Time Out, January 25, 1991, by Jane Edwardes.
Back at the beginning of the '80's, numerous West End managements blamed the closure of their shows on the so-called Falklands Factor. With the threat of terrorism, Londoners have even more reason to go underground, but it is hard to imagine that the time-warpers who flock to join the party at the Picadilly will be deterred easily. This Frankenstein, a hymn to sexual liberation in the '70s when it first appeared, is now transformed into a celebration of audience liberation in which no repartee is so awful that it can't be hurled at the actors (not much throwing of rice, however, on the night I went). The new cast, unlike, I'm told, the old, are fortunately more than capable of fighting back, from Peter Bayliss's oily, scathing narrator, to Anthony Head giving up restrained pre-coital cups of Nescafe for rampant decadence as Frank N. Furter, with an entrance that most actors can only dream about. Craig Ferguson hits the spot as Brad, the regular guy who discovers that sexual deviancy can be fun, as does Kate O'Sullivan as the awesome Magenta.
According to the show's creator, Richard O'Brien, its success depends on the audience both fearing and desiring that Frank will at any moment leap into the stalls and give someone a blow-job. This unpredictability was well within the compass of the original Frank, Tim Curry, but it's harder for Head with fans so familiar with the material and well-rehearsed in the catcalls. And in the end, like "The Mysteries of Irma Vep," the evening suffers by trying to aim for tackiness when it should, like the 50's movies it celebrates, come naturally.
