Heathers: The Musical (Roslyn Packer) ★★★★

Book, Music & Lyrics by Laurence O’Keefe & Kevin Murphy. Based on the film Heathers by Daniel Waters. Presented by Bill Kenwright Ltd, Paul Taylor Mills, GMG Productions and Stoddart Entertainment. Roslyn Packer Theatre. 1-19 Sep, 2026.

September 1st, 2026. Dear Diary, just when the stench reeking from the previous cadaver of a movie-turned-musical has cleared, another rolls into town… but wait… seriously Cultural Binge, what’s your damage? Could it be that Heathers: The Musical is actually, genuinely good? Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw!

If the thought of turning the 80s troubled-teen classic into a high school musical makes you squirm, you can unclench – against all odds, they’ve made this one work. The dark comedy of the film has been given the primary-coloured satirical treatment of a pop/rock musical – this is Sweeney Todd mashed with Legally Blonde (with whom it shares a writer).

Heathers has reached Sydney with its fandom at fever pitch. With a cleverly timed opening night (landing on September 1st, “Heathers Day” – the day of Veronica’s first diary entry), the show has already been known to generate legions of young fans. In London, audiences complained about the level of screaming that drowned out dialogue at some performances. And it’s easy to see why the show connects to MT-teen-fangirls. With a cast of characters close to their own age, and a score full of big belting songs that I guarantee are on every drama student’s audition list, the show is almost perfectly designed to tap into their dreams and aspirations.

On that level, Heathers shoots and scores. It’s sexy – plenty of short-skirted girls and shirtless boys for the audience to ogle. The tunes are satisfyingly big belters – every song hits a high note worthy of the finale of The Voice. It’s subversive enough to avoid being cloying but also cleaned up enough that you can still bring your parents. There is no smoking. My favourite line from the film “If you want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly” is absent bar an oblique reference in one of the lyrics.

And this cast can sing! Emma Caporaso, who as Veronica Sawyer rarely leaves the stage, has come out of the gate as one of our brightest new stars. With vocal and comedy chops that feel well-honed, and an appealing charisma that draws you in – she instantly stands out compared to our other young leading actresses who, for all their powerful vocals, leave me cold on stage.

Conor Beaumont’s brooding, angular J.D. is a fantastic counterpoint, towering over the cast with disdain and a what-a-cruel-world-let’s-toss-ourselves-in-the-abyss type attitude. Calista Nelmes, who instantly impressed as Maureen in the recent tour of Rent, makes for a formidable Heather Chandler who again has to balance the vocals with the cartoonishly-bitchy comedy. The ensemble play into their pantomime high school personas of 80s Swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads with glee.

Heathers is proof that touring musicals don’t need to be high-tech extravaganzas that cost a fortune to move round the country. The staging is charmingly lo-fi, with the ensemble constantly wheeling the set in and out of position. Maybe the failing blockbusters can learn a lesson – keep it simple, cast for talent not “celebrity” and play to smaller houses – it seems to be working. [An aside – did you hear the complaint that theatre critics killed the Waitress tour? Please, we wish our critical-angst bullshit had a body count!]

With the sausage-factory roll out of movie-to-musicals the original film is usually the show’s best friend, and worst enemy (same difference). But somehow O’Keefe and Murphy have made the film dialogue work on stage without coming across like a punchline waiting for a laugh. A lot of that credit has to go to director Andy Fickman who pitches the show just right to relish in the musical theatre excess and satire without simply trying to put the film’s big moments on stage and expect the audience to cheer.

It’s actually annoying that Heathers is so damn good. Just when you think it’s safe to write off the “myriad” of lazy movie-to-musical adaptations we’ve been assaulted with (I’m still not over how pointless & cynical Pretty Woman was, and don’t get me started on London’s The Devil Wears Prada that we can only pray never makes it over here), along comes one that reminds you these musicals aren’t all awful. In fact, I think I’ll be going back for a second viewing.