Latest Reviews

To commemorate its fiftieth anniversary, David Hare’s Teeth 'n' Smiles is given a rockingly good production at the Duke of York’s Theatre.It turns out to be a play of two halves. Whilst the treatment of women in the music industry is still pertinent and shocking, the play is dated. Set during the night of 9 June 1969 at the Jesus College, Cambridge May Ball, it often feels like a middle-class man’s view of the rock scene. Obviously, over the years, it has been surpassed by stronger examples, particularly Cora Bissett’s Edinburgh smash What Girls Are Made Of, forged from lived experience, and David Adjmi’s overlong Stereophonic that tackles the sexual politics of the era. But, in many ways, this play was the original gig theatre, and the band, especially in the superb central performance by Rebecca Lucy Taylor, bring the music and are the reason to see this play.As Maggie, Taylor inhabits the role, first seen carried onto the stage after being poured out from the touring van, reliant on whiskey to get her through the night. She captures the vulnerability of the role, especially when her ex, Arthur (Michael Fox), is present. She also contributes additional new music and lyrics (Maggie’s Song especially is a poignant ballad), and the feel of the tracks, originally by Nick and Tony Bicat, are given tremendous energy, the band caught between the end of the hippy dream and several years away from gob-spitting punk. They are a tight outfit and bring the play to life, although there are some stereotypes. Phil Daniels is hardly pushed as the Cockney, sleazy band manager, but Roman Asde does well as the anxious booker seduced by Maggie.Set just a couple of months before Janis Joplin’s untimely death, her shadow is cast over the play. But strangely, given that fact, and the ensuing drug taking and drugs bust, arson and theft that occur during the night, the play lacks any real jeopardy. Projections tell us what happened to the band afterwards, and, apart from one drug-related death, they all lived happily. It feels that the stakes were never raised high enough and certainly the break-up is not delivered strongly enough. However, the staging and design bring the music near, and, although you may have come for the play, you’ll stay for the band.

Christopher Hampton’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses arrives at the National Theatre in a lavish new production with a cast and creative team of esteemed pedigree.The rivalries and the manipulations of the idle rich in France in 1782, as depicted in Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’s epistolary novel, require an intimacy and closeness, and the challenges of staging it in the large Lyttelton Theatre are met with a grand design and an abundance of movement and choreography combined with some sublime acting.Rosanna Vize’s exquisite set mirrors the audience, with an excellent ensemble of servants moving rooms and walls into place, with a huge chandelier hanging over them, a globe full of gossip and manipulation. Choreography by Tom Jackson Greaves brings great style, and I particularly enjoyed the army of servants, the men in black, prowling, smoking and eavesdropping on their masters and mistresses.Leading that sublime acting is Lesley Manville as the Marquise de Merteuil, a woman whose favourite word isn’t “revenge” but “cruelty”. She foregrounds her ability to portray cool, calculating characters, and is utterly convincing in her enjoyment of the havoc she wreaks in conniving with the Vicomte de Valmont to destroy lives. As Valmont, Aidan Turner brings out the comedy of the piece, with many a double entendre, sailing dangerously close to pantomime.Given his sex appeal, this is a strangely unsexy production. It all feels too cautious and unmessy, and when love intervenes and spoils their machinations, the emotional impact is missing. Darren Hand is particularly effective as young, initially innocent Danceny, and Monica Barbaro is excellent as Madame Tourvel, in love with both God and her husband, whom Valmont seduces for the sheer challenge of it. Hannah van der Westhuysen’s conversion from trainee nun to established vamp is a little too broadly portrayed, especially in a misfiring lap dancing sequence. In fact, as the play progresses, the dance sequences feel as if they are increasingly taking the place of dialogue, often interrupting the emotional building rather than fully enhancing it.Still, there is much to admire in Marianne Elliott’s confident production, and perhaps that is the problem: it shows rather than tells, and the emotional pay-offs don’t feel fully earned. However, the downfall of the Marquise de Merteuil is superbly played by Manville, and the masked ball framing of the show ensures the circle of bored corrupters will continue.

In an age of on-the-nose commentary and spoon-fed, often bludgeoned messaging, Poppies offers a refreshingly nuanced exploration of toxic masculinity, colonialism, and identity. It delivers humour, provocation, and emotional depth, all while embedding its themes within a believable friendship and spirited debate.The play centres on a conversation between two friends: Jim, who is English, and Johnjoe, who is Irish. Their discussion of the poppy serves as the focal point, while their personal relationship and the tensions of the outside world simmer beneath the surface. A glance at the programme reveals that the characters share names with their writers and performers, suggesting an autobiographical undercurrent. This proximity to the material lends the piece an authenticity that strips away any sense of theatrical artifice. What we watch feels lived rather than performed.The range of subjects explored is as expansive and layered as the history between England and Ireland. As a Canadian, I found the discussion both enlightening and engaging, offering insight into a complex and often painful shared past. From potatoes to bombs, the characters exchange arguments, insults, and unexpected moments of tenderness with abandon, creating a raucous and illuminating theatrical experience.Poppies is a compelling piece of theatre, rich in both ingenuity and heart. It embraces the full artistry of the stage, occasionally stepping beyond dialogue into more stylised sequences that deepen its impact. It is a production that lingers, and one that will undoubtedly shape how I think about the poppy come Remembrance Day.

With music and lyrics by Cyndi Lauper and book by Harvey Fierstein, this musical began with an impressive pedigree. But over the years it has become a milestone musical of LGBTQ+ equality, and here at the London Coliseum gets the production it deserves.Based on the real-life story of a failing Northamptonshire shoe factory that saved itself from closure by specialising in making women’s footwear for drag artists, the story came to prominence in the 2005 film. With its message of “accept someone for who they are”, it tackles homophobia, transphobia and prejudice with a sequined boxing glove that packs a powerful punch. It also explores the danger of accepting a situation you’re not happy with, as Charlie inherits the factory and feels the weight of expectation to keep going and not let his community down.Of course, the success of every production of this show hinges on the casting of drag queen Lola, and here we have a true star in Johannes Radebe. Millions of Strictly Come Dancing viewers know he is a terrific dancer, but he has the singing and acting chops to fill the huge auditorium with personality. Lola is given stunning entrances that get roars of approval, but Radebe goes beyond the glamour and convinces as Simon, the shy, bullied man under the drag suit of armour. It’s hard not to take your eyes off him, he leads the company with strength and grace.No stranger to Saturday night TV audiences himself, former The X Factor winner Matt Cardle has built up an impressive musical theatre career since, and here has the tricky role of “straight” (in more than one way) man Charlie Price, and is equally convincing, as Charlie’s doubts and fear of closure increase. It’s a part that builds, and although Charlie’s homophobic hissy fit feels sudden and out of character, Cardle makes it work by portraying the stress Charlie is under really well. His vocals are excellent, especially in Soul of a Man.The leads don’t get away with stealing the show though. The supporting cast and ensemble are terrific. Courtney Bowman is outstanding as straight-talking and lovelorn Lauren, Scott Paige a gorgeous triumph as George, giving into his drag side with glee, Billy Roberts hugely convincing as misogynistic Don, until Lola zaps the toxic out of his masculinity, and Rachel Izen earns gales of laughter as Pat.The whole production feels as if it’s had a glow-up after its UK tour, and director Nikolai Foster fills the huge stage with energy and flow, performed on Robert Jones’s excellent design. It’s when Don brings on the Progress Pride flag that the message is delivered home, and when the flag takes its place in the curtain call, it’s a powerful statement against the voices who want to silence us all. With the world being as it is, this musical is an essential, uplifting tonic.

Claybody Theatre bring their adaptation of Arnold Bennett’s novel The Grand Babylon Hotel to the Mercury Theatre, Colchester, and it is a fun-filled, riotous evening of slick physical comedy.A cast of five perform Deborah McAndrew’s deft adaptation with panache and excellent comic timing. Shady business in the swanky Babylon Hotel is exposed when multi-millionaire Theodore Racksole buys the hotel outright simply to ensure his daughter gets the birthday meal she wants. The plot almost seems incidental to the characterisation, though, as events pile up and the chase begins. From a wonderful opening sequence of dancing chambermaids, exposition is delivered with fun and energy, and the pace never drops.As Theodore, Bill Champion is the eye in the storm of a madcap adventure – stylish and dignified, while also displaying impressive physicality and dance ability. Alice Pryor is equally effective as his daughter and soon-to-be plucky heroine, Nella, with on-point comic timing. Shelly Atkinson shines in every role she plays, especially the Germanic nanny Heidi, and Thomas Cotran oozes nervous sophistication, particularly as Prince Albert of Posen. But the evening really belongs to Michael Hugo, a comic chameleon who switches between his several roles with rapid ease, each creation a comic delight. His physicality is astonishing, and credit is due to movement director Beverley Norris-Edmunds and physical comedy director Nick Haverson for keeping the comedy crackling and the pace lively.The company clearly relish the material, and director Conrad Nelson’s wonderfully inventive eye is a constant source of delight. The lighting and projection, by Daniella Beattie, take us on a clear and graphic journey through the bowels of the hotel, while composer James Atherton supplies lively period tunes.It is a work I was unfamiliar with, but I would highly recommend Claybody Theatre. This production is in association with the New Vic Theatre. Catch it on tour if you can.

There is undeniable appeal in the idea of a musical about Claude Monet – a figure whose life encompasses artistic revolution, personal turmoil and enduring legacy. A Mirrored Monet, written by Carmel Owen and directed by Christian Durham, frames this story through the artist’s later years, as he struggles to complete his Water Lilies while reflecting on his past. It is a premise rich with potential, but one that results in a curiously low-stakes and dramatically muted evening.Visually, the production is appealing. Charing Cross Theatre is dressed with canvases that line the stage, brought to life through projections. While often generic, there are moments where design and storytelling align – particularly during the En Plein Air sequence, where the visuals vividly evoke Monet’s outdoor painting style. It is here that the show feels most cohesive.There are also thoughtful tonal choices. Mercifully, the production avoids exaggerated French accents, opting instead for consistent British ones, which lends a welcome sense of restraint. There is also something quietly fitting about staging the show in London, given Monet’s fascination with the city’s fog and light.However, the central issue lies in a lack of dramatic urgency. By framing the story with an older Monet looking back, much of the tension is removed. We know where the journey ends, and the production struggles to create a sense of risk along the way. This is most apparent in an act one finale that lands with surprising flatness, raising questions about where the stakes truly lie.The writing also sidesteps some of the more complex aspects of Monet’s life. Camille is given a stronger presence, and Brooke Bazarian delivers a sincere and engaging performance. Yet the relationship is simplified, glossing over more difficult truths – including Monet’s later involvement with Alice – leaving the narrative feeling somewhat sanitised. Similarly, more desperate moments from Monet’s life, such as his attempted suicide, are absent, reducing the emotional depth of the story.Musically, the show struggles to leave a lasting impression. Despite a large number of songs, few are memorable. The score lacks distinctive melody, and audience reactions remain polite rather than enthusiastic. En Plein Air stands out as a highlight, while other numbers, including the overlong I Was Important Then, feel less effective.Performance-wise, the cast are consistently capable. Jeff Shankley and Dean John-Wilson offer solid portrayals of the older and younger Monet, though the material leaves both feeling somewhat underdeveloped. Bazarian, meanwhile, provides the most compelling work of the evening.There are glimpses of a more interesting show – particularly in moments that hint at the tension between artistic rebellion and tradition, such as the Marquis’ pointed instruction to “follow the rules”. Yet these ideas are never fully explored, and even key influences such as Eugène Boudin are absent.Ultimately, A Mirrored Monet is a pleasant but forgettable production. It offers an accessible introduction to its subject, but those seeking emotional depth, historical complexity or memorable musical theatre may find it lacking.

There is a brooding air of mystery delicately placed beneath the seemingly simple surface story of Miraculous at the Red Lion Theatre, Islington.The sound and lighting of the opening suggest a murder mystery or horror of Gothic proportions, and designers Pierre Flasse and Amy Fisher are unrelenting in crafting mood. Yet here we are at a Christian summer camp, so what will unfold over 60 minutes of meetings between young Josh (Luke Stiles), a high schooler brimming with arrogance, insecurity and theological angst, and Paul (Diego Zozaya), his older mentor, a devout young father wrestling with the challenges of spiritual leadership? With each scene the question becomes more pressing. Many possibilities exist, and once the pair have hilariously re-enacted the story of Elijah and the priests of Baal and Paul has introduced Josh to his son, the mystery only deepens. The denouement, however, is almost certainly nothing that comes to mind and avoids obvious and clichéd predictables.Meanwhile, you can enjoy their interactions around sex, belief and divine intervention, along with the embarrassing questioning of someone lured into pouring out more than he ever bargained for, in the reverse of what might be expected. On day one of the camp, Paul has 10 questions for Josh by way of initiating discussion around the religious, personal and moral issues that will occupy the week. Paul has done this many times. He starts out with the confidence of a man whose position places him in control and is ready to receive some stock answers, until the politely unassuming and playfully nonchalant Josh becomes increasingly beguiling, irreverent and cocky, fully turning the tables on him.Yet that is something of a veneer, under which lie insecurities and doubts, particularly about his ability to get on with others. They emerge in passing lines. His parents have decided to holiday at Lake Como without him and send him to camp. There was his cousin’s wedding, which they attended but to which he was not invited. At the camp, despite being appointed dorm captain, he is shunned by the other boys.Paul, too, has his vulnerabilities. When exposed, his marriage has a few surprises and a miracle, while his embodiment of Christian principles turns out to be less than perfect and his use of scripture selective.Stiles and Zozaya give captivating and intriguing performances. They are a well-balanced double act who know how to play off each other while crafting two contrasting characters rooted in Stiles’ distinctive writing. Through precise delivery, they give full vent to the humour, dropping off-the-cuff one-liners while not shying away from depth in emotionally charged scenes.Director Toby Clarke maximises the confines of this theatre, creating identifiable locations and managing movement with natural fluidity. The set, managed by Maia Thompson, allows room for Jon Aaron’s tightly staged fight scene.Miraculous is a refreshing departure from many exhausted contemporary themes, bravely using an overtly religious setting to explore the frailty of human nature.

Gorky’s Summerfolk breezes into the National Theatre this season with a new adapted script from sibling duo Nina and Moses Raine. It is Russia, 1905, and the country’s intelligentsia have escaped to their summer homes to enjoy the good weather. Between them, marital scraps and emotional affairs ensue, whilst the long-suffering Varvara (Sophie Rundle) wonders whether this aimless enjoyment of the middle classes will come to an end. The summer rolls on endlessly, whilst the working-class servants lurk ominously to the side of the festivities, ready to clear up the inevitable mess.The first act serves as a dense introduction to this world. Numerous conversations among various combinations of characters (Summerfolk boasts a cast of twenty-three) paint a clear picture of this languid lifestyle. Still, despite an array of entertaining performances, there is little engaging material in this long opening salvo. The tides eventually turn when the young clerk Vlass (Alex Lawther) reveals his hidden love for the ageing doctor Maria Lvovna (Justine Mitchell). Their resulting tryst injects some much-needed stakes into the plot and is soon followed by a thrilling series of arguments, gossip and tension across the entire social group.The second act is where the party really starts. A highlight of Peter McKintosh’s stripped-back set design, characterised by plenty of white wooden beams, is a trip to the forest in which the characters frolic in an onstage river. It captures the vastness and beauty of the outdoors in a manner that feels truly liberating, even if this sense of possibility is short-lived. Later, a long outdoor dinner table provides the infrastructure for a delicious showdown between the titular ‘summerfolk’ as they grapple with their place within a society approaching the tipping point of revolution.Overall, Robert Hastie’s production is an entertaining and enjoyable exploration into the world of the Russian bourgeoisie, and will surely please audiences with an interest in Maxim Gorky.

History is rarely treated with such gleeful disrespect as in Oh, Mary! at the Trafalgar Theatre, where Cole Escola detonates the Lincoln myth in a blaze of farce, played out on a set that resembles a slightly shabby Crossroads motel, complete with two well-used doors that promise, and deliver, escalating chaos. Set in the jittery days before Abraham Lincoln’s assassination at Ford’s Theatre, the play imagines a White House in which the Civil War is almost an inconvenience. Abe frets about a nation that loathes him yet it is his wife who proves the more immediate catastrophe.Escola, who has cheerfully admitted to doing no research, rewrites history with anarchic abandon. This Mary is less grieving widow in waiting than thwarted cabaret star, marooned in a corset and desperate for the spotlight. She drinks anything that might conceivably intoxicate, from whiskey to paint thinner, and if that fails she improvises. Her long-suffering chaperone Louise is the focus of sustained, inventive cruelty, including an arson incident on Christmas Day that Mary defends with breezy logic. “I put it out.” “Not until the New Year,” comes the reply.In an effort to curb his wife’s theatrical ambitions, Abe hires an acting tutor with no intention of letting her act. The tutor happens to be John Wilkes Booth, all tight britches and smouldering glances. Mary veers from contempt for her teacher to full-blown obsession without troubling herself with the steps in between. Meanwhile Abe, who you might reasonably expect to steady proceedings, has distractions of his own, not least a lingering interest in the derriere of his seemingly pliable assistant Simon. Simon may look decorative, but proves adept at negotiating the perks of proximity to power. The humour is gloriously unsubtle. If there is a cheap gag to be had, it is seized and shaken until coins fall out. Physical comedy abounds, whether Mary is shuffling grandly across the Oval Office, attempting to dismount the Walnut Desk in a mountainous crinoline or pausing just long enough before asking, “Why would I throw an entire woman down the stairs?” Beat. “Because it is hilarious.” The script bristles with lines destined for post-show quotation. Mason Alexander Park pivots sharply from their recent Emcee in Cabaret to deliver a feral, fraying Mary whose every heeled step is a provocation. Giles Terera’s Abe is tightly wound with repression and panic. Dino Fetscher relishes Booth’s theatrical bravado, then neatly punctures it as the bluster gives way to something far more desperate, Kate O’Donnell gives Louise a bruised dignity that almost steadies the madness and Oliver Stockley plays Simon with a knowing lightness that suggests more calculation than innocence.You need know nothing about Mary Todd Lincoln to relish this. Let’s face it, Escola didn’t. Oh, Mary! is not history. It is high camp heresy, gleefully rummaging through the ruins of American myth and rearranging them for maximum laughter. Just when you think it cannot become more absurd, it does. And then it does again.

Yiddish writer Isaac Bashevis Singer, who gave us Yentl, said of the Streisand film that it had “nothing but a commercial value” and seriously questioned the “kitsch” ending. The current production by Melbourne’s Kadimah Yiddish Theatre, at Marylebone Theatre, is not that musical. Instead, we have a tragic play of enormous complexity that sees faith, longing, gender, desire and sacred learning intertwined in an emotional outpouring.  This international premiere reunites the acclaimed Australian creative team of co-writers Gary Abrahams (director) Galit Klas and Elise Hearst, with set and costume design by Dann Barber, lighting design by Rachel Burke, and original composition and sound design by Max Lyandvert. The Yiddish translation is by Professor Rivke Margolis. For this staging of the UK premiere, originals have been adapted. The stark simplicity of the set and traditional costumes by Isabella Van Braecke, ensuring that our attention is kept focused on the story, which is enhanced by the subtle tones of Julian Starr’s abstract soundscape, also saw drawing on Jewish tradition, and the rich, sultry mood lighting by Tom Turner. Yentl is overwhelmed by her love of God, her adherence to her faith and her hunger for Torah – for the knowledge that will make her life complete. The only obstacle is being a woman and, as such, someone who has no access to the yeshiva and no opportunity to debate with rabbis. Her solution is to assume the guise of a man and, in so doing, challenge her conscience in order to follow her passion. She crosses boundaries not in an act of contempt for tradition but because she wants to be immersed in it and, in so doing, leads herself into agonising situations of dishonesty and betrayal, creating the classic dilemma of whether the end justifies the means.Amy Hack is captivating in her multifaceted performance as Yentl. She oozes intelligence, is consumed by an inner fire of spiritual restlessness, wounded by emotional attachment and scarred by deceit. She carries us with her on every inch of her painful journey as she battles under the guise of her invented scholar, Anshel.Much of the struggle whirling around in her head is highlighted in a remarkable performance of impish agility by Evelyn Krape, in a newly created character arising from the Yetzer Hara concept – the force of desire that, when left unchecked, can lead to destruction. Known simply as The Figure, she hovers as narrator, tempter, alter ego, provocateur and shadow self, with an Ariel-like presence, giving psychological depth and visibility to Yentl’s inner turmoil.The interpersonal complexities of Yentl’s situation begin when she is adopted as a study partner by Avigdor. This academic arrangement is soon overwhelmed by intense feelings for each other, he believing her to be a woman. Now we see the queer undercurrent emerging that persists to the end and deserves an essay of its own. Ashley Margolis brings warmth, vitality and emotional energy to the role in a thoroughly masculine yet charming performance.The love triangle is completed by Hadass, whose engagement to Avigdor falls victim to circumstances. Genevieve Kingsford’s beautifully understated portrayal is full of tenderness, innocence and openness of heart.Both the breadth and depth of this play are quite remarkable, providing food for thought and reflection long after the curtain comes down. There is something of an imbalance between the energy of the two acts, but it will go down as a truly memorable production that is compelling, intelligent and often haunting.

The District Line will never be the same again, having passed through so many stations with writer/performer Freddie Haberfellner as Frankie on his frenetic ride home from a night of partying.This was an opportunistic one-off performance at Camden People’s Theatre of his show F*ckboy that has travelled to fringe festivals in Prague and Edinburgh and graced venues around the country. Having just used that word, it occurs to me that we talk about gracing somewhere with our presence, which implies not just being there but making a significant contribution to the surroundings, enhancing the setting and making it better than it might otherwise have been. And that is precisely what Haberfellner does, even as Frankie just poses in the corner of the stage waiting for us to take our seats. Dressed in fishnet tights, a low-cut black top and a green jacket, their pale face has glitter-embedded make-up in all the right places that sparkles under the lights. Is this a hooker waiting for passing trade or simply a reveller waiting innocently for the last train?Then blackout, rapidly followed by bright lights and Frankie has come to life on the other side of the stage in an acrobatic freeze-frame. The blackout repeats. They’ve moved again, this time legs spread wide in the air, lying with their back on a chair. It happens twice more and then, alert and gripped by their physicality, we are set to go on a kaleidoscopic, movement-intense and relentlessly action-packed journey with someone who is anything but innocent.Under the imaginative direction of Isobel Jacob every inch of space is used and the high-octane tempo is enhanced by compositions from Marta Miranda and sound design by Gareth Swindail-Parry, while Rowan West’s lighting design colourfully matches the pace and settings.You’re going to be drawn into the story without being picked on, but you might just become a latter-day personification of their fixation with Andrew Garfield or be chosen for a meta-theatrical engagement because it’s time they involved the audience more intimately as one of the characters in the narrative. Just keep your eye on the pair of scissors that hang aloft like the sword of Damocles for symbolic rather than surgical reasons. Although the two come together in what follows, for, like Dionysius, this partygoer who seemingly has everything also has a weighty issue hanging over them.Underpinning all the events is Haberfellner’s existence as a person en route to transitioning, someone in a female body longing to be the man they truly are. Meanwhile life has done anything but grind to a halt for Frankie. On the contrary, like any queer person they are immersed in the scene and every excess it offers. This is not an inward-looking, self-indulgent piece of navel gazing, but rather a celebration of discovery, of gender dysphoria turned on its head, of realising who you are and what you want to be, of knowing that a process, no matter how complex, radical and maybe even dangerous, can set you free and give you a lifetime of being the person you know you should always have been.For those wondering about the name, Haberfellner is Austrian, whose impeccably enunciated English combined with the occasional quaint alien intonation gives his voice a cute charm and turns him into a forceful yet endearing storyteller who relishes all things queer in a performance that gives a whole new meaning to a Viennese whirl!

Adapted from David Nicholls’ hugely successful novel, with book by David Greig, and music and lyrics by Abner and Amanda Ramirez, with additional lyrics by Jeremy Sams, this musical is imbued with the human warmth that characterises Greig’s work. The show radiates joy before it even starts; with the Lyceum reconfigured as an Edinburgh student bar, you can even buy a drink on stage.The story is of Em – working class, clever, serious – and Dex – charming, rich and determinedly superficial. The perfect couple for a romcom, except these lovers are star-crossed – by fate and their own characters. Following the novel, the musical is structured as snapshots of their lives over nearly 20 years, each occurring on St Swithin’s Day.The show opens with a joyous high: Student Graduation Day. The leads and the supporting cast start as they continue – terrific choreography, singing and acting as they show the joy of youth – with the world stretched out before them, yet secretly anxious about the challenges to come. And even in these first moments the actors are delineating the characters of the ‘Rankeillor Street gang’, who reappear throughout the story. The musical routines on joy, satirical comedy and celebration are exceptional – although this is not to detract from several other standout numbers on the themes of yearning love or maternal love.The leads are superb musical actors. Sharon Rose as Em perfectly captures that admirable stubborn pride to be a good person – no matter what – but it is that pride that prevents her from accepting the inevitable and running to Dex. Jamie Muscato as Dex manages to transition from Hugh Grant-style charm in his younger years, through debauched and useless in his later years, to honest grafter towards the end. Muscato is helped by spot-on costume design (Rae Smith’s set and costumes are efficient, evocative, witty and characterful throughout).Where the balance of the show falters is with too much time spent with Dex being obnoxiously selfish and self-centred. Even Muscato’s undisputed charm cannot redeem the character. You wonder if this leopard can ever truly change his spots.Spoiler alert for those who do not know the novel, film or TV adaptations: there is no happy ever after. Years of potential and happiness are wasted by bad timing, bad circumstances – and, in the case of Dex, bad behaviour. The ending is elegiac: what might have been… if only. That remains an open question.

Heralded as a “sensational UK premiere”, it is hard to imagine that this first trio of plays in the trilogy, America the Beautiful, comes from the pen of Neil LaBute, the man who gave us In the Company of Men and The Shape of Things.To be clear, there are nine works branded as an “exclusive collection of savage short plays offering a uniquely skewed view of life and relationships in the modern world”. They were “written over the past decade for the LaBute New Theater Festival in the US” and are now presented for the first time in three groups of three, produced by Greenwich Theatre for the King’s Head as an initial venture in their new partnership. Described as “chapters”, the first two are being performed at the King’s Head Theatre, while the third can be seen at Greenwich Theatre. The hyperbole surrounding the works continues with a description of chapter one as “a blistering trio of short plays from Neil LaBute that take a radical, bitter view of modern relationships”.Snippets from the conversation between the lovers in Hate Crime suggest that they are up to no good, plotting the demise of pretty boy’s soon-to-be husband in order to make an insurance claim. The stilted, bland and vague dialogue leaves us trying to put the pieces together after an argument about a lost key card to the hotel room, that turns out not to be lost, and a question as to whether Danish pastries come from Denmark (they don’t) and if one filled with cheese is a legitimate variety (only in the USA!). Borris Anthony York is annoyingly coquettish as he wiggles and poses around the room in shorts and a vest, in stark contrast to Liam Jedele’s sinister revelling in the gruesome details of what he will do to the victim to make it look like a hate crime. Then the pair separate, vowing not to meet until the deed is done.In the solo work, Kandahar, York impressively transforms himself into a decorated soldier who served in Afghanistan. He’s seated in the dock, although it could just as easily be a confessional, having taken revenge on his wife and committed several murders motivated by the adultery she committed with a fellow soldier. His static and protracted story and rationale for the crime are almost interesting, even if the conclusion is predictable, but the telling lacks the heightened angst, torment and tension one might hope for in such a tragic tale.With two down and one to go, it’s the turn of the two female actors, Anna María and Maya-Nika Bewley, to assume the stage and give Artistic Director of Greenwich Theatre, James Haddrell, one last chance to make something of LaBute’s writing. The Possible pits a lesbian who has sex on multiple occasions with the boyfriend of the woman she is obsessed with in order to teach her a lesson, in the hope that it will bring the two of them together. Finally we see some emotional engagement in the midst of this unlikely scenario, and moments of humour lighten the improbable situation. It too has a predictable outcome and, while in no way being exceptional, it is the saving grace in a lamentably uninspiring event.

Hyped as a “chilling ghost story” in which the “terror continues” with “atmospheric horror”, “dark humour and spine-tingling moments”, It Walks Around the House at Night at Southwark Playhouse might well disappoint those who expect a spine-chilling drama full of startling surprises and moments of heart-palpitating shock.However, if you are content with a well-told story built around an ancient manor, a noble family, a ghostly invention and a scheme involving young men lured into the woods by an attractive older man in order to sustain a wealthy family’s respectability, then this might be for you.Wigan-based ThickSkin’s production has many strengths, and creating a piece in this genre requires exceptional creatives who can fill our imaginations with the image of a grand location in an eerie woodland alongside a humble room in a cottage. Darkness pervades, both inside and out. The simple open-plan cottage set by Neil Bettles and Tom Robbins has a basic bed with a table lamp beside it that provides minimal lighting. It is the sort of place where things could go bump in the night. Indeed, embedded into a rock formation is a refrigerator door that has a haunting mind of its own. That feature indicates the merging of inside and outside worlds, with the room being accessed from all sides.Video and lighting designer Joshua Pharo excels in creating the play’s overall mood of haunting suspense, leaving us wondering what will emerge from the shadows and surrounding blackness. Against this appropriately grim palette, projections that mark the passage of time stand out, as do some sudden flashes and a spectacular display that accompanies a disaster. Heightening the moods, sound designer Pete Malkin maximises the opportunities to create an air of shimmering tension and moments of explosive shock.Dominating the scene is George Naylor, who plays Joe, a depressed out-of-work actor trying to earn a living working in the local pub. When a rich stranger offers him a ridiculously large fee to play a ghost in the grounds of the local mansion, his desperate predicament leaves him with little alternative but to abandon his friends, quit his job and accept. Inevitably, the simple job description portends only a fraction of what will transpire, as he is exposed to nightmarish terrors while roaming the haunted grounds at night.Naylor abounds with confidence, charm and exuberance. He is endearing from the outset, with an engaging conversational style that lures us into the story, complete with some humorous asides. He also knows how to raise the level, bringing tension and anxiety into the frame accompanied by often frantic physicality that uses all available space and levels under the imaginative direction of Neil Bettles. Movement sequences take off with the arrival of Oliver Baines as the Dancer, who adds a paranormal element to the increasingly disturbing events.As the story progresses it becomes less clear, more complex and, for me, difficult to follow. Events begin to move rapidly and, while the dramatic appeal persists, the denouement seems tangled. Notwithstanding this, the high-quality performances and work by the creatives make this a memorable production.

