Judging by the costumes, 'Hotel Black Cat' is set somewhere in the 1920s, but it has the distinct feeling of being written sometime in the early 2000s. You know, those halcyon days of yore, when a tale of sapphic dancers might be titillating, the public were genuinely shocked that a celebrity would snort coke, and people gave a shit about Dita Von Teese.
Aiming at being some kind of debauched display, it’s more shambolic than anything else. There’s a vague storyline but there’s so much going on and so many characters that it’s almost impossible to care. There are ballerinas on blow, a fire-eating pig who’s into self-flagellation (I’ve never been so happy to be sat behind a fat-headed man than when he whipped out his tongue-clamp), and a slapstick handyman who faffs about with a pair of ladders.
There’s a brilliant pair of acrobats whose routine is reminiscent of a 'Strictly…' dance – in a good way, Len Goodman would certainly get out his ten paddle out for it – and the aerial hoop routine is dizzyingly impressive. But the ballet dancers are wasted and don’t get to do much dancing - instead, they're left rolling around in mounds of white dust.
Holding it all together is bitchy concierge Dusty Limits. He's funny and a great host, making it something of a travesty that the writers gave him the rather cringe statement that we – the audience – need the hotel to live out our maddest imaginings for us. Quite frankly, I’ve had better executed dreams.