Gods, grapples and guffaws: Mythos Ragnarök at the Floral Pavilion
The Floral Pavilion sits out on the edge of New Brighton, facing the Mersey with Liverpool’s docks looming across the water. Around it, the place holds that familiar seaside mix: arcades, food stalls, families drifting, a slight wear that never tips into decline because there is too much life moving through it. It feels right that this show lands here. It would lose something in a cleaner space.
Mythos Ragnarök arrives with talk of madness. It is that, but not in any loose sense. What unfolds is tightly controlled, deliberate, and alive in a way most theatre rarely reaches. The opening comes through sound. A deep, resonant pulse fills the room, closer to ritual than music. It sits in the body. By the time the performers emerge, the audience is already inside it, and what follows is unexpectedly funny. Not a passing moment, but properly funny. Sharp, well-timed, confident.