Kiss of the Spider Woman - reality bites in this rare revival

★★★★

Shadows crawl the walls as a man lies on a prison bed, circling the drain.

Kiss of the Spider Woman, photo by Marc Brenner

Valentin, a committed political activist, is standing by his morals and being tortured in the wake of Argentina's "Dirty War". He's comforted by his cell-mate Molina, a gay window-dresser, who is three years into his seven-year sentence for gross indecency. In the grimy confines of the prison, a relationship between the unlikely pair begins to take shape as Molina extends their shrinking world into the deep depths of his favourite Hollywood film star.

Aurora, a mistress of ceremonies, casts an omnipresence as the mysterious spider woman. A poster of her face is the only decoration on the wall, her haunting lullabies creep into the echoed sound design (Matt Peploe), and close-ups of her sharpened nails and cat eyes flash (video by Andrzej Goulding). Anna-Jane Casey, a seasoned stage vet, is every inch the star you'd expect. Gabriella Slade's costuming has taken a leaf out of the book of another successful Kander and Ebb revival, which has starred Casey, as here she wears curved black sequin shoulder pads, and her cheekbones are hollowed and sharp. She shines particularly in Joanna Goodwin's luxe choreography, which combines luscious Latin grooves, strong tangos, and improvisation, using cafeteria trays as top hats for a gritty pastiche of old-school glamour. It's just about the only dose of luxe to Paul Foster's darkened and raw production. But that's not to say any grandeur has been spared. This is a production that is luxurious in its impact.

As Molina, Fabian Soto Pacheco is mesmerising. He carries himself with such energy that it's impossible to avert your gaze, and you can't help but notice the instinctive peculiarities of this character; the way he folds shawls and lovingly runs his fingers across the fabrics, their rose blush cheeks, and the way he mirrors his idol, Aurora, mouthing lyrics. Pacheco earns that last bow. Beside him, George Blagden is a remarkable Valentin, his voice shattering. It's an arresting performance. In particular, his contorting physicality is awe-inspiring, as is Kate Waters's direction of some brutal fight scenes. The ensemble playing sweat-drenched prisoners, climb the gates in an attempt to get "Over The Wall" to their freedom - realised in a platform above the staging (David Woodhead).

It is a shame that the live band, led by Dan Glover, is hidden off-set. They sound absolutely swell, making John Kander and Fred Ebb's rarely performed score absolutely rocket-fueled. It makes the largest impact in the close quarters of Curve's studio space, which, with striking spotlights in the dark, evokes a feeling of intrusion rather than intimacy. Mostly, this is effective, but it comes with its consequences. The upper half of the video design is cut off and lost for the first few rows of the audience, and the book, by Terence McNally, feels stoic in places.

Most of the action plays out in the cell, but there are nightmarish scenes in the infirmary, in wonderful contrast with Aurora's dreamlike sequences. The opening of the second act is a gorgeous blend of the two, where the cell becomes a film set, with industrial lighting wheeled on stage, with a gum-chewing camera operator.

In this relentless production, Molina finds his grace in a technicolour show-stopper of a finale. You only hope it is his reality.