Fat Ham - RSC Review

★★★★★

What if Hamlet swapped Denmark’s cold castles for a North Carolina backyard barbecue, complete with paper plates, smoky ribs, and a family reunion laced with secrets? That’s the genius of James Ijames’s Pulitzer Prize-winning Fat Ham, now playing at the Swan Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon. It’s bold, it’s brash, but does this play win over the Shakespeare purists, or is its joy found mainly by audiences who come for a night of fun? — Let’s find out.

Olisa Odele as Juicy and Sule Rimi as Pap.

Fat Ham is a contemporary reimagining of Hamlet. The play follows Juicy, a hyper-observant young man grappling with the recent death of his father and the swift remarriage of his mother to his uncle, who may have sinister ties to the murder. The ghost of Juicy’s dad shows up with a simple demand — “Avenge Me” — yet Juicy resists the script he’s been handed. While the structure borrows from Shakespeare’s tragedy, the tone and style blend sharp comedy and spoken-word rhythms, creating a playful and irreverent atmosphere. Juicy wrestles with questions of revenge, masculinity, queerness, and cycles of violence, transforming a tale of vengeance into one of self-discovery and possibility.

Staging Fat Ham at the Swan Theatre in Stratford is audacious. This is the place where audiences know every soliloquy, every cut line, every comma of the Bard, and yet James Ijames takes Hamlet, shakes it up, and serves it back as a vibrant, queer, laugh-out-loud comedy. The gamble pays off spectacularly. The laughs hit exactly where they should, the self-aware asides are wickedly smart, and every Shakespearean reference feels like a cheeky inside joke you’re in on. The characters fizz with joy and life, and this is one of the few ‘straight plays’ that has given me physical goose-bumps.

At the heart of Fat Ham is Olisa Odele as Juicy. Juicy is a young man caught between grief, desire, and the weight of expectation. Where Shakespeare’s Hamlet spirals into paralysis, Odele’s Juicy hesitates with a knowing wink, questioning not only his uncle’s guilt but the very expectations of masculinity and revenge he’s been handed. His performance balances vulnerability with camp humour,  rolling his eyes at the world he aches to change. The karaoke scene, where Juicy sings Radiohead’s Creep, is unforgettable. Odele’s voice is raw, cracking with pain and tenderness, and for a moment the entire theatre holds its breath. He turns a well-known anthem into a confession, making it feel as if the song was written for this moment. It’s the kind of performance that makes you feel complicit. This Hamlet doesn’t just brood in the shadows; he rewrites the code instead of simply running the program.

Corey Montague-Sholay’s Larry provides a shattering heartbeat to the evening. Larry begins as the embodiment of discipline and repression: a soldier, stiff-backed, sharp-edged, and weighed down by what he has seen and done. Yet beneath the armour is a man desperate to be soft and tender. Montague-Sholay brings a delicacy to this duality, allowing us to glimpse the trembling boy beneath the uniform. His monologue confessing his love for Juicy is spellbinding, a moment of poetry so intimate it feels like eavesdropping on someone’s soul. Later, when Juicy outed him without consent, Montague-Sholay’s reaction was devastating: the betrayal rippled across his face in real time, an entire story told in silence, and it was mesmerising. And just when the weight of the world threatens to crush him, Montague-Sholay shows us Larry’s release, his freedom, with a final flourish (and a fabulous costume change during the bows) that sent the audience grinning.

Sandra Marvin as Rabby and Corey Montague-Sholay as Larry.

Sule Rimi is a double delight in the roles of both Juicy’s ghostly father and his oily, domineering uncle, Rev. As Rev, Rimi oozes menace with a smile. As Pap, the swaggering ghost, Rimi finds a delicious balance of comedy and threat, reminding us that even ghouls can strut. Sandra Marvin storms the stage as Rabby. She is funny, ferocious, and utterly magnetic. Jasmine Elcock gives Opal, Rabby’s daughter, fresh agency and bite. This isn’t Ophelia adrift in sorrow, but a young woman who rolls her eyes, cracks jokes, and refuses to be sidelined. Elcock’s expressive face and comic timing make her a joy to watch, and her ability to flip from cheeky humour to sharp observation keeps the audience on their toes.

And then there’s Kieran Taylor-Ford as Tio. With his chilled swagger and comic instincts, he lands some of the night’s biggest laughs. Yet Taylor-Ford never lets Tio slide into a stereotype; just when you think he’s the comic relief, he drops a piece of wisdom so unexpected and heartfelt it hangs in the air like confetti. That said, the Gingerbread VR orgy does edge on grotesque by its climax. 

Together, this cast is a feast. Each bursting with flavour, and while every actor stands out individually, it’s their chemistry that makes Fat Ham sizzle. Watching them play, spar, and celebrate onstage feels like you’ve been personally invited to this barbecue. 

Bradley King’s lighting design is deceptively simple, but it works. With the flick of a switch, an ordinary summer’s barbecue becomes charged with theatrical intensity: a single spotlight carves Juicy out of the ensemble, or a wash of colour shifts the mood from playful to profound. It’s a reminder that sometimes the smallest cues create the biggest emotional punches. One of the most inventive storytelling devices is the use of handheld microphones, as well as a megaphone. These props are not gimmicks; they become confessions, declarations, and rallying cries, giving the characters a chance to shout their truths to the sky — breaking the fourth wall.

Andi Osho as Tedra

The set design, however, was less successful. While the rolling grass floor and sliding doors cleverly anchored us in backyard territory, the constant repositioning of tables and chairs occasionally distracted us from the drama, as though they were only there to give the actors something to do. A barbecue, after all, is about mingling and makeshift seating; the clutter sometimes got in the way of the play’s otherwise fluid energy. That said, the hidden trapdoors used for the ghostly entrances and exits of Juicy’s father did provide moments of theatrical mischief, even if their purpose leaned more toward spectacle than storytelling.

Where Shakespeare’s Hamlet spirals into blood-soaked chaos, Fat Ham takes that same internal struggle and steers it toward the playful, the surreal, and ultimately, the celebratory. The ending doesn’t leave us with a pile of bodies; it gives us a release, a cathartic burst of music and dance that feels both unexpected and inevitable. I never thought Hamlet could end like that, but I’m glad it did.

For Shakespeare purists, the parallels will be satisfying: the soliloquies, the family betrayals, the ghostly commands. But for those who come without all that baggage, Fat Ham offers a bold, standalone tale of choosing joy over vengeance, of rewriting the future instead of replaying the past. It’s 95 minutes of fast-moving, fiercely funny, deeply heartfelt storytelling that proves a tragedy can be reborn as a celebration.

Fat Ham at The Swan Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon is that rare production that reframes a classic without fear, creating a joyous cookout where grief is honoured, laughter is essential, and community becomes the hero. This is Hamlet reimagined for today. It’s a story about love, identity, and survival that feels urgent, necessary, and irresistibly entertaining.

Heck, If GCSE English had looked more like this, I’d have never skipped a lesson