Review of ‘Murder, She Didn’t Write’: “Whodunit impro play provides conclusive evidence of success”

The classic detective story takes an unexpected twist in this ad-lib spoof, turning viewers into its partners in crime. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if this tongue-in-cheek take on the genre keeps audiences engaged through Act One and Two, or if by then there were none.

It feels a bit weird to write a review about a murder-mystery parody two days after walking for over an hour just to get a glimpse of Denis Nisen’s infamous house of hell in Cranley Gardens — in the end, the man wasn’t much of a clever clogs. But you don’t need mutilated corpses and blocked pipes to have a killer time at the theatre — also, I’d be concerned if you did. Last Monday’s West End performance of Murder, She Didn’t Write proved itself as the Mr. Fetcher of that idea — delivering a criminally hysterical show where audiences are just as witnesses as they are culprits.

Every possible cliche you could think of in the detective-story genre is featured, milked, and joyously celebrated throughout this 2-hour plummet into investigative absurdity. The set is designed after an old Gothic manor, the kind where the butler definitely did it (oh no, he didn’t; oh yes, h-… sorry, wrong season). The characters are dressed in turn-of-the-century costumes, and regardless of the guests’ choices, they behave in the manner Americans picture them (as the meme suggests, Europeans’ views are slightly different). And of course, we have the old-school PI who patiently awaits onstage as the narrative unfolds, eager to assemble all the suspects and reveal which of them has blood in their hands — that’s why I’m such a big fan of using poison instead.

The roars and chuckles are guaranteed throughout the whole piece — and I’m saying this fully aware that none of us will ever see the same one. The renditions are heavily improvised, although to a lesser extent than they’d like us to believe. In the end, the show plays it safe, and despite some key plot elements being entirely up to members of the crowd, a scripted undertone lingers in their interpretations. It really doesn’t matter, however. All in all, the production works extremely well. And it’s not that the play itself is that good. It’s that the cast is so tragically gifted in the art of comedy.

The degree of rapport, chemistry, and natural jest the troupe flaunts is as refreshing as it is inspiring. There’s virtually no sense of effort in their execution. And if there is, their acting skills are further demonstrated by their ability to mask them out completely. Yet, their commitment to what they are conveying together doesn’t go unnoticed. Everything flows with absolute seamlessness. Their enjoyment is so contagious that it may trigger more giggles than some of the gags themselves. Consequently, we can’t help but surrender to their drollery and join the fun and the folly. And though it might be like I’m losing my mind, I did love it so.

Thoroughly polished despite its hard-boiled fiction basis, Murder, She Didn’t Write is a succulent and much-filling banquet of accessible, uncomplicated entertainment — where the feel-good factor drives the entire machinery and where the humour roams freely across and beyond the stage. I have no clue what new potboiler future patrons will come up with, but rest assured that it will lead to another act of man’s laughter. And for that, this is a spree you shouldn’t let pass.

All pictures credit to Pamela Raith.

Murder, She Didn’t Write is currently on tour across the UK until 15 July 2026. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara