent, chronicled in the brilliantly chaotic and seductive “Candy Store,” seems to promise everything she thought she wanted. The number is a masterpiece of musical theatre villainy, a siren song of power where the Heathers offer Veronica the world in exchange for her soul, all set to a deceptively catchy, pop-infused melody. But the intoxicating allure of popularity quickly sours, revealing the hollow core of moral compromise. Her salvation, or so it seems, arrives in the form of Jason “J.D.” Dean (Simon Gordon), a brooding, mysterious new kid whose trench coat and cynical worldview make him an instant outsider—and the perfect rebel antidote to the Heathers’ plastic tyranny.
What begins as a rebellious romance, a two-person war against the system in the electrifying “Dead Girl Walking,” spirals into a darkly comic and increasingly deadly plot to clean up the school’s social scene by any means necessary. The premise is outrageous, but the musical earns its darkness by grounding it in the very real, amplified emotions of its characters.
The genius of HEATHERS THE MUSICAL lies in its breathtaking tonal tightrope walk. It is a show that can pivot on a dime from uproarious, pitch-black comedy to genuine, heart-wrenching pathos, often within the same song. One moment, the audience is howling with laughter at the absurdity of jocks Kurt and Ram (played with perfect Himbo-Gusto, by Billy Lowe and Chris Chung) lamenting their homosexual panic from beyond the grave in the riotously funny and unexpectedly inclusive “My Dead Gay Son,” a number that somehow manages to be both a critique of small-mindedness and a celebration of performative and pure wokeness.
The next, they are struck silent by the devastating loneliness of Heather McNamara’s “Lifeboat” or the raw, unvarnished pain of Martha Dunnstock’s (a heartbreaking Molly Lane) “Kindergarten Boyfriend.” This production, under Andy Fickman’s assured direction, navigates these hairpin turns with impeccable precision. The comedy is never so broad that it undermines the stakes—the deaths, while played for laughs in their aftermath, have real weight and consequence. Conversely, the drama is never so heavy that it crushes the show’s anarchic, rebellious spirit. It’s a delicate, alchemical balance, and this creative team executes it flawlessly, understanding that the darkness makes the light shine brighter, and the laughter makes the tears more profound.
Central to this success is a cast that is, from the principal players to the vibrant ensemble, nothing short of extraordinary. In the pivotal role of Veronica Sawyer, Ailsa Davidson is a revelation. She is the audience’s conduit, and she performs this duty with every fibre of her being. She possesses a powerhouse voice of remarkable range and control, capable of belting anthems like “Dead Girl Walking” with roof-raising, rock-god ferocity, then softening into a tender, vulnerable whisper in the defiant “I Say No,” a stunning addition to the show that provides Veronica with a much-needed anthem of self-reclamation.
Her performance is more than just technical vocal prowess. She embodies Veronica’s journey with a stunning emotional transparency. We see her initial naivety and intelligence in the opening number, her giddy, terrifying thrill at being seen in “Candy Store,” her dawning horror and moral conflict as the body count rises, and her ultimate, hard-won resilience in the finale. Davidson makes Veronica not just a protagonist, but a mirror for the audience, reflecting our own complicated feelings about conformity, rebellion, and the painful price of integrity. We are with her at every step, even the misguided ones.
Opposite her, Simon Gordon’s J.D. is a magnetic, terrifying, and oddly sympathetic force. It would be easy to play this character as a one-note, edgy psychopath, but Gordon finds the tragic, broken humanity within the monster. His voice, a smooth, compelling rock-baritone, is both seductive and dangerous, perfectly suited for songs like “Freeze Your Brain,” where he outlines his numb, ice-slurpee 7-Eleven store philosophy, and the climactic, unhinged “Meant to Be Yours,” a number of such terrifying intensity and raw vulnerability that it becomes perversely beautiful.