The New Diorama Theatre is currently hosting what is described as “an absurdist descent into the paradox of modern life”. It comes in the form of The Uncontainable Nausea of Alec Baldwin, a world premiere from migrant-led experimental theatre company TG WORKS.They provide helpful information about the play, which is useful in concisely describing what might otherwise prove elusive. The play “combines fractured narratives, physical theatre, and multimedia design to create an urgent interrogation of guilt, responsibility, and moral decay in an age where we confess to algorithms instead of each other”. This has to be understood in the context of a company that “champions experimentation where content dictates form and form is constantly questioned, disrupted, and reshaped, creating work that reflects a turbulent world and asks what theatre can – and must – be today”.The company is led by Lecoq and RADA trained artist Tommaso Giacomin, whose style is to work “through collaborative and highly physical processes” that blend “new writing, fractured narratives and multimedia elements to create bold, urgent work that interrogates contemporary socio-political realities”.In academic terms that work exists in the realms of existentialist European experimental theatre and theatre of the absurd. Don’t imagine for one moment, however, that this is something in the order of Pinter or Beckett. Rather it is the realm of what might be called “bonkers theatre”. It is mad, overstated, chaotic and enthusiastically energetic, but not silly or stupid. It is also visually exciting in terms of set, costumes and lighting. There is an abundance of sound and visuals, including a projected transcript of an AI interrogation and a full-scale dance routine, brilliantly choreographed and executed. A red chair drops from the ceiling and an enormous red plastic armchair is pumped to life and treated rather like a bouncy castle.Amid all this there is a storyline – somewhere. The title might suggest that it revolves around the tragic case of Alec Baldwin, who accidentally shot cinematographer Halyna Hutchins. There are times when the AI therapist seems to think this too. But there is another Alec Baldwin who has done something he truly, deeply regrets. We assume that, with no one else to turn to, he spends his days outpouring his guilt to a chatbot, even though it was not his fault.James Aldred gives a heartfelt, commanding performance as the eponymous hero, grappling with self-inflicted nausea and an overwhelming digital world of multiple outputs all screaming at the same time, with Stefanie Bruckner wildly playing the crazed victim of the incident. Meanwhile Bartel Jespers, in a blue shellsuit, captivatingly traverses the stage with a “Henry” vacuum cleaner, and Mathias Augestad Ambjør wanders around in white pants and vest sporting a giant smiling piñata headpiece to comic effect. Much of this is captured on a roving camera by Manuela Pierri and relayed on to the back wall. All combine in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of modern life that ultimately leads to a psychological breaking point.Two culminating monologues seem strangely out of place amid the mayhem. The first makes some significant points and offers a fine ending, but another follows that could easily be discarded. Is the production as cohesive as the company suggests? Probably not. Is it a thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining romp? Yes.

Contemporary Ritual Theatre (CRT) is an exciting and highly imaginative company from Great Yarmouth, founded in 2022 “with the aim of creating innovative and challenging theatre projects”, of which SALT, at Riverside Studios, is a fine example.From the outset we are transported into another world. The year is 1770 on the East Norfolk coast (although there is an amusing line that says Cromwell is dead, Charles is on the throne and “whoring is back in fashion!”). Man Billy (Mylo McDonald), a violent young fisherman, lives among the dunes with his domineering mother, Widow Pruttock (Emily Outred). It’s a brutal world where the people live on the land but depend on the sea for their survival. It’s a tightly knit fishing community where everyone knows everybody else and their business. Rumours, gossip and superstition are rife, and witchcraft is still a very real threat, as witnessed by the arrival of Sheldis (Bess Roche). She is a wild young woman with supernatural gifts – a travelling singer in colourful, shredded clothes, with a feathered hat and masks. As an outsider she is automatically treated with suspicion by Widow Pruttock. Billy becomes increasingly obsessed with her while his mother believes Sheldis to have bewitched him and will do anything to break the spell.The situation opens up a host of scenarios that further the plot, while also giving insight into the period and the everyday life of people whose existence depends on the seasons, the weather and the tides, along with the hard work and bravery of men who subject themselves to the perils of the sea and women who labour endlessly preparing and selling the catch while maintaining homes and families.The studio space is set out with a single circle of chairs, two deep in only a couple of places, for this immersive, in-the-round experience. As the lights dim the cast enter and survey the scene. They strike up the first of many songs that are woven throughout the narrative. Composer and musical director Anna Pool has compiled a collection that embraces the rich folk song and sea shanty traditions of the region, arising naturally out of the narrative and giving a sense of time, place and circumstance. Attention focuses on the thick, heavy mooring rope piled up centre stage that the trio gradually unravel to create a ceremonial ring, all the time engaged in song.Over the course of two acts they assume multiple roles, the complexity of which can at times be confusing, but the overwhelming joy of being immersed in another world – of hearing fine voices strike up a cappella tunes and seeing characters brought to life by three highly accomplished actors – far outweighs any concerns in that area. These actors know their craft and deploy it fully.Credit must also go to writer-director Beau Hopkins for his creativity in shaping the story and the poetic, vivid use of language, and to Cameron Culver for casting three outstanding performers, whom Amanda Harrold has costumed in suitably rustic period attire. Lighting design by Tim Tracey creates moods with subtle tones, while Lucy Cullingford’s movement direction makes maximum use of the space both within and outside the circle, employing rhythmic beats and step patterns to enhance the script and sense of ritual. Meanwhile the many props, created and stage managed by Lucinda Bray, simplistically befit the period and the actions of daily life.SALT is a theatrical treat from a company that deserves recognition and support for its remarkable work in bringing to life both history and an oft-overlooked region that possesses a wealth of traditions and stories.

The journey to the West End stage has finally arrived for Marie and Rosetta, setting up church in the wonderfully intimate Soho Place. Sister Rosetta Tharpe – the “Godmother of Rock ’n’ Roll” – and her protégée, Marie Knight, are names everyone should know. This production restores those names in wonderful neon, as the women first meet in a funeral home – a safe space at a time when touring the American south was dangerous for performers of colour.In broad strokes, writer George Brant gives us the main events of their lives, but it is the music that elevates this production to something special. Rosetta was losing her gospel crown to “Saint Mahalia” (Jackson), whose pure church approach made her hugely popular. Rosetta had performed “dirty music”, played in places like the Cotton Club, and was too raunchy with her hips for many a saintly listener and viewer. Was church-raised Marie brought in to entice the core audience back? Whatever the reason, the combination of these two performers and the excellent band creates a toe-tapping, roof-raising, heart-lifting production that is impossible to resist.Beverley Knight, as you would expect, is stunning as Sister Rosetta. The strength, vulnerability and wisdom of a woman who has been in showbusiness and been burnt many times are all there from the opening. Her marriages foreshadow the abuse suffered by Tina Turner and thousands of women who worked – and still work – in the music industry, and the racism personally experienced. But through it all, it is the voice and the music that soar.Ntombizodwa Ndlovu is equally compelling as Marie – her nervousness at being in Rosetta’s presence, her strong faith, her concerns about the music and, above all, the love for the children she must leave behind to tour with Rosetta are all perfectly captured. As church and “dirty music” begin to reach an understanding and respect for each other, I Want a Tall Skinny Man brings the house down. The singing in this show must be among the best in London right now.And, in a way, there lies a slight problem. The singing is so fantastic that you want more, and Brant’s script can feel a little pedestrian in its exposition, particularly in the first half. It works much better in the second, when the text segues into songs teeming with relevance. However, this is of little importance as the intimacy and in-the-round staging bring us so close to the music and the women – excellent direction by Monique Touko. (A wonderful device symbolically introduces the piano and the guitar.)Lily Arnold’s design places us in the funeral home but opens out into various stages, remaining particularly effective at the poignant and tenderly played conclusion. Whatever your faith or beliefs, your soul needs this production – taking you to church with passion and outstanding talent.

On the surface, this is another in a line of adapted books at the Mercury theatre, and adaptations are all the rage at the moment. But this is a book, by A K Blakemore, of depth, and this powerful, emotive and superbly staged production is the best I have seen here for a long time. A co-production with Frantic Assembly, Scott Graham’s movement direction is as exceptional as you would expect from the company’s artistic director. Add to that the adaptation by the mighty Ava Pickett – whose wonderful, Essex-based play 1536 begins a West End run this summer – and the sensitive, exciting direction by Natasha Rickman, and you have a production that deserved its opening night standing ovation.For generations, our introduction to witchcraft trials began with Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. This British story, rooted in local history, flips everything away from Miller’s play and gives voice to the women – those murdered and those who survived.There isn’t a weak link among the cast. At the centre of the novel and play is feisty, strong Rebecca West, our narrator, accused of witchcraft. Lucy Mangan gives one of the best performances I have ever seen, exceptional in its understanding of the emotional arc of the character – a strength that refuses to be shaped by the men persecuting her and by her circumstances, yielding only when she absolutely has to.Estranged from her “bawdy” mother, Anna “The Bedlam” West – another outstanding performance by Gina Isaac – their journey from conflict and defiance to accepted love is wonderfully portrayed. Fiona Branson captures the fragility of the elderly Bess Clarke, while Amy Cudden is excellent, particularly as the bitter Priscilla Briggs. Mia Jerome, Maria Louis and Chileya Mwampulo bring vivid life to the village women.It would be easy to portray the men as simply evil – in particular “Witchfinder General” Matthew Hopkins – but the script, and Sam Mitchell’s performance, tease out the fear and insecurity of the man. The circumstances and restraints under which they all live – although far less oppressive than those faced by the women – are captured subtly by Gavin Fowler as a lovestruck John Edes, and by the multi-rolling Jack Gogarty, particularly as a beautifully human and perceptive doctor towards the play’s end.They are supported by a community chorus that fills Sara Perks’ outstanding set design with life and bustle, moving set and people beautifully. In many ways it reminded me of Beah Flintoff’s The Ballad of Maria Marten: both take a local story passed down and told by men and rework the myth to place women centre stage.As the play progresses, the battle for the soul becomes a powerful duet between Rebecca and Hopkins, and the segue into its contemporary relevance is handled well. We know Matthew Hopkins’s name, but not the women he murdered. Add Jack the Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, Steve Wright and too many others, and it is a message we all need to hear.The entire run is sold out, proving there is a thirst for new work on the main stage here, and I hope this remarkable production gains further life.

Director Jordan Fein has brilliantly placed Arthur Miller’s tense psychological drama Broken Glass in a pit-like arena at the Young Vic theatre, creating an all-encompassing air of inescapability and claustrophobia for characters trying to deal with the fact that in life “you draw your cards face down, you turn them over and you do your best with the hand you’ve got”.This first major London production of the play in 15 years proceeds for an uninterrupted two hours, with little let-up in the mounting intensity of questioning, revelations and confessions in the search for answers to a bizarre situation.Sylvia Gellburg (Pearl Chanda) runs the emotional gamut from calm acceptance of the strange paralysis that has inexplicably taken control of her legs to the ragings of a sexually frustrated and fearful wife who has nevertheless stayed by her husband. Now, from the comfort of her Brooklyn home, she is also overwhelmed by events in Germany. It is 1938 and the horrors of Kristallnacht fill the newspapers she obsessively buys, compulsively reads, then bundles up in her sitting room. The image of elderly Jewish men being forced to scrub the pavements with toothbrushes particularly haunts her.Based on his experience as a student in Germany, Dr Harry Hyman (Alex Waldmann) believes the people to be good-natured and that these events will soon pass, in the same way he believes Sylvia’s condition will disappear once they find the cause. He believes her paralysis to be psychosomatic, but he is no psychologist and she dreads the prospect of being thought mad. As the doctor to her husband, and despite his lack of appropriate qualifications, he continues to “treat” her and espouse amorous intentions towards her in keeping with his past.Meanwhile Philip Gellburg’s (Eli Gelb) tormented existence goes from bad to worse – a man who has never come to terms with being Jewish yet prides himself on being the first to attain such an elevated realtor position in the company. Gelb incrementally portrays the undermining of Philip through the mystery of his wife’s condition, his impotence and his shortcomings at work, despite his vehement protestations of being a good husband and a successful businessman. Waldmann excels in the interrogative scenes with him, as he does with Chanda, as a man passionately trying to do his best and get others to be honest and confront their demons.Mingling among these flawed titans, Nancy Carroll brings a knowing understanding of her situation as Harry’s wife, along with an outrageous scripted laugh. Nigel Whitmey captures the arrogance and control of a property magnate as Philip’s boss, while Sylvia’s sister – the most down-to-earth of them all – is realistically portrayed as a classic Jewish woman from Brooklyn by Juliet Cowan, who knows a lot and has to have it dragged out of her.This late play by Miller, in which he reveals many of his own misgivings, is not his most outstanding work but it is stamped with the hallmarks of his greatness and is done justice in this gripping production. Imaginative yet simple set design by Rosanna Vize, and lighting by Adam Silverman, along with excellent casting from Julian Horan, make it an all-round tragic joy.

Mariia Petrovska sits aloft at the Arcola Theatre dressed in traditional costume, armed only with her country’s national instrument, so despised by the Russians as an expression of Ukrainian unity and identity that they executed people for playing it. The bandura has been at the heart of Ukraine's history and folkloric traditions for centuries, its 36 delicate strings creating magical sounds and accompaniments for songs that tell of triumphs and tragedies, love and loss. Having fled to Britain with her parents after the Russian invasion, she has an intimate connection to the production.Along with Petrovska’s situational narrative and enchanting vocals, it provides interludes between the five short plays that form Ukraine Unbroken. Her sequences also cover the significant scene changes required to move from one play to another. Credit here to Naomi Shanson (Stage Manager On Book), Ryan Denton (Assistant Stage Manager) and their team of hands for so expertly bringing about the transformations.The quintet is a worthy and ambitious project directed by Nicolas Kent with Victoria Gartner (Associate Director) and Maryna Kursik (Assistant Director – Ukrainian), performed by an adept six-actor ensemble of Daniel Betts, Ian Bonar, Sally Giles, David Michaels, Clara Read and Jade Williams.Act One, Demonstrations & Invasions, opens with Always by Jonathan Myerson in which we view the 2014 Maidan Square protests from a hotel room where two gunmen intend to shoot participants. This strategy comes as a surprise to the MP and his wife whom they are holding hostage, causing her to fear for her son who is out there with the crowds. Despite its inherent tensions, the outcome is rather bland.Next, David Edgar’s Five Day War examines Russia’s 2022 “Special Military Operation”. Imbued with some dark comedy, three potential post-victory leaders compete for positions while a bureaucrat pulls their strings. It’s an interesting, if rather game-ridden, take on the delusional world of false narratives.War is the simple descriptor of Act Two. Three Mates by Natalka Vorozhbyt is an intensely dramatic monologue in which Ian Bonar becomes Andriy, wrestling with his conscience as a man who, by various deceits, has managed to avoid conscription. Finally, we have a piece of theatre with which to identify and experience emotional turmoil.This leads into David Greig’s Wretched Things, which takes us to the front line where issues of morality and rules of engagement pose problems for three soldiers. The arguments and dilemmas are interesting; it might come over more convincingly in a film than it does on stage.That’s not the case with Taken by Cat Goscovitch, which confronts the harrowing reality of the 20,000 Ukrainian children stolen by Russia, handed over to other parents hundreds of miles away and subjected to a world of propaganda. Jade Williams, as the mother, movingly expresses the distress of families torn apart, and Clara Read as her 12-year-old daughter chillingly reveals the impact of re-education.Hence, it’s a mixed bag performed over nearly three hours. For those with a passionate interest in the subject matter, the didacticism and expositional content might be of interest, but overall, as a piece of theatre it falls short of the mark.

The essential elements of Loot are its irreverence towards the taboo of death and the traditions of the Roman Catholic Church, and its attacks on the integrity of the police force. The script both overtly and by innuendo allows for these to be highlighted, if you know how to play it, and that is where this production falls short.Black comedy, of which Joe Orton was a master, is a demanding genre. It’s not simple laugh-out-loud comedy, although it contains many hilarious moments, nor is it pure farce with split-second timing avoiding disastrous consequences, yet it contains elements of both. Instead, it treads a precarious path between the two and demands a very specific interpretation that delivers its unique style.Ultimately, everything is down to the director, but all play their part. Casting director Chloe Blake has assembled actors who appear as caricatures, churning out lines at speed with little awareness of the nuances and subtleties contained within. There is an excess of eccentricity from some, with unrelentingly high-octane, monotone diatribes that should have been reined in, while underplayed delivery of potentially comic lines comes from others. What’s lacking is the credibility that these are real people engaged in outrageous behaviour. Orton’s homoeroticism is also lost through a lack of seductiveness, along with the underlying sense of menace.The abundance of often hyperbolic activity and delivery is sustained at such a level as to become monotone and does not negate the overall feeling of blandness. The set and costume design by Zoë Hurwitz convey the period, but the looming illuminated cross, while impressive, is overstated, especially when, with no context, it turns to red, white and blue at the end.Loot marks director Bethany Pitts’ first opportunity to “lead work on a mid-scale stage”. It appears in this case that Orton’s peculiar type of theatre proves to be too demanding and too big an opening gambit.

After Miss Julie is part adaptation and part modernisation of Strindberg’s 1888 tragedy Miss Julie. In this version, written by Patrick Marber, the world of the play is relocated to England in 1945, on the eve of the General Election. As such, the British class system is an integral element of the play: as Clement Attlee’s Labour Party swings into power, promising major social reform, the aristocratic Miss Julie (Liz Francis) goes head to head with her father’s working-class chauffeur, John (Tom Varey). Like the original, their relationship is part frantic love affair and part a repellent denunciation of the other’s way of life. Meanwhile, Christine (Charlene Boyd), John’s fiancée and the house cook, glumly hopes that the affair is short-lived.After Miss Julie works well as a modernisation of the original, although it does not particularly reflect or respond to its source material. The three-person cast deftly carry the play through its most challenging moments. The death of Julie’s beloved pet bird is a highlight, as is the following confrontation between Julie and John.The in-the-round staging creates an intimate and slowly suffocating effect as the kitchen becomes increasingly confining. There is a distracting and seemingly unnecessary choice in repeatedly sending characters through the audience to use a jug of water, but otherwise Dadiow Lin’s direction is successful in establishing the world and especially delineating the class divide between the characters.A consistent and engaging production, spearheaded by a uniformly talented cast.

With an adulterous king on the throne, a prince stripped of his title and under police investigation, along with a disgraced peer of the realm, Gilbert & Sullivan’s satire of power, privilege and parliamentary democracy, wrapped around a story of forbidden love, resonates as much today as it would have done when Iolanthe was premiered in 1882, though by modern standards the mockery is mild. Back then the audience might also have been distracted from the lyrics by seeing the first production ever to be lit entirely by electricity, allowing for a range of new effects.It’s a trivial story of the improbable surmounted on the impossible. The lower echelons of the fairy world are lamenting the banishment of their dear friend Iolanthe (Eleanor O’Driscoll) for having married a mortal, contrary to fairy law. Her son, Strephon (Matthew Palmer), top half fairy, bottom half male, about whom the father knows nothing, is an Arcadian shepherd who has fallen in love with Phyllis (Llio Evans), whom he wants to marry. She, however, is a Ward of Chancery, well known to their lordships for her beauty and sought after by them all. As fairies don’t age, events take an unfortunate turn when Phyllis sees Strephon embracing a seemingly young woman who, unbeknown to her, is his mother. Chaos and confusion ensue before all is inevitably resolved after a few more revelations.What director John Savournin doesn’t know about performing and directing G&S probably isn’t worth knowing, and he’s assisted by revival director James Hurley. Designer Rachel Szmukler’s centred Palace of Westminster bookcase, looking a little isolated, cuts the stage’s depth, so that Savournin moves the action forward with maximum use of the double apron and split levels. This makes for a more intimate production, though cutting the large chorus of peers and fairies is a loss. Simplicity is the order of the day. We have the company’s own chamber orchestra under the enthusiastic baton of David Eaton. Ben Pickersgill’s lighting rises to the challenge of Wilton’s Music Hall's vast expanse, while Molly Fraser’s costumes are imaginative and functional.The show abounds with opportunities for virtuoso performances and these were not missed. Matthew Kellett, as the Lord Chancellor, fulsomely expressed his embodiment of the law, comically telling his story in When I went to the Bar and faultlessly delivering the nightmare tongue twister When you’re lying awake. Meriel Cunningham, as the controlling Queen of the Fairies, used the depths of her powerful contralto to create a figure not to be contradicted. She is fully controlling yet merciful at the bidding of the harmoniously matched, giggling fairy duo Celia and Leila, played by Sarah Prestwidge and Martha Jones, into which O’Driscoll blends perfectly.Back in the real world, Evans and Palmer give vocally powerful, assertive performances, with the latter doubling as Willis the librarian and giving a delightful rendition of When all night long a chap remains… to open the much faster-paced Act Two. The fine-voiced David Menezes entertains throughout as Earl Tolloller, but it is the brilliant gender change from Earl to Lady Mountararat that allows Catrine Kirkman to give a highly amusing Thatcherite interpretation of the role.Charles Court Opera, with a wealth of experience and well-versed performers, deliver a joyous, if minimal, production that celebrates the remarkable collaboration that bequeathed us lyrics that flow easily from comedy to heartache and music that has us still singing memorable melodies weeks after the show.

There is something quietly bold about installing a small Peruvian bear in the Savoy Theatre and asking him to carry a full-scale West End musical. Paddington rises to the occasion with marmalade-smeared charm and a surprisingly stirring heart. The story broadly mirrors the first film, tracing the bear’s journey from Peru to London and his search for the explorer Montgomery Clyde, but the stage version deepens and enriches it with a generous score and a distinctly theatrical sense of mischief.We begin in Mr Gruber’s shop of curiosities, where every object has a history. A young man discovers a teddy bear on a shelf and Gruber begins to tell the tale of how that bear travelled across oceans. In a swift transition we are at Paddington Station, where our as-yet-unnamed hero discovers that Londoners are not quite as friendly as Aunt Lucy suggested. Salvation arrives in the form of the Brown family, with Mrs Brown persuading her cautious husband to offer the stranger a bed for the night. From there the show unfolds with warmth and escalating chaos.Paddington is realised through a deft theatrical double act. Arti Shah inhabits the beautifully engineered bear on stage, while James Hameed supplies voice and remote puppetry from off stage, stepping into view when emotional focus demands it. The costume alone is a marvel, capable of the subtlest eyebrow lift and eye flicker, and Shah’s enthusiastic bum wiggles add an irresistible layer of physical comedy.When Paddington first arrives at the Browns’ home, the house is all but demolished in a sequence reminiscent of a Universal Studios backlot tour. As cupboards collapse and fixtures explode, the company launch into the riotous Don’t Touch That, a masterclass in escalating slapstick. Later, a joyous full-ensemble ode to marmalade sends choreography and the vast LED screen into overdrive, only for Amy Booth-Steel to wander on in the next scene dressed as a marmalade sandwich, glance around in confusion and sigh, “Ah, I missed it.” It is that kind of show.Booth-Steel proves invaluable in multiple comic guises, notably as the gloriously accented Lady Sloane of the Geographers Guild – “are you a mumber?” The Brown’s meddling neighbour, Mr Curry (Tom Edden), gleefully minces through scenes and chips away at the fourth wall in the second act, while Victoria Hamilton-Barritt relishes villainy as Millicent Clyde of the Natural History Museum, delivering taxidermy-themed menace with panto flourish. Veteran Bonnie Langford brings brisk authority and warmth to Mrs Bird, now firmly the Browns’ household’s organising force.The production values are lavish. Lighting spills into the auditorium, sound design is astonishingly clear and the sets and costumes brim with storybook detail. Beneath the spectacle lies a simple, resonant message about welcoming outsiders. In the current climate, it lands with particular force. By curtain call, it is hard not to feel a swell of pride, both in this city and in a musical that understands exactly what Paddington stands for.

The Post Office Horizon scandal is ingrained in the minds of millions of people thanks to the TV series Mr Bates vs The Post Office. It may feel that there is nothing further to experience about the shocking miscarriage of justice, yet Rabble Theatre’s Glitch by Zannah Kearns, at the New Wolsey Theatre as part of their UK tour, proves otherwise. A powerful script and excellent production keep our shock and anger active.Focusing on the experience of sub-postmistress Pam Stubbs of Barkham Post Office, there is an almost forensic approach to the amount of information conveyed, but it’s delivered with crystal-clear clarity, and when it focuses on individuals there is an emotional depth that defies its 80-minute running time.The cast of four are excellent, a smooth ensemble who pay tribute to the victims but avoid stereotyping the accusers. The interesting aspect of Pam Stubbs is that she is a difficult, feisty heroine who manages to avoid traditional notions of “victim”. Sparky and barbed, Joanne Howarth is completely believable, thrumming with authenticity that keeps us with Pam throughout the play. The other three actors multi-role superbly, aided by a simple but effective design in which boxes contain costume items and totems that indicate the person portrayed. Laura Penneycard, with just a change of gilet, transforms characters. Naveed Khan, currently dazzling viewers in The Great Pottery Throw Down, displays his fine set of acting skills, from kind customer David to Sir Alan Bates, with whom Pam shares many a bloody-minded quality. Sabina Netherclift is outstanding in all her roles, from prosecutor to the widow of a Post Office sub-postmaster who took his own life. This really underlines that we still don’t know everything about this scandal, but we do know that at least 13 sub-postmasters have died.The design by Caitlin Abbott is powerfully simple, the lives in boxes symbolic not just of the huge amount of data, but the lives the Post Office seemed determined to pack away and lock up. Gareth Taylor’s direction is beautifully judged and sensitive, and the play grips us throughout.Pam Stubbs was angry that it took a TV drama to bring this scandal fully to light, and the main takeaway from this outstanding production is that none of the perpetrators is behind bars, having been found guilty of corporate manslaughter.

Everyone knows the print of The Great Wave. This opera tells the story of Hokusai, the artist who made it, one of 30,000 artworks he produced in his lifetime. The production opens with a silent homage; the equivalent of “curtain up” is a surprising and spectacular tribute to the art and artist (video design by Sho Yamaguchi), followed by people in modern dress placing flowers on Hokusai’s grave. Then we go back in time to Hokusai’s daughter Ōi at his funeral, and the start of the opera proper.The opera consists of scenes from Hokusai’s life, presented non-chronologically but with the ever-present themes of his talent and dedication, his fame, the affectionate working relationship with his daughter, and his wish for another 10 years of life to improve his art. The scenes range from the extreme, thunderstorms, impending violence and The Wave itself, through the comedic, to the calmly domestic: Hokusai and Ōi taking tea together. The director Satoshi Miyagi and scenographer Junpei Kiz combine movement and visuals effectively, and sometimes with memorable vividness.Dai Fujikura’s music spans from dramatic to comic. He synthesises different elements into a cohesive musical effect, incorporating the shakuhachi flute and soft mallet vibraphone, and the orchestra is gorgeously arranged as both a support and partner for the singers. Conducted by Stuart Stratford, the playing is lusciously expressive, ranging from contemplative to intense.The singers are strong throughout, with restrained emotion from Julieth Lozano Rolong as Ōi, a huge range of performance from Daisuke Ohyama as Hokusai, and Shengzhi Ren notable in the parts of the sweetshop owner and publisher.There are minor issues, such as image projections that, depending on where you sit in the audience, are pointless distractions.The serious issue lies with “the book”. The librettist Harry Ross has said the story is told in a non-linear “eastern” manner as opposed to “western teleology”.The opera illustrates that the blues of The Great Wave were only possible because of the Prussian Blue ink illegally obtained from the west: the combination of cultures leads to richness. I’m no Japanologist, but I’m certain Japanese audiences are very familiar with western storytelling. Unfortunately, the opera is a series of episodes with no unifying development. Hokusai dies of old age, hardly the stuff of drama. I can’t see the benefit in excluding one of the key tools and expectations of modern opera.

Adapting Edgar Allan Poe for the stage, Edgar in the Red Room utilises a popular premise: Poe is dying. In his final, delirious hours, reality fractures into a fever-dream where memories, nightmares, and characters from his fiction bleed together. What follows is a theatrical “greatest hits” remix: a hallucinogenic reimagining of his most famous stories into what the company calls “the story Poe never wrote.”There is no denying the effort, ambition, and affection behind this macabre musical offering. From the poster image of two actors donning Poe’s famous moustache and wig in a knowingly cosplay-like fashion, we sense that this may not be the most solemn of evenings. For audiences familiar with Poe’s work, the show offers a literary treasure hunt. References interweave, and there is genuine pleasure in recognising how his stories are stitched together. The Raven inevitably, makes an appearance, though it feels more shoe-horned than essential, perhaps largely because it is Poe’s most famous work, though it doesn’t add a great deal to the unfolding narrative and never quite earns its place beyond audience expectation.However, this density of reference may also be the production’s greatest barrier. For those less versed in Poe’s canon, the piece risks becoming confusing, even alienating by assuming a high level of prior knowledge.Even for Poe fans, however, there are moments of narrative muddle. Historically, at the time of his death he was working on one called The Light-House, so why would his last creative act be populated entirely by characters, events, and locations from stories he had already written? And the moment where the two Poes realise they are dead and trapped for eternity, only returns back into the House of Usher narrative, as if the nightmare simply resumes unchanged.There are, however, genuine saving graces. Musically, the production often soars. The ensemble realisation of Annabel Lee is particularly beautiful: gorgeously sung, sensitively harmonised, and a true testament both to Poe’s poem and to the creative team behind the show. Kilian Crowley’s Roderick Usher is a standout. Possessing a commanding stage presence, he pitches the role with just the right balance of sincerity and melodrama – the kind of heightened Gothic performance that Vincent Price himself would surely have admired.The production design is inventive, with innovative shadow puppetry that compliment the various stories and songs. Projections are sometimes effective and atmospheric, but at other moments appear overly pixelated, undermining their impact. One notable misstep sees Poe’s wife Virginia mistakenly displayed instead of his mother, Eliza – a detail that jars in the short section that appears so invested in Poe’s biography.As a theatrical study of Poe, the show’s focus is also somewhat limited. It is understandable, though regrettable, that the production confines itself almost entirely to the writer’s darker tales, and reinforces the familiar image: perpetually melancholy, tortured, friendless, and morbid, further entrenching a popular but partial myth.A production with real heart, mystery and imagination, but one that doesn’t quite escape the maze it so lovingly constructs.

