Home: A Musical That Finds Its Way into Your Heart

Home Shot by Bethany Molyneux

There's something undeniably special about stepping into a space where excitement lingers—not the grand, expectant buzz of a theatre, but something softer, more personal. In the waiting area outside the studio, clusters of friends stood with bouquets in hand, chatting in hushed tones, their anticipation laced with affection rather than formality. This wasn't just an audience gathering for a performance; it felt like a community coming together to witness something deeply personal. As we stepped inside, the sense of community grew stronger—a minimalist setting with nothing but a table, five chairs, and two semi-circles of seating, drawing us in as quiet observers of the story unfolding just metres away. Like a close-knit community, the audience was part of the experience, not just spectators.

Home, an original musical tragicomedy by Joshua Berdouk, played at the Bloomsbury Studio earlier this week to a sold-out crowd—a mix of friends, crew, and theatre enthusiasts all buzzing with the same muted excitement. The lights dimmed, and the director stepped forward to introduce the play. In a manner reminiscent of the composer's note in our programs, they asked us to consider ourselves the sixth character in the performance—an integral part of the unfolding story. Home asks the timeless question: Where do we belong? Is 'home' a place, many places, or simply an emotion that binds us? The five characters—Here, There, Somewhere, Nowhere, and Everywhere—embody different aspects of belonging, each with their own dilemmas and convictions, which take centre stage in the play's profoundly introspective narrative. Their emotional depth and relatability drew the audience in, making us feel strongly connected to the story.

The scene was set against a stunning Gloomsbury sunset as the first notes of the prologue rang out. The character who immediately commanded attention was Here, her slow crooning about the Sun setting the tone for her contentment in Gloomsbury—where everything is exactly as it should be to her. The music was spellbinding from the very first note. The cacophony of instruments and the frenetic energy of the cast in an otherwise casual dinner scene created an almost visceral sense of anxiety. Without even needing to read the program, the audience could grasp the essence of each character—There's longing, Nowhere's confusion, and Everywhere's quiet contemplation.

The music and lyricism in 'Home' was not just good, it was exceptional. The lyrics seamlessly transitioned into dialogue, the band and the cast were in perfect sync, and in the more intense moments, when characters sang over each other, the audience could feel their heartbeat rising. The choreography, set design, music, and production all blended together so seamlessly that even scene transitions felt poignant and purposeful. Every passing moment only enhanced the last, creating an intense and immersive experience for the audience.

If, like me, you were initially baffled by the abundance of oranges in the promotional artwork, the second song - ‘An Orange Tree in Sicily’ - provided the answer. She introduces her recipe, Risotto all Francia, which becomes more than just a dish—a metaphor for her sense of detachment. She yearns to be there, anywhere but here. While the recipe makes little sense to others, her romantic partner, Here, catches onto There's hiraeth (if you, too, follow way too many poetry Instagram pages, you'll know precisely why this word fits). In a softer moment, Here urges There to see that their love is the strongest of all, that Gloomsbury, ‘here’, is their Home. But the lingering presence of the orange tree continues to haunt the narrative, mirroring the widening rift between them.

The play's brilliance lies in its layered storytelling—amidst a broader theme of belonging, it weaves in a profoundly toxic relationship that feels neither forced nor out of place. The narrative isn't about the relationship but the emotions that drive it. As someone who spent 12 years in my hometown before moving to London, I often find myself in a similar internal battle—questioning whether 'here' is genuinely where I belong or if my longing for 'there' is valid.

Almost as if anticipating the audience's emotions, the next song shifts the focus to Nowhere, who confesses he, too, has yet to find Home. He describes himself as a palm tree growing in the North Pole—out of place no matter where he stands. (Third culture kids, this one's for you.) However, his plight is met with an unexpected reaction: In full Broadway mode, he trivialises his struggles with the sheer power of tap shoes and theatrical flair. Despite its profound message, the song remains delightfully comic, aided by Here's shoe-changing antics, audience interactions, and the exaggerated facial expressions of Somewhere and Nowhere. It leaves you laughing but also reflecting—how often do we, knowingly or not, brush off the anxieties of those closest to us?

Then came the song that completely confused me—but that was the point. Somewhere unravels her existential crisis, her hopelessness at not caring where she belongs as long as she feels something. Diagnosed with nihilists, she is sent to Everywhere (a.k.a. Nietzsche reincarnate) for treatment, who prescribes a trip to the beach but warns that the cure is far from perfect. The abrupt costume and music changes were executed seamlessly, adding to the comedic absurdity of the moment. But Somewhere remains uncured—surprise, surprise.

As Here delivers a hopeful anthem about finding joy in everyday life, the orange glow of sunrise turns sinister. The audience quickly realises—it isn't sunrise. Gloomsbury is on fire. And this is when Everywhere enters her role: Madam Eartha, Mother Nature. In a stunning plot twist (which hit particularly hard for those who hadn't read the program), she unleashes her fury, laying bare the destruction humans have inflicted upon the planet. In her rage, she destroys Gloomsbury. Now kneeling in its ashes, the remaining four characters plead with the Sun for a second chance.

Here and There, they finally confront their relationship's inevitable end. They resent Here for forcing her to stay in what she sees as a suburban nightmare. Their love, once the anchor of their existence, dissolves into resentment and heartbreak. The audience is in tears as the group fractures—Here, choosing to stay and rebuild, while There, Nowhere, and Somewhere, embrace their differences and walk into the darkness. The play never demonises any one perspective, making each character heartbreakingly human. No matter where you stood, you couldn't help but empathise with them all.

The second-to-last song was perhaps the most gut-wrenching. Somewhere, lost and hopeless, she writes an open letter to the universe, begging for an answer—a sign of where she truly belongs. The lyrics were hauntingly beautiful. The pause before the final chorus, as the cast returned to plead for the Sun to rise again, created a moment of breathless anticipation. Then, a single orange on the table symbolises the rising Sun. Everywhere is resurrected.

The play ends as it began—with dinner, a sunrise, and a song. But this time, the characters work together. They smile. They guide one another. After losing everything in the apocalypse, they find meaning in the simple act of rebuilding. Home doesn't tell you where you belong—it tells you that you can create belonging wherever you choose.

As the final note rang out and the audience erupted into cheers, I stood at the back, watching the exchange of hugs, flowers, and tears. The cast and crew had done more than deliver a musical with a poignant message. They had embodied it.

Final verdict? 100000/10. A must-watch. With its perfect comedic timing, breath taking music, impeccable acting, and profoundly human message, Home reminds us that we belong anywhere we want to.