The Witches review: This essential Roald Dahl musical warms your heart and chills your bones all at once

The National Theatre’s sparkling adaptation of Dahl’s story about a group of child-hating witches has the sardonic humour of ‘Matilda’ and ‘Paddington 2’ and is as electrifying as a failed bid to untangle your broken fairy lights

Katherine Kingsley as Grand High Witch in ‘The Witches’ (Marc Brenner)

“We’re not women, we’re hell,” chant the titular witches in the National Theatre’s spine-tingling new musical, red flames flickering behind them as they send intricate harmonies rising into the smoke-filled air. It’s not the kind of scene you’d normally find in a family Christmas show. But it’s typical of this brilliant take on Roald Dahl’s bestseller, one that’s uncompromisingly creepy, weird, witty – and smart enough to scrub away the misogynistic, antisemitic undertones of Dahl’s story while letting its dark heart beat stronger than ever.

The unlikely dream team behind The Witches has serious grown-up theatre credentials: playwright Lucy Kirkwood (book and lyrics) is known for brainy hits like play-turned-Channel 4 series Chimerica, while cult musical theatre writer Dave Malloy (music and lyrics) usually riffs on works by Rachmaninoff or Tolstoy. Together, they give the story’s central nightmare a new, sharp 21st-century focus. These witches aren’t horrifying because they’re wig-wearing older women, they’re horrifying because they look just like everybody else – their grotesque hatred of children (and their alien purple skulls) hidden in plain sight.

After his parents’ death, 10-year-old Luke has a love-shaped hole in his life – and the story that follows is full of hard-learnt lessons about who he can trust to fill it. His rebellious Norwegian Gran (Sally Ann Triplett) might have spooky iron-grey plaits and tattered black skirts, but she turns out to be his most powerful ally as he battles pastel frock-wearing witches and stares down his own mortality.