Gordon peels back the layers of J.D.’s trench coat to reveal a profoundly damaged boy, a product of neglect and violence whose warped vision of “love” is a bomb waiting to detonate. His chemistry with Davidson is electric, a dangerous dance that makes their twisted romance both believably passionate and utterly compelling. You understand exactly why Veronica is drawn to him—he sees the real her, the angry, disillusioned her that the Heathers suppress—even as you scream at her to run away.
The three Heathers are a masterclass in ensemble acting, each actor creating a distinct, iconic, and memorably villainous portrait. Maddison Firth is a sublime Heather Chandler. She commands the stage with a regal, icy poise that could freeze hell itself; her every gesture, every raised eyebrow, is a calculated act of dominance. She is the sun around which the Westerberg solar system revolves. Her posthumous rendition of “The Me Inside of Me” is a comedic tour-de-force, a perfectly pitched parody of post-tragedy sanctimony and vapid news cycle commentary.
As Heather Duke, Vivian Panka is brilliantly unsettling. She simmers with a palpable, hungry envy and ambition, her body language constantly conveying her status as the perpetual second-in-command. Her transformation from sycophantic sidekick to unhinged, red-wearing usurper in the second act is chilling and is crowned by her show-stopping, venomous performance of “Never Shut Up Again,” a villain’s anthem that is both terrifying and empowering. Teleri Hughes brings a heartbreaking vulnerability to Heather McNamara, ensuring that the character is more than just a pretty, scared face in the background. Her “Lifeboat” is one of the show’s most quietly powerful moments, a raw, stripped-bare cry for help that lands with devastating emotional weight and momentarily halts the show’s breakneck pace to focus on a single, sinking soul.
The supporting cast provides a relentless stream of energy and comedy, fleshing out the world of Westerberg High with hilarious specificity. The duo of Lowe and Chung as Kurt and Ram are hilariously grotesque, embodying the hyper-masculine, knuckle-dragging idiocy of high school jocks, with perfect comedic timing and impressive physicality. Similarly, the parental figures and faculty (often played by ensemble members in quick-change roles), are caricatured to uproarious effect, representing the clueless, disconnected adult world.
Their deleted song hit, “BLUE” all about their boyish “BLUE-BALLS” and was a crude, hormonal lament concerning their supposed virginity, the highlight of the first act, a masterpiece of double-entendre, and stupidly earnest delivery. “You’re Welcome” replaces “BLUE”, the song was on the original cast recording. “You’re Welcome” originally written by O’Keefe and Murphy for the High School Edition, but was later added to the official show, beginning with the 2018 London production. O’Keefe and Murphy preferred “You’re Welcome” as “Blue” had been perceived by audiences as “treating date rape as a laughing matter” and trivializing the issue by presenting it as comical, “boyish antics”.
A special mention must be reiterated for Molly Lane as Martha Dunnstock, whose “Kindergarten Boyfriend” is a gut punch of sincerity and unrequited love. In a show drenched in cynicism, her unwavering, tragic belief in a childhood promise momentarily strips away the irony to reveal the beating, bruised heart underneath it all. It is THE performance that earns its tears honestly.
Andy Fickman’s direction is dynamic, inventive, and deeply intelligent. He maximises the stage space to create a world that feels both expansively large—the entirety of the high school experience—and terrifyingly claustrophobic, as the walls of Veronica’s choices close in on her. The choreography, a vibrant and aggressively joyful style that blends 1980s pep rally moves with modern athleticism and a hint of Broadway razzle-dazzle, is executed with razor-sharp precision by the ensemble, making every musical number a visual spectacle.
The staging of “Big Fun” at the party is a riot of colour, movement, and teenage debauchery, perfectly capturing that specific brand of chaotic, alcohol-fueled high school party energy. Conversely, the “Shine a Light” sequence, led by the fervent, blissfully ignorant guidance counselour Ms. Fleming, is a brilliantly satirical take on empty gestures and performative grief, highlighting the community’s failure to address real pain with anything other than platitudes.
The production design is a character in itself, a vital component in establishing the show’s unique aesthetic. The set is a marvel of efficiency and atmosphere, cleverly evoking the various locales of Westerberg High and beyond through the use of movable lockers and staircases. These structures shift and reconfigure to create classrooms, bedrooms, and cemeteries, creating a fluid, ever-changing environment that mirrors the unstable social landscape.
The lighting design is particularly outstanding, a character in its own right. It uses bold, saturated colours—especially those signature reds, blues, greens, and yellows—to reflect the mood, ownership, and emotional temperature of scenes. A scene with Heather Chandler is bathed in aggressive red; Heather Duke’s takeover is signalled with a sickly, jealous green. Aggressive, unabashedly theatrical, and utterly effective. Of course, the true visual iconography of Heathers lies in its costumes.
The Heathers’ outfits are sartorial perfection, a testament to the power of colour-coded tyranny and 1980s prep-school fashion. Veronica’s transformation, from drab, outsider blouses and skirts to chic, black-and-white accomplice wear and finally back to a unique, authentic style of her own making in the finale, is charted beautifully and meaningfully through her clothing. Every sartorial choice tells a story.
Beyond the laughs, the killer tunes, and the sheer theatrical bravado, HEATHERS THE MUSICAL endures and resonates because of its surprisingly potent and humane core. It is, at its heart, a story about the trauma of adolescence. It magnifies the high school experience to a grotesque, hyperbolic degree—literally turning social anxieties into life-and-death struggles—but in doing so, it speaks a fundamental truth. The fear of being a nobody, the desperate, clawing desire to belong, the crushing weight of peer pressure, the terrifying discovery of your own voice and the consequences of using it: these are universal struggles. The show doesn’t offer easy, clean answers. Its resolution is messy and bittersweet, just like growing up. Veronica doesn’t defeat the system; the school will inevitably find new Heathers, new Jocks, new victims. She simply survives it with her soul, albeit scarred and “damaged,” intact. Her final anthem, “I Am Damaged,” is not a song of unblemished victory, but one of acknowledgement, acceptance, and resilience. It’s a powerful, mature message: you can go through hell, you can be complicit in terrible mistakes, you can be deeply and permanently scarred, and yet, you can still choose to be better. You can still say no. You can still choose to be kind.
In an age of curated social media personas, relentless pressure to conform to various aesthetic and ideological ideals, and ongoing conversations about bullying and mental health, the themes of Heathers are arguably more relevant than ever. It is a violent, funny, and deeply cathartic rejection of the notion that you have to be a somebody—a Heather—to matter. It is a show that champions the nobodies, the Marthas, the Veronica Sawyers who dare to reclaim their narrative and assert that simply surviving the war is a victory in itself.
The fifteen-minute intermission, complete with its ominous, theatrical countdown clock, is a masterstroke of pacing. It allows the audience to breathe, to laugh nervously with each other, to process the audacious, murderous first act, and to return to their seats with a palpable sense of anticipation for the darkness to come.
The second act does not disappoint, descending into a thrilling, operatic madness that builds to a truly satisfying and emotionally resonant climax.
This production of HEATHERS THE MUSICAL is a phenomenal, five-star piece of theatre. It is a rare gem that successfully, and seemingly effortlessly, combines laugh-out-loud humour with genuine, gut-wrenching emotional depth, all wrapped in one of the cleverest and most infectious scores of the last twenty years, and delivered by a cast operating at the absolute peak of their powers. This show that revels in its own darkness and cynicism while never, ever losing its soul, its heart, or its fundamental belief in the possibility of redemption. A wild, wicked, and wonderfully heartfelt ride from start to finish. Put on your best croquet outfit, and then grab your best friend (or your mysterious, trench-coat-wearing boyfriend), and get down to the cinema. Westerberg High is waiting for you. And trust me, you will want to be a somebody who was there. It is to die for.