It’s always a risk to adapt a book as beloved as Rachel Joyce’s story of Harold Fry, an ordinary, unspectacular man who receives a letter from an old friend, Queenie, writing from a hospice where she faces her final days.As he goes to post his (very bland) reply, Harold is overwhelmed by a feeling to keep on walking from Devon to Berwick upon Tweed to make amends with Queenie for a past incident. He meets people along the way, until social media gives him fellow pilgrims, all seeking their own redemption. As he becomes more dishevelled, the protective layers he built around him become as threadbare as his shoes and clothes, and the shocking events from the past are revealed.The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, is heart-soaring and heartbreaking in equal measure, and this beautiful, superbly cast production does perfect justice to the source material. The music and lyrics by Passenger give the show a folksy feel, suiting the folklore element of the story, and are reminiscent of another great musical, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. In both shows, the fluid movement of the performers and staging marks the passing of time, and simple props become powerful totems of loss and grief. Here, a Cambridge University scarf is used to devastating effect.Each person Harold meets gets a great song, and I was initially concerned that the bar was set too high with the second number, the gospel-inspired Walk Upon The Water, with the outstanding Nicole Nyarambi raising the roof, the prolonged applause and cheering well deserved. But this concern was quickly banished by the other “turns”. Out Of Luck, peppered with a certain four-lettered word, is a joy. Daniel Crossley delivers perfectly as Silver Haired Gentleman, Harold’s advice allowing him to be free and open in his sexuality in a wonderful tap number. Noah Mullens, making their West End debut, is a haunting presence as The Balladeer, evolving into something else in Act Two. War Horse revolutionised puppetry in this country, and if you don’t fall in love with Dog, this may not be the musical for you!But none of this would work without the central characters of Harold and his seemingly sterile wife, Maureen, being perfect. Mark Addy is outstanding as Harold Fry, his “everyman” persona working perfectly as he takes us on the pilgrimage. Buttoned up, grieving, his barriers are delicately removed as the journey develops, a beautiful portrayal of English reserve and male silence breaking down. His song Dear Girl In The Garage is emotional, measured and heart-breaking. Equally outstanding, as always, is Jenna Russell as Maureen, the dam she has built around her emotions cracking as she accepts her grief and her part in what happened.The back story is devastating. Those who have read the book or seen the film adaptation will know that this is no cosy drama; it’s brutal and unflinching. But when Harold arrives at Queenie’s bedside, there isn’t, and shouldn’t be, a dry eye in the house.A welcome transfer from Chichester Festival Theatre, this is a West End must-see.

The strong ensemble cast of Theatre Paradok’s production of The History Boys breathes new life into a classic and offers a welcome change of focus on its themes.The production, directed by Lauren Green, takes a light hand in adapting the material, which at first seems unfortunate. The much-praised script has not aged well. Alan Bennett’s play about boys in a grammar school preparing for their Oxbridge entrance exams is dark academia indeed, raising issues of predation and abuse of power with dismissiveness. Nonetheless, subtle alterations allow other elements of Bennett’s complex writing to come to the fore.The biggest change here is that some of the boys’ characters are played by women. The choice to do it openly is an excellent one. It’s surprisingly natural, and it emphasises that these are youth on the cusp of adulthood, unsexed, unformed (as their teacher Hector might say), and only just attaining individuality.Visually, this academia is riotous rather than dark, and this, too, works well. The energy is reflected in the set, which, while static, is a joyful ebullience of educational paraphernalia and paper cranes and aeroplanes. Clever costuming by Naoise Gilpin and Sophie Slight helps establish different roles and identities for the many students on stage all at once.The large cast handles the difficult material well. Bella Burgess gives the devout Scripps insouciance and spark, and her piano playing complements the musical scenes in which Darcy Chong’s expressive singing infuses tenderness and vulnerability into Posner’s unrequited love for his classmate. Eric Parker, as Dakin, the love object, strikes the perfect balance as a young man overly pleased with himself, cognisant of his many admirers, and yet still callow enough to wildly mispronounce Nietzsche’s name. Megan Crutchley as Dorothy delivers world-weariness convincingly and acquits herself well in a too-small role.Zephyrus Pettitt (Hector) and Lucas Knepper (Irwin) both depart from how their characters are often portrayed. Pettitt’s Hector carries the trademark erudition and bonhomie, but never comes across as a broken man. Knepper, wonderfully nuanced as Irwin, brings such depth to his role that the character’s usual glibness is not in evidence. Their reinterpretations offer thought-provoking new perspectives.The production does carry a few hallmarks of being a student company. The most serious issue is with sound: some lines are rushed, insufficiently projected, or too frequently delivered upstage; music drowns them out too often. At times, across the players, speeches seem recited rather than embodied, and some dialogue gets stepped on. Video screen translations for a hilarious scene in French are barely visible behind the cast.These are, on the whole, minor flaws. The exuberance of the company is infectious, and their propulsive energy and high spirits make for a vibrant and entertaining show. At the same time, thoughtful choices by the director and actors create a production that rewards close inspection and lingers in one’s mind long after the curtain closes.

The show that initiated Rupert Goold’s tenure at the Almeida as artistic director is now revived as his last before moving to the Old Vic. He described that premiere production of American Psycho as “an over-ambitious show for the space”.Now the first two rows have been taken out to accommodate a matt black raised thrust platform consisting of embedded LED panels. These are the vehicle for some very impressive sequences by designer Jon Clark, who creates stunning lighting effects throughout. LED concertina curtains at the rear open to reveal various sets, while two floor panels form a trapdoor from which the meticulous, yet minimalist, sets by Es Devlin emerge, often with a character in situ. The otherwise bare stage also provides space for some tightly choreographed numbers by Lynne Page, in keeping with the period, locations and moods of the plot. With music supervision by David Shrubsole and director Ellen Campbell, sound design from Dan Moses Schreier, who perfectly judges the volume, and video design from Finn Ross, the achievements of the creative team take their place among the highlights of the production.The show is dominated by Arty Froushan, who reveals his character in opening words from inside the shower: “There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory.” Froushan is as fit as Bateman boasts himself to be. He exudes privilege, money, class and expensive taste to a level that makes him somewhat obnoxious, in addition to being an investment banker. Nothing he owns or uses is ever mentioned without the extravagant designer name adjectivally attached. He epitomises the saying, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” That includes his glamorous, strikingly dressed fiancé, Evelyn Williams, assertively played by Emily Barber, whose costumes are some of the many fabulous numbers designed by Katrina Lindsay. Together they might look the part, but we become increasingly privy to stresses beneath the surface. The only thing missing in his life is the highly lucrative Fischer account. That jewel in the crown went to Paul Owen, and Daniel Bravo wears it with casual pride, knowing that it turns Bateman green with envy.In addition to foot-stomping original electropop music and lyrics by Duncan Sheik, there are well-known songs from the period, of which In the Air Tonight is the most poignant, marking a turning point in Bateman’s behaviour. In a chilling moment listening to: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord. And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord.” We remember his words from the shower and the psychopath is let loose. Add to that Phil Collins’ own words that in the song “there's a lot of anger, a lot of despair and a lot of frustration”, and it becomes the perfect fit for Bateman.Goold’s production is packed with energy, moves at a pace and has a stylish ensemble.

In a “little town 20 miles from anywhere important”, there are five lads, of whom one says: “The most exciting thing that ever happened here, happened somewhere else.” Clearly that is currently not the case at Greenwich Theatre, where Proforca Theatre Company have brought Flashbang as part of their tour.Writer James Lewis has compiled an action-packed eighty-five minutes about five lads seeking youthful fun in a place that is not really geared up for it. They met in junior school and decided they should create some recognition of their closeness by forming a gang, although their teacher suggested that this sounded somewhat aggressive and perhaps they would rather just be a group. There was no kudos in that, so they ignored her and stayed together into adulthood. All except one, that is, whose exit from the circle marks the major turning point in the play.It’s a reflective work in which the four lads, Ryan (Alex Hill), Jason (Charlie Jobe), Andy (Haydn Watts) and Deano (Ben Watts), take us along the path of growing up. The performances are full of energy and the pace is fast, with lines of stories being shared among them. There are plenty of nights out recounted, weekend parties, excessive and sometimes gross behaviour, but it’s all conducted in a spirit of fun and camaraderie and is the sort of stuff that those of us listening can identify with from our own teenage years. To contrast the banter, we are treated to some short monologues which reveal more personal aspects of events and allow feelings and emotions to surface.Flashbang is a celebration of male bonding and the power of friendship surviving through thick and thin, the good times and the bad times. That spirit can be felt amongst the ensemble, and the casting is well balanced to create four credible yet different characters. Director David Brady, with Lucy Glassbrook in charge of movement, has created a lively piece with just four metal chairs as props on a bare stage, which for some reason has a white rectangle painted in the centre. Projected photographs by Ross Kernahan provide the setting and a commentary on the action, and some stunning lighting effects by Gregory Jordan change the moods.The boys’ stories, while entertaining, tend to be variations on a theme, without making much progress in terms of a storyline. The big flashbang that changes the direction of the play is predictable from early on, so only the details create interest, while the fallout tends to be overworked and prolonged and there is nothing especially profound in the story.Hence it remains enjoyable rather than memorable; the lasting joy is seeing the next generation of actors exhibit their enthusiasm and talent.

This year marks the 90th anniversary of Oswald Mosley’s attempted march down Cable Street, when he led the British Union of Fascists (BUF) through an area at the heart of his antisemitism.That was not just an affront to the large Jewish population there, but to all who lived in the East End of London. Consequently, communists, anarchists and swathes of Irish dockers and other workers, along with local residents, took to the streets and eventually caused the march to be abandoned. Their success was achieved despite the presence of 6,000 police, who cleared barricades and used mounted and baton charges against protesters to fulfil their protective escort duties for the blackshirts.Les Misérables proves that this sort of material can be the stuff of musicals, and Cable Street confirmed that with two highly successful runs at Southwark Playhouse in 2024. Now it resurfaces at the Marylebone Theatre, directed by Adam Lenson, where it’s hard to imagine that the strings of four- and five-star ratings that adorn the posters will be replicated.Alex Kanefsky’s book concerns three parallel stories about families who are Jewish, Irish and working class, and is consumed by the hardships of the period and the attitudes that exist between the different communities. In various ways, the families and individuals within them respond to their circumstances and to emerging events, such as the rise of fascism, the shortage of work, and the lack of secure housing.A present-day group of people on a guided tour of the area provides a framework for the recounting of history, made relevant only by a woman trying to trace her ancestor. However, it’s a device that could be dispensed with. The stage is a hive of activity, and the versatile set by Yoav Segal copes admirably. The three rooms for the families are regularly taken apart and reassembled as other locations are created in between. The multiple stories weave their way in and out, often as staccato interludes that take an adept mind to follow.The show features powerful performances from the likes of Isaac Gryn, Preeya Kalidas, Romona Lewis-Malley, Ethan Pascal Peters, Jez Unwin and Barney Wilkinson, within an energetic ensemble. The musical styles reflect the backgrounds of the people, although the fashionable raps seem out of place. Like most musicals, it’s very loud, courtesy of the fully miked stage, although that does not always help convey the lyrics, which might also reflect poor enunciation in places. Opportunities to significantly lower the volume are rarely taken.The musical’s message resonates across the years, however, and there are strong links to the Spanish civil war, with the cry of “¡No pasarán!” (“They shall not pass”) resounding as a universal motto, while connections to our own times are easily made.The show has already been back to the drawing board, but it needs to return for further editing to be made more slick and coherent.

Plays often attempt to redress the balance of male-dominated history, and Charing Cross Theatre is currently hosting Mrs President, a two-hander that places Abraham Lincoln’s wife, Mary Todd Lincoln (Keala Settle), centre-stage with the ground-breaking photographer Matthew Brady (Hal Fowler).The period is artistically established with a conservatively furnished set by Anna Kelsey, who also designed the fabulously impressive costumes. Greens, blues and browns dominate Mary’s functional room, with a carver chair that brings back memories of her sons who died at the ages of three, 12 and 18. Behind a gauze screen that blends unobtrusively into the room’s layout is the photographic developing studio. It might appear somewhat dull but for the imaginative lighting from Derek Andersen, who also supplies multicoloured artistic flashes that heighten key moments. Meanwhile, Eammon O’Dwyer’s sound effectively complements both the setting and the action.Director Bronagh Lagan makes excellent use of everything supplied by the creatives and, along with associate and movement director Sam Rayner, gives Settle plenty of room to swirl her layers of hooped petticoats. Despite all these factors in its favour, along with the invested experience of two accomplished actors, and notwithstanding all her stories, the tragic deaths she experienced and the devastating sectioning of her by her eldest and only son to reach adulthood, it is still hard to identify with her or to feel a sense of emotional attachment. Her cause is not helped by the excessive wailing and screaming in some scenes.Fowler takes on several roles, including one as a judge in which the emancipation timeline seems completely awry. This, and other scenes, provide glimpses of the eventful times in which they were living, but nothing is explored in depth.The missed opportunities to create two characters with hearts, confronting major personal and social issues, are manifold, denying us both emotional understanding and historical insight.

Already Perfect is a new musical about an actor called Levi who, having been dumped by his boyfriend over text message, finds himself on the brink of self-destruction through drug abuse as the stress of a disastrous matinee and an impending live capture of his Broadway show pile unbearable pressure on to his shoulders.The story develops swiftly as, just in the nick of time, his sponsor Ben appears and forces Levi to confront his demons by magically summoning the spirit of Levi’s younger self, Matthew. Over the next 100 minutes we witness the blistering conflict between present-day Levi and his twinky, optimistic former self as they battle between the joy and ambition of youth, and the world-weary resignation and self-judgement of adulthood.Tony award winner Levi Kreis is responsible for book, music and lyrics, and plays the self-named lead, offering a clear invitation to draw biographical parallels between the action on stage and his real life. He has a powerhouse voice, moving seamlessly between musical styles as diverse as country, gospel, pop and trance.Ben, played with affable charm by Yiftach ‘Iffy’ Mizrahi, is the catalyst for the metatheatricality, turning the backstage dressing room setting into a performance space with spinning walls, dizzying lights and plummeting Bibles. Indeed, the set becomes a character in its own right – a liminal space in which the truth of Levi’s troubling past and turbulent present coincide.The heart of the show is Matthew, played with boyband charisma by Killian Thomas Lefevre. His winning smile, overwhelming confidence and athletic hip thrusts are in stark juxtaposition to his hangdog older self, and inject the narrative with drive and dynamism.Too many themes are packed into not enough time, with Levi’s AIDS status repeatedly mentioned but never insightfully explored. However, the devastating impacts of religion on gay identity are tackled with depth and thoughtfulness. Add in a dollop of suicide, drug abuse, prostitution and domestic violence, and you begin to feel a touch disorientated. But despite the heaviness of the themes, they are mostly treated with a lightness of touch and sense of humour that keeps the mood buoyant rather than tragic.Overall, it is a powerful and evocative exploration of the complexities of gay life and the urgent need for all of us to be kind to our past selves, and to acknowledge and accept them as central to who we are now. Not quite a perfect musical, but a perfect and much-needed message.

Cambridge University’s European Theatre Group, under the direction of James Allen, delivers The Comedy of Errors with pace, humour and physicality at the ADC Theatre.The production was devised for performance not just locally, but also on tour in several European cities to audiences that include children listening to an archaic version of a foreign language. The Theatre Group's desire to preserve authenticity combined with accessibility is well met in this two-act version.For clarity, a modern preamble explains the problem of finding two pairs of identical twins, which is overcome by costume coding. Give one pair matching T-shirts and the other bright yellow sou’westers and all becomes clear. Additionally, explain that a shortage of actors means that one part will be played by a seagull puppet, while others double up parts by a change of hat or by wearing a mask, and you have a comic introduction that sets the tone for what follows. This, and the ensuing action, witnesses the ingenuity and imagination that Allen has given to this production.All playwrights have to begin somewhere and the consensus for Shakespeare is that The Comedy of Errors was among his first works. Dare one say that it shows? Notwithstanding, it is not without its admirers. The renowned critic Harold Bloom maintained that it “reveals Shakespeare's magnificence at the art of comedy” and shows “such skill, indeed mastery, in action, incipient character, and stagecraft, that it far outshines the three Henry VI plays and the rather lame comedy The Two Gentlemen of Verona.” Humour has clearly changed over the years, but there is plenty of fun to be had in it. The story was taken from Plautus and is rare in its adherence to the classical unities of time, place and action, giving it an inherent focus across the board.The set reflects the simplicity of this production. Two trestle ladders of different heights are arranged asymmetrically, one labelled ‘The Phoenix’, where Antipholus of Ephesus lives with his wife, Adriana, and the other, ‘Porpentine’, where Antipholus of Syracuse is meant to dine and to where the gold chain is delivered. Entrances and exits are frequently made under the ladders’ arches, and this adds to the element of superstition in the play.The ensemble cast are full of energy and enthusiasm but, as might be expected from a university society production, they comprise a mixed bag of talent. While they each have their commendable qualities, special mention has to go to the former National Youth Theatre member (Rob) Marques Monteiro for a commandingly idiosyncratic performance as Antipholus of Syracuse, full of measured pauses, artful gestures and mesmerising eye contact.Overall, Allen and the company have grasped the comedic aspect of this minor Shakespearean work and have turned it into fun-filled entertainment. Good job done.

A tragicomedy that is both entertainment and therapy, The Olive Boy is rooted in the death of Ollie Maddigan’s adolescence and his grief management following the death of his mother, which he confronts through the lens of himself aged 15.It's emotionally challenging, but it's his choice and he knows what he’s doing. The play is not just a release and coming-to-terms mechanism for him, but has also powerfully impacted others who have found themselves in similar situations. In conversation he will relate moving accounts of parents and children who have thanked him for The Olive Boy and the way it has helped to bring about reconciliation in families and hope for the bereaved.Maddigan is now 22, but vividly remembers his youth, which provides the framework for what one assumes is an embellished, yet authentic, portrayal of the boy he was. A family video opens the play before he makes a swaggering entrance in his dishevelled school uniform of black trousers, white shirt, blazer and tie. He sits and waits, looks around to get a feel of his audience, raising the tension with a lengthy pause, before breaking the ice with a line of humour. It’s a device that will appear on several occasions and just one of the many performance skills he uses so deftly. He artfully juggles punctuation to create momentum and then hold things still. Rather than stopping at the end of a sentence, he will run straight into the next, irrespective of content, and then insert an unexpected pause. It’s a clever attention-holding strategy that combines with accents and voices attached to an array of characters he portrays.Complementing the language is the physicality of his performance. He occupies the stage in a manner that illustrates teenage agility, using all available space and just one chair. He sits on it, leaps over it, stands on it, picks it up and thrusts it down. He has walking styles, movements and a myriad of gestures that in themselves entertain but which are always directly related to the text and reflect his various states of mind. Some flow smoothly, others are abrupt.Alone on stage, but with the family, classmates and teachers vividly in his mind, he also interacts with some startling lighting by Adam Jefferys, precisely cued by stage manager Dani White, along with various sounds. On a plain stage these serve to change locations, time and moods.As his life unfolds we are treated to the story of a bereaved lad in a dysfunctional relationship with his alcoholic father, trying to fit in as a stranger in a new school in a new area, while his body increasingly produces testosterone and he craves a girlfriend. As Maddigan has pointed out, “When you're a teenager and your mum passes away you don't stop being a teenager. It's not like you don't stop caring about who's popular and girls and drinking and parties.” And we see that sentiment well evidenced.An earlier version of this play had enormous success at the Edinburgh Fringe, where I first saw it, and on tour, but now under the sensitive and imaginative direction of Scott Le Crass it’s had what they call a ‘glow-up’, and a play that always shone brightly glistens even more vividly as a hilarious, tear-jerking and profound theatrical triumph.

Talk of genocide, ethnic groups denied the right to claim land they believe to be their heritage and the invasion of a country in pursuit of oil makes much of Safe Haven resonate with our own time.Yet it is firmly entrenched in the aftermath of the First Gulf War in 1991, the policies of Saddam Hussein and Operation Safe Haven, a diplomatic and humanitarian intervention that saved countless Kurdish lives and prevented a genocide greater than the one some claim to already have been under way.As a former human rights diplomat in London, aid worker and journalist who reported for the BBC from Afghanistan and Central Asia, Chris Bowers is eminently qualified to write on this subject, especially as he was posted to Moscow and Iraqi Kurdistan and headed the UK office in Erbil. Translating that experience to the stage is another matter, however. Whilst his insights into the workings of those institutions are obviously authentic, the complexities of negotiations and relationships are probably not the stuff of entertainment unless there is a cliff-hanger in the mix. An excess of exposition in order to provide understanding of the situation, combined with time restrictions, makes negotiations seem oversimplified and the conjuring up of brilliant solutions contrived.Using gauze curtains against the brick walls of Arcola Theatre’s Studio 2, designer Jida Aki, in collaboration with Samuel Owen (lighting), Ali Taie (sound) and Libby Ward (video), simply but effectively creates multiple locations and scenes of action. Two of those predominate to suggest the very different worlds of diplomats and the dispossessed.Richard Lynson portrays diplomat Clive as a predictable, rather dull bureaucrat who finds himself challenged by circumstances and the more radical approach of Catherine, his assistant, whom Beth Burrows plays assertively and with a passion for the plight of peoples that is often at odds with diplomatic neutrality. Stephen Cavanagh throws himself into the fray as Brett, the US commanding officer, but scenes with him seem to heighten the lack of credibility surrounding interactions.Meanwhile, on the mountains, Zeyra (Euginie Bouda) and Najat (Lisa Zahra), as a pregnant woman and her helper, depict two women struggling against the elements and the political malaise as aircraft fire on them. This adds a human, if predictable, dimension to the story. Introducing Clive’s wife into the equation, also played by Zahra, adds some domestic interest and a chance for her and Catherine to conspire against him, with shades of the henpecked husband. Mazlum Gul, making his professional debut, gives an insight into local attitudes as Zeyra’s brother and more powerfully as Saddam Hussein’s brother, despatched as a negotiator.It’s an interesting rather than gripping production from director Mark Geisser and worthy of further development.

Prison-cell dramas have long proven a gift that keeps on giving in modern cinema and theatre. The best of these demonstrate exactly what works theatrically and what does not. 180° Chord, originally written as a novel before being adapted for the stage, raises compelling questions about culpability and consequence, but struggles to make a satisfying leap from page to performance. It leans heavily on exposition and misses opportunities to use the uniquely visceral tools of live theatre.The play follows Detective John Gray (Paul Findlay), now incarcerated alongside Connor (Dominic Thompson), a man he once arrested. Through flashbacks, monologues and diatribes, we learn that Gray’s son, who suffered from mental illness, died as a direct result of Gray’s decision to imprison Connor rather than allow him to see the child before sentencing. All of this unfolds against the backdrop of a developing prison riot. Forced from cell to cell as a gang hunts Gray down, Connor seizes the chance to exploit his guilt and offer false hope.On paper, the plot is rich. It grapples with responsibility, punishment and the psychological contortions that occur when justice and vengeance blur. It is clear that playwright, director and novelist Chris Leicester brings intelligence and craft to his writing, but the script is significantly overwritten. The dialogue is equal parts florid and philosophical. Characters sit and explain rather than act, leaving the production feeling oddly static.Stakes that should be sky high instead feel subdued. Scene transitions and flashbacks unfold without clarity or rhythm, giving the play a stitched-together quality that undercuts momentum. The soundscape, which should underscore chaos beyond the cell walls, is used sparingly and inconsistently. Bursts of shouting or clanging arrive only when the script requires them. A persistent sound bed rising and falling with the threat outside would have provided tension and dread. Instead, the prison riot feels distant and abstract. The most baffling cue comes after the interval, when sentimental music swells in from nowhere, evoking a Netflix teen drama rather than a violent uprising.The intermission arrives barely thirty minutes into the show, which feels jarringly early for a production billed at two hours and ten minutes. Mercifully, the runtime landed closer to ninety minutes, though the pacing still dragged.There is merit in the performances. Thompson is particularly compelling, and both actors clearly understand their characters’ emotional lives. Yet the production rarely allows them to interact meaningfully. The essential cat-and-mouse psychology that makes prison drama crackle – the shifting dominance and unspoken threats – is almost entirely absent. Instead, the show often feels like someone reading a novel aloud.I would be keen to read Leicester’s original book, where his dense language and introspection could breathe. But as a play, 180° Chord needs sharper dramaturgy, a stronger sense of danger, and a willingness to let theatricality rather than exposition carry the story.

A misheard word while eavesdropping on a conversation sets a series of events in motion that embroil the already highly stressed Tom Asher (Jamie Hutchins) in a web of confusion and misunderstandings, all while he tries to cope with the two current priorities in his life: directing his latest play and getting dressed.Thus the scene is set for Andrew Cartmel's farcical comedy Dressing Gown at the Union Theatre, tightly directed by Jenny Eastop. Casually attired in the eponymous robe, Tom strolls out of his bedroom, but before he can tackle his first coffee, his producer, Dan (Ryan Woodcock), storms in and launches into a prolonged tirade. (The door seems always to be on the latch so anyone can walk in, though some do him the courtesy of ringing the bell.)Dan is under the impression that Tom is having an affair with his girlfriend, Layla (Rosie Edwards), who also happens to be the lead in the play they are doing. Tom is confused, as that is definitely not the case, but once Dan is done and gone the playwright, Jenna (Freya Alderson), enters to rant about actors who cannot learn their lines and who seem to regard her script as just a guideline as to what they should say. She also throws some important light on Tom’s misunderstanding. Meanwhile, once Layla is in on the situation, she decides to milk Tom’s guilt trip for having not trusted her, and so the layers of chaos and calamity build up.It’s a joy to see a new play in this genre, with a hard-working and energetic cast who storm through the 70 minutes. The situation is classically absurd, with plenty of ludicrous moments and clever linguistic periods of exploration. It’s funny in places, but it won’t leave you rolling around in the aisles, and there are patches of wordy dialogue that labour potentially amusing moments. Within the scenes the outcomes are fairly obvious, and the stakes could be much higher in terms of unpredictability and things going disastrously wrong.That aside, Dressing Gown is a fun and refreshing piece of theatre.

Previews of Sir Tom Stoppard's Indian Ink at Hampstead Theatre began just a few days after his death, and through this sad coincidence, a story is highlighted that gives the production an added dimension.Originally a radio play, this revival celebrates the thirtieth anniversary of the stage debut, in which Felicity Kendal played Flora Crewe. She and Stoppard were in a relationship for many years. He wrote the role for her and dedicated the play to her mother. Now, she plays the role of Crewe’s sister, Eleanor Swan, who outlived her by many years. Their story unfolds in two time frames, until the very end, when Swan travels to India and stands over her sibling’s grave in a poignantly moving scene.Taking on Kendal’s original role, Ruby Ashbourne Serkis brings an air of the debutante. Arriving in India for health reasons, she inevitably attracts the attention of all the important people in the region. The English colonial official, David Durance, clearly has his eyes set on her. Tom Durant-Pritchard gives him the etiquette of the Raj, which comes across with hesitant politeness in her presence. Balancing him is Nirad Das, a local artist who paints her portrait. Gavi Singh Chera captures both the customary respect given to the memsahib and the informality of a man with whom she freely engages, enjoying his company and conversation. It’s a delight to see their relationship develop in a way that will never happen with Durance. Irvine Iqbal exudes the presence of an Indian aristocrat, with a charming manner in making advances that, ultimately, will go nowhere.Meanwhile, back in her English country garden in a later period, Eleanor Swan is serving cakes and cups of tea to Eldon Pike, a literary researcher from the USA eager to lay his hands on any material about her sister, particularly her correspondence. Those were the days of revealing all in letters. Donald Sage Mackay plays Pike with the ineptitude of a man unaccustomed to the pleasantries of English society, in complete contrast to the lady of the house. Kendal exudes charm, politeness, and tolerance, interspersed with wit and her hallmark cheekiness — sadly wasted on the interloper but not on us.There are some delightful moments of banter among servants and lackeys, and director Jonathan Kent excels in capturing the appropriate period feel in both locations, highlighting the various levels of relationships between the diverse characters.An unmissably brilliant aspect of the production is the stunning and highly versatile set by Leslie Travers, which copes with multiple locations in India and the parallel English venue: a split stage that merges into one, adorned with an abundance of flora. Costumes by Nicky Shaw add to the atmosphere and sense of period, while lighting designer Peter Mumford bathes the entire production in the most delightful hues.It's a delightful entertainment with captivating performances and a fitting tribute to the late author.

Baz Luhrmann’s 2001 film Moulin Rouge! continues to dazzle on stage as a maximalist jukebox musical that wears excess as a badge of honour. Set in a heightened, bohemian version of 1890s Paris, the story follows a young writer who stumbles into the intoxicating world of the Moulin Rouge and falls for its star performer. The stage version keeps the film’s broad outline and emotional spine but reshapes the detail. Characters are reweighted, the song list is radically expanded and the musical leans even harder into contemporary pop culture. Knowledge of the film is helpful but not required. This is very much its own creature, built to overwhelm rather than seduce gently.From the moment you enter the auditorium, the money is on display. A glowing red windmill spins in a stage-right box, a giant elephant looms opposite and the ceiling and walls are drenched in plush scarlet fabrics. Even the balcony carvings are threaded with windmill motifs. This is immersive theatre by way of opulence. Cabaret tables sit in front of the stage, and a sultry pre-show unfolds as performers lounge across the set and in go-go cages, blurring the line between audience and spectacle. The comparison with Cabaret is hard to ignore, right down to the pre-show tease, although Moulin Rouge! is far louder about it. A booming announcement reminds us not to sing along or dance, which suggests experience has taught them caution.The first half is an onslaught of pop mash-ups drawn from every corner of the charts, delivered at breakneck speed. There is a long stretch where it feels like a megamix pop concert occasionally interrupted by a musical. The ensemble work relentlessly, powering through dense, complex choreography that must make this one of the most physically demanding shows on the West End. The second half eases its grip on spectacle and allows the story to breathe, revealing a surprising emotional core beneath the glitter. This is where I found the real beauty.Visually, it is astonishing. The sets feel endless, the lighting is dazzling and the whole production radiates polish. Karis Anderson’s Satine comes armed with powerhouse vocals ideally suited to the pop-heavy score, while Alistair Brammer’s Christian reveals his true strength once the show lets him lean into emotion rather than vocal gymnastics. His delivery of Come What May finally aligns voice, material and feeling. Craig Ryder presides over the chaos as a deliciously camp Harold Zidler, presented here as bisexual and delightfully slippery, with Richard Lloyd King adding warmth as Toulouse-Lautrec.The opening half can feel desperate to impress, piling sensation upon sensation until subtlety is crushed under sequins. A few audience members do not return after the interval, which is a shame. Once the show slows down, it finds its heart. Moulin Rouge! may shout before it sings, but when it finally listens to its own story, it becomes something genuinely affecting.

In 1907, when J M Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World opened in Dublin, protests took place during the performance at the Abbey Theatre and riots ensued in the streets.Each generation has its sensitivities and Synge clearly touched a nerve with this work, although today it is hard to imagine what all the fuss was about. Set in County Mayo, it was branded as unpatriotic, an affront to morality and demeaning to the people of western Ireland, in particular the women of the region. The theme of patricide was also unpalatable. However, it went on to achieve esteemed status in the Irish Literary Revival and influenced successive generations of writers.The plot is minimal. Christy Mahon (Éanna Hardwicke) stumbles into Flaherty’s tavern and announces that he has just killed his father by hitting him over the head with a loy. For reasons that are not clear, the reaction of the locals is the opposite of what might be expected. The eponymous landlord (Lorcan Cranitch) commends Christy for his deed, while his barmaid daughter Pegeen (Nicola Coughlan) falls in love with him, much to the annoyance of her suitor, Shawn Keogh (Marty Rea), and the envy of other women who flaunt themselves at him.At the behest of Keogh, Widow Quin (Siobhán McSweeney) tries unsuccessfully to seduce him. When Christy’s father, Mahon (Declan Conlon), turns up at the tavern, having only been injured, the locals turn on Christy, who attacks his father again in order to regain the love of Pegeen. But this time, believing him to be dead, the villagers unite to hang him. He is saved by his father’s reappearance (again). They become reconciled and leave to wander the world. Keogh seizes the moment to suggest that he marry Pegeen, but she spurns him. In her final wailing lament she exclaims: “I’ve lost the only playboy of the western world.”‘Willing suspension of disbelief’ comes to mind for most of the story, but the play’s strength lies in its telling. In the best Irish tradition many a yarn is spun and vivid imagery conjured up, along with a good measure of humour, all delivered by a mostly authentic Irish cast that gives impressive performances under the direction of Caitríona McLaughlin, on an expansive set by Katie Davenport, sensitively lit in hues that match the time of day and weather conditions by James Farncombe.There is a big issue, however. A number of empty seats after the interval probably reflected the linguistic difficulty with this production, which is true to Synge’s Hiberno-English, heavily influenced by the Irish language. While the sound and richness of the language is a joy, much of it is unintelligible to the English ear and to people from other countries.That said, it is still a worthwhile experience to see this Irish classic so well delivered.

It’s a 60-minute two-hander, but Harold Pinter's mingling of realism and absurdism, combined with his precise style of writing and the need to create two credible yet enigmatic characters, means The Dumb Waiter presents a challenge for even the greatest of talents. It is therefore all the more remarkable that two teenagers from Years 10 and 12 at Westcliff High School for Boys should pull off a triumph.Performed in a black box, created by curtaining off the bookshelves in the library and performed in the round, the space has precisely the required level of claustrophobia needed for the basement setting. Two canvas beds are the sum total of furnishings, but in the centre of the raised staging, connecting this level to the uncharted floor above, is what amounts to the third character: the dumb waiter, which seems to have a mind of its own and interjects by suddenly dropping down with notelets attached to a covered tray or abruptly ascending. But who is writing these food orders, and why can they not grasp that the kitchen no longer functions?Playing faithfully to the script and its stage directions, Sam Skeels and Conor Lynch-Wyatt create the very different characters of Ben and Gus respectively, two hitmen awaiting details of their next assignment. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but that doesn’t make the waiting any less tense nor allay Gus’s concern that their victim might be a woman. The specific actions that Pinter insists on are there from the outset. Gus struggles with properly tying his shoelaces, while Ben assumes the detached and disinterested manner of a man simply filling the time with reading and rereading his newspaper while making the occasional observation on a story.This is where the chemistry between the two begins to emerge. Skeels embodies the contrasting elements of a passive, lethargic man of few words, who nevertheless exerts enormous control over his partner. His movements are purposeful, and his occasional criticisms of Gus and comments towards him indicate the underlying sinister and threatening manner of a man who will not tolerate criticism. In the societal view of the play, he represents the oppressive authority of those powers who are, nevertheless, controlled by someone higher up the ladder.Lynch-Wyatt, in contrast, is a man who can't sit still, always burning energy in erratic pacings of the floor or expressing nervous tension. He behaves submissively in his role and is clearly dominated by Ben, perhaps because his intellectual powers are more limited. He is the other dumb waiter in the room, but it doesn't stop him trying to engage, although it rarely gets him anywhere.Under the meticulous direction of Mr Ben Jeffreys, who runs the school’s drama club, the team has mastered the art of delivering an ellipsis, a pause, and silence; the three forms adopted by Pinter to break up his text in a way that directly reflects the characters’ mindset. They also have the effect of creating suspense, tension, and anticipation in those watching. These work most effectively when the text is delivered with pace. It is this art of timing that comes over so well in this production and which the duo have clearly mastered.Of course, the play poses many questions and, as Pinter intended, gives no answers, but this was a breath-taking opportunity to see a first-class exposition of the great playwright's work at its best.

Small town America, a place called Skidmore to be exact, where nothing much happens. Or nothing much is supposed to happen. Until the arrival of the bully, Ken Rex McElroy, and his reign of terror over the residents of the town. Despite being indicted 21 times, McElroy was convicted only once due to the twisted skills of his defence lawyer Gene McFadin. Until the citizens couldn’t take any more and, after a night of terrifying violence and intimidation whilst McElroy was released on bail, the citizens took matters into their own hands. This gripping true-life story is brought to powerful life by an excellent creative team, with every moment gripping the audience from the outset. Told in the form of evidence given by county prosecutor David Baird, the stage pulses with energy and movement. The music by composer and onstage musician John Patrick Elliott pounds through the seats, building the tension up to breaking point.Performer and co-writer Jack Holden (written with Ed Stambollouian) brings every single character to life, not just the passing-through residents, but the lead characters of McElroy, McFadin and Baird, not just performing the roles but inhabiting them. It is a tour de force, his chameleon-like physicality making each character clear. As McElroy, he bends his body and lowers his voice deep into the bass. Then there is a flamboyance to McFadin that is cheeky and funny, whilst Baird tries to be the honest everyman, believing in the power of the law and decency. There are so many strong scenes, but when McElroy crashes the annual Punkin Show and seduces the singer of the national anthem, Tirena, and sets out his intentions, the scene is given extra chill by the fact she was 14. Becoming his wife, it’s almost as if the town sacrificed her hoping the Monster would be stilled, but speaking against him led to terrible violence. This production is the perfect synergy of performer, musician, lighting and sound. It is an ultimate example of theatrical storytelling.I didn’t expect to see the play of the year in December, I thought my mind was set, but here it is, smashing every high standard. The direction by Stambollouian is superbly paced, giving urgency yet also space for tension to grow and breathe. It observes classical theatricality, powerful storytelling enhanced by simple techniques that bring home the story. When the residents remain silent, Holden unplugs the microphones; it’s that simple and effective. Surpassing even their production of Cruise in 2021, this team deserve to win every award going.

The English National Opera’s revival of their 2021 production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore is musically joyous but tinged with distracting comic actions, puerile humour and the tired vestiges of digs at Brexit. Boris still flies aloft while attempts to adapt the flag-waving feel contrived.As with the original version, there is a front-of-curtain introduction to the show by the outstanding bass-baritone and character actor John Savournin, who later appears as the immaculately attired and ultra-posh Captain Corcoran. It now seems these shows require the appearance of a ‘celebrity’. The good news is that the previous ‘star’, Les Dennis, is no longer around. His presence matched his role only inasmuch as he played a man appointed to a position for which he was totally unqualified. This year we have Mel Giedroyc in two roles: a cheeky cabin boy, supposedly a non-speaking part, although she soon changes that with her interruptions, and Aunt Melanie, constantly seeking attention and fooling around. Ah well!In contrast, much of the rest is a delight. Opening on the deck of the eponymous ship, we are immediately struck by the scale of the set by designer takis, which uses the double revolve to impressive effect. His crinolines, wigs and hats for the sisters, cousins and aunts form a kaleidoscopic rainbow of colour in contrast to the smart blue and white uniforms of the sailors. The singing of the chorus meets all the demands of the work, as does the orchestra under the baton of Matthew Kofi Waldron. Meanwhile, Lizzi Gee’s choreography is both traditionally naval and comic.Neal Davies somewhat overly plays the pronunciation of ‘r’s as ‘w’s, which seems to serve only the purpose of getting a laugh out of the word ‘rank’. But as Sir Joseph Porter he engages fully in the role. Clearly from an operatic background, Thomas Atkins sings Ralph’s part with passion while seeming a little uncomfortable at times. Not so Henna Mun, who is clearly focused on her role, even with the nonsense of Rhonda Browne doing Buttercup’s comic turn of clambering over the railings distracting from her delicate vocals.G&S purists will probably feel uncomfortable with the excesses of Cal McCrystal’s production, while others will enjoy the fun and the musical quality. Perhaps in a future iteration ENO can go the whole hog and give us Pinafore – the Panto.

If you’re looking for a master class in dramatic construction, performance and direction, it has arrived at the Marylebone Theatre in Michael McKeever’s hit Off-Broadway play, Daniel’s Husband, for Plastered Productions. The superb casting by Arthur Carrington allows director Alan Souza to draw out all the emotional intensity of the play with distinctly drawn characters and dialogue that is engaging throughout the five-scene structure.Before becoming immersed in the story, however, sit in awe of Justin Williams’s chic set: a stunning apartment dominated by walls in British racing green, straight out of Farrow & Ball, with occasional tables, sofas and bookcases. He should do a sideline in interior design. People would be queuing up. It is all sensitively lit by Jamie Platt in amber hues with hidden lights on every shelf. The gay couple who live here also have a record player and Sarah Weltman captures its sounds perfectly in her design. There are soothing tunes throughout and some delightful cabaret-style piano as a mood-setting introduction.Scene one opens with the guys enjoying a relaxing after-dinner drink with arms wrapped around shoulders. Friendly chat ensues and we enjoy the camaraderie of the evening. Joel Harper-Jackson’s Daniel exudes confidence as a successful architect and plays the perfect host. Luke Fetherston, as Mitchell, his partner of seven years, and in Daniel’s mind would-be husband, is an author who is happy to make plenty of money out of popular gay fiction rather than pursue a literary career for less. He’s relaxed and sociable. Between them there is only one taboo subject, that of marriage. Daniel is desperate to wed. Mitchell refuses to accept the idea of gay people subscribing to heteronormative traditions. Nevertheless, the issue keeps raising its ugly head and is central to the plot.Joining in the exchanges are their friends. Barry is the oldest member of the group and Mitchell’s agent. David Badella’s charm and maturity entirely suit the role of a man whose professional wisdom works well for him in business, but whose craving for twinks and at least a twenty-year age gap has not served him well. Witness Trip, who adoringly sits beside him. Raiko Gohara has some wonderful lines that illustrate the eras in which they grew up and he delivers them with a youthful naivety that gains a number of laughs. Trip’s serious side is the work he does as a home-care provider. Meanwhile, with some disagreements, the mood has become a little tense.Scene two opens with the dreaded arrival of Daniel’s mother, the control freak, complete with suitcase. The week proves stressful and argumentative, but Liza Savoy’s Lydia is not one for compromise. She sternly plays the woman who is not to be messed with or contradicted. She holds her deceased husband in low esteem, whereas Daniel holds him in the highest regard and despises his mother for having held him back from an outstanding career as an artist. He has one of his large abstract paintings on the wall we don’t see, which he refuses to take down in order to appease her.Once she leaves, the startling event occurs that will change the course of everyone’s life. While no one could have seen that coming, the foreshadowing of the previous scenes now falls into place and the subsequent events, while having some inevitability to them, entertain in their unfolding and detail. Monologues from Daniel and Mitchell, a scene apart, provide a balanced and refreshing stylistic change of mood from the otherwise intense dialogue. The end of the final scene brings a surprising, but very neat rounding off of the story. Have tissues at the ready; you might very well cry.If you’re seeing no other play as a culmination to your year of enjoying theatre, fit this one in or kick-start 2026 with it. Everything about it suggests it has a huge future ahead of it and you want to be able to say you saw it here.

Greenwich Theatre’s latest trip to Neverland takes the familiar tale, gives it a vigorous shake and watches the glitter fall where it may (much of it down the back of my neck at the show finale). This time we follow Wendy Darling’s great granddaughter, also called Wendy, who toils in the Neverclean car wash for a miserly boss. A family heirloom necklace lights the way for Peter Pan, who sweeps her off to Neverland in a flying Vauxhall Astra. From that moment the show gleefully abandons Barrie’s map. Tinkabell slips Captain Hook a vial of the elixir of youth. Hook feeds it to Polly his parrot who becomes an egg. Naturally Hook sets out to find the source – the Fountain of Youth – and the whole plot sidles into a cheeky Indiana Jones spoof.The staging leans into the mayhem with a confidence that says this is panto season so buckle in. Olivia Williamson’s Tinkabell heelys across the stage with a brilliantly sulky Gen Z scowl. Louise Cielecki’s Smee bursts with energy and bounces off Paul Critoph’s endearingly inept henchman Starky. Samuel Baily’s Peter Pan arrives with a frontman swagger and a Boy Scout sense of decency. The show, however, belongs to Anthony Spargo. His Captain Hook minces, sashays and deadpans through every scene with weapons-grade comic timing. He corpses his fellow actors, comments on the wobbly special effects and whips the audience into delighted submission. It is a masterclass in villainy with a wink tucked into every line.The comedy lands with reliable regularity. The double entendres are pitched with just the right level of mischief so the adults roar while the children remain blissfully oblivious. Viral memes jostle with digs at Plumstead, Lewisham and even the Rose and Crown next door taking friendly hits. The musical numbers come thickly layered. Some classics appear in gleefully rewritten form while a few newer tracks feel more like filler although the younger members of the crowd seem perfectly content.The night offers plenty of fun, yet the production cannot quite shake the sense of something missing. Greenwich last tackled Peter Pan a decade ago when the unbeatable pairing of Andrew Pollard and Anthony Spargo set a high bar for dame and villain. Pollard’s departure to bigger stages has left a gap that is increasingly felt. This version lacks a dame, which removes the joyous parade of outrageous costumes and denies Spargo the sparring partner who once matched his gleeful mischief. Without that counterbalance the panto feels thinner. The story is loose, the spectacle lighter and the whole enterprise sits closer to a spirited Gang Show than the full-throttle Greenwich pantos of old. Spargo’s magnetic Hook keeps the evening afloat, yet even he cannot disguise a slightly watered-down return to Neverland.

Ice and fire: just what we need at Christmas. Scottish Ballet’s The Snow Queen is a wintry treat, now in its third outing since the premiere in 2019. The Snow Queen’s icy world is contrasted with the warmth and colour of circus performers, Romani travellers and the heart-warming love between Kai and Gerda. Choreographer Christopher Hampson has welded together Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale with Disney’s Frozen, adding a storyline concerning the rivalry of the Snow Queen and her sister the Summer Princess for Kai, now an adult.Unfortunately, this subplot rather confuses the action. That said, the Summer Queen, disguised as Lexi, a pickpocket in a green jacket, is superbly performed by Marisa Poulson. Her malicious and fierce vitality dominates the stage, reducing poor Gerda (Kayla-Maree Tarantolo) to a wimp. No wonder Kai prefers the icily glamorous Snow Queen (Jessica Fyfe).There is much to admire: the breathtaking set designed by Lez Brotherson, the sisters framed inside a jagged broken mirror, animations of ice shards, the tracery of forest branches and the ice throne. The snow creatures’ costumes are terrific, especially the wolves with their grimacing masks and stylised fur, and the scary Jack Frosts. There is as much glitter as you could desire in the Snow Queen’s attire and the Snow Fairies, and in contrast there are colourful circus and Romani costumes and the latter’s encampment.However, a dull first act is mired in developing the Lexi pickpocket story, and the Snow Queen’s entrance fails to inspire terror. But the show comes alive in Act Two, in the Romani encampment, with a terrific Spanish-flavoured dance of males leaping and the skirts of the females swirling. An additional bonus is Gillian Rissi playing the fiddle live.Kai (Bruno Micchiardi) and the Snow Queen (Jessica Fyfe) perform beautiful pas de deux where her spiky moves and some heart-stopping lifts held upside down are impressive. However, there is no chemistry between them. He looks bewildered throughout and she fails to be scary, only smug. It is unclear how Kai wakes from the Snow Queen’s spell. As for the Snow Queen and Summer Queen’s reconciliation, it hardly registered.A muddled plot, a mistaken substitute for real drama, and a failure to delve into Hans Andersen’s exploration of evil and the symbol of the ice shard in one’s eye mean that this show lacks any depth. But does it matter? The kids won’t care.

Puppetry, song, dance, silly jokes and pratfalls, Cinderella: a Fairytale by Sally Cookson, Adam Peck and the Original Company, directed by Jemima Levick, is certainly original. This Cinderella is Ella, surrounded by her friends the birds (puppets designed by Matthew Forbes), who teach her how to fly – that is, how to be herself – which of course means gaining her Prince (an engaging Sam Stopford), a twitcher.The human characters are in brightly coloured modern dress, with Ella (a charming Olivia Hemmati) in shorts, but the setting is timeless, as in a fairy tale, an imaginative canopy of trellis-like brooms and brushes designed by Francis O’Connor. Scaffolding, also featuring brooms, represents a tree where Ella sits in the forest to see the magical puppet birds swoop ahead on long poles, or larger birds with characterful beaks perch on her hand, manipulated skilfully by puppeteers on stage. There is also beautiful shadow puppetry to show Ella’s growing up.The story moves swiftly from her happy childhood with her widowed father (a twinkling Richard Conlon) to the arrival of the ghastly stepmother (Nicole Cooper), almost a panto dame in her tight-fitting, garish green and pink suit and over-the-top acting, which make her cruelty amusing. Her children, a boy (Matthew Forbes) and a girl (Christina Gordon), are both hilarious in their prim and proper ways. All three make Ella’s life miserable, dubbing her Cinderella, forced to sleep in the cinders. Ella scrubbing the floor and tricking her stepbrother and stepsister to take part is clever and funny, with the charm of the earlier scenes now replaced by knockabout comedy.Until this point the show’s charming atmosphere and humour suit all ages, but it now takes a more adult turn. Even from the start, the joke of the twitcher Prince’s use of the Latin names for birds is more suitable for older children. Now we have the stepmother’s overtly sexualised flirting with the Prince and finally the Gothic horror of the stepsister determined to squeeze her large foot into the small shoe, having her toes cut off and shockingly presented as bloody stumps on a plate. It’s a shame, as there is so much else suitable for all ages, particularly the audience participation, with cast roaming the stalls to see whom the slipper – in this case a sparkling trainer – will fit.I would definitely not take a child under ten to this show.

The Lost Estate theatre company is currently hosting their lavish seasonal offering in what has now become something of a tradition. The Great Christmas Feast, with much cheer and a measure of humbug, satisfies not only the senses but the stomach too.For the purposes of Adam Clifford’s adaptation and the theatrical dining experience, we’re the honoured guests of the rising author Charles Dickens. It is Christmas Eve, 1843, and we’re about to hear him share his latest work, A Christmas Carol, while enjoying a three-course meal served between the acts, with a range of cocktails, wines, beers and non-alcoholic drinks also available courtesy of his publishers, who are present and whom he is out to impress.It’s a laid-back immersive event. We are seated in the round at tables in a great Victorian parlour while the performance takes place in all directions, utilising four stages, with waiting staff and hosts scurrying around serving food and drinks and making sure that everyone is having a grand time. You might, however, be asked to perform a short scripted part as one of the characters in Scrooge’s story.Director Simon Pittman has maximised the setting’s potential, creating various locations that feature in the story around the room. There is plenty of movement between them and the excitement of trap doors opening. The action is heightened by the spectacular sound and lighting created by the company and the delightful musical accompaniment of variations on Christmas carols from Guy Button (violin), Beth Higham-Edwards (percussion) and Kieran Carter (cello).This afternoon, playing the role of Dickens, the narrator and many other characters in this monodrama, is Tama Phethean, who along with André Refig is one of two alternate actors to the main performer for the run, David Alwyn. He gives an impassioned performance, bringing characters to life and relishing his role as the host surrounded by so many guests. It is perhaps overly blasted out and some quieter, more reflective moments would add contrast and nuance, but this is ultimately a jolly and festive production.The event makes for a delightfully party-like occasion which would be fun to share with a group of family or friends, or just as a seasonal outing for two.

Three years ago, the comedian Jimmy Carr hosted a television debate on whether paintings created by reprehensible artists should be destroyed. The controversial nature of this show elicited criticism, but it did raise the moral question of art provenance.This theme is developed by Marius von Mayenburg in his modern satire Nachtland. Two siblings, Nicola and Philip (Lilith Leonard and Gabriel Oprea), are going through their deceased father’s house. This painstaking and emotionally fraught task is brought to a halt by the discovery of a painting in the attic, seemingly by Adolf Hitler.They employ an art expert (Sarah Widass), who is convinced of its authenticity. The market for Nazi memorabilia is vast and international. However, a genuine Hitler painting would significantly raise the stakes, especially if provenance could be established.Philip’s wife, Judith (Sophie Delevine), is of Jewish heritage and becomes increasingly troubled by unfolding events. It turns out that while in Vienna, Hitler frequently used a Jewish framing company for his watercolours, Samuel Morgenstern, whose fate would later be sealed by the seismic events of the Third Reich. The deep dive into family history reveals further disquieting details from the Nazi era which, coupled with the underlying monetary aspect, leads to difficult family conversations that threaten long-term relationship rifts.This ACT Brighton production makes a creditable stab at a tricky piece of theatre. After an uneven start, some of the performances grow, notably Delevine’s righteous indignation. Doubtless this production will hit its stride, especially if the performers are able to avoid a slight tendency to mirror each other’s energy.Marius von Mayenburg’s extraordinary The Ugly One is probably his best-known work, but his most recent offering, Nachtland, has political and societal prescience, exploring identity, culture, guilt and the rise of the right.Does a piece of art have intrinsic artistic and financial value, or is it inextricably linked to its creator? And if the creator is the architect of the Holocaust, is it morally correct to profit from the sale? Two ideas can be simultaneously true of course. Von Mayenburg’s biting satire asks difficult questions.

Sherlock Holmes has captivated readers and audiences for over a century. Doyle’s brilliant, eccentric detective, equal parts genius, addict and neurotic, remains one of literature’s most adaptable figures. Yet after countless remakes, updates and reimaginings, the character now borders on oversaturation. Any modern adaptation must therefore justify its existence. Unfortunately, Ms. Holmes & Ms. Watson - Apt. 2B misses that mark.The production markets itself as revolutionary for reimagining both Holmes and Watson as women in a post-pandemic world. However, very little in the text or plot makes this choice feel necessary. The characters could have been any gender without altering more than a couple of lines. If the title highlights the gender switch, the story should have offered a clear reason for it, not just the occasional cheap joke.This leads to my second major gripe: the humour. What I love in good Holmes adaptations is the sharp, rapid-fire wit, the contrast between Watson’s grounded, dry practicality and Holmes’ linguistic acrobatics. Here, the jokes felt weak, panto-level broad. Clever wordplay was almost nonexistent, punchlines were shouted rather than delivered and the funniest moments came almost entirely from Tendai Humphrey Sitima’s improvised work as Lestrade and Elliot Monk.Several American-centric jokes were also included. As a Canadian, I am more than happy to laugh at our southern neighbours, but the humour fell flat, largely because Simona Brown’s American accent landed somewhere between robotic and indeterminate. This is no fault of the actor, who clearly has talent, but if a character’s nationality is a recurring point of comedy, their accent must be convincing.The plot reworks familiar Holmes cases, stitched together with abrupt lighting shifts and jarring musical cues. Max Dorey’s set design cleverly transforms the apartment into various locations, but the transitions felt messy and required the audience to work too hard to suspend disbelief. Had the play focused on the relationship between Holmes and Watson as modern women, and how that dynamic might differ today, it could have been far more compelling. Instead, it relied on gags about pot, TikTok and Gen Z catchphrases to create a veneer of modernity.While the cast was committed, subtlety was lacking. Sitima was consistently strong, and Alice Lucy’s turn as Irene Adler had some power. But ultimately, I struggled to believe in the Holmes–Watson relationship.If this had been pitched as a Christmas farce or panto, my expectations would have been different. But as a more serious comedic attempt at a classic, it left me wanting much more.

The annual Intermission Youth Theatre production is always a highly anticipated and rewarding event. Those of us who have been attending for several years know we will be in for an evening of joyous entertainment from a new cohort of 16 to 25 year olds who have completed the 10 month programme that is an accessible alternative to drama school for burgeoning actors and creatives. Shakespeare will be stripped back, reimagined and remixed. The everyday language of the Bard will blend with modern street English and become a universal means of communication.This year’s choice from the Bard’s collection, performed in their new location of the Courtyard Theatre, is The Comedy of Errors, rewritten with the customary flair of the company’s artistic director Darren Raymond to create A Comedy of Errors Remixed. Perhaps not an obvious choice, but as always the modern relevance of the play is drawn out.The original is set in the Greek city of Ephesus, which the citizens of Syracuse are forbidden to enter under penalty of death. Chaos reigns when two sets of identical twins, who were separated at birth, unknowingly end up in the city, giving the play a farcical element. None of this is lost in the current production, which wholeheartedly embraces the confusion of mistaken identity, the importance of family and the wider issues of immigration, displacement and what Raymond describes as “worsening attitudes towards the ‘other,’” pointing out that “members of our cast are second and third generation immigrants and still struggle to feel British.”Set in London, we follow two asylum seekers, Anthony and Dominique, who arrive in the UK having escaped conflict in their home country. We witness their struggle to assimilate as they navigate language barriers, prejudice and mistaken identity, eventually reconnecting with their long lost identical twins whom they believed to have been killed in a civil war 20 years earlier but who had actually escaped to the UK.A special feature of this year’s production is the direction by Stephanie Badaru, who was in the first group of young people to participate in the company’s programme in 2008 and is the first alumnus to face the challenge of directing two casts who switch lead roles and chorus on alternate nights. With a multi level functional set by Constance Villemot and lighting by Rajiv Pattani, she has created a play with pace, energetic interaction and scope for the young cast to demonstrate their abilities. She is assisted by associate director Federay Holmes.As always, it is a thrilling multi ethnic production, created by an enormous amount of teamwork and passion, that inspires hope for the future of theatre.

All the stops are always pulled out at the Mercury panto, and this year is no exception, with an added cause for celebration. This show marks ten years of the powerhouse panto duo Ash and Dale (Antony Stuart-Hicks and Dale Superville), who have elevated the panto at Colchester to award winning heights, winning the hearts of the community. Always a chance to showcase their talents, they excel here in one of the best Mercury Theatre pantos I’ve seen in my lengthy reviewing career. It is also one of the most magical and glorious designs, Jasmine Swan presenting gorgeous costumes from the very first minute, and the workshop have done a tremendous job on the set, aided by a vibrant and fluid lighting design.As Gertie Goose, Antony Stuart-Hicks remains, in my opinion, the best Dame in the business, making me always glad I’m not the bloke in the front row the Dame singles out. Pushing the envelope of adult humour, he makes ad libbing look easy, and his relationship with Dale is wonderful. As the Dame’s son, Billy the Goose, Dale Superville has many a show stealing line, waddling hilariously around the stage, and his connection with the children in the audience is always naughty and joyful. It is a cast of wonderful singers, not least the returning and superb Sasha Laroya who, as Fairy Fortune, leads us into a uniquely soulful version of the Python hit, Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. Jaimie Purden is an outstanding baddie as Baroness Bellinora Badapple, revelling in the role. Kemi Clarke and Daisy Greenwood are adorable as the love interests Bailey and Gracie. In fact, there is not a weak link in the cast, with excellent support right down to the panto chorus.If the plot is a little weak, especially in the first half, it does not matter, as the team have updated it and brought in the laying of golden eggs with skill and relevance. The second half is a total joy. It was a delight to see If I Was Not Upon the Stage performed by the four leads in ultra manic style – the house was brought down – and Ash and Dale sliding about in the ghost room bed was a feast of corpsing. Director Natasha Rickan has wisely let the fun expand in the hands of experts, but her flow of the stage and control of the material are to be applauded. Containing every panto trope you could want and wish for, it is five golden eggs from me.

It has to be said, not for the first time, that the theatre in the hills is alive with the sound of music. The Rodgers & Hammerstein musical first hit the PFT stage a year ago and was such a success it has won itself an encore.More familiar to most through the movie starring Julie Andrews, the Pitlochry stage version uses a large ensemble of actor-musicians to tell the story, sing the songs and accompany themselves on a wide range of musical instruments.There is something fascinating about having the excellent band and cast of more than 20 embedded on the stage, stepping up to play their parts before returning to their instruments.Last year it was directed by the then artistic director Elizabeth Newman as her leaving present to PFT. This time the revival director is Sam Hardie, who worked alongside Newman.Both productions have the wonderful Kirsty Findlay at their heart as the novice nun Maria. Findlay is a delight as the brave young lassie, kind and caring, determined to do what is right. She wants to share her love of music, and Findlay’s lovely singing voice fits the bill.The songs and the music are impressive throughout (musical director Richard Reeday), from the opening tones of the nuns singing their sacred music to the emotional finale of Climb Every Mountain, given full voice by Kate Mylner Evans as Mother Abbess.The audience is introduced to Maria as a novice nun who is far too free-spirited to take up the vocation and is sent as a governess to the Von Trapp family. She quickly wins over her charges with kindness; their father, the stern Captain Von Trapp (Ali Watt), takes longer.Let us not forget the delights of the Von Trapp children. The youth cast sing and act like seasoned troupers, endearing themselves to the audience.It is set in 1938 as Hitler’s Germany annexes Austria and the Von Trapps flee their homeland. Hardie’s production does not neglect the political element. It movingly builds to the escape across the hills with the poignant finale.

Beyond Van Gogh may have caused broadsheet art critics to clutch their pearls, but the show was popular enough for Beyond Exhibitions Inc to introduce Beyond Monet to Scottish audiences at the Edinburgh Royal Highland Centre, alternating with the Van Gogh experience.The show lasts about an hour and consists of three rooms, with the Immersive Room as the main event. Here, projected stills and animations of Monet’s paintings surround visitors as they walk around or sit on benches or the carpeted floor.Beyond Monet is a collection of paradoxes. Information boards explain that Monet’s aim was to freeze the fleeting effects of light onto canvas. However, the projections are about movement: nothing is frozen; images are never held long enough to be studied in detail. It’s like animating Bridget Riley’s Op Art — it rather defeats the point. The show is a tribute to Monet, but I’m sure he would have hated it. From an academic perspective, it’s the opposite of the slow, detailed observation needed to properly engage with a painting.Another paradox is the presentation as an Art Event, when, in reality, it is a Tourist Attraction. Selfies are old hat: nowadays, it’s boyfriends taking posed pictures of their girlfriends. Beyond Monet is perfect for that. Most of the audience were finding good projections to serve as backgrounds for photos of friends and loved ones. The Contemplation Room features a real Monet bridge and Sunflower sculptures, so people can be photographed physically immersed in the famous motifs.Yet there is art on display. Occasionally, the animations — especially the sea storm section — are beautiful, and the projections moving beneath your feet are intriguing. Some people were lying on the floor to video these effects. The show may not hone one’s ability to look at a canvas, but it certainly sharpens the photographer’s eye. With this emphasis, the Beyond shows are actually speaking to modern sensibility more than most contemporary art.My only complaint is the failure of capitalism to meet market demand. I’m sure a similar immersive show for Star Wars, Dunkirk, or Gravity would sell like hotcakes. Come on, guys!

Gary Owen’s RING RING, directed by David Bond for Shed/Vox Theatre company, receives its professional premiere at the White Bear Theatre, having been commissioned by the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama as part of their NEW programme of original work.The structure of RING RING is inspired by Arthur Schnitzler’s Reigen (1898), otherwise known as La Ronde. That play was banned in 1904, its 1921 premiere was shut down by the Vienna police, and its author was prosecuted for obscenity amid additional criticisms of anti-Semitism. The original no longer suffers such a fate, and this adaptation is sufficiently innocuous as to leave no one upset or distressed.The ensemble cast of Iwan Bond, Leisa Gwenllian, Izzi McCormack-John, Tiger Tingley, and Alfie Todd proves competent, and there are moments of humour and intensity in the dialogues. The functional set by Alberto Aquilin allows for movement within the confines of the stage, while lighting by Trekessa Austin and original music by Leo Nathan assist in mood changes.Nowadays, it’s hard to replicate anything approaching the impact of the original. Attitudes have changed. Viennese society was likely highly stratified and tightly structured. Relationships that crossed these boundaries were seen as scandalous. There are elements of secrecy and infidelity in Owen’s work, but they seem no more than aspects of everyday modern life, and the whole is far less overtly sexual. No syphilis doing the rounds here!Pairs of actors consecutively perform scenes, with one character remaining on stage to be joined by a different partner in the next vignette, providing continuity as a different aspect of the person’s life is revealed. It illustrates that, individually, we see only part of what makes a person, and that in another setting a person can be perceived differently.The focus in the various scenes is on how people handle situations, deal with conflict, and seek resolution. The simplicity of the situations belies the complexity of the interactions: trying to avoid signing up to donate money under pressure from a charity worker; managing a relationship with your partner; parental responsibility and divorce; or catching out a would-be world traveller spewing false tales.The points are easily made, but there are perhaps more scenes than necessary to make them in the 90-minute run.

A trailer projected onto the wall of Barons Court Theatre promotes the latest film featuring Posh Actor. It is innocuous enough and nothing exceptional, but behind it lies a story and relationship that forms the substance of Theo Hristov’s Working Class Hero, in which he plays opposite Oscar Nicholson.Despite their friendship, the divide between them is evident from the outset. Nicholson plays the white, privately educated Posh Actor with the air of privilege and entitlement as though it were his birthright. Hristov plays the character Posh naturally looks down on – a working-class Bulgarian immigrant struggling to make a name for himself in a world where the odds are stacked against him. The script he has written was intended for himself to play, but those who pull the industry strings have other ideas. Posh has decided the role is for him and relishes the challenge and fun of performing in a ‘gritty’ independent film set ‘up North’ with ‘an outrageous accent’ and ‘red hair’. He has no problem with usurping the identity of others, compromising himself and undermining his friend. Those in the industry respond to his charm and confidence, and so he is cast.Working Class Hero adopts the style of satirical sketch comedy, with SNL scenes and nods to absurdism, combined with plot twists, silly wigs, multiple accents and a host of characters. Some tense moments are woven into the overall light-hearted, energetic and comic approach to a story that makes serious points about how the industry and British class system operate.The play opens up important issues and, with development, there is material for another play, possibly a sequel – a story that delves more deeply into the impact of events on their relationship. At the same time, the focus in this work might be tightened without losing any of the fun.Under the title of Migrant Class Hero the play transfers to Pleasance for the 5th and 6th of December and is well worth checking out.

In Sophia Griffin’s After Sunday, four men sign up for a Caribbean cooking group led by the chipper occupational therapist Naomi (Aimée Powell). The participants are all hospital inpatients, so Naomi’s aim, beyond teaching the essentials of dumplings, plantain, and other cherished recipes, is to help them find goals, structure, and meaning in the everyday mix of their lives.The play unfolds largely within the kitchen. Only Naomi is shown in part of her natural habitat, occasionally stepping off the main stage to handle a flurry of phone calls with her family and employers.The set, designed by Claire Winfield, is richly layered. Beyond the standard kitchen layout, props are used to reveal the psychological struggles simmering beneath the inpatients’ surfaces, including materials tucked away under the stage floor. The kitchen boasts a working stove and tap, though it’s a slight shame that less actual cooking happens than suggested.The performances are uniformly strong, particularly David Webber as long-term patient Leroy, who mourns his estranged daughter while grappling with the prospect of his release. Corey Weekes, as the young and fiery Ty, serves as an effective comedic foil. Scene to scene, the energy stays high and the story remains gripping, which makes the transitional physical-movement sequences feel somewhat superfluous.The plot stirs in a number of cultural and topical themes, especially the burnout of well-meaning NHS staff, masculinity (particularly among multi-generational British-Caribbean men), and the question of how successfully the NHS can reintegrate mentally vulnerable individuals into society. Each topic is important and substantial, but because the script so carefully portions out attention to each character, no single issue is fully explored.Still, the play is a fascinating, engaging production and well worth seeing, even if it sizzles more than it pops.

It’s Nutcracker time of year, and for those who fancy a novel take on Tchaikovsky’s original, Carlos Acosta’s Nutcracker in Havana is currently on tour. On a chilly November evening, the Victorian Baroque splendour of Richmond Theatre stands in sharp contrast to the opening video projections of life in the heat of Cuba and the forested area where the show is set.Pepe Gavilondo’s arrangement of the original score retains the most famous and popular tunes in clearly recognisable form, while other sections are given more varied interpretations. What dominates are the rhythms and sounds of Caribbean music, along with heavy use of woodwind and brass. Modern post-jazz age and regional sounds are assimilated into the score, and while there is ample, perfectly executed classical ballet, no opportunity is missed to incorporate contemporary styles that provide freedom of movement and a more relaxed feel. While not in the league of La Fille Mal Gardée, there are even numbers featuring wooden-soled shoes and a maypole to add to the festive village atmosphere. Clearly relishing the light-hearted fun of this piece are members of Acosta Danza Yunior. Their obvious enjoyment is infectious, and it’s a thrill to see the next generation’s passion and talent on display.Meanwhile, the well-established Alejandro Silva gives a commanding performance as the Prince, acting as a master of ceremonies and calling forth dancers to perform their set pieces for Carla (Adria Diaz) after the main story has unfolded in Act 1. Alexander Verona delivers a delightful character performance as Drosselmeyer. The second half dances are the highlight of the evening, however.Amisaday Naara is enchanting as the Sugar Plum Fairy, alongside Melisa Mordera and Alexander Arias as the lead Flower couple. The scenes follow in rapid succession as the entertainment builds up. The Four Cooks (Aniel Pazos, Noel Sánchez, Edgar Quintero, and Anthony Quevedo) provide a light-hearted interlude. The Spanish Dance is delivered with Iberian passion by Thalia Cardin and Frank Junior, while Ofelia Rodriguez and Paul Brando provide a contrasting set of rhythms in the Arabian Dance. The light, almost comic orchestration of the Mirlitons is given appropriate treatment by Wendy Friol, Cynthia Garceran, and Aniel Pazos. The world tour continues with dances that reflect their places of origin, energetically executed by Leandro Fernandez and Edgar Quintero in the Chinese Dance, and Adria Diaz and Brandy Martinez in the Russian Dance.It all makes for a delightfully light-hearted entertainment in a seasonal wonderland.

Samantha Streit is a New York-born, London-based actor and writer who has brought her two-person play, Letters to Joan, directed by Martavius Parrish, to Barons Court Theatre as part of the Voila! Festival.It’s 1956 in Brooklyn. An aspiring playwright falls in love and begins to put pen to paper in what will become a series of exchanges running to hundreds of letters and cards. They are full of hopes and fears, ambitions and intentions, but above all they are outpourings of love and desire.The play is inspired by the real love letters Streit's grandparents exchanged. Playing the role herself, she thinks back to the time when they were written and what they went through. As she reflects on their content, questions emerge to which she would love to know the answers. Then, as her Grandpa (Kevin Cahill) appears, an imaginary meeting between them takes place across time. Sitting in a local diner, she has the opportunity to piece together the contents of the letters and probe more deeply into what lay behind them and the love story that was complicated by depression and an unfulfilled dream.Streit exudes enthusiasm, energy and a fervent enquiring mind that keeps pushing Grandpa to reveal more. Meanwhile, Cahill calmly and gently reveals how Lenny prefers to think about the small things that made life and their relationship so charming. It’s a delight to see characters and actors engage across a two-generation divide and in particular to witness Cahill’s seasoned performance.In an age of emails, boxes of bound letters will no longer exist for future generations to devise works like this, which has a certain bygone charm to it and encourages young people to ask all they can of their older family members before it's too late.It's an endearing piece that impacts some more than others in terms of family relationships, following your dreams and the passing of loved ones.

Founded this year, QVIA’s debut project, HIDDEN VOICES, is an ambitious work that blends narrative with music in an exploration of queer elements in the lives of six famous composers.In most cases we know these people by their music and in some cases perhaps a few things about them, but the challenge for QVIA was to highlight the lesser-known private lives of Franz Schubert (1797-1823), Frederic Chopin (1810-1849), Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1883), Dame Ethel Smyth (1858-1944), Francis Poulenc (1899-1963) and Benjamin Britten (1913-1978) and their love for members of the same sex, when such feelings generally had to be kept secret and, for the men, any sexual activity was illegal. It is their correspondence and other personal writings, however, that exposes their secret and through which we are made aware of their true feelings and inclinations.Staged under the vivid red-arched ceiling at the end of The Space on the Isle of Dogs, as part of the Volia Festival, the colour palette is picked up in the radiant costumes of pianist Judith Valerie Engel and actor Simon Christian, with mezzo-soprano Neelam Brader dressed in a white sleeveless two-piece. Combined with the setting and grand piano there is certainly the air of classical performance or drawing-room entertainment about this production.The piano pieces and songs from the respective composers are interwoven throughout the narrative; some more well-known than others, but each reflecting the moods of the composers in coming to terms with their situations. There is a feeling, however, that the clever concept outweighs the delivery. While this is not officially a work in progress, there is ample room for further development and refining of the production, perhaps in the choice of pieces and the clarity of transitions from one composer’s story to the next. Costumes, projections and background information might make for greater clarity in transitions from one character to another. That letters were never intended for performance also poses its own difficulties.Nevertheless, this is an exciting and original first work in terms of the company’s potential to create an idiosyncratic style of theatre.

Modern theatre rarely fuses blood, gore, humour and family with such gleeful precision. Meghan Tyler’s Crocodile Fever is a fever dream of sisterly connection and patriarchal dismantling, a hallucinogenic, high-temperature descent that ends in a way I genuinely did not see coming.Good writing often follows a formula; one walks into a theatre knowing roughly what to expect. Great writing, however, understands that formula so deeply it can break it with confidence and clarity. Crocodile Fever does exactly that, bending and twisting familiar tropes to create something wild, funny and unpredictable. It is a testament to Tyler’s fluency and command of form.The play opens in a meticulously detailed Northern Irish home: a kitchen and living room rendered with astonishing realism by Merve Yörük’s set design. Staged in traverse, with audiences on either side, every inch of the space feels deliberate and alive. Realism with onstage props can be as fragile as glass; one mistake and the illusion shatters. Yet through murder, dismemberment, flying debris, crunched crisps and stewing limbs, the veneer never cracks.The story begins when Fianna (played by Tyler themself) crashes through the window of their sister Alannah’s (Rachael Rooney) pristine home. Alannah wants her gone, but Fianna’s chaotic charm and buried affection eventually win her over. What follows is a drunken night that unearths their traumatic past: a dead mother, a paralysed abusive father and a terrible secret. Alannah started the fire that killed their mother, but Fianna took the blame and served the sentence.Rooney gives a brilliant, grounded performance with a difficult, stylised character, making Alannah richly human and heartbreakingly funny. Fianna, by contrast, feels less defined, more a gesture toward the archetypal reckless younger sibling than a fully realised character. Some of the play’s political allusions to the IRA and British authorities also feel underdeveloped and tangential to the emotional core, which is the sisters’ relationship.Stephen Kennedy, as their paralysed father, is a standout. His blood-soaked crawl down the stairs after being shot is both grotesque and magnetic, his performance balancing menace and charm with masterful subtlety.After a long intermission of around twenty minutes, the play returns for a frantic, surreal final act filled with cooked limbs, deafening music and a life-sized crocodile voiced by Kennedy. The chaos is thrilling, even when not every word can be heard. The extended intermission is understandable given the scale of set changes, but the play might be even stronger without it. Removing narrative elements unrelated to the sisters, their parents or the crocodile (including a well-acted cameo by James Pedley-Holden) could refine the experience into an intense hour of dark sibling discourse set against a backdrop of mayhem and murder, rather than the hour and a half we received.Despite some pacing issues and narrative excesses, Crocodile Fever remains a bold, brilliantly acted and darkly hilarious piece of theatre. It is a rare, bloody gem that bites hard and lingers.

Billed as a dark comedy, Starfish, by theatre company Two Right Feet, makes its London debut at the Bread and Roses Theatre. Written by Offie-nominated writer Richard Fitchett and directed by Lucy Appleby, the play references an adaptation of Loren Eiseley’s oft-told story The Star Thrower.Eric (Peter Saracen) is an Abba-loving homeless man who knows under which garden pot Cheryl (Emma Riches) hides the emergency key to her house. He decides to let himself in and cooks dinner in readiness for her and her partner Tim’s (Ed Jobling) return from a day’s teaching. The smell of food raises their suspicions even before Eric emerges from the bathroom. Tim’s initially threatening attitude softens under Cheryl’s influence and the realisation that allowing Eric to stay the night could be seen as an extension of all the good they do through their monthly charitable donations.The one-night stay, however, becomes a week, then a month, and eventually many more, as Eric increasingly takes over the house, remodelling it to his own taste. Attempts to palm him off on Karin (Lisa Minichiello), who runs a shelter for homeless people, come to nothing. The twist in the story reveals the truth about Eric and ultimately sees him move on. It had to happen – but how and why becomes the play’s central question.Starfish requires a willing suspension of disbelief to accept the initial circumstances and the rationale behind the couple allowing a complete stranger to live in their home. What fascinates is the subtle way Eric carries out his clearly well-planned manoeuvres to create the home he desires. The couple’s accommodating nature is commendable, if not always credible, and there is an overt message about the appalling state of homelessness in this country and what we could all do to help.A surprising 15-minute interval interrupts the flow and extends the running time to 95 minutes. Performances are solid, while moments of humour combine with an entertaining story that carries an important social message.

Echo suffers a cruel fate in Greek mythology: as punishment for distracting Hera, she is stripped of her ability to form sentences and condemned to repeat only the last words spoken by others. To add to her misery, she becomes besotted with Narcissus who, irked by her lack of speech, spurns her advances and leaves her to waste away in the forest. In this fearless, funny and multisensory production of Play Dead, written by and starring Bailey Edwards, we meet our modern-day Echo in a similar state of entropy.In an act of revenge fitting for the Greek gods, Echo has stolen his ex’s dog and now waits anxiously to hear from him. He emerges from a dog cage, devouring a grapefruit, eaten up by neurosis. The fourth wall is not so much broken as bulldozed by the gifted Bailey Edwards, who impressively manages to build rapport with us after such a startling arrival. Through clever choices early on – a game of catch with the grapefruit, dancing to hold music while on the phone to a salesman – the relationship between character and spectator is quickly and playfully established.Director Mia Hull, who specialises in reimagining Greek myth, infuses the play with physicality to convey Echo’s tenuous link with the outside world. In one remarkable moment, Edwards showcases his talent as a physical actor, holding a complex yoga pose as he recounts Echo’s memory of meeting his ex. His absent sister, who cares for their mother and is a grounding presence, is played with warmth and sympathy by Annalisa Plumb. She too appears from the dog cage – hauled out by a microphone cable – and acts as a foil to Echo and his psychological demise, pulling us back from a Beckettian, abstract space. Both actors are compelling in their roles, their fraught yet loving bond as siblings completely believable.The set – one corner a mesh of cables and broken stereos – is symbolic of severed communication and becomes messier and more unkempt as the play unfolds. Where some productions seek slick, tidy scene changes, Hull makes inventive use of the space to mirror the unravelling of Echo’s mind. Just as Ovid’s gods in Metamorphoses are driven by conflict and impulse, Echo too is plagued with inner turmoil and impetuousness. However, the modern-day protagonist that Edwards has created is not a nymph of the woods but a creature of self-sabotage and malaise.Play Dead peels back the layers beneath the surface with humour and care, deftly showing how stories immortalised in myth are interwoven with our own lives.

Imagine: you turn 21 and are moved from a young offenders’ institution to an adult prison, where you share a cell with a man serving 17 years. That’s the setting for Creative Expressions’ play Mind of Man.One of the most impressive things about this play is its commitment to going deeper and wider than the simple stereotypes we see on TV or in popular films.For example, Shug, the man with the longer sentence, has found purpose and self-respect through leading the prison’s drug recovery group and is working towards rehabilitation and parole. Kai, the younger man, has no interests beyond the pleasure of the moment, yet is an attractive and hilarious character.The characterisation is superb. Shug, for all his noble ambitions, battles simmering impulses of anger and violence that he must keep under constant control. Kai is exactly the sort of person you’d find amusing to meet, but would hate to live next door to. Yet beneath Kai’s defensive shell lies a complex human being.Both parts are extremely well performed. Sean Connor captures all the bravado and comic potential of Kai. Adam Robertson, as Shug, does not get the opportunity for jokes but brilliantly conveys the thin line between intense purpose and the brink of violence.Informed by contributions from prisoners, and with workshop co-facilitator Lauren Bianchi, Sam Rowe’s witty and entertaining script shows an admirable dedication to the truth of the characters and the way institutional systems inadvertently trap them.The title, and the tagline “Over half of people in prison are thought to be neurodivergent”, make the theme clear. But, to be honest, among all the reasons I could see why Shug and Kai were in prison, it was unclear how much of their behaviour stemmed from neurodivergence. (This may apply to anyone without relevant personal or professional experience.) This focus on presenting the complexity of the whole story is far more valuable and satisfying than offering an oversimplified message.At the same time, the play forcefully raises the question of how many blighted or wasted lives might be avoided if society adapted better to neurodivergence. The UK has a far higher incarceration rate than other western European countries. Surely that is too important an issue to ignore?Highly recommended as a piece of drama and as a compelling introduction to a vital topic.

It’s always a pleasure to witness a Frantic Assembly play, their trademark physicality adding layers of meaning to any text.In Lost Atoms, we meet Jess and Robbie in their Mind Mausoleum, the set high with drawers and boxes that contain their life together and their memories. They climb, crawl, dangle, lie down and set the scenes as they relive their time together, often interrupting each other to correct the memory. It’s a deep dive into how they met and fell in love after an unlikely beginning; his admission of depression, their emerging love for each other, then loss pierces their world, followed by betrayal and ending.The staging is astonishing, the synergy of movement and memory sublime, and it's a perfect celebration of Frantic Assembly’s 30th anniversary. It is served by two performers who capture the differences, the unlikeliness of the relationship, and ultimately, the love. Joe Layton as Robbie, despite his confident strength and muscularity, captures perfectly Robbie’s vulnerability and loneliness, charting his way through an intense, volatile relationship with no map to guide him.Hannah Sinclair Robinson is equally mesmerising to watch, her contrasting attitude to life laying down a strong marker for their differences. When he wins £500 on a scratch card, their differences are amusingly exposed: he is The Lion King, she is Hamilton.Andrzej Goulding’s jaw-dropping set is effectively the third character. The wall of drawers contains memories, mementoes and delights. The actors balance off them, scale them and push chairs into place to set scenes. It’s a kinetic delight.With such a strong production conceit, there is the danger that the script won’t live up to the visual power, and at times, the constant movement feels a little like filler, stretching out the running time. But Anna Jordan’s script thrums with honesty and rawness, especially when loss and grief hit the couple in the second half. Interestingly, the most powerful scenes are when they sit and absorb bad news, the stillness making the grief palpable. Its exploration of memory, both muscle and mental, will live with you for a long time.

Filippo Ruggieri codirects and performs with Patrizio Recchioni and members of the Mancanze collective in Ci Conosciamo Già (We Already Know Each Other) at Catania Fringe OFF.It is a dark drama that deals with the consequences of drug addiction, criminality and the difficult road to recovery. It lays bare the workings of institutions and those who work within a system that tries to help people change their lives, and confronts the conflicts that can arise between what is permitted and what people of good will want to achieve.Enrico is a social worker at a rehabilitation centre in Pescara that is notorious for having one of Italy’s highest relapse rates. But he is relatively new to the institution and has developed his own approach to helping young people recover from drug addiction. When a young fugitive seeks asylum, he finds himself placed in a position that risks serious damage to his career and the organisation. How far is he prepared to bend the rules for the sake of one person and what he believes in?The five characters, though from different backgrounds, are brought together almost as a family, with varying bonds of affection and commitment to each other. Within the often claustrophobic setting, love and compassion face challenges to truth and even betrayal, as inner demons and ghosts from the past emerge and they reveal their own stories.Each member of the ensemble gives a powerful performance and creates a focused and consistent character in roles that are clearly defined. There is room for some editing and perhaps a more nuanced approach to the text, which demands passion and emotional involvement but not always at full volume.It’s a raw presentation of challenging material that draws us into the complexities of the plot and invites personal reflection while standing in another person’s shoes.

In 1904, the steamboat General Slocum caught fire and sank on the New York River, resulting in the deaths of more than a thousand people. At the time, it was one of the worst peacetime maritime disasters in history. The event made a profound impression on a passerby – Trudy Ederle’s mother, Anna.Many of the deaths were preventable. Although the boat was relatively close to shore, women at that time had been discouraged or even prevented from swimming, as it was deemed unseemly. Most of the casualties were women and children.Anna was determined that her children would not suffer the same fate. Despite nearly dying from measles as an infant – and suffering lifelong hearing loss as a result – Trudy Ederle eventually became a champion swimmer.There were the usual barriers of the era, swimming being just another activity in which women were hamstrung by the patriarchy. Despite initial reservations, the Women’s Swimming Association coach, Happy Epstein, allowed her to train. She flourished, representing the USA at the 1924 Olympics, where she won a gold and two bronze medals.Ederle wanted to swim the English Channel. She was assigned a coach, Jabez Wolffe, who had unsuccessfully attempted the crossing many times. Those failures left their mark, and he seemingly resented the idea of being outshone by a woman. He sought to undermine Ederle in various ways, including trying to insist that she swim breaststroke rather than the more efficient crawl. On her first attempt, he allegedly poisoned her at sea and then stole the limelight by ‘saving her life’.Once rid of the now disgraced Wolffe, Ederle not only became the first woman to cross the Channel but also smashed the previous world record in the process. She returned to a hero’s reception in New York.Nuovo Orizzonte (New Horizon) is written, directed and performed with charm by Alessandra Donati at the excellent Catania Fringe. The production blends engaging and dramatic storytelling, song, character work and multimedia projection. Ederle’s history is fascinating and is eloquently brought to life by Donati’s skilful and charismatic portrayal.The structure and staging of the production could, however, be improved. The multimedia backdrop often mirrored Donati and was not always synchronised; it was unclear if this was intentional. The purpose of much of the mirroring was opaque, although its use as a historical backdrop worked well. Floorwork in an unraked space might also be reconsidered. Already good, there is a very strong show waiting to emerge.This 20th-century tale is not just Ederle’s, of course. It is emblematic of the struggle towards emancipation and suffrage – women pushing back against a patriarchally dominated society. In this sense, Nuovo Orizzonte is nothing less than inspirational.

As winter settles in and the days grow shorter, London’s theatres have turned inward too, offering audiences comfort through mood and nostalgia. The Assembled Parties by Richard Greenberg arrives on British shores after its 2013 Broadway debut, delivering a compelling and encompassing performance on Hampstead Theatre’s broad main stage.We are transported to the 1970s, where a Jewish family and friends assemble for Christmas dinner. There’s humour in the very premise, and Greenberg’s intelligent, finely tuned script wastes no time drawing attention to that contradiction. The first half ambles along with witty dialogue, presented in largely static “sit and chat” staging. Director Blanche McIntyre orchestrates the piece confidently, yet before the interval I found myself craving more doings – more cooking, more refilling of drinks, more shifting of chairs – the small acts that make a performance ring true. Those moments were there, but could have been explored further. The repartee, though sharp, functions like the laying of bricks, each one adding a layer of information about relationships, status and personality. But as the characters settled into their seats and the familiar rhythm took hold, I occasionally found my attention drifting, wishing each brick weren’t laid in such a similar way.That said, David Kennedy (Mort), Sam Marks (Jeff) and Tracy-Ann Oberman (Faye) give exemplary, lived-in performances. For a show that depends on immersing us in its world, these actors succeed in fully inhabiting theirs. Kennedy’s stint in an armchair eating nuts while blackmailing Daniel Abelson’s Ben is a standout moment – a perfect display of power and vulnerability, armed with nothing but a handful of trail mix.The set’s early sparseness appears to be a deliberate choice: a large rotating stage, minimally furnished and surrounded by unadorned black walls that leave the actors adrift in what feels like a vacuum. Later, walls are erected and warm yellow light replaces the ghostly whites of the opening. Perhaps this shift marks a transition from memory to the present. Whatever the intention, the atmosphere benefits greatly once the space feels fully realised. I only wish that richness had been there from the start.After the interval, we jump to December 1999 – a familiar time for me, two months after I was born. While some of the first half’s Jewish New York accents felt a touch exaggerated and the staging occasionally stagnant, the second half solidified my admiration for the piece. Magnetic performances and deftly delivered twists involving familial love and acknowledgment strike deeply but tenderly. Faye’s strength, humour and compassion; Jeff’s steadfast support; and Julie’s whimsical, keen-eyed optimism all shine as the once-crumbling house fills with light, chasing away the literal darkness of the first half.In the end, the play achieves its aim: to illuminate the commingling of grief, expectation and love within a family. Witty, wistful and quietly moving, if you’re in the mood for a dose of holiday nostalgia and a gentle tug on the heartstrings, The Assembled Parties is a fine candidate.

The essential elements of good theatre come together in Luigi Orfeo’s Pene, Sofferenze del Mondo Contemporaneo at Fringe Catania Off, which he co-directs tightly with Roberta Calia. The obvious translation of the title, Pains, Sufferings of the Contemporary World, loses the Italian pun in which the plural pene also means “penises” or, colloquially, “dicks”.Focusing entirely on the male of the species, this neatly structured solo work consists of five vignettes exploring different aspects of the male psyche, framed by a prologue and an epilogue. As the lights come up on Luigi Orfeo’s dramatically dim stage, we see the contorted, naked figure of Stefano Sartore. He resembles the muscular depictions of St Sebastian before the arrows pierce his body. Pain and suffering are incarnate against a vivid, blood-red wall.He tells us that scientific studies from the University of Wisconsin prove “that the world is beautiful but humanity is shit”, and references Cain and Abel to show that the “genesis of humankind is disgusting” – that we have inflicted pain on one another since the dawn of time. And the source of all this? The “dick”. “The dick is not only that proboscis part of the body, it’s a way of thinking, it’s an attitude.” He offers several examples before the prologue ends.Thereafter, wearing costumes carefully devised by designer Augusta Tibaldeschi, we meet a succession of characters embodying contrasting aspects of masculinity. First comes a gruff, deep-voiced man with fascist leanings, irritably finishing a game of solitaire. He explains that just as he cannot turn a king into a knight, so the natural order of things cannot be changed – that there is a place for everyone and everything. He laments the fluidity of the modern world.He is followed by a racist killer pleading his innocence, and, in stark contrast, a loving father nursing his baby daughter after being abandoned by his wife. Then comes an elderly gay man who, having little to do with women, reminisces, indulges his memories and offers his perspective on life. Finally, we meet a man dealing with noisy neighbours while recounting the horrors of war.The piece ends where it began – back at the University of Wisconsin – with the thought that perhaps we should start all over again, but in a different world, one without the supremacy of the “dick”. “And this time, from the Garden of Eden, let’s try not to get ourselves expelled.”It’s a provocative production that reflects on mentality, masculinity and power, in which Sartore creates strong, credible and gripping characters who bear the burdens of life. Their maleness has shaped the contemporary world – if not on a grand scale, then certainly in their perceptions and their effects on others.

Lucia Raffaella Mariani enters the stage tentatively, almost nervously, wearing a robe over a swimsuit. She begins by asking what at first seems a simple question – whether she can make the audience fall in love with her before the production ends. The reason for the red roses we were given soon becomes clear: we are to adorn the stage with them by the show’s conclusion if she has succeeded.The premise posed by Mariani is more complex than it first appears. The suggestion that a stranger can fall in love with another within 60 minutes is fanciful at best. But is that really the question being asked?There is nowhere to hide on a theatre stage, and in Freevola, Mariani chooses to share her anguish and inner conflict under its unforgiving spotlight. Like many adolescent girls, she experiences her body changing and the first inklings of body awareness as she begins to wonder what others see when they look at her. This feeling, it seems, never fully dissipates.Her journey into womanhood brings no relief: constant judgement and assessment from men; competition with other women that follows few discernible rules; and the weight of familial and societal pressures. Suddenly, the idea that dressing for a party might require strategic planning seems obvious.She describes herself, disconcertingly, as “averagely attractive” and, despite the assertion via song that she “was born this way”, she relentlessly scrutinises opportunities for improvement – diet, surgery and pharmaceuticals.She alludes to Marilyn Monroe, the epitome of beauty and sex appeal – and yet, Monroe was a victim, reportedly constantly unhappy.This introspection probes myriad modern issues. At its heart lies the need for approval – particularly male approval. Alongside it come addiction, insecurity, introspection and body consciousness. Her belief that she is nothing without male validation is especially uncomfortable.Male harassment is never far away – in the workplace, on an ordinary street. This behaviour is normalised, and Mariani describes dressing specifically to avoid harassment.Her performance is strong, slipping in and out of characters, engaging with the audience and exposing her fragility. One audience interaction in this #MeToo era felt awkward – perhaps intentionally – but even so, might benefit from rethinking. That aside, her playfulness, stillness, skill and humour shine through.Mariani’s journey within this patriarchal world is mirrored by women across the planet and throughout history. This hour-long inner scream ultimately asks a different question from the one posed at the outset: can she learn to love herself?

