The Shaw Festival Review: Patrick Galligan and Sepehr Reybod turn Anthony Shaffer’s psychological thriller into an irresistible game of wit, deception, and theatrical sleight of hand
By Ross
For the first several minutes of Sleuth, I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of game playwright Anthony Shaffer (“Death on the Nile“) wanted me to play. Sitting in the beautifully reimagined Court House Theatre at the Shaw Festival, watching celebrated mystery novelist Andrew Wyke quietly type away with his back turned to us, I found myself settling into what appeared to be a polished British drawing-room drama. Then Patrick Galligan’s Andrew spoke. His carefully measured confidence, immaculate precision, and almost effortless superiority immediately suggested something sly, and far more dangerous. This was clearly a man who expected to control every room he entered. And just as importantly, he was a man no audience should ever completely trust.
That uncertainty becomes the production’s central theme and strength. Peter Fernandes, making an assured directorial debut for the Shaw Festival, understands the game behind Sleuth, making sure that every exchange feels like another carefully concealed clue or pivot point. Nothing arrives without purpose. A seemingly casual conversation, an innocent compliment, a passing quotation, or an offhand joke may all be quietly positioning another piece on the board. By the time Andrew calmly remarks, “Sex is the game, marriage is the penalty,” the line lands as far more than clever wit. It serves as a warning that every relationship in this house is built on strategy, performance, and dangerous manipulation.
Galligan expertly embraces Andrew’s arrogance without ever reducing him to caricature. As a successful writer of detective novels for what he proudly calls the “titled gentry,” Andrew delights in reminding everyone, especially his invited guest, Milo Tindle, that he believes he owns intelligence outright. It is his birthright. Galligan (ShawFest’s Gnit) delivers the lengthy opening conversations with remarkable ease, allowing Andrew’s charm and cruelty to exist side-by-side. His smug certainty becomes almost hypnotic, particularly when discussing his wife, whose stated desire for “love and simplicity” seems almost beneath his consideration. Every sentence feels rehearsed, every smile carefully calculated. Even his apparent generosity carries the unmistakable scent of another trap waiting to spring.
Sepehr Reybod answers that confidence with an equally thoughtful performance. His Milo initially appears hesitant, respectful, and even slightly overwhelmed by Andrew’s wealth and intellectual gamesmanship. Reybod (ShawFest’s Tons of Money) wisely resists revealing too much too soon. Instead, he allows Milo to absorb every insult, every condescending remark, and every shifting power dynamic with remarkable patience. Even when Andrew persuades him into increasingly absurd theatrical games, including one unforgettable appearance in full clown regalia, Reybod never allows Milo’s dignity to disappear completely. The comedy lands, but so does the quiet humiliation beneath it. That deliberate restraint proves enormously rewarding, as Milo gradually discovers reserves of confidence, wit, and emotional resilience that completely reshape the battle unfolding before us. Reybod carefully expands our understanding of Milo scene by scene, allowing our understanding of him to evolve without ever telegraphing the play’s larger design.
The chemistry between Galligan and Reybod drives the evening with astonishing precision. Their exchanges resemble two master chess players smiling politely while quietly plotting each other’s destruction. Every pause carries meaning. Every glance feels calculated. Even moments of apparent friendship seem loaded with hidden intentions. The pleasure lies not simply in watching who gains the upper hand, but in realizing how frequently the balance changes before we’ve fully recognized it ourselves.
That constant sense of play extends beautifully into the production’s visual world. Sim Suzer‘s ingenious set transforms Andrew’s home into something resembling a giant board game. Inspired by riddles and puzzles, the space invites the audience to search every corner for significance, rewarding careful observation without ever becoming distracting. Objects that initially appear decorative gradually begin to feel like participants, while sound designer John Gzowski‘s elegant score quietly reinforces that atmosphere of mounting unease. Mikael Kangas‘s lighting continually shifts the room between warm civility and unsettling menace as alliances evolve and appearances crumble. None of these elements call attention to themselves. Instead, they gently encourage us to keep looking just a little harder. Even the programme notes join the game. Observant audience members may notice a few unusually detailed nods that contain a sly joke all their own. Like everything else surrounding Sleuth, it quietly rewards anyone paying close attention.
Patience becomes our greatest ally in Sleuth. The first act unfolds at an intentionally measured pace that may initially seem almost too casual. Fernandes trusts both Shaffer’s writing and his actors enough to let the tension accumulate naturally rather than rushing toward the play’s famous twists. The result asks the audience to become active participants, quietly assembling evidence long before we realize we’re doing so. By the time the larger revelations arrive, the groundwork has already been laid with remarkable precision.
By the final curtain, that opening image of Andrew seated quietly at his typewriter now feels wonderfully appropriate. Mystery writers build elaborate puzzles one sentence at a time, carefully placing every clue exactly where they want us to see it while persuading us to look somewhere else entirely. Fernandes and his company achieve much the same effect. Sleuth becomes far more than a thriller about two rivals battling over love and pride. It invites us into the game itself, rewarding our curiosity while constantly reminding us that the most dangerous illusion is believing we already know how the story will end.
