Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (Hayes) ★★★★

Music & lyrics by David Yazbek. Book by Jeffrey Lane (based on the film by Pedro Almodóvar). Presented by Pinwheel Productions in association with Hayes Theatre Co. 9 May  – 8 Jun, 2025.

If chu only see one musical in Sydney this week, make sure chu choose Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. It’s the most demented, fun farce I’ve seen in a while where the only thing more absurd than the plot, is the accents. 

We’re in Madrid, Spain, in 1987. The city is bubbling with political tensions and old school sexism. It’s here we fine actress Pepa (Amy Hack) losing her mind. Her lover and co-star Iván (Andrew Cutcliffe) has dumped her via answering machine (ahh, the 80s), leaving her heartbroken and more than a little strung out. She’s on a mission to find him, but things take a number of left turns when she instead runs into Iván’s ex-wife Lucia (Tisha Keleman) and their twenty-year-old son Carlos (Tomäs Cantor). On top of all that, her best friend Candela (Grace Driscoll) has just discovered that her passionate new lover may, in fact, be a wanted terrorist… What’s a woman in her early 40s to do?

This is exactly the kind of show I love seeing at the Hayes: a fresh reinvention of a failed Broadway show. I saw the West End production of this around ten years ago, and it bored the pants off me, but this new version by director Alexander Berlage is anything but dull. Quite the contrary – you’ll leave far too over-stimulated.

As ever, Amy Hack is brilliantly engaging as Pepa. She starts the musical as an emotional and physical wreck and runs a marathon before the night is through – dodging the police, ex-wives, work colleagues, and a literal pillar of flame (no joke; God only knows how they’re getting away with having a not-insubstantial physical fire on stage). Pepa is rarely still, and when she is, she is either frozen in place in an awkward pose, unconscious… or both.

Hack is backed by a team of vocal and comedic heroes. Grace Driscoll’s simple-minded Candela – a model blessed with all the gifts physical beauty brings, including an underdeveloped ability to think for herself – is hilarious to watch in her confusion. Tomäs Cantor flits between a number of memorable minor roles before making his mark as Carlos, a young man being pushed and pulled by the women around him. Tisha Keleman’s Lucia gets some of the best lines in the show, and her vocals are powerhouse.

Being a Berlage jam, the technical details here do wonders on a Hayes budget. The maximalist set (by Hailley Hunt) is a multicoloured cacophony of items, all of which multitask as different locations depending on the scene, but all combine into an eclectic, cohesive vision of Pepa’s life and style. Not an inch of the Hayes’ limited space is wasted. Similarly, Sam Hernandez milks the 80s for iconic fashion images that brand each role instantly and ensure the cast are never lost in the jumble-sale background.

Chiara Assetta’s choreography amplifies this incredibly physical show, with the cast dancing and climbing over anything and everything. Phoebe Pilcher’s lighting brings specificity to scenes and a disco energy to the action sequences (did I mention there’s a car chase? Yes, there’s a car chase). Be sure to keep an eye on the surtitles above the stage that let you know where each scene is set.

Of course, the show itself is flawed, without a doubt. It could do with a good trim – not because it’s long or dull, but because it’s padded out with unnecessary numbers that don’t add much to the texture of the piece. Yazbek’s score hits the skids with the ballads but roars to success with the comedy numbers – this sounds like nothing else I’ve heard on stage, capturing the energy of Almodóvar’s filmmaking. These manic tunes combine the fast patter and wordplay of a proto-Hamilton. It’s a shame the audio in the Hayes can be muddy at times, especially when the full band is playing, and the lyrics can be lost in the mix. In addition, Aaron Robuck’s Taxi Driver character is redundant, giving unnecessary exposition and slowing the action down.

Part of the great fun of Women on the Verge is how borderline inappropriate it gets (enough to annoy some of the more uptight/self-righteous reviewers). This is a farce, with an 80s European edge; if you think this is going to be some beige, sanitised, intellectual comedy, you’ll be left disappointed. The accents are absurd, the men are stupid and driven by their penises; the women are… well, the title tells you. The characterisation isn’t that deep.

And boy, is this show queer. No, let me rephrase that as it’s set in the 80s. Boy, is this show gay! Not explicitly in any way (all of the characters are very hyper-stylised in their gender-specific roles) but the high camp of the farce and the deep affinity for the lives of women being screwed around by their men feels very homo-adjacent. Oh, and the asses. Berlage makes full use of his peachy ensemble and their tight outfits.

Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is bawdy, silly and full of verve – I mean energy, but probably also the champagne. I’ve barely mentioned Nina Carcione’s virginal Marisa, Mel Russo’s lawyer (& feminist) Paulina, or Sean Sinclair’s numerous comedic appearances – all of which deserve praise. This show is packed full of goodies to enjoy (keep an eye out for Tomäs Cantor’s extra hits of physical humour in the background of scenes). Delightfully demented and overflowing with lyrics that will leave you yelping with surprise, this production has rehabilitated a show I long thought was a write-off. Now I need a Valium to help me calm down…