Italy is a country steeped in tradition and ritual. This manifests in countless ways, big and small: church ceremonies, university graduations and the acceptable times of day to drink cappuccino. And then there’s football.To the non-aficionado, football’s entrenched place in Italian culture requires some explanation. The national side is among the most successful ever, and when they play an important match, everything grinds to a halt. The powerhouse domestic clubs have won everything and enjoy global stature. The top division, Serie A, is scrutinised endlessly: matches are analysed for days beforehand, with key moments debated for days after. Back in the early 1980s, games were covered through excitable radio broadcasts, with audiences across the nation hanging on every word. Each club has deep ties to its community. The importance, therefore, of reaching Serie A cannot be overstated, bestowing exalted status and kudos not just on the club but on the city as well.Come Ogni Domenica (best translated as Just Like Every Sunday) uses the ritual of Sunday football as its backdrop, but there is something more personal at play. It’s 1983 and Catania football club are challenging for promotion to Serie A. When the critical final match comes around, an estimated 40,000 fans – around a sixth of the city’s population – make the 1,000-mile round trip to Rome.Adriano (Samuele Gambino) is listening to a radio football transmission as the production opens, his body conveying silent contemplation. Ciccio, Adriano’s brother, had died in an accident a year earlier while following the team. The brothers had been quite different: Adriano is interested in music and not a football fan, but he follows this potentially historic season on Ciccio’s behalf.Gambino is an accomplished storyteller, engagingly and charmingly bringing Ciccio’s story to the Catania Fringe. Partly through the use of dialect, he paints a picture of the Catania community and the position of an everyday family within it. He fuses physical theatre, character work and a touch of clowning, but it is the depiction of Adriano’s journey that is most striking. He finds comfort through football, paying tribute to his brother and posthumously reconciling their differences. In doing so, he matures as a human being.Gambino sensitively explores themes of belonging, aspiration, community and loss. His performance is occasionally rather heightened, but that aside, the self-written production represents an impressive debut and promises much for the future.Ciccio’s mother continues to set his dinner plate, while Adriano relays the football action to him – rituals of a more personal kind, helping the family to live with grief.

Elias Faingersh’s A Solo from the Pit is an unusual and engaging blend of musical storytelling and personal confession. A virtuoso trombonist, Faingersh reimagines his journey from the orchestra pit of the New York Metropolitan Opera to the intimacy of the Fringe stage – and he does so with humour, technical brilliance and a dash of theatrical flair.The structure is clever: each chapter of his life is paired with an opera he once performed in, from Tosca to Carmen, drawing witty and sometimes poignant parallels between the dramas on stage and those off it. A story about annoyed neighbours and interrupted practice sessions becomes a playful riff on Tosca’s tensions, while other moments – a faltering audition, a lost love – find their echo in the grand emotional sweep of Verdi and Puccini.Faingersh’s musicianship is superb throughout. The opening, a haunting Hebrew prayer rendered entirely through the trombone, is a stunning display of tone and control. His use of looping pedals and vocal layering is inventive, allowing him to build rich soundscapes from a single instrument. A mid-show composition depicting a couple’s argument and reconciliation is especially inspired – funny, textured and musically sharp.If there’s a weakness, it’s one of pacing. At a full hour, the show slightly overstays its welcome; trimming an opera or two would give it tighter focus and a more satisfying arc. Likewise, while it opens with something transcendent, the ending doesn’t quite reach the same emotional resonance.Still, A Solo from the Pit is an excellent piece of musical theatre – a celebration of craft, courage and creative risk. Faingersh’s journey from the world’s grandest orchestra pit to a humble Fringe stage proves that sometimes stepping out of the ensemble can make for the most memorable solo of all.

In Troppo Bella Per Essere Vera, Maria Vittoria Barrella delivers a sharp and engaging performance as a scientist desperate to be recognised for her intellect rather than her beauty. Told entirely in Italian - with an English script thoughtfully provided - this one-woman play moves briskly through a series of witty, tightly written monologues that blend irony, self-awareness, and social critique.The premise is fascinating: a brilliant academic, tired of her achievements being overshadowed by her past as a model, builds a machine capable of erasing every trace of her former image from the internet. Of course, , the plan backfires, forcing her to confront the impossibility of separating identity from perception. The idea might sound abstract, but Barrella grounds it with warmth and precision - her delivery is crisp, her comic timing faultless, and her shifts between irony and sincerity are deftly handled.Director Maura Pettorruso keeps the staging simple but expressive, using music and small visual touches - a fluttering fan, a shimmer of glitter - to punctuate changes in tone. It’s a clever use of minimal resources, ensuring that attention never drifts from the performer.At times, the logic of the narrative teeters on the edge of surrealism, and it’s possible that a nuance or two is lost in translation. Yet the clarity of Barrella’s performance and the sharpness of Massimiano Bucchi’s writing carry the audience through. Beneath its humour lies a clear-eyed commentary on how women in science - and indeed in any field - are still judged by appearances before achievements.Tightly written, well-paced, and performed with charm and intelligence, Troppo Bella Per Essere Vera is a thought-provoking monologue that deserves to reach wider audiences. A hidden gem that feels ripe for touring - and one that lingers in the mind long after the glitter has settled.

The marginalised of society walk among us – well, those who are able, anyway. L’ombra del Gelsomino (The Shadow of Jasmine) offers a glimpse into the lives of three such individuals, as we learn of their ostracisation from society and other challenges.The production opens with three seated figures, obscured by veils. The reference to the witches in Macbeth is hard to ignore; indeed, as the production unravels, the protagonists’ fate seems to follow a predetermined path.The setting is innately ambivalent. Are the trio in an afterlife, a dream state, or even in purgatory, expiating their societally perceived sins?Livia (Federica Gurrieri) is a single mother. Through a modern lens, this may not appear to be a significant case for marginalisation. However, in many societies, this simple situation would place her beyond the boundaries of acceptability. In Livia’s case, her unmarried status is simply not tolerated, and her child is labelled a "mongoloid and a retard".Andrea (Giovanni Peligra) is a teacher. He is homosexual and confined to a wheelchair. He wryly observes that while his sexuality renders him invisible to some elements of society, ironically his wheelchair serves to provide him with visibility. His sexuality causes him to be an outsider, while his physical handicap bleeds into the perception of him as a freak.Rosaria (Alice Canzonieri), like so many women, carries the label of witch. While superstition and ignorance resulted in women’s persecution over the years (and in some parts of the world today, they are still hunted), there has often been a sinister subtext. They are a convenient scapegoat for some natural catastrophe. They posed a threat to the patriarchy and hierarchy, challenging esoteric medical or religious knowledge. When midwives were denounced and burnt, the preservation of income was a key factor.There is a Proustian thread to the production. Rosaria says: “The real voyage of discovery does not consist in seeking new lands, but in having new eyes.” In other words, true discovery comes from an internal shift to change your perspective, rather than seeking external change. Andrea recognises this from À la recherche du temps perdu. Moreover, in Proust’s novel, memories are evoked by the smell of madeleine cakes. Jasmine is employed similarly in this production. It is symbolically used in different cultures and, in this case, serves as a metaphor for destiny, its scent lingering when all else has faded.Art Evolution’s production has multi-faceted appeal. At its core, it carries a clear and prescient societal message regarding marginalisation. The staging is spectacular: brilliant use of light and sound provides a show whose visual splendour will live long in the memory. L’ombra del Gelsomino is a fluid blend of drama, dance, and physical theatre, and the quality of the performances is simply outstanding. The performers’ movement, physicality, stillness, and interactions are finely honed, as the production unravels viscerally, grippingly, and eloquently. Much credit goes to director Alessandro Romano.The production makes the prescient observation that variance from the norm engenders fear, and that violence invariably follows. As Andrea remarks, “We are all prisoners of something” – in their case, society.

Using a philosophical work as the stimulus for a performance piece is an ambitious undertaking, but the result is on show at the Catania Fringe with Margot Theatre Company’s Aut-Aut, which arises from their reading of Søren Kierkegaard’s eponymous book.His writing is in two volumes, fitting for a work that explores the notion of choices through the simple proposition of “either/or”. Both parts present a style of existence. The first is that of the aesthete, a position that will lead a person to a state of psychological despair after recognising the limits of this lifestyle. This then leads to a second, ethical stage of rational choice and commitment.How clearly this translates into the 50-minute movement performance, with only a couple of paragraphs of text, requires imagination and interpretation. The physicality of the piece is highly appealing, with the three characters engaged in a moto perpetuo of exchanges that embrace levels, floor work, and well-devised repeated motifs in various sequences.Central to the performance is a large suitcase and its contents. It is embraced, discarded, lifted up, and thrown to the floor in ways that both accept and reject what it symbolises. Then its contents are explored, and one of the female cast members discovers numerous dresses, which she proceeds to put on one after another, only to take them all off and repeat the process. The suitcase is never fully opened, only unzipped enough to allow access. Next, a number of boxes are found within that must be constructed. Meanwhile, four differently sized picture frames capture the man’s face, as though he is a live portrait, but they also frame his surroundings as he looks through them to the world outside.The characters manipulate their world and seek to interpret it. This can be seen as a search for meaning – an exploration of the world around them while they ponder the world within. Throughout, however, we are given space to place our own interpretation on what we see, considering how the soundscape, mostly of piano and cello music, affects the mood and relates to the actions.Would this be immediately recognised as a piece inspired by Kierkegaard’s philosophical speculations? Probably not, but that is the nature of a stimulus. Its purpose is to inspire the work; to be the creator’s servant, not master.

There’s an intriguing idea buried somewhere in When Life Gives You Garbage - a meditation on clutter, chaos, and the rituals we use to rebuild ourselves. Unfortunately, like the piles of rubbish strewn across the stage, it never quite finds form.Greek performer Savvina Romanou-Pylli spends much of the show navigating her own domestic debris, speaking in Greek with English and Italian surtitles projected above. The concept - cleaning the house as a metaphor for cleaning the mind - has promise, but the execution feels indulgent and opaque. At one point she eats peanut butter from a banana, and I found myself wondering what it was meant to signify. Perhaps I missed something profound.There’s room for abstract physical theatre, but audiences still need a thread to follow. Here, that thread gets lost among the clutter. Even the lighting seemed confused - a single LED beam fixed squarely on me throughout the performance, a fitting symbol for misplaced focus.When Life Gives You Garbage aspires to say something about resilience and self-renewal, but the result feels more like an unfinished workshop than a finished piece. The mess might be the point - but that doesn’t make it compelling to watch.

There’s a charmingly ramshackle energy to Sickly Victorian Rat Circus, a two-hander from US company Small Buns Duo that blends shadow puppetry, clowning, and circus skills to tell the tale of two mice displaced from their home by monstrous humans. With its overhead projector, hand-cut silhouettes and clutter of props, it feels like a storybook come to life - albeit one stitched together from scraps and string.Performed and co-directed by Staza Stone and Jonas Whalen, the piece uses little spoken language (the mice chatter in squeaks and gibberish) and instead relies on physical comedy and visual storytelling. The premise - about finding safety, belonging and a new home - is simple but sincere. At its best, the show has moments of real warmth, particularly in its audience interactions. The opening exchange with children in the crowd sets an inclusive, playful tone and a later moment when a volunteer joins the action earns genuine laughter. It’s these stretches, where the performers connect directly with the audience, that feel most alive.The shadow puppetry is a highlight: projected onto an old-school overhead, it’s endearingly low-tech and gives the show a handmade, slightly anarchic aesthetic. The imagery could, however, do with tighter coordination. At times the puppets’ movements lag behind the live action, diluting their impact. The circus elements are less convincing. A brief five-ball juggle and some basic balancing tricks suggest enthusiasm more than virtuosity and one can’t help but feel that the storytelling would have been stronger if the circus had been used more sparingly.The production seems caught between audiences. Its silliness and sweetness clearly delight younger viewers, yet the title - Sickly Victorian Rat Circus - suggests something darker or more absurdist. A rebrand towards a more family-friendly identity might serve it well, as would a touch of streamlining; there’s an excellent 30-minute children’s show somewhere within this 45-minute frame.Still, there’s much to admire here: an inventive use of minimal resources, two likable performers, and a heartfelt message about home and resilience. It’s a little rough around the edges — but that’s also part of its scruffy charm.

When Edmond Rostand wrote a fictionalised account of the life of the 17th-century author Cyrano de Bergerac in 1897, he could not have comprehended the literary legacy this hybrid character would continue to flaunt over a century later.In this stunning new adaptation by Debris Stevenson and director Simon Evans, a delicately wrought world of laughter and tears is conjured with exquisite precision and emotional sensitivity. Not a moment is superfluous. Not a second is wasted.We first meet the young Cyrano in dappled sunlight: a straw hat covering his face, and thus the generous facial appendage that haunts his existence. The nose is an invention of Rostand’s and has no historical evidence, but it provides a heartbreakingly real reason for his inability to declare himself fully to the woman he loves so passionately that he would rather another take his place than embarrass them both by revealing his feelings.A man of tenderness and war; a poet and a soldier; a lover and a celibate; a beacon of sincerity yet living a lie... Cyrano is a role for the ages. Adrian Lester, in an inexplicably tardy RSC debut, is devastating as the hero who counts himself so poor and plainly made that no honest love could ever come to him.Every moment he is on stage, Lester crackles with an electricity that cannot help but draw the audience into understanding the aching rationale for aiding young lover Christian to woo Roxanne. His self-sabotaging pretence somehow makes sense, and the brittle façade that hides the profundity of his loathing for what nature gave him is overwhelming in its intensity.Whether in a battle of wits with the slimy Comte (the ever-excellent Scott Handy); mentoring the charming dufus who erroneously wins Roxanne’s heart (a winsome Levi Brown); or bantering with Ragueneau (Christian Patterson), Cyrano appeals to us all precisely because he speaks the truths we would all like to utter. He is grumpy, taciturn, ironic, verbose, provocative, and soothing, but never less than truthful—except, of course, in his personal life.These scenes with Roxanne (Susannah Fielding) are realised with a poignant economy of skill: each minuscule facial reaction betraying a lifetime of emptiness and estrangement. The final minutes are played with extraordinary restraint, which somehow amplifies their pain and leaves a lingering impression as one of the most beautiful moments one could be privileged to see in contemporary theatre.Fielding is exactly as described: all angles and energy. She breathes an intoxicating sense of life into what could be a cipher of a character and proves herself a more than worthy recipient of Cyrano’s compositions. Fielding imbues the character with such freshness and modernity that we long to see the world – fragmented and ugly though it is – through her eyes. This makes her tacit acceptance of loneliness and solitude all the harder to bear, and her final desolation feels all too much as though it is also ours.The PR of every show will tell you that you need to see it. Event theatre will take your money, sell you a ‘name’, and leave you with all the cultural nutrition of a theatrical Happy Meal.But real theatre will quietly creep up on you and change your life in the course of a few hours. And the spellbinding Cyrano de Bergerac is just that. Real. Authentic. True. Unforgettable.

An inspired choice by James Brining for his inaugural production as artistic director of the Royal Lyceum, Chekhov’s The Seagull marks the beginnings of modern theatre. The elegant adaptation by Mike Poulton is accessible and light-footed, aiding the subtle balance of comedy and pathos that is the hallmark of this production.John Bett, playing Sorin, the owner of the summer estate where the play is set, is one of the highlights of the show. His handling of complaints makes us laugh sympathetically. But Caroline Quentin is undoubtedly the star of the show, playing Arkadina, a narcissistic actress past her prime, with just enough hamminess to be funny without losing credibility. Constantly posing and looking round for effect, she also betrays her insecurities. She can be both cruel to her son, Konstantin (or Kostya), talking over the play he wants to impress her with, but later demonstrating her love in the moving scene where she changes the bandages on his head wound. This ambivalence is also successfully demonstrated by Lorn Macdonald as Kostya, both scornful of his mother and desperate for her approbation with his unintentionally ghastly play, searching for ‘new forms’. Likewise his volatility means he is unable to take rejection by Nina resulting in suicide. Trigorin’s explanation of his writing process, as an obsession, will resonate with would-be writers. Dyfan Dwyfor, rather too low-key before this, at last comes alive.Other characters make pleasing cameos: Michael Dylan as Medvedenko, the neglected schoolteacher; Steven McNicoll as Shamrayev, the blustering estate manager; and Irene Allan as Polina, his bullied wife, who is having an affair with Dr Dorn but is now neglected. Sadly, Forbes Masson as Dorn is so unpleasant it’s hard to believe he was once a seducer.Full plaudits to Tallulah Greive as Masha, with her deadpan ‘whatever’ delivery, a precursor of goth, all in black. Harmony Rose-Bremner as Nina contrasts the necessary overacting in Kostya’s play with naivety and hero-worship for Trigorin, the famous writer. However, her last encounter with Kostya is so overwrought it’s garbled.The sets by Colin Richmond and Anna Kelsey are not entirely successful. The opening scene by the lake is cluttered with reeds that look more like rye. There are also strange water sound effects - real lakes are silent. However, the sparse interior that follows is spacious, with the distressed look of an old country house. The last set, reduced to a small central space (perhaps to suggest Kostya’s confined life as a writer), is again too cluttered.Overall, this is an involving, though not overwhelming, production, and it bodes well for the Lyceum’s new era.

The more things change, the more they stay the same is a maxim perfectly suited to John Godber’s Teechers. Written in the 1980s, it is now a staple of British theatre, and this Eastern Angles production, with subtle updates, powerfully demonstrates its relevance today.The story follows three pupils at a struggling comprehensive who, with the encouragement of their drama teacher Mr Nixon, stage their own end-of-term play about their life at the school. Although essentially a comedy, the piece is still a powerful examination of the inequalities in the education system, and a huge appreciation and call-out for drama in the school curriculum. A play within a play, it was heart-lifting to hear and see how engaged the large number of school pupils in the audience were.Three actors play the pupils and all the other people in their school world, and all three demonstrate superb characterisation, physicality and versatility. Isaac Franklin as Salty alternates between the pupil and Mr Nixon extremely well, showing how they are both affected by the challenges of comprehensive school life. Chileya Mwampulo as Gail is outstanding, and Eloise Richardson as Hobby is particularly strong as the headteacher – colours clashing but with a love for drama. What the three do particularly well is show the fear about leaving school as they move from reluctant learners to stars of the drama department. This is a moving cornerstone of the play that isn’t just delivered for knockabout comedy.The pace is excellent, allowing the play to breathe in moments when the poignancy is held, and delighting with a trip down memory lane. School is still recognisable to all who watch this production, and director and designer Jake Smith creates an environment that draws everyone in from the start.

Prepare to be transported to another world – or at least to deep space on an enterprise of the starship Theseus with just one person on board, August. Having visited the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, the mission has now reached Dundee Fringe, where Shallowspace Cryotech Feverdream is receiving similar recognition as a startling debut work from trans writer and performer Callie O’Brien and the team at Elastic Fantastic, who created Deeptime Atomic Waste Pleasure Party.August’s mission is to protect a deep-space digitised archive of civilisation. Although rigorously trained and theoretically prepared for the task, the reality of isolation and cryogenic stasis becomes a deeply disturbing experience. The monotonous drudgery of repeated routines and the recurrent recitation of data begin to take their toll. In a performance that is both physically demanding and mentally taxing, O’Brien personifies how August’s psyche becomes increasingly tormented by resurrected dreams, memories of home and wonderings of what it must now be like – all accompanied by strange feelings in her limbs, as though on a rack.A complex and evocative original synth-wave soundtrack of noises and diegetics, co-created by O’Brien and sound designer Fraser White, pulses over projected visuals, interspersed with voiceovers and songs composed by the highly talented Ronan Goron. This ambitious soundscape is played in cold steel lighting, colour effects, blinking bulbs and icy mist – the multi-talented O’Brien also being responsible for lighting.Although alone in person, there is the ever-present AI voice: a menacing, chilling and uncompromising presence in a pre-recording by Ally Haughey. What comes through the loudspeakers is a constant and demanding reminder that there is no turning back, no chance to abandon the project – only to endure whatever the mission requires and, if necessary, suffer.Referred to by the company as a “Trans Sci-Fi Body Horror Play”, it more than ticks all those boxes, but rather than falling into any narrow genre, it has universal appeal. Depending on where you’re coming from and the area that most appeals to you, there is plenty for everyone in each of those descriptors.Beyond any content or message, however, is the grippingly powerful and commanding performance of O’Brien that evokes a deep “wow” exhalation.

Perhaps contrary to expectations, Do Astronauts Masturbate in Space? is not about the sexual activities of those circling the Earth in spaceships, but, in the words of the company, “a dystopian, dark, physical theatre comedy”. It premiered at this year’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe after a London preview and is now at Dundee Fringe.The play’s setting is a future Britain ruled by an authoritarian regime whose control the people fear and whose intervention in their lives is absolute. A law, innocuously called the Parental Act, requires all couples to apply for a licence in order to have children. Trying to see a lighter side to this invasion of privacy, the people refer to it as a Stork Card.Under different circumstances, as a young couple, Lily (Briony Martha) and Gareth (Zak Reay-Barry) might be looking forward to raising a family. Instead, the unexpected pregnancy instils panic as they face the prospect of attending the week-long mandated Retreat, in a bid to gain their Stork Card, and a government-imposed abortion should they fail the various tests and questionings they are subjected to. Their initial attitude of “Oh, it can’t be that bad,” and “Everything will be alright” is soon eroded, and no number of Digestive biscuits can allay their concerns. They are placed under the auspices of The Voice (Torya Winters), whose tone and questioning become increasingly threatening as the process grows destructive to their relationship.Under the impactful direction of Megan Brewer, this first project by the couple is packed with humour and physicality, using only a couple of light cubes and various costumes for effect – an appropriately minimalist and clinical setting, suitably lit by Ruben Sparks. Reay-Barry plays a phlegmatic, rational male in contrast to Martha’s often hilariously emotional and hysterical female, with outbursts that lighten the dire situation. They make a well-balanced double act of opposites.As to the title, it is given voice and almost elicits a sigh of relief as we finally hear where it fits in and our curiosity is satisfied – a great moment. The play is a triumph in tackling serious and increasingly credible threats to freedom and issues of state oppression, brought home through familiar personal relationships and comedy, and augurs well for future works.

Helen Shapiro was aged just 14 when she shot to fame in 1961 with two No. 1 hit singles, You Don't Know and Walkin' Back to Happiness. Voted “Number One Female British Singer” in that year and in 1962, record sales in excess of one million copies for each song gained her two gold discs, and she went on to become the teen sensation of the ’60s.Her story is faithfully related in Kingdom Theatre Company’s biographical play Helen Shapiro, Walkin’ Back at Dundee Fringe, following a sell-out run at this year’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe. The production is an imaginatively devised piece of theatre that honours Shapiro while going beyond the style of a tribute show, performed by a company of student learners, not professional performers – though many have considerable experience for their years.Despite the tight confines of the venue, and with help from CEO Lorraine Brown as stage manager and Lorna Cairns as production assistant, director Izzy Brown creates a split stage of a period classroom and the recording studios at Abbey Road. Costumes and hairstyles further faithfully confirm the age we are in.A reflective prologue, complete with song from Erin Gilliland-Patterson as a mature Helen, sets the scene before we are taken back to her school days. Four girls sit at desks, one of whom is Lily B. Martin, also aged 14, playing Shapiro. How’s that for authenticity? She acts and sings with confidence beyond her years, while reminding us that Shapiro was just a very ordinary schoolgirl with dreams and the good fortune to be discovered. Martin’s command of the Shapiro songs and the many others specially written for the show by Willie Logan is remarkable. The new songs are well crafted and blend effortlessly into the musical genre of the day and John Murray’s script.As we move through the years, her classmates (Mya Harley, Sadie Lax and Betsy Simmons) grow with Helen and display their outstanding vocal talents as her backing singers and in songs of their own. We meet her songwriter John Schroeder and hear some fine vocals from Theo Hart in that role, also doubling as John Lennon. Scott Hunter, meanwhile, reveals the politics and pressures of the business as the astute producer Norrie Paramor at Columbia Studios. Meanwhile, Anne Hart as Helen’s teacher remains left behind as a doubter of Helen’s dreams.The show is slightly cumbersome in places, but there is nothing that couldn’t be made smoother and slicker in a more expansive venue. All the elements make for an entertaining, musically rich, multimedia experience.

There’s probably a clue in the title of a production entitled Ha Ha Da Vinci, isn’t there?We all know a little about Leonardo da Vinci: creator of Mona Lisa, the world’s most famous painting, whose iconic status transcends the art world and has become a byword for enigma itself, lending its name to, amongst others, a Nat King Cole song and a Bob Hoskins film. Yet fusing art and science, Da Vinci was so much more – architect, palaeontologist, sculptor and engineer – the list goes on. He astonishingly sketched crude designs for what we came to know as submarines and helicopters. He also conceptualised a time machine, together with the mathematician Luca Pacioli.The stage is symbolically and portentously set with an image of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, being in itself a fusion of art and science, but moreover leaning into the idea of man’s exploration of his place in the universe.The premise of the production is that our protagonist communicates with Da Vinci via a form of transistor radio and is transported back to Renaissance times. The only way she seems able to return to her own time is to solve a series of clues and play music.What follows is a patchwork of stagecraft, including storytelling, puppetry, comedy, physical theatre, clowning, illusion, mathematics, singing, guitar and, strikingly, tuba playing.The show is, of course, in part a homage to Da Vinci, but also seems to draw a little inspiration from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.Pipia is a charming and engaging performer. Her talent is beyond question as she weaves her way through this frankly odd but entertaining and somewhat whimsical production. The impression it was difficult to shake off, however, is that Ha Ha Da Vinci is effectively a showcase for Pipia’s myriad and most impressive talents, rather than holding any meaningful narrative or conclusion for the audience.We will be very interested to see what the likeable Phina Pipia creates next.

After a long hiatus, it is so good to have Colchester-based professional company 3 Wishes back on our stages. Their revival of 4:48 Psychosis was an award winner at Colchester Fringe last year. Their interpretation of Hobson’s Choice in the summer threw new light on a classic text, and now they stage Breathe, one of the best new plays I have seen this year.Playwright Jazz Ely has constructed a superb play that looks at her own mental health issues and also how the systems set up to support people consistently fail. Sam and Callum hope to start a family, but her somatic OCD presents many challenges. Audacious in its comedy, she is serenaded by Michael Burst-Your-Bublé, a crooner who murders the classics in a hilarious style. There are many different approaches taken to the subject, and laughter dies as the seriousness of the condition is played out beautifully by this excellent ensemble.As Sam, Claire Walkinshaw is the heart of the play, and she is adept at handling the tonal changes with ease, delivering information in a lively performance that never loses sight of the key messages. The rest of the cast multi-role, and Ed Ismail is a strong, calm, patient presence as her boyfriend Callum, giving a performance full of dignity, frustration and support. Shania Grace Thompson beautifully captures young Sam, bringing shocking events from her childhood vividly to life. Adrienne Thornley is particularly effective as the therapist, and Lisa Wakley is excellent in every role.But it’s the ever-watchable Dean Bartholomew who almost steals it with his comedy skills, a brilliant Bublé and a particularly moving performance as Sam’s dad. They all serve the text with commitment and sensitivity, and the pace is spot on, aided by excellent movement direction from Tia Winterbottom.Director Wendy Smith has guided and shaped this team into crafting an unforgettable piece of theatre. The design by Jane Fisher has transformed the Headgate space, and the construction team are to be congratulated for their hard work. The lighting design by George Emberson is astonishingly good – the darkness in our mental health always there, but light always piercing and shining through.Written from personal experience, the strength of the play is in its avoidance of self-indulgence, instead being practical and personal, creating stage imagery that will stay with the audience for a long time.

Ah, the glamour of consumption! Responsible for 25% of nineteenth-century mortality, death from consumption (TB) was horrible; yet culturally it was seen as the glamorous death – a beautiful sacrifice to a life lived too deeply and too fast. Perhaps in reaction to its sentimental treatment in Victorian literature, some productions of La Bohème try to add stirrings of revolution. But those tricks simply work against the opera, which was specifically designed to be a personal, intimate story.Reviving the show from 2017, André Barbe and Renaud Doucet’s insightful production at the Theatre Royal, Glasgow, hits the perfect balance between honouring the opera’s intentions and providing a bridge between the modern day and the social context it had for its original audience.La Bohème, at least to a degree, de-glamourises consumption by making Mimi, the heroine, a poor seamstress living a restricted life of poverty and loneliness. Puccini balances this element with the colourful garret of Rodolfo and his fellow poor artists, who live it large at any opportunity. Barbe and Doucet (stage direction and sets and costumes) carefully underline the effects of poverty on Mimi’s life while providing the artists’ roles with hilarious clowning and stage business.This is balanced by modern settings – prior to Act I and a superb modern-day opening to Act III – providing one of the most elegant transitions of the present dissolving into the past that I’ve seen on stage. The delicate lighting is designed by Guy Simard. These settings remind us – as Mimi’s story would have reminded the contemporary audience – of the gulf between the comfortably off and the poor.Of course, everything depends on the singers, and they are a sparkling cast. Roland Wood as Marcello ranges from clowning to portraying a fraught, complex relationship with his lover, Musetta. Rhian Lois plays Musetta with vivacious, over-the-top comic selfishness mixed with heartfelt sympathy for others. Their arias and quartets with the main lovers are stunning. Colline (Callum Thorpe) and Edward Jowle as Schaunard are characters in their own right, rather than merely supporting cast – so much so that you worry about the rest of the characters’ lives after the curtain has dropped.The lovers are played by Hye-Youn Lee and Mario Chang. Chang’s Rodolfo is outstanding in the emotion given to his vocal delivery and acting, and the romcom elements between the lovers are played with charming lightness and wit. Hye-Youn Lee as Mimi shows the inner depths of what could be an insipid character. This is the second consumptive role she has played for Scottish Opera; ironically, she is going from strength to strength.As we expect from Scottish Opera, there is attention to detail and quality in all elements – from the always impressive orchestra, conducted by Stuart Stratford, through to the children’s chorus (directed by Susannah Wapshott), the marching band, and the outstanding accordion playing (Djordje Gajic).For insight, ingenuity, setting, characterisation, cast and musical treats, this La Bohème is a revelation.

