Words by India Farnham | Production Images by Manuel Harlan
Created partially on our doorstep as a co-production between Theatre Royal Bath Productions and Menier Chocolate Factory, Lindsay Posner’s enthralling 2026 take on this classic psychological drama reeks of perversion, sweat and repression from its very first moments.
Embracing centre stage amongst the bizarre, elongated shadows of the inhuman are Alan Strang, played by an utterly convincing Noah Valentine (Waterloo Road, Casualty), and Nugget the horse (played by an impossibly good head horseman, Ed Mitchell). Breathing as one, the boy and his horse sway gently in devotional silence, nuzzling each other’s necks with skin and horsehide gleaming.
And then, the flick of a lighter. A cigarette. In the foreground, Martin Dysart appears, an erudite psychiatrist with a crippling case of work dissatisfaction played by a razor-sharp Toby Stephens (Die Another Day, Jane Eyre, Black Sails). Bemused, he watches on, his morbid curiosity morphing with the audience’s.
‘I keep seeing the huge head, kissing him with its chained mouth… nudging through the metal, some desire absolutely irrelevant… to filling its belly or propagating its own kind. What desire could this be?’
Suddenly, Alan and Nugget’s sanctity is invaded. Desire: pulsating, chomping, feverish, muscular. And now, witnessed. This is Equus.
Shaffer’s playis known for its boldest, most controversial moments: flashing lights, nudity, and sexual scenes. And whilst Posner’s take has all of the above in satisfyingly shocking abundance (fans of the play will be happy to know the production’s crescendo moment is as earth-shatteringly psychedelic as ever), the moments that have truly stayed with me are the quieter ones.
And the play is never quieter than when we slip into the stables after dark with Alan.
Now, the horses in this production are played by men. There are no masks, no prosthetics, and no specific sound effects.
And yet.
In a feat of human contortion and mimicry which genuinely needs to be seen to be believed, the men become horses. I cannot put this any other way. From the flick of a tail to the stamp of a hoof, James Cousins’ movement direction is uncanny. There were moments when, amid the feverish action, I genuinely thought I was seeing a centaur before my eyes. It was spellbinding.
Against a minimalist backdrop, where characters around the edge of the circular space until they’re called into the action, Shaffer’s writing is as electric as ever. Famously, he was inspired to write the play by a real 1970s news story, recounted to him by a friend. The story was about a boy in Northern England who had blinded six horses. It’s an unsettling bedrock of truth that glimmers in the production’s performances; from the strain in Alan’s voice to the genuine sweat on Martin’s brow, this is a play that embodies, and elevates, the real.
Five decades on, Equus still disturbs and captivates audiences, finding new relevance in our modern age of increasingly toxic masculinity. This production is sickening, sexy and unafraid. And it’s exactly what Shaffer would have wanted.