Mandy: Prince of Darkness — Peter Mandelson in his own words
★★★½
A self-described modern Machiavelli, few figures have so captivated popular imagination — and the fixation of British political and journalistic classes — as Peter Mandelson.
As the ‘third man’ to successive Prime Ministers Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, Mandelson was a principal architect of ‘New Labour’, the modernising project that precipitated the party’s record-breaking 13 years in government. Dubbed the ‘Prince of Darkness’ for his mastery of spin, shadowy deal-making and a seemingly unparalleled capacity to outlast scandal and return to the political fray, it was this skillset which led Keir Starmer to appoint him as ambassador to the United States in 2025, charged with navigating the unenviable relationship between a Labour government and President Trump. This third (fourth?) coming of the Prince of Darkness appears, however, to be his last. More than 25 years and eight governments later, revelations about his close relationship with Jeffrey Epstein returned Mandelson to scandal — and one final sacking.
It is against this background that Richard Stirling brings ‘Mandy’ to life in an eerily convincing portrayal, narrating his rise and fall (and fall again) from political office. The one-man show commences with a rather awkward first fifteen minutes. Uncannily accurate impression aside, the intent and direction of Stirling’s character study is unclear, while overtly comedic moments are confusingly sparse.
However, as Stirling begins accelerating through the increasingly improbable chronology of Mandelson’s career, the performance kicks into gear. While at least a cursory knowledge of British politics and the Labour governments of the nineties and noughties is undoubtedly required (I somewhat pity the Spanish tourist who stumbled into this one), tastefully curated visuals and real-life newspaper headlines projected behind him provide humorous context and propel the narrative.
Far from the burly, pipe-smoking trade unionists associated with the Labour party of the 1970s and 80s, Mandelson cut a disarming figure: tall, lean, acerbic, distinctly modern, publicly metrosexual and privately homosexual. Stirling wittily narrates Mandy’s unlikely path to MP for Hartlepool, a Northern Labour stronghold where, upon meeting local party members in a pub, he mistook mushy peas for guacamole. The anecdote provides an early moment of levity, while encapsulating the paradox that made Mandelson something of an anthropological oddity within the Labour Party, and his rise through it all the more fascinating.
In his impression, Stirling skilfully captures Mandelson’s posh mannerisms, condescending wide grin and aloof manner of speech. He conveys both Mandelson’s magnetism and the ease with which he manoeuvred through the business elite, media dinners, celebrity parties and, in his spare time, various cabinet positions.
Equally convincing is the arrogance and detachment from reality: his remarkable ability to trivialise and talk around enormous scandals as though correcting a minor misunderstanding over lunch. The script is almost entirely derived from interview soundbites, public statements, social gaffes and autobiographical passages attributed to Mandelson over the decades. It is Mandy in his own words, a man who has generated enough material over the years to become his own satirist.
This stylistic choice lends realism to the performance. The sheer concentration of real-life Mandelsonisms magnifies the verbosity and slippery wordsmithery which he has deployed throughout his career. However, such material occasionally teeters into becoming a career recap, re-treading familiar ground with little new to say. Given the grotesque source material, the production can almost be criticised as too disciplined, too straight, and potentially too forgiving. There is no Mandelson cavorting around in a towel or his underwear, as he was frequently photographed doing on holiday with his pal Jeff Epstein, no Ghislaine Maxwell, Blair or real-life fiancé ‘Ronaldo’ brought in as co-stars. A couple of Gordon Brown impressions aside, Stirling keeps the subject matter surprisingly restrained.
Stirling also fails to uncover much sense of the real Mandelson. A rather straightforward impersonation reveals little of his inner world. Yet, it is perhaps precisely this opacity and impenetrability that defines Mandelson himself: hard to pin down, endlessly performative and impossible to read. His affability can endear him to any room; as Stirling highlights, he’s obsequious to Starmer and Brown while privately trashing them at the same time. With Mandelson, sincerity loses all meaning. Despite innumerable articles, decades of media obsession and published autobiography, the real Mandelson remains strangely unknowable. It is impossible to know the extent of his involvement in the depravity surrounding his associates, or if he is as misunderstood as he would have us believe. The lack of psychological revelation is, therefore, not a failure of Stirling’s. Mandelson’s entire persona frustrates psychological revelation.
The play concludes with Stirling returning to Mandelson’s most famous declaration: “I am a fighter, not a quitter.” The spotlight lingers unsettlingly on his gaunt face, fixed grin and illuminated eyes before fading to black. In light of recent events, the line ought to sound absurd: this time, surely, there can be no fifth act. Yet Stirling leaves just enough ambiguity to make the audience hesitate.
For almost any other political figure, another resurrection would be unthinkable. Mandelson is finished, probably.
Ross Paterson
Cover image via Graham Bennett
