Review of ‘Nero’ (2026, Southwark Playhouse): “Historical musical is unlikely to make history”

Legend says that when Emperor Nero sent a group of assassins to take care of his mother following a failed attempt to drown her in the sea, she vehemently asked them to smite her womb, as that’s where she had planted the seed of her own demise. The same seems to have taken over this excuse of a show, whose alleged 23 years in the making can only signify a very long, painful birth that was screaming abortion from Day One.

It’s not that the plot is infuriatingly thin and disjointed. It’s not that the lyrics are so bad you may think you’re in the early stages of mental collapse. And it’s not that the numbers look so pathetic you can’t help but laugh as a coping mechanism for the torture you’ve sentenced to. It’s all that and more. A lot more. Except for the cast’s vocals, which are consistently solid, nothing (and I mean nothing) saves this whatever-this-may-be from meeting the same face as its protagonist and going up in flames.

A flamboyant Nero steps onto the balcony for his next theatrical rendition. He’s young, artistic, queer, and extremely fond of Greek culture. As such, the band members are renamed as classic authors like Sappho or Sophocles—a touch that ultimately feels hopeless, given the script’s insipid exploration of the character’s motivations, evolution, and basically anything at all.

An abrupt, underdeveloped first song warns us of what’s to come. Not that it serves its purpose anyway. It’s hardly its fault, though. In the end, nothing can prepare us for what’s about to unfold. And I doubt anybody can endure the whole thing either. A cartoonish, villainous Seneca prances around (his eyes wide open à la Elizabeth Holmes) while his entourage mimes a cynical laugh with velvet-teeth-filled briefcases. It can’t be taken seriously as a drama. And it’s a joke of a parody as well.

The horror show continues as its underwritten personages engage in its flavourless, excruciatingly dull action. The story lines (both main and subplots) are sketchy at best and smudgy at worst. To say that there are virtually no character arcs would be an understatement. In fact, some are so static and irrelevant to the narrative that they could be replaced by a statue (or a mop), and nobody would notice.

His relationship with his first wife is reduced to a 10-bar song before she’s imprisoned and never heard from again until Act Two, when she delivers a major solo that unfortunately has no effect because of her vacuous role. The same goes for every other element of the recount. Nero’s transformation from a sweet, sensitive young man into the selfish, egomaniac tyrant Seneca creates (and is eventually devoured by) is just as vapid.

The switch happens instantaneously with no buildup or introspection — another incomplete number informs us of his metamorphosis into a badass ruler not to trifle with. If that wasn’t enough, this moment also features some of the musical’s most unbelievable verses, which are memorable for all the wrong reasons: “dare f*ck with me, will you b*tch?” In their defence, they are better than the diegetic piece Nero composes, where he exhibits his literary whims by rhyming “regina” with “vagina”.

The lack of identity is what seals the show’s fate. It doesn’t know what it is or what it wants to be. Whether it’s a comedy, a tragedy, or a mixture of both, it simply doesn’t work. And its influences, all of which feel like copycatting, only make its essence more vague. At one point it tries to be Jesus Christ Superstar (TIME Magazine 1971 cover included). During the same song, it morphs into Evita with a Phantom of the Opera aesthetic. Some other times, it tries to be Pippin. In reality, it’s nothing but Springtime for Hitler.

The cast does their best to make the unpalatable material somewhat digestible, but their efforts are in vain. Maybe because the script is awfully poor, maybe because they can’t be bothered to resuscitate something so inert. Or maybe a combination of both. But the acting is flat for the most part. And beyond their singing, which is flawless and robust, no further praise goes to any of them.

The production’s clear fascination with Andrew Lloyd Webber’s oeuvre reminds me of one the few works they haven’t tried to emulate: Joe Gillis’s reflections on Norma Desmond’s delusional screenplay (“Sometimes it’s interesting to see just how bad bad writing can be, this promised to go to the limit”). With an unfinished score in every style except the one that suits the narrative and its setting and a book so clunky not even Alan Smithee would agree to sign it, Nero is bound to be as popular with the public as the man it portrays. The only way it could pass is if it were sold as a Bialystock and Bloom Presents.

All pictures credit to Manuel Harlan.

Nero plays at London’s Southwark Playhouse until 5 December. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara