INTO THE WOODS REVIEW: A TANGLE OF SHADOWS AND SECRETS
INTO THE WOODS REVIEW: A TANGLE OF SHADOWS AND SECRETS
JORDAN FEIN'S DARKLY THRILLING PRODUCTION REIMAGINES SONDHEIM FOR A NEW ERA
JORDAN FEIN'S DARKLY THRILLING PRODUCTION REIMAGINES SONDHEIM FOR A NEW ERA
★★★★☆
★★★★☆
In the dimly lit expanse of the Bridge Theatre, Fein’s new revival of Into the Woods feels less like a nostalgic return to a beloved classic and more like a summoning. Known for his bold reinterpretations of Golden Age works—his celebrated Oklahoma! and the recent Olivier-winning Fiddler on the Roof—Fein arrives with a clear thesis: in Sondheim and Lapine’s fairy-tale labyrinth, the dark was always there. He simply lets it grow.
In the dimly lit expanse of the Bridge Theatre, Fein’s new revival of Into the Woods feels less like a nostalgic return to a beloved classic and more like a summoning. Known for his bold reinterpretations of Golden Age works—his celebrated Oklahoma! and the recent Olivier-winning Fiddler on the Roof—Fein arrives with a clear thesis: in Sondheim and Lapine’s fairy-tale labyrinth, the dark was always there. He simply lets it grow.
Where the 2022 Broadway revival, under Lear DeBessonett, shimmered with a devotional glow—part tribute, part balm following Sondheim’s death—Fein’s production trades sparkle for menace. This Woods is still musical theatre, still whimsical, still wickedly clever, but the shadows are longer, thicker, more intrusive. His world is one that asks, with a faintly malicious smile, what lurks just beyond the next tree.
Where the 2022 Broadway revival, under Lear DeBessonett, shimmered with a devotional glow—part tribute, part balm following Sondheim’s death—Fein’s production trades sparkle for menace. This Woods is still musical theatre, still whimsical, still wickedly clever, but the shadows are longer, thicker, more intrusive. His world is one that asks, with a faintly malicious smile, what lurks just beyond the next tree.
Fein’s tone shift is palpable from the first steps into Tom Scutt’s set: a dense, uncanny forest whose realism feels almost claustrophobic. Scutt, a dual Olivier and Tony Award-winner, crafts a woods that looks alive—gnarled, twisting, and close enough to touch. Though the scenic design conjures a convincing wilderness, its scale occasionally feels constrained, a necessary concession to the orchestra’s placement on both sides of the stage. One can’t help imagining how much more immersive the world might have become had Scutt been given full reign of the auditorium.
Fein’s tone shift is palpable from the first steps into Tom Scutt’s set: a dense, uncanny forest whose realism feels almost claustrophobic. Scutt, a dual Olivier and Tony Award-winner, crafts a woods that looks alive—gnarled, twisting, and close enough to touch. Though the scenic design conjures a convincing wilderness, its scale occasionally feels constrained, a necessary concession to the orchestra’s placement on both sides of the stage. One can’t help imagining how much more immersive the world might have become had Scutt been given full reign of the auditorium.
The costumes, meanwhile, lean into a muted, earthy palette—appropriate for the mood, if occasionally too drained of vibrancy. In a show where color often signals transformation, desire, or danger, the desaturation at times renders the stage visually monochrome. It’s an intentional choice, perhaps, but one that sacrifices some theatrical punch.
The costumes, meanwhile, lean into a muted, earthy palette—appropriate for the mood, if occasionally too drained of vibrancy. In a show where color often signals transformation, desire, or danger, the desaturation at times renders the stage visually monochrome. It’s an intentional choice, perhaps, but one that sacrifices some theatrical punch.
Still, these quibbles fade once the narrative heats up. Fein allows moments of violence—long sanitized in other revivals—to slip back in. When The Baker, played with earnest ferocity by Jamie Parker, kills the Wolf to rescue Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandmother, the staging is startling without being gratuitous. A flash of blood, a gasp from the audience, and suddenly we remember: fairy tales were once warnings whispered in the dark.
Still, these quibbles fade once the narrative heats up. Fein allows moments of violence—long sanitized in other revivals—to slip back in. When The Baker, played with earnest ferocity by Jamie Parker, kills the Wolf to rescue Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandmother, the staging is startling without being gratuitous. A flash of blood, a gasp from the audience, and suddenly we remember: fairy tales were once warnings whispered in the dark.
For all its shadow, this Woods pulses with humanity. Katie Brayben delivers a luminous performance as the Baker’s Wife, grounding the production in emotional truth. Her scenes land with clarity and ache, particularly in moments where the character contemplates the cost of longing. Brayben doesn’t merely play the role—she inhabits it, and when her story reaches its pivotal turn, sniffles ripple through the crowd.
For all its shadow, this Woods pulses with humanity. Katie Brayben delivers a luminous performance as the Baker’s Wife, grounding the production in emotional truth. Her scenes land with clarity and ache, particularly in moments where the character contemplates the cost of longing. Brayben doesn’t merely play the role—she inhabits it, and when her story reaches its pivotal turn, sniffles ripple through the crowd.
Despite the tonal pivot, Fein doesn’t neglect the show’s humor. Jo Foster’s Jack is a revelation, mixing wide-eyed innocence with impeccable comic timing. “Giants in the Sky” becomes an exuberant, almost career-defining number—fresh, thrilling, and sung with a clarity that borders on transcendence. Gracie McGonigal, as Little Red Ridinghood, offers a delightful blend of mischief and brash confidence, her every line landing with the precision of a seasoned vaudevillian.
Despite the tonal pivot, Fein doesn’t neglect the show’s humor. Jo Foster’s Jack is a revelation, mixing wide-eyed innocence with impeccable comic timing. “Giants in the Sky” becomes an exuberant, almost career-defining number—fresh, thrilling, and sung with a clarity that borders on transcendence. Gracie McGonigal, as Little Red Ridinghood, offers a delightful blend of mischief and brash confidence, her every line landing with the precision of a seasoned vaudevillian.
And then there is Kate Fleetwood’s Witch—a performance both fearsome and strangely tender. Fleetwood leans into the Witch’s volatility, yet her final scenes approach something ethereal. In her hands, the Witch becomes a tragic counterpoint to the show’s central question: What are we willing to lose to get what we want?
And then there is Kate Fleetwood’s Witch—a performance both fearsome and strangely tender. Fleetwood leans into the Witch’s volatility, yet her final scenes approach something ethereal. In her hands, the Witch becomes a tragic counterpoint to the show’s central question: What are we willing to lose to get what we want?
Fein’s revival may not become the definitive Into the Woods, but that hardly seems his goal. Instead, he offers a daring reinterpretation—one that trusts the audience to wade into the murkier waters of Sondheim and Lapine’s creation. The result is a production that is at times unsettling, often gorgeous, and always engaging.
Fein’s revival may not become the definitive Into the Woods, but that hardly seems his goal. Instead, he offers a daring reinterpretation—one that trusts the audience to wade into the murkier waters of Sondheim and Lapine’s creation. The result is a production that is at times unsettling, often gorgeous, and always engaging.
If DeBessonett’s revival was a celebration of legacy, Fein’s is a reclamation of mystery. He reminds us that these stories have teeth—that the woods are a place where miracles and horrors share roots. This is not my favorite Into the Woods, but it is unquestionably an admirable one. Fein proves once again that great musicals are living organisms, capable of regeneration, reinterpretation, and reinvention. Leaving the theatre, one feels not only moved but also newly aware that the path through the woods is never the same twice.
If DeBessonett’s revival was a celebration of legacy, Fein’s is a reclamation of mystery. He reminds us that these stories have teeth—that the woods are a place where miracles and horrors share roots. This is not my favorite Into the Woods, but it is unquestionably an admirable one. Fein proves once again that great musicals are living organisms, capable of regeneration, reinterpretation, and reinvention. Leaving the theatre, one feels not only moved but also newly aware that the path through the woods is never the same twice.
Into the Woods - Bridge Theatre
Attended on 8 December 2025