The ninth century: plague, war, pestilence, famine. The populace was largely uneducated, and ignorance was rife. Life expectancy was short – especially if you were a threat.We meet Johanna, born in a Rhine valley village at a time when women were forbidden from reading and writing. Her brother, Johannes, secretly helped her to read, though only after first extracting a price. Johannes died from a fever, however. A woman in the village, Matilda, had knowledge of herbal remedies but was unable to prevent Johannes’ demise. In her grief, their mother denounced Matilda as a witch, and the villagers lost no time in burning her – but only after she had consumed a pellet as a sedative. Johanna watched and learned, later concealing a similar pellet in her own ring.Johanna is taken to an abbey for religious instruction, but is tasked with extracurricular “women’s work” and generally has to be better than the boys simply to survive – this will prove familiar to some readers. She subsequently disguises herself as a boy, adopting her brother’s name. After a traumatic journey, she winds up in Athens, becoming a brilliant scholar.She finally heads for Rome and the Papal Court, still under the guise of Johannes. These are turbulent times, and even Rome is not immune from invasion, with the Saracens attacking from the south and Charlemagne’s army from the north. An earthquake adds to the carnage, but Johannes is instrumental in Rome’s reconstruction. The people love Johannes, and she is subsequently ordained as Pope.She falls pregnant, though, and during an Easter procession gives birth. The mob turn on her, but before death she manages to consume her pellet.Beatrice Schiaffino’s performance as La Papessa is nothing short of a triumph. She emerges in religious attire, but costume and character changes follow, demonstrating her considerable range and poise. Conflict, pride, ambition, fear, desire, rage, power, calculation and more are conveyed in stages by Schiaffino, as Johanna’s soul is revealed. Her performance flits from visceral to stillness as she owns the stage, at times with a composed swagger. With Carmen Di Marzo’s subtle direction, it is a tour de force – a very fine example of a solo show at the impressive Milan Fringe.One of the themes of Andrea Balzola’s script is concealment. Johanna cannot reveal that she can read or her true gender; Johanna and Matilda conceal their pellets, and relationships are undisclosed. The deeper, esoteric subtext of the narrative has an embedded patriarchal element, exemplified by the papal inner circle prohibiting the presence of women.The legend of Johanna goes back many centuries but has largely been debunked by scholars – whether or not they had an agenda for this conclusion is a matter for another forum. However, at the heart of this tale lies the struggle of a woman who refuses to accept the prescribed order of the world around her.Johanna’s struggle will, of course, strike a chord even in these allegedly enlightened times. She tells us that “an educated woman is a dangerous woman”. Today, Afghan women are prohibited from receiving an education; in many other countries, de facto barriers result in the same outcome. While emancipation may have been achieved by women in some cultures, a host of challenges – and a glass ceiling – remain.

One of the most famous psychological dramas for over fifty years, thanks to the powerful 1973 film, Daphne du Maurier’s original short story Don’t Look Now is the source and inspiration for this adaptation.John and Laura return to Venice, where they spent their honeymoon, to the same room in the same hotel. But in the ten years since then, they have lost their daughter, and the blame and grief are still palpable. A pair of mysterious sisters – one a psychic – see the child with them and warn the couple to leave Venice. A killer also stalks the city, and when John doesn’t leave, it is revealed that he too is psychic, haunted by his own visions.This production has much to admire, particularly in its atmospheric staging, but it never raises the stakes enough to become genuinely disturbing. Although not a ghost story, it lacks enough jumps and twists, and at 100 minutes without an interval, it is slightly too long for such a slim, predictable story.The cast work hard, not least in appearing in multiple spotlights at multiple points on the set. Mark Jackson skilfully conveys John’s trauma and breakdown, and Sophie Robinson really captures Laura, desperately trying to keep her defences in place after her world has shattered. They have to contend with some clunky dialogue; for example, Laura’s final speech points out the obvious in an awkward summary.Alex Bulmer is excellent as psychic Sister 2 and makes an effective duo with Olivia Carruthers. The rest of the cast multi-roll with skill, although some of the Italian accents make diction a little incoherent.As the narrative builds, it remains a little too polite – a little too “English”. Some uncontrolled despair could have broken through. The adaptation is quite traditional, and a more radical staging could have revealed greater depth.There is no denying, however, that this is a very watchable production. The lighting design by Jessie Addinall is powerful in its atmospheric intentions and is complemented perfectly by Jess Curtis’s set and costumes, and Daniel Denton’s video design.Fans of drama like this will leave satisfied, left to ponder who – and what – is the killer that stalks the couple.

It’s fair to say that Elizabeth Keckley lived a life less ordinary. Emancipated slave turned dressmaker to Abraham Lincoln’s wife, the roll call of her achievements includes fashionista, writer, entrepreneur, activist and fundraiser. Tami Tyree tells her story at Milan Fringe in Colored Silk.Born early in the nineteenth century into slavery, Keckley endured a typically brutal upbringing, including rape and beatings, despite being the daughter of the head of the household. As a result of the repeated rapes, she became a mother.When Keckley met her future husband, she refused to marry him until she and her son were free, because she did not want to have another child born into slavery. As Tyree says: “Why would I want to bring another child into this world?”Her owner set a release price for her and her son of $1,200 – equivalent to more than $40,000 in today’s money. Undeterred by this extraordinary sum, with the help of her patron she somehow managed to raise the money to buy their freedom. She married James Keckley, only to later discover that he was in fact still a slave. He relied on her financially and was reported to be abusive.Once free, she developed her business as a seamstress, employing many people and mixing with exalted company such as Robert E. Lee’s wife. She now enjoyed a burgeoning reputation and met Lincoln’s wife, forming a close friendship with her that led to the White House itself.After Lincoln’s assassination, Keckley published a book about the Lincolns. This was seen as controversial in some quarters, the perception being that she had crossed a line of confidentiality.The American Civil War was the inevitable consequence of the ideological fault line that developed between the North and the South, predominantly around slavery. The war pitted neighbour against neighbour, brother against brother, in some states especially. Keckley’s son was one of the many casualties.She founded a relief association assisting emancipated slaves and Black families during the Civil War. But it was as a dressmaker that she is best remembered.Tyree opens proceedings with evangelical-style singing, which is joyous – one of the highlights of the show. She has clearly researched Keckley’s story meticulously and conveys her struggles truthfully and articulately; she is an accomplished performer.At times the pace is a little ponderous and the staging rather static, so the production falls slightly short occasionally, lacking dramatic punch. However, Tyree’s production provides an interesting insight not only into Keckley’s life but also into the turbulent history of nineteenth-century America.

Walking the streets of Milan at this year’s Fringe, I stumbled upon the Wall of Dolls. A memorial to victims of female violence and femicide, members of the public are encouraged to pin dolls to the wall and, hauntingly, there are photographs of some victims. It’s all rather sobering.L’altro ieri (which can be translated as The Day Before Yesterday) recounts the story of Franca Viola, yet another victim of female violence. However, she and her family displayed enormous courage in the face of mafia and societal pressures to ensure that these acts did not go unpunished.In 1963, at the age of 15, Viola had been betrothed to Filippo Melodia. However, he moved away to Germany, most likely due to his involvement with organised crime. Upon his return, Melodia discovered that Viola was now betrothed to Giuseppe Riusi and therefore unable to resume a relationship with her. Undeterred, he hatched a plan.In 1965, still aged just 17, Viola was abducted in a raid on her family home by a group of armed men orchestrated by Melodia. She was held at the home of a relative of Melodia and repeatedly raped by him over the course of a week. Her family was then contacted by Melodia, proposing that she marry him.With the benefit of modern perspective, this may seem surprising to say the least. However, at that time Italian law allowed for the crime of rape to be annulled if the victim was a virgin and proceeded to marry the perpetrator (the so-called “rehabilitation marriage law”). Such were the societal pressures in Sicily at that time for women to conform, it would probably not have crossed Melodia’s mind that this scheme would not be successful. However, Viola’s family arranged a police operation for her safe recovery, whereupon she refused his proposal and insisted on denouncing him and pressing charges.This course of action brought many risks and pressures. Melodia had mafia connections and Viola’s family were subjected to threats and intimidation. Furthermore, the family were ostracised by the community, as she was now deemed to be a dishonoured woman. However, Melodia was imprisoned and murdered on his eventual release. It was not until 1981 that the “rehabilitation marriage” law was finally repealed.L'altro ieri is performed by the Capolavori company, played on different days by two actors, Aurora D’Arrigo and, in the version I saw, Alice Canzonieri. Viola’s story is re-imagined skilfully and powerfully, yet respectfully. Canzonieri is an engaging performer, her physicality impressive. She displays subtle character changes and switches between animated and stillness with ease; credit to Salvatore Greco’s direction for the pace of the production.Franca Viola tells us that “nothing changes unless you take a risk”. She decided that she was not Melodia’s property, pushing back against the patriarchy. She did not allow her ordeal at the hands of Melodia to define her; instead, she found the courage and fortitude to strike out towards emancipation. Society and the legal framework have, of course, evolved since the 1960s, but the Wall of Dolls reminds us that violence against women remains depressingly prevalent.

I have seen The Importance of Being Earnest more times than is strictly respectable. I have witnessed handbag scandals in provincial theatres, cucumber crises in college halls, and Bunburying of such varying conviction that poor Bunbury himself must be quite exhausted. Yet this latest revival at the Noel Coward Theatre – starring Stephen Fry and Olly Alexander – is, without hesitation, the funniest and most intoxicating interpretation I have ever had the pleasure (and the privilege) to endure. It glitters with the assurance that wit, when handled correctly, is far more lethal than truth.At the centre of this divine nonsense are two glittering curiosities: Mr Fry as Lady Bracknell and Mr Alexander as Algernon Moncrieff. Fry gives us a Bracknell so majestically upholstered she could be mistaken for one of the nation’s better-appointed institutions. His vowels are of cathedral quality, and his pauses are longer than certain engagements. When he demands, “A handbag?”, it is not a question but a verdict. Yet behind the loftiness flickers the faintest blush of amusement – a Lady who knows she is parodying herself and enjoys it immensely.Mr Alexander, meanwhile, is a perfect Algernon: effervescent, spoiled, and heartbreakingly unserious. His every gesture is an essay in self-admiration, and rightly so. He flits through the drawing rooms of Mayfair as though he were the butterfly for whom the entire social season was invented. His Bunburying, that noble art of convenient illness, is performed with such conviction that one almost feels the urge to send flowers to the invalid himself.Nathan Stewart-Jarrett’s Jack Worthing is a delightfully repressed counterpoint – a man whose moral fibre is stretched so tightly that one fears for his tailor. Kitty Hawthorne’s Gwendolen and Jessica Whitehurst’s Cecily spar with the elegance of duellists and the malice of debutantes. Shobna Gulati’s Miss Prism is charm itself, and Hugh Dennis turns Rev. Chasuble into a masterclass in clerical yearning.And then there is Hayley Carmichael, as both Lane and Merriman, who bumbles through scenes with the blissful chaos of Mrs Overall serving eternity. She steals the show one teacup at a time, proving once and for all that in Wilde’s world, the butler always has the last laugh.Under Max Webster’s direction, the production worships the text – rightly, for it is a religion in itself – yet one celebrated in a decidedly modern chapel. The words remain pure Wilde, but the glances most certainly do not. There are lingering looks between gentlemen that last a fraction too long to be merely polite, and between ladies that seem to promise a most improper friendship. One moment involves the casual caress of a statue’s anatomy which, I am convinced, was no accident of choreography but a deliberate act of aesthetic curiosity. The result is a world where decorum trembles delightfully on the edge of desire.The top and tail of the show – which I cannot reveal for fear of robbing you of their audacious surprise – are gloriously incongruous, and yet, in the context of this refined madness, they make perfect sense. This is Wilde reborn in all his glittering absurdity: wicked, wise, and, above all, outrageously funny.I have seen Earnest often. I have never seen it better.

This latest Mercury Original continues the excellent support the venue has given to writers in bringing their work to the stage. Tessa Deparis’s effective play Swallow the Lake, produced in association with HighTide, is powerful in its gentleness.Joanna and Joseph have just relocated to a quiet town in Essex with their young children and are hosting their first dinner party. Beautifully structured, what follows is a series of flashbacks, from when they first met as children, returning to the dinner party and its aftermath. Yasmin Hafesji’s sensitive direction honours the fragility of the piece, as Joanna has suppressed the racism endured by her and her family, and those racist voices are becoming louder as she struggles to hold on to a stable life.The play is beautifully performed, not least by Lydia Bakelmun as Joanna, skilfully showing the danger and disrespect she receives, even though she is a doctor. Her stillness is the power of the performance: even when you may want her to shout louder, it is her dignity that is maintained as her world begins to unravel. Matt Jewson as Joseph matches her perfectly with a realistic portrayal of a man who doesn’t understand how his wife’s silence is undermining their relationship, and together they convincingly portray the pair as children and adolescents. Liam Bull multi-roles with ease, crystallising both casual and deep-seated racism, and Krupa Pattani is excellent as sassy female friends still unable to grasp Joanna’s attitude and shyness.William Hamilton Tighe’s elegant design adds to the nuances of the piece, and the action flows seamlessly from one scene to another, the themes becoming clearer as the play progresses. Perhaps occasionally Joanna’s anger and distress could be heightened, but the damaging effects of internalising racism – of accepting a standard of abuse just to survive – are powerfully conveyed.When Joanna reveals what happened to her brother, the title of the play is brought into crystal-clear focus. It’s a powerful piece that shows the lake of the title is racism itself.

Huddled together in a cell, using toothpicks for poker chips, three prisoners serving life sentences pass the long hours ahead of them playing cards: Norton (Sam Cox), a brash inmate intent on winning the game through trickery and subterfuge; Baxter (Ricky Fearon), more amenable but not above stacking the deck to his advantage; and Lenny (Peter Wight), whose Zimmer frame is an early sign of his vulnerability in this bleak environment. Lifers, thoughtfully written by Evan Placey, initially withholds the nature of their past crimes, allowing us to get to know them first as individuals, not offenders. Amidst bouts of verbal jousting and goading, we glimpse moments of fraternity and warmth between them. Yet always lurking are flights of temper and capriciousness, leading us to ponder the real reasons behind their incarceration.The story centres on Lenny in this Synergy Theatre Project production, a company dedicated to exploring issues related to the penal system and social justice. Plagued by incessant headaches, Lenny pleads with Sonya – the overworked and disillusioned prison doctor (Mona Goodwin) – to see a specialist. But under pressure from the governor to keep costs down, she is reluctant to grant him a referral, instead prescribing ibuprofen and a course of antidepressants. It’s only thanks to prison guard Mark (James Backway), who has witnessed firsthand the insidious onset of Lenny’s dementia, that he is eventually taken to hospital. Peter Wight plays Lenny terrifically, showcasing the scope of his acting ability by pivoting from unadulterated fury to heart-rending confusion, doubt and remorse. His performance is matched by a uniformly strong cast, each bringing a nuanced perspective to the moral complexity of the play.Under Esther Baker’s smart direction, the action moves between the prison cell, the local bar – where Mark and Sonya share a bottle of wine on a Friday – the hospital, and ultimately the end-of-life suite. The interplay between warm light and hostile shadows guides us through these transitions effortlessly.An unexpected bond between Lenny and Mark provides some of the most evocative moments. As Lenny’s grip on time and place fades, Mark comforts him by letting him believe he is his son. With a compassionate, tactile approach – at odds with how he is supposed to conduct himself as a prison guard – Mark learns the contours of Lenny’s recurring memories, knowing it brings him solace in an otherwise disorientating world.When Lenny’s son visits him in prison and reveals the truth behind his incarceration, our perception of his character, however naïve, is shattered. Yet Mark, convinced that ignorance will allow him to carry out his role without bias, has chosen not to learn why Lenny is serving a life sentence. And it is upon this question that Lifers ultimately hinges: should the treatment of prisoners – especially in the last stages of life – be contingent on the crime they committed?

R:Evolution is four pieces exploring the development of modern ballet, of interest to anyone seeking an introduction or refresher course. What a great idea from Aaron S Watkin, artistic director of the English National Ballet.Balanchine’s Theme and Variations, set to Tchaikovsky’s music, sparkles – not only with chandeliers, tutus and tiaras, but with precision of technique and geometric patterns that respond to the score, whether swirling woodwind or later horns. Two fine soloists, Emma Hawes and Aitor Arrieta, effortlessly shine. Redolent of the St Petersburg Balanchine came from, it is a superb start, showing the classical roots of ballet.In complete contrast, pointe shoes are abandoned for bare feet in Errand into the Maze, which exemplifies Martha Graham – the mother of modern dance – and her visceral, raw style. A reinterpretation of the Minotaur myth, it follows Ariadne as she discovers her subconscious desire symbolised by the Minotaur. The music by Menotti is equally raw, all drums and syncopation. The set is modernist, bare apart from a treelike abstraction, a pole and a Picassoesque bird. Movingly danced by Minju Kang, with Graham’s signature contortions to her core – twisting and at one point climbing onto the Minotaur’s thighs to dominate him – while Rentaro Nakaaki, as the Minotaur, falls vanquished to the floor. In its day it would have been shocking. Now, perhaps, it seems a little dated, with a limited range of movements, but the birth of modern expressivity is clear.William Forsythe’s Herman Schmerman (Quintet), set to music by Thom Willems, is a joy and, along with the Balanchine, a highlight of the evening. Sassy and slick, it gives classical ballet a syncopated shake, echoing the music. There is connection between the five dancers as they smile at each other, the males swagger and the females throw knowing looks at the audience.Sadly, David Dawson’s Four Last Songs lets the evening down. A strip of glowering cumulae suggests Sturm und Drang, and the dancers look naked in flesh-coloured bodysuits, perhaps to evoke the elemental. But the choreography is pretentious, overblown hype. There is no authentic emotional connection between the dancers, far too much running in circles with outstretched hands, repetitive moves and some dangerously high lifts – perhaps a desperate attempt to match Richard Strauss’s soaring music. However, live soprano Madeleine Pierard’s rich tones were wonderful.

There’s not a free seat in the house at the Dundee Fringe for this performance by the Four Magicians. In a magic world full of Colin Clouds, Penn and Tellers and Dynamos, it is refreshing to see that some old-school charm still sells out a room.These confident tricksters do not just perform the classic “pick a card, any card” tricks you might expect. From haunted dolls to plunging a sword through the neck of a spectator (yes, that’s right), every illusion is carried out with professionalism, leaving jaws on the floor. For the younger audience members down at the front attending their first magic show, to the seasoned adults in the back – including one who had brought his keen grandson – this show truly has something for everyone. Although, the children asking about the punchline to the Prince Andrew joke may have to wait a few years.From start to finish, this show is an absolute delight. The Four Magicians are skilled, funny and charming. It has been a long time since I have felt such boyhood wonder.

There’s an anticipation that a classic play such as this one will be “reinvented” in today’s climate. In an interesting programme note, director Tanuja Amarasuriya, winner of the RTST Award, was told by a producer: “I look forward to seeing what you do with that dusty museum piece.” She then defends its relevance, pointing out that toxic relationships abound and that opinions on social media are as strident as the play’s central relationship.Apart from an unnecessary opening song, which adds nothing to the show, she embraces the play’s roots but doesn’t manage to solve the problem that it shows its age – and that wife-beating played for jokes does not sit easily with 2025 audiences. The main problem is that her production is shrieky instead of zesty, lacking light and shade and any subtlety to explore the emotional minefield of obsessive love.This seeps into the performances. Noel Coward was a closeted gay man in 1930s Britain, and he created and played the part of Elyot when the play debuted. Maybe that is steeped in the DNA of the role, but Chirag Benedict Lobo’s performance is so camp and over the top it is hard to believe in his relationship with ex-wife and true passion Amanda. His single note is that of spoilt brat. Certainly, it gives Pepter Lunkuse little to work with, except to race towards over the top as well. There is no chemistry between them.Sade Malone gives a good performance as Sibyl, but again there is lack of nuance. Best of the four is Ashley Gerlach’s excellent Victor, really conveying his lovestruck innocence with strong comic timing. But the production is so strident we never really see the heartbreak under the selfish motivations of the main couple. Sensitivity about attitudes towards violence means that the fight sequences are a little insipid and telegraphed, even taking away an opportunity for the comedy to go dark. The second half also needs to pick up pace.Amy Jane Cook’s art deco set is gorgeous and functional, as are her costumes, but the wigs feel as if they are from a more modern age, featuring colours not popular in the 1930s.For me, the show is problematic as it is played in one pitch only, which is a great shame. As potent as cheap music is, it is the subtlety of the song that makes it memorable.

Would this show live up to the hype? A resounding YES. Powerful, hugely imaginative and devastating. In these troubled times and war in Gaza and Ukraine it is sad but also deeply relevant today that this show, War Horse, adapted by Nick Stafford from Michael Morpurgo’s novel, should be revived. As Morpurgo himself said: “It’s about the pity of war, a horse and a boy” – Joey and Albert. The original, directed by Tom Morris, was the National Theatre’s most successful production, a global phenomenon performed in 14 countries, seen by 8 million people, running since 2007 for seven years until the pandemic. Now, after a five-year break, it’s back under the direction of Katie Henry.Who would have thought back in 2007 that, due to War Horse, puppetry would become mainstream in the UK, although in eastern Europe and Russia it had long been valued in shows not only for children but for adults, even of the classics. Its success is due to the amazing South African puppetry company Handspring’s stunningly realistic horses, not only Joey but his companion Topthorn and several other more shadowy horses in the war scenes. Despite being made mainly of canvas and bicycle wire, their workings and puppeteers visible, it does not take long to forget the puppeteers as the horse (each with three puppeteers, one at the head) appears to breathe, ears twitch, tails swish, and they neigh and snicker just like the real animal. But it is the emotion between the boy and horse, and later men and horses, that makes this superb drama.The story starts in a Devon village, where Joey, a hunter gifted to Albert, is degraded to plough horse, sold to the cavalry and shipped to serve in the first world war pulling carts of heavy guns or of the dead and wounded. Albert, aged 16, enlists and follows, searching for Joey. There is a parallel story of Albert’s dysfunctional family and eventual reconciliation. Full cast performances as villagers or soldiers are impressive.The contrast between the village and the later war scenes is dramatic. There is also humour in the first half with another puppet, a goose which nips the backs of calves, contrasted in the war scenes with the sinister black raven puppets that peck out the eyes of the corpses.The bucolic village is suggested by birdsong and bird puppets swooping through the air on long rods. Mood and atmosphere are echoed in the suspended screen, like a piece of torn-off parchment with delicate sketches of countryside and village scenes by Rae Smith. Later these are replaced in the war scenes by harsh drawings of warships and machinery, then silhouettes of soldiers in the trenches. Stunningly vivid light and sound, simulacra of gunfire and explosions, is truly frightening and act one prefigures this with a terrifying charge as if into the audience. Throughout, the two worlds are linked by the strong performance of folk singer Sally Swanson on accordion or solo.Tom Sturgess as Albert is convincing as a naive but stubborn boy dedicated to his horse. Later, the performance of Alexander Ballinger as Captain Friedrich, a German deserter and also lover of horses, stands out. As the story moves from the trenches to no man’s land the stage is littered with corpses, both German and the Allies. It is the remarkable aspect of the show that both sides are represented, both are shown as humans and the pity and waste of war is clear. Yes, reader, I cried.

In 1969 on Long Island, artist Lee Krasner is painting in her studio when she is interrupted by Hank, a young delivery boy and aspiring artist. He brings her his portfolio, along with an incomplete canvas he claims was given to his father by Krasner’s late husband, Jackson Pollock. This is the central conflict driving Lee, now playing at the Park Theatre.The production initially struggles to build momentum, with little real tension until well into the play. Yet once the dispute over the painting emerges, the relationship between Lee and Hank takes strong form, as the two near-strangers with a shared passion begin to unpack the consequences of pursuing an artistic career. What follows is less a tightly driven drama than a layered conversation about creativity, ambition and grief.Helen Goldwyn leads the play with a nuanced performance as Krasner: fierce and inspired, yet fatigued from working in an overtly patriarchal industry. In one affecting moment, she asks Hank to name a female artist. After a long pause, he can only suggest her own name. Thirteen years after Pollock’s death, she is still haunted by his legacy. Tom Andrews’s Pollock appears in flashbacks and as a figure in her imagination – brash and often unkind. His depiction is grating to a modern audience, and at times feels superfluous to the direction of the plot. Structurally, Pollock’s onstage presence embodies his thematic place in Krasner’s world: an addition that is unnecessary but domineering, and frustratingly inevitable.Will Bagnall’s Hank provides a foil: earnest, eager and at times implausibly naïve about the art world. His dialogue with Krasner often feels more like an interview, but it allows the play to probe questions of authenticity, gender, and what it means to create art out of grief. Krasner grieves for Pollock and her mother; Hank for his father. Through their struggles emerges the unanswered question of how personal pain translates into artistic intent.By reimagining these encounters, Lee highlights both the struggles of female artists in a patriarchal system and the complicated dream of chasing artistic accomplishment in a traditionally flawed creative industry.

Take a deep breath. Actually, take several deep breaths, because you’re going to need them. Meanwhile, close your eyes and get pumped up to the disco rhythms of Pet Shop Boys and the voice of Jimmy Somerville proclaiming I Feel Love. There's nothing to see; the stage is bare.What follows is about language, delivery, and performance; about playwright Philip Ridley, actor Louis Davison, and director Weibke Green — an experienced triumvirate of talent that takes the Arcola Theatre by storm for some 90 minutes or so with The Poltergeist; an exhilarating monodrama of breathtaking intensity.Davison owns the space from the moment he walks on and surveys the scene, which is his audience. His blue-grey eyes are wide open, and his strikingly shaped eyebrows move up and down, giving expression to his thoughts and emotions. He’s 26, 5'11" (1.80m), with short hair. He looks casually cool, wearing a white t-shirt, an open-fronted short-sleeved beige shirt, black belted trousers, and matching narrow chains around his neck and left wrist. With his presence asserted, he bursts into creating the character of Sasha.Outward appearances can be deceptive, and beneath the smooth exterior, Sasha is a deeply disturbed individual. At the age of 15, he was hailed as a prodigy by the art world. His works were sought after, and he had high hopes of becoming a superstar. A tragedy turned all that on its head, and now he lives in a run-down flat with Chet, his out-of-work boyfriend, and is unknown.Reluctantly, they both attend a children's party to celebrate his niece’s birthday. Though not direct family, Chet has less of an issue with it than Sasha. He has to deal with the birthday girl, whom he delights in referring to as “the brat,” his brother, Flynn, with whom he has a strained relationship, and likewise with his sister-in-law, Niamh. The event serves as the catalyst for emotional reflection on a past that haunts him while he angrily deals with the present. At breakneck speed, Davison creates each of these characters and more, each precisely defined with posture, accent, and gesture, as Sasha becomes embroiled in codeine-fueled conversations and commentary. Every inch of space is used under Green’s direction, and Davison exposes Sasha’s tormented condition not just through the agile delivery of the hugely demanding text, but also the energy and vigour with which he moves from one location to the next.Ridley has created a massively demanding role in Sasha, but as with Joseph Potter three years ago, when the play was performed at the Arcola, Davison excels in interpreting the part and delivering an astonishing, awe-inspiring performance.

MEDEA, co-written by Adelaide Leonard and Bobby Halvorson and directed by Daniel Wallentine, is a bold reimagining of Euripides’ tragedy, relocated to a bleak New Mexico trailer park. Leonard, in the role of Maddy, gives a magnetic performance, moving effortlessly between vulnerability and fury. She also inhabits multiple other characters: her estranged husband Jay, their daughter Bella, and Ashley, the nauseatingly chipper interloper who has replaced her. The Ashley scene is a highlight, with Leonard playing the brightness and obliviousness of Jay’s new partner against Maddy’s simmering rage so precisely that the line between comedy and tragedy becomes razor-thin.It’s not immediately clear what the production gains by setting this classic tale in New Mexico, beyond a nod to the state’s struggles with poverty and violence. Still, the staging makes inventive use of the COLAB Tunnel’s industrial space. The wide playing area allows for imaginative depictions of the trailer park, while a large portable ring light becomes a clever, multipurpose tool. It shifts from domestic glow to harsh interrogation beam, underlining the production’s tonal shifts. The venue does pose challenges: outside noise seeps into moments meant to hinge on silence. Since the play relies heavily on long, charged pauses, these intrusions occasionally undercut the tension Leonard so carefully builds. By contrast, scenes underscored by sound effects and music remain unaffected.The opening feels scattered, as exposition and character introductions vie for attention. But once the story locks into Maddy’s spiralling attempts to hold her life together, the production finds its rhythm. A striking moment comes when she tries to renovate her trailer to regain custody of Bella, only for her planning to unravel into rambling that echoes across multiple audio tracks. It’s never quite clear what haunts Maddy most: the implied schizophrenia of this breakdown, her past trauma of escaping a cult, or her inability to build a stable life in Santa Fe. Regardless, her descent into desperation and violence feels steady and believable.Despite its rough edges, MEDEA at COLAB Tower is an arresting, resonant piece of theatre, anchored by a luminous central performance.

