God has been pronounced dead by the literary world of Stalin’s Russia. And if God is dead, then surely so is The Devil.

But who then is the charismatic stranger flanked by a pair of bizarre henchmen – one a giant talking black cat – who appears in a Moscow park, claiming (among other things) to have witnessed the sentencing of Jesus Christ by Pontius Pilate?

It’s enough to make a person lose their mind – or their head.

Tom Conroy, Matilda Ridgway and Josh Price in Belvoir’s The Master and Margarita. Photo © Brett Boardman

So begins Mikhail Bulgakov’s whiplash-inducing novel, and so begins Belvoir’s adaptation of it – one that recreates the kinetic, wildly fabular qualities of Bulgakov’s masterpiece with the help of a skilled (and frequently stark-naked) ensemble cast, a revolving stage, some old school stage magic and lashings of wicked humour.

From simple beginnings – three actors reading from a paperback copy of the book – the production spirals into three hours of pure, human-powered theatre. It is probably the most energising mainstage spectacle I’ve seen all year – and the only one that physically spills out into the...