Written by Aaina Saini
The West End’s production of Cabaret begins the second you enter the Playhouse theatre, reimagined as the “Kit Kat Club”. Mischief, sex, and art seem ablaze from the first shot of vodka upon entry to the backstage performances; mime performers and atmospheric lighting set in red, gold and green — the tarty history is brought to life. In the Kit Kat Club, London seems like a distant reality, and a show begins that one cannot fathom missing!
The performance itself was designed to be a pleasure with no bad seats, and an exceptional orchestra carrying the soul of the performers.
The movement of the performance was nothing short of breathtaking. It shifted from playful mischief — an almost intoxicating celebration of queer culture in 1920s Berlin — to something far more dishevelled, dystopian, and painfully revealing. Clifford, the young writer from America, arrives with all the markings of a classic protagonist on the cusp of adventure, yet it quickly becomes apparent that he is no hero at all, but a spectator drifting through someone else’s story.
The engagement party marked a distinct turning point in the show’s energy. And later, during If You Could See Her, the audience chuckled at the sheer absurdity of the dancing gorilla, its unexpected presence almost charming, right until the final verse.
Then, silence.
Every person in the theatre seemed suspended in the moment, completely held by the production. The sensation sent goosebumps rippling up my arms, the kind that linger long after the lights are on again.
What struck me most was the near impossibility of feeling true sympathy for any of the characters— maybe intentional, but not unnoticed. Sally’s refusal to leave Berlin, Clifford’s instinct to flee, Liza’s decision to reject Herr Schultz solely because he is Jewish, and Ernst’s willingness to cozy up to the Nazis under the guise of “political practicality”—each choice human, but never justified.
The lone exception is Herr Schultz himself, a gentle, dignified Jewish man who believes with heartbreaking sincerity that he need not run because he is German. And in that moment, the audience feels an ache that the characters cannot: the heavy knowledge of what history would do to people like him.
These characters may be fictional, but their flaws are alarmingly real. They mirror the world as it stands today. Some gather their things and escape danger with their moral reasoning intact, while others embrace the encroaching threat, with the eager obedience of dogs let off their leash. The production does something remarkable: it humanises even the worst choices, showing how people arrive at decisions that are indefensible yet deeply understandable.
It feels uncomfortably aligned with our current political moment: queer culture once again under attack, fascist rhetoric rising across continents, and Western supremacist ideologies finding footholds in mainstream discourse. And suddenly, one becomes strangely grateful for the fragile safety of the Kit Kat Club. There’s an uneasy beauty in it, a sanctuary that feels both deeply alive and perilously temporary. As the show draws to a close, the viewer steps away with the haunting awareness that those in the Kit Kat Club would be soon to not exist.
And then, stepping out into the real world, into London, 2025, there is an unexpected wash of relief. Yet the production lingers heavily upon one’s mind. The people in the Kit Kat Club once believed, with terrifying sincerity, that Tomorrow Belongs to Me, that their future would be bright, protected, assured. We, too, might be just as naive if we refuse to confront the present with clarity and responsibility.
In the end, it is a brilliant performance — perhaps the finest I’ve ever seen on the West End. But it is more than theatre. It is a mirror held up to the audience, urging them to look not only at the world in front of them, but at themselves, honest and defenceless.