Erica Burns' new production of Measure for Measure for the RSC gives Shakespeare’s problem play a clear and wholly unproblematic treatment. Laid bare is the feeble, dangerous reality of ‘godly’ men who all too happily commit the very acts their purported virtues refute — and which, moreover, they deny to the mere mortals they preside over.Zakk Hein’s opening video montage of abstemious luminaries such as Epstein, Trump, Weinstein, and Andrew Windsor ignites the burning anger at the heart of the piece, receiving a ripple of cathartic applause from the audience for its trouble. Burns layers this further by suggesting that Duke Vincentio’s speedy departure from Vienna at the outset of the piece is, in fact, a ruse to detract from some dodgy photographs seemingly about to hit the press.His replacement is Angelo: a goodly man whose own monastic demeanour informs the puritanical tyranny that will underpin his leadership. Bad news for young shagger Claudio, promptly arraigned and sentenced to death for impregnating his girlfriend. And even worse for Claudio’s virtuous sister, Isabella, whose pleas for her brother’s life result in a proposition from this outwardly sainted deputy.As Angelo, Tom Mothersdale assumes a snivelling, weaselly demeanour somewhat at odds with his grand position. This odious little twerp would be hard pressed to get elected to the Village Hall tombola committee — and yet here he is, dangling the keys to the castle. So far, so familiar to anyone invested in British politics across the last few years. Dunning–Kruger would have a field day.Isis Hainsworth plays the unhappy Isabella with a nervous energy and outrage that chimes most effectively within the contemporary framework. However, in choosing to downplay the faith that informs her very essence of being, the extremity of Isabella’s plight is also reduced, as is the true horror of Angelo’s controlling, perverted lust. This is one of the few missteps in an otherwise stunning commentary on the sanctimonious babblings of those who weaponise religiosity to further their political ambitions, and it minimises an opportunity to juxtapose the quietude of real belief against its flashier, emptier cousin.Burns has played fast and loose with the original text, but without the risible trend for deploying modern slang and expletives that has so insidiously worked its way into the canon. Generations of GCSE students are now primed to believe Will was liberally sprinkling his parchments with a hefty dose of ‘bollocks’ and ‘okays’. And while this particular interpretation may not please the textual purists, there is no denying that liberating lines and concepts from other Shakespearean texts and repurposing them is nothing if not... well... Shakespearean. Burns ably demonstrates that Shakespeare himself is always enough, and her adaptation certainly offers enough toe-holds for an audience to climb the tree of understanding both her own vision and sufficient of the original.Frankie Bradshaw’s bleak, greeny-grey set of straight lines and steel panels underpins the rigidity of supposed virtue extolled by the state: there is right and there is wrong. There are strict parameters. There are punishments measured to fit the crime. And yet, the very dynamism of the set — and its ability to shape-shift — points to the fluctuating morality of those who sit at the heart of government.And no one embodies this posturing more than Vincentio himself. Adam James is quite magnificent as the deus ex machina of the piece: in this iteration, elevated to a gratifyingly more central figure than in the more traditional takes. His early swaggering pomposity lends a particularly seedy edge to his later vicar cosplay: performative Christianity writ large as ineffectual and hollow.The nightmare realisation that this strutting, self-satisfied charlatan is indeed where the buck stops is not a new one, but its magnification is something this text has been crying out for for centuries. The relationship between Vincentio’s assumed role of simpering, voyeuristic priest and those of real faith is something that could have borne closer inspection had Isabella’s sisterhood been given its rightful place in the plot.Oli Higginson as the unfortunate Claudio and Douggie McMeekin as the shambling Lucio provide standout support. There are also strong performances from Natasha Jayetileke as a Provost bemused by the foolishness of those she serves and Valentine Hanson as a (one presumes genuine) man of God relegated to the sidelines as others steal his religious thunder. But this is fundamentally James' show: sharp of suit and slick of soundbite, Vincentio has perfected how to smile and smile and be a villain, as exemplified by the repulsive sham he forces Isabella through in order to unmask the patsy Angelo and take any heat away from himself.Shakespeare’s prescience in imagining a sex scandal that focuses on the hypocrisy of the elite and the silence of the abused needs shamefully little invention to make it relevant to a contemporary audience. “Who will believe thee, Isabella?” slimes the prenzie Angelo upon having exhorted a novice nun to yield her virginity to him, immediately conjuring the power imbalance that can constrict victims from reporting their abusers for many years. It weighs heavily. “Who would believe me?” echoes Isabella miserably, uttering not only her own cri de cœur, but a survivor’s anthem for the ages.

Beneath the rustic facade of The Weir lie themes that resonate with personal experience, adding a depth that will be different for each audience member, bearing out the idea that “the tallest tales reveal the deepest truths”.Written and directed by Conor McPherson at the Harold Pinter Theatre, Rae Smith’s costume and set design roots us in the realism that pervades the play. We are immediately at home in a rural Irish pub, with shelves of whiskey bottles and beer taps that will dispense a good many pints during the next hour and three-quarters. The dark woodwork of the walls, bar top and occasional tables, dining chairs and stools dominate the room, while a couple of upholstered armchairs provide more comfortable seating. With the bar set to one side, the stage is open with plenty of room for movement and changes of position. This is important for a play that consists largely of each character, in turn, telling a story while the others listen. In between their tales there is lively banter and plenty of classic Irish humour. Mark Henderson’s subdued amber lighting, which dims so warmly, completes the moody scene against the background of a windy night, subtly created by sound designer Gregory Clarke.Undeterred by the weather, four local men gather for yet another night in the pub. Owen McDonnell awaits them as Brendan, the barman, who is part of the furniture. Humble yet convivial, he knows his customers well, meets their needs, listens to their words and conveys a welcoming charm. With him is his long-standing handyman Jim. Seán McGinley is many years older than the suggested age in the original script, but his wealth of years is ideally suited to the slightly cynical local whose spontaneous quips show that he misses nothing.There is much that is very ordinary in what they say, as is the norm in bar-room chat, and with lyrical Irish voices the joy is as much in the sounds as the content. Brendan Gleeson dominates as soon as he enters, with his hulking figure and wry smile. He is Jack, the man around whom the evening seems to revolve, though all the characters have their turn. He soon turns the everyday into a personal revelation of Jack’s lost love – a melancholy reminiscence of what might have been that has haunted him for decades.In contrast, Tom Vaughan-Lawlor is every bit the showman as Finbar, a spiv who behaves as though he might break into a song-and-dance routine while selling you a dodgy second-hand car. He has actually left the village for Dublin and a real estate agency, and he has brought his outside influences home with him. He has also brought Valerie. Kate Phillips plays the only non-Irish character, who shows the unease of being an outsider but ends up having the most tragic story of them all, and gains their sympathies.The Weir is a snapshot of common interactions and testament to the power of simplicity. Nothing much happens, but all stands witness to the emotional strength of storytelling, the joys of camaraderie and how much we need the things we so often take for granted.

Over the past decade or so, the theatre world has embraced the trend of turning familiar books and films into musicals. One of the more recent additions is Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief, based on the book by Rick Riordan and currently on tour in the United Kingdom.Unfortunately, the show suffers from two significant problems in its writing – the songs and the pacing. Some of the songs are underwritten, with lyrics that are too simplistic. Strong is especially guilty of this, being far too easy to predict line by line. In addition, numbers that should have received powerful reprises – particularly Good Kid, the best song in the show – are woefully underused. The story itself is strong, drawn from a bestselling book, but the pacing is uneven. The musical places its interval at the end of what should really have been the prologue, leaving an entire book’s worth of adventure crammed into a longer-than-average second act.However, this production is not all bad. It boasts a strong cast of actors with powerful voices, and the main trio – Vasco Emauz (Percy), Cahir O’Neill (Grover) and Kayna Montecillo (Annabeth) – have good onstage chemistry that would be even more impactful were their characters given more room to breathe.The sets and stage effects are also hugely impressive. The set, based on the underground LA tunnels, creates a grand yet urban environment for the characters to inhabit, while the use of projection in each scene is striking, particularly when portraying Percy’s powers. A standout stage effect is Percy’s pen that transforms into a sword, smoothly executed and setting the show off on a strong footing.Ultimately, the production suffers from a loyalty to its source material that hampers its ability to pace itself as a stage show. It is likely to be best enjoyed by Percy Jackson fans – and therein lies its worth. Writer Joe Tracz has noted that he sometimes hears this musical was someone’s first entry into theatre. This show has its problems, but they are not unfixable or unforgivable. And if it gets a book-reader into the theatre – or a theatre-goer into the books – then perhaps it has contributed something of value after all.

Mari Crawford is familiar with labels. She has seen thousands of them on the pill bottles she has worked her way through since being diagnosed with bipolar II disorder at the age of 19. Hundreds of them form an apron around the stage. These labels are inoffensive, unlike some pinned on those who live with the condition they treat. Her show’s label, Bipolar Badass, struck me as interesting rather than inviting, but having it on offer in Dundee, where the spirit of fringe theatre abounds, it was an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone.My fears of having to endure an introspective, navel-gazing lament, with a woe-is-me narrative designed to elicit sympathy, were quickly allayed. This is an upbeat, positive challenge to the monster that tries to dominate her life. Imaginatively and amusingly, she likens her chronic illness to a fire-breathing dragon in her brain that takes on a persona, genetically inherited from her late grandmother, who endured unethical medical treatment. It is a legacy she did not ask for and does not want, but then neither did her gran.Her show is a wide-ranging discourse on how her condition has been viewed, and on the stigma and ignorance that still surround it. She shows how both entertainment and social media have long given ill-informed portrayals of people with the condition, and highlights the manifestations it can take. There are times of losing touch with reality, of aural and visual hallucinations, delusional situations, suicidal thoughts and episodes of self-harm.She performs and speaks with expertise, having studied acting at the British American Drama Academy and worked as a peer counsellor with the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). Later this year she will study at Ecole Philippe Gaulier, which might give even more energy and physicality to a show that is already fast-paced and full of action – necessary skills in dealing with a dragon.Her coping mechanism has been to embrace the mythical beast and work with it; fighting against it only makes it angrier, she learned. Hence humour abounds, and she exudes a sense of triumphant power that vanquishes fear.This is a well-constructed show that successfully combines entertainment with insight to create an uplifting and inspirational tale of triumph over adversity.

Theatre often affords rare opportunities, and at Dundee Fringe this week we had the chance to hear the delightfully evocative voice of Lucy Beth in her solo show Ma Name Is Isabelle.It comes as no surprise that Beth was nominated for the Artist of the Year award as part of the Scottish Emerging Talent Awards in 2024. She is an accomplished storyteller who has honed her craft with the skills that make for engagement. The varying paces and levels of delivery are embedded in the emotions of the storyline: sometimes soft and lyrical, carefully measuring the metre of rhyming couplets that assist the flow of the narrative, then in marked contrast raging with anger as the story becomes darker and she voices Isabelle’s frustrations.Running for a tight 45 minutes, Beth introduces the story with an explanatory note in English regarding the language and style of the work. Why? Because the story itself is delivered in Doric, her native dialect from the north-east of Scotland, giving an aspect to the performance as intriguing as the story itself.Many words are shared by both languages and others are so closely related in sound that their meaning in context is clear. Some words and expressions might be unknown to non-Doric speakers, but again the manner of delivery and setting allow for a good guess at what is being said.It is Beth’s talent in that area that makes listening so easy and joyful. Seemingly lacking the harsher gutturals of Gaelic, the tone for the most part is mellifluous and the mood mellow, reflecting the pastoral Highland nature of the story. However, it can still be spat out with the throat fully engaged, especially when delivering words that end in “cht” and “ght”, with the tongue working overtime, rapidly vibrating the uvula at the alveolar ridge to produce the trill – the art of simply rolling your r’s.The story is a reimagining of the famous bothy ballad Bogie’s Bonnie Belle, related from the protagonist’s perspective – an angle that historically has been overlooked. Isabelle is a young woman who was impregnated against her will by her lover, James, on her father’s farm. She expresses the challenges she faced in her relationship with James and the conflicts she endured as an unmarried mother whose pain was increased by the removal of her son. The tale highlights the strict moral codes of local communities and the church. The weight of inner shame, public disgrace and excommunication from the community that young women endured is matched in Isabelle’s case by her resilience, strength and triumph over adversity.Ma Name Is Isabelle is a superbly told and powerful statement about female oppression and degradation that also bears witness to the courage of making a stand and fighting back.AcknowledgementsThe work was commissioned by Eden Court Theatre and Tobar an Dualchais/Kist O Riches, Scotland’s online resource dedicated to the presentation and promotion of audio recordings of the country’s cultural heritage, as part of the Scrieve Project for the 2024 Under Canvas festival. During the research and development process, Lucy collaborated with Kist O Riches Scots song cataloguer Chris Wright to research Belle’s experiences and present a speculative yet plausible depiction of what she may have endured.

We begin at the end of their relationship, as Dylan sheepishly returns to Roz’s flat to collect his belongings. There’s still a hint of affection between them: Roz has gone to the effort of arranging his console games in order, something Dylan finds both touching and unnerving. He’s offered water (not tea) and, despite their efforts to be cordial, the breakup is just too raw. It’s an interesting way to introduce us to the characters, flipping the script so we’re left pondering what led the couple to this bitter denouement.Both actors are assured in their respective roles. Dylan, played by Fraser Allan Hogg, is an adrift and disillusioned graduate, reluctant to apply for work that’s unrelated to his degree, whereas Roz, played by Lorna Panton, is pragmatic and headstrong, with hopes of starting a family. There’s something slightly antiquated about the gender dynamic here—where the male character is career-focused and the female counterpart is primarily defined by her maternal aspirations.Written and directed by Matt Anderson, this two-hander is structured as a series of vignettes that move in a non-linear way back and forth throughout their relationship. It’s an ambitious way to approach a breakup narrative. In its best moments, these fragmented scenes hold a mirror up to how human memory works—the way moments from the past flash before us unbidden.Yet, when the play tackles weightier topics—such as miscarriage—the character of Dylan doesn’t feel fully realised, making it difficult for him to engage with Roz in a meaningful way. It’s a subject that calls for delicacy, and I fear Shotgunned may have slightly missed the mark here. If the intention was to comment on how some men struggle to truly sympathise with a partner after losing a pregnancy, then Dylan certainly offers this. But I’m not convinced this was the aim. Indeed, when Dylan makes a quip about the correct name of his console at a heightened emotional moment, the scene suddenly falls apart. This doesn’t detract from Lorna Panton’s performance, which, at one point, lays bare Roz’s loneliness and grief with sincerity.Shotgunned succeeds in capturing the precarity of life in your early twenties as well as the tender awkwardness of early love. But, despite some strong performances, the play doesn’t offer a nuanced perspective on the more complex themes it seeks to explore.

Tiff Stevenson is officially the only comedian at the Fringe who has ever made me laugh at a bit about farting. It’s a subject that routinely (pardon the stand-up pun) bores me. And yet, I found myself doubled over at the Hive at Monkey Barrel, watching her tickle the audience’s funny bone again and again.One of the opening routines involves manifestation – a new age trend that isn’t quite what it seems. Stevenson turns it on its head as she speaks to one twenty-something woman at the back of the room. It’s not just funny – it’s eye-opening to the rest of us.The breadth of her material is striking. From finding a guardian angel through TikTok to her days as a ‘grid girl’, her jokes are both hilarious and thought-provoking. But it’s the moments when she speaks about dealing with her father’s dementia that reveal Stevenson’s deeper skill: she doesn’t just pluck jokes from everyday subjects. She skilfully weaves her way through the darkness, acting as our torch through the tunnel – finding jokes and catharsis in the shadows.Post-Coital finds Stevenson at the top of her game – the kind of show that proves why the comedy world rates her so highly, and why the rest of the world needs to catch up. Audiences might disagree about whether the show is “sexy yet”, but there’s no debate about whether it’s funny. With Tiff Stevenson, it always has been.

In the hands of director Daniel Evans, Liz Duffy Adams’s well-researched play about the relationship between William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe becomes something of a comic showcase for Edward Bluemel and Ncuti Gatwa – though their performances are nevertheless impressive.On the expansive stage of Wyndham’s Theatre, Born With Teeth asks us to imagine a cramped room above an inn, where the literary giants pen pages of Henry VI Part I, a work now shown to be a collaboration. It’s a tall order, especially with only a table for a set and vast banks of lights beaming out at us – 80 on the rear wall and 56 on each side – with scene changes marked by pixelated projections.In the early 1590s Marlowe was the man of the day, with Shakespeare still a mere fledgling. Marlowe was also a government spy, which gives rise to much talk of Catholic-Protestant rivalry and faith in general, along with his atheism, debauchery, procrastination and attempts to seduce his fellow playwright, placing historic rumours beyond speculation. The contrast is sharp: Will, single-minded in his commitment to finishing the play, is cast as a sensible family man who avoids trouble.Life’s dangers are well aired, but reported second-hand, which dulls their impact. If only these teeth had more to bite into – some first-hand politicking, heresy and treason to immerse us in. Instead, we are left with an abundance of physicality and frolics, mixed with too much puerile humour and schoolboy smut.

Philip Ridley was already known as a visual artist and screenwriter (The Krays) when his first professional stage play was performed at the old Bush Theatre in 1991. The Pitchfork Disney took the theatre world by storm. Now acclaimed as a seminal work, it received a mixed reception at the time: mostly negative from established critics, but positive from young audiences who relished the power, complexity and vivid imagery of his writing, and the brazen affront to dramatic norms.Haley (Elizabeth Connick) and Presley (Ned Costello) live in isolation. It’s ten years since an unspecified event took their parents away, and nothing has changed in the house they grew up in. They have barely matured, still behaving as children. The only growth has been in their fear of the outside world – and their love of chocolate.Kit Hinchcliffe’s design and Ben Jacobs’s lighting faithfully create the ‘dimly lit room in the East End of London’ with furnishings that are ‘worn and faded’. The pallid palette runs through the walls, the fabric of the shabby sofa and the carpet. Along with the wooden table and chest of drawers, everything belongs to a bygone age.Their lives revolve around stories, some based on past events and wildly embellished, others drawn from a post-apocalyptic vision of a world in which only they and their house survive. They listen with biblical devotion to each other retelling these tales, sometimes interjecting with an extra detail which is then absorbed into the next version. Both deliver remarkably intense, fast-paced monologues: two highly animated ones early on from Connick, followed later by a five-page belter from Costello (one of the longest ever written for the stage).They shun the outside world and relationships, except their own as non-identical twins. Presley reluctantly visits the corner shop, but Haley never ventures out, always successfully arguing her case to remain in the safety of the house. Five front-door locks guard against intruders – in their minds, only minimal protection against who or what might enter. Haley trusts Presley never to let anyone in, but one day he sees a tall, 18-year-old blonde Adonis getting out of a car and opens the door while she is deep in her daily drug-induced sleep.Presley sees in Cosmo (William Robinson) someone who might give him the recognition he craves – the sort his father used to give him with a pat on the head. Although the air simmers with sexual undertones, Presley makes his position clear: “I am not a homosexual. I just want you to say my name.” Now the tension really mounts. Robinson’s Cosmo has an unnerving, menacing demeanour, his behaviour able to change on a whim. But the truly terrifying experience comes with the entrance of his performance partner, Pitchfork Cavalier (Matt Yulish), a latter-day Darth Vader who cannot speak but makes chilling noises. That these figures are recognisably human makes their words and actions all the more daunting.It’s a play of contrasts: the past and the present; the real and the imaginary; logical arguments derived from irrational premises; spaciousness and claustrophobia. The most grotesque figure is also the gentlest. Power and control is a battleground for the twins, but Cosmo takes it to another level, showing the malign manipulation and darkness of human nature in full force. If Cosmo feeds his obsession with money by eating cockroaches as part of his pub act, Presley is coerced into doing so as an act of submission.If you want to know what all the fuss was about in 1991, visit the King’s Head Theatre, Islington, for this stunningly performed production, brilliantly directed by Max Harrison for Lidless Theatre. It’s an engrossing, mesmerising and disquieting theatrical triumph.

Normally, if an Edinburgh Fringe show gets announced late in the game, it’s a challenge to get the word out in time. It’s a testament, then, to host and producer Paul Savage that his compilation, The Big Naked Comedy Show, added after the festival began, performed to a packed yurt – perhaps aided by the fact that he and his lineup of four comedians delivered their sets… you guessed it… in the nude.Savage is a strong and experienced host who controls the room to ensure it is respectful and supportive. He is the perfect anchorman, creating the right atmosphere for the comedians to bare all, while delivering his typically high-quality material and links.Opener Dave Chawner pulled in some decent laughs. The novel setting affords the opportunity to adapt performances for the environment, but Chawner kept his set mostly as it would have been delivered at a normal mixed-bill night.Stacey, the only female on the bill, did adapt her set, creating a fun guessing game that wouldn’t work when dressed. This really took advantage of the format and demonstrated how memorable moments can be created. She also briefly invited members of the mostly male audience to join the performers in their state of undress, but nobody had the cojones.The penultimate act was Pat Hargreaves, who started slowly but pulled the audience back onside with a funny insight into his living arrangements, followed by headliner Alex Camp. Camp got the best response with some fun, short songs on the guitar, despite being devastated at not getting an applause for his bottom.The format of the show was very ‘Ed Fringe’: bold, commercial, inventive and inclusive. All the acts were decent, but in a festival full of high-level performers willing to try things outside their comfort zone, including experienced physical comedians who are likelier to have routines with nudity already in their arsenal, we could have hoped for a stronger lineup on the day. That said, no audience will leave without a dose of nudity, and I have faith that the format can pick up steam and continue creating empowering atmospheres and memorable moments for many Fringes to come.

I first saw Chloe Matonis as Lieutenant Love Dr Hotty McTotty at Broken Planet, one of my favourite shows of the entire Fringe. She gave a compelling five-minute segment in the rotating cast of the late-night cabaret, but I had no idea how that would translate to an hour-long show.Suffice to say, Hotty McTotty delivers in spades. Or perhaps hearts, based on the shades, badges and general vibe of the show.The performance operates under the premise of being a futuristic super soldier sent back from the year 2075 on a mission to revive human connection and stop the loneliness epidemic. Lt Love Dr's Boot Camp for Lonely People Like You is a show about bad dates, slightly awkward interactions, and a great deal of heart. Chloe Matonis is a compelling performer who brings a mostly eager performance with just a mite of vulnerability to her role. The performance feels part game show, part boot camp, which had everyone shouting, "Love, yes, Love!" in response to instructions.This kind of show is the beating heart of Fringe comedy. It is zany, out there, and you have to engage with it if you want to have fun. There are also pearls of wisdom here and practical skills – sort of. The whole show is interspersed with great crowd work and a running discourse from the good Lieutenant Doctor so that everyone stayed comfortable. Highlights included speed dating, with a failsafe against incest built in, and first dates for some of the audience.There’s also just a mite of satire baked into the sci-fi, with digs taken at being on one’s phone too much, difficulty with eye contact, and outdoor time restricted to walking one’s Roomba for enrichment. This feels like a solid performance. Matonis is excellent at character work, and I think I wound up as a hand-touching fiend by the end.

Loud Poets is a Scotland-based spoken word organisation which endeavours to find the best poetic talent across the nation and put them centre stage. After witnessing today’s lineup, I’d have to say they're meeting their mission statement.The Loud Poets running today’s event were Mark Gallie and Katie Ailes, with an illness from co-host Kevin McLean making way for an extra guest spot. Mark opened the show with a glorious poem providing commentary on the nature of poetry, which struck me as the kind of material Stewart Lee might come up with if he ever immersed himself in the world of slam poetry. This was followed by an affectionately self-aware and self-deprecating insightful piece from Katie.By the time we had heard from our regular hosts, it had become apparent that, while accessible to first-time Loud Poets audiences, you needed to be familiar with the brand and performers to fully appreciate it. This first struck me by the brief manner in which the lead performers introduced themselves, while guest acts had their names electrifyingly emblazoned onto the screen. Moreover, Katie’s poem, while excellent, felt like a gift to an ingroup who already knew her, while I would have liked an insight into her style to pique my curiosity before delving into the minutiae of her thought processes.Mark and Katie then performed a stunning duet Dungeons & Dragons poem with vim and vigour, assisted wonderfully by Jack Hinks’s bard. They showed great teamwork and chemistry, and Mark’s dragon voice was something to behold. It’s refreshing to see poetry pushing boundaries and playing around with different formats that help separate it from the type you probably think of when you hear the word ‘poetry’.The first guest act was Ben Macpherson, whose own show, Poems at Adults, I had very much enjoyed the day before. Ben pulled out his three biggest hitters – a trilogy of liquid-themed pieces, with music from Hinks to accompany proceedings. Ben has masterful control of tension, building each piece to an epic conclusion, and his self-proclaimed ‘flex’ poem, the univocalic (one vowel only) O Pos, must be heard live to be believed. If you like poets who deliver a variety of styles and can make you laugh, cry and ponder, you’ll want to keep an eye out for him next year.The final act was Kate Ireland, who has also been taking the Fringe by storm with her theatrical piece Golden Time. Golden Time felt poetic, and so it was unsurprising to see her on this elite lineup. Kate’s performance was a powerhouse, deftly juggling being amusing and personable with powering and inspiring insights into her grandmother and various other aspects of her life.With Mark and Katie returning for swan songs about the Netflix ghost and anti-Trump activism respectively, there was certainly room for another act or two within the 75-minute runtime of the show, but nobody could complain about who we saw tonight. The lead and support poets were all of the standard you’d expect from a Loud Poets event, convincing the whole audience they truly are a few cuts above the standard you might expect to see at a regular poetry night. Perhaps this goes some way to justifying why their audiences don’t need an introduction to the core performers – once you attend their show, you’ll want to come back again.

Lost in Translation is a simple-sounding show that just screams ‘Edinburgh Fringe’. The script of a classic movie is taken, cut down to 60 minutes, translated into other languages and back into English. A cast of performers from across the festival is then invited to come and read the script on stage without any preparation time. It’s a chef’s kiss of a concept, and with a wealth of capable performers available to them, should be a guaranteed riot every time.Today’s performance was of a sleeper hit from the 90s called Titanic, and starred five acts plus a regular host. The performers were Sophie Allison as Jack and Sarah Baber as Rose, with Amy Sinclair, Nathan Stavridis and Keiran Bullock in supporting roles.The show is very enjoyable, with a lot of time and effort clearly going into the script – much more so than simply translating back and forth a few times. It’s well controlled for continuity and exploiting humorous understatements – such as referring to the ‘Ship of Dreams’ throughout as a ‘canoe’. I was curious about which languages had been used for translation at various points, but suspect a fair amount of creative license was taken in the writing than the premise suggests. Too many jokes just felt written rather than happened upon, and for me, this lost trust in the format, as one could never be sure what was a genuine golden nugget and which references were written under the pretext of the translation process.One thing that was never in doubt, however, was that the audience was fully into it. There’s a lot of concentrating involved – a 60-minute scripted summary of a 200-minute movie is pretty intense, and yet almost every single line got laughter from the majority of the room. Any comedian getting this much consistent laughter for a full hour would be looking at strong odds to sweep the awards; I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything quite like it, especially as I wasn’t quite as into it as most.The actors didn’t all aim to embody their characters, and the supporting roles were only used for about a quarter of the show. The audience, who could easily have been brought in with props such as ice cubes or cues to chip in one-liners, were reduced to just being invited to boo when Cal came on.If you’re planning on seeing Lost in Translation in the future, you’ll definitely want to browse their film schedule in advance because having a good understanding of the movie they’re parodying is a prerequisite to enjoying the show, and they do a different one each night.If this were performed in a small room without a supportive audience, it could be a challenging hour, but with a total amount of laughter from the crowd today that rivals anything I’ve ever heard before, it’s clear that this ship won’t be sinking for a while.

Jack Off the Beanstalk is a reasonably fun adult pantomime, taking many of the tropes of traditional pantos and twisting them for an adult audience. As the title suggests, this is Jack and the Beanstalk reimagined, with our impoverished hero selling his cows for beans, which grow into the stalk that leads him to a world where Giant Donald Trump reigns supreme.The premise could work, but the production feels amateur. The writing is weak, with streams of lazy innuendo delivered by one-dimensional characters. A couple of songs fall flat, and none of the actors truly take ownership of their roles. The strongest performance comes from a Cinderella-type character trapped in Trump’s castle, but she spends most of the show offstage and only appears ten minutes before the end. Rhyming interludes from angelic and demonic guides land fairly well, but lack gravitas, and the actors never quite connect with their audience.The plot is coherent, and there are laughs to be had. Yet there are many missed opportunities to make it feel like an event. The classic audience interactions of “He’s behind you!” and “Oh, no, he isn’t!” are glossed over or absent, and when a loud-mouthed audience member heckled throughout, he was ignored – only to be invited onstage later.This is not a bad show, and if the premise appeals it will entertain. But with the wealth of highbrow, thought-provoking comedy available, or even sillier shows that raise laughs without leaning on clumsy digs at Trump and the church, your time is probably better spent elsewhere.

Anyone who has ever built flatpack furniture solo – or, worse, with a partner – will tell you it is no easy feat. It is not something to undertake quickly or while trying to be funny. Certainly not while your neighbour is trying to sabotage your efforts. This is what makes IKEA Wars work: it presents perhaps the worst-case scenario for home furniture construction and tells contestants to have at it.There is no IKEA in New Zealand – which perhaps makes it a little odd that a Kiwi hosts IKEA Wars. Regardless, Kieran Bullock leads the audience with ease, keeping us engaged in the project while also delivering quality standup. His act feels like a well-screwed-together cabinet: there is very little rattle or looseness in its construction. He also seems to know the kind of audience he will draw – from those who have no idea what they’ve wandered into for late-night entertainment to neurodivergents who are here for the love of the game and have big feelings about screw organisation. Falling into the latter category, I was rapt from the start.IKEA Wars boils down to two contestants building a RASTOG wheelie storage unit while undercutting each other with sabotages. These range from ten seconds of wreaking havoc on the other’s construction to forcing an opponent to be a T-rex for four minutes. While the latter stricken contestant was keen to have normal arm usage back, I think he enjoyed being a dino – the mask stayed on and only seemed to empower him.The crowd also knew exactly how to get involved. The space is perhaps not ideal for this sort of conflict – those at the back couldn’t fully see once construction was underway – but a huddle soon formed. It had the energy usually reserved for when someone has gubbed their car in a public spot, or when men have opinions about how charred meat should be at a barbecue. I was especially entertained during one sabotage when the crowd broke into urgent chanting of “Hide the wheels! Hide the wheels!”This was my last show of the Fringe, and I was glad it was a little niche and out there. Bullock was running his own tech, the two flatpacks looked like they’d been through hell, and the crowd were thoroughly entertained. If nothing else, it was a lovely way to close Fringe with a call to support local artists once everyone goes home after the festival. If you can’t be charmed by that – and by a guy in a dino mask “Grargh!”ing as he wields an allen key before a chanting crowd – then I think you’re at the wrong arts festival.

As has been the custom for the last few years, Frinton Summer Theatre shrugs off the confines of McGrigor Hall and closes with a musical in the Big Top near the shoreline. It’s a wonderful summer event, and this year’s choice of Guys & Dolls is a firm audience favourite.Directed by multi-award winner Janie Dee (including two Oliviers), expectations were high for this production. Unfortunately, the show fell a little flat on opening night, needing much more energy to fill such a large space, and hampered by consistent head mic problems – either switched off or too low. This is not to say that the company cannot achieve greatness during the run, but I can only review the performance I witnessed. And it was a nervy first night.There are many positives: Lenny Turner belts it out as Sky Masterson, Isabella Gervais grows into Sarah Brown after a nervous start, and Fabian Soto Pacheco makes a strong Nathan Detroit, capturing his mood swings well. Josephina Ortiz Lewis, however, is still finding her Miss Adelaide. She might benefit from a more flamboyant approach, and diction was sometimes unclear – though mic issues played their part.The ensemble works hard. Outstanding turns include Jack McCann as Nicely Nicely Johnson, who leads the show-stopping Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat with real verve. Yet even here the number was angled mainly towards one section of the auditorium. As the song is reprised, I felt there was a missed opportunity to reset the chairs and play it out to the whole audience. Sorcha Corcoran’s excellent set of larger-than-life dice and chips allows the action to flow, and Tracy Collier’s choreography makes good use of the space.The band is excellent, and the choir add depth and lift to the big numbers. It is in those show-stopping tunes that the energy lies – and that energy needs to infuse the rest of the production. Even allowing for a late start, at over three hours it’s a show that needs to, and surely will, pick up pace.

Blood on the Clocktower is a social deduction game in the vein of Werewolf, Secret Hitler and The Traitors, but with the added twist that every single person has their own secret role with hidden powers used at different points in the game. The aim is to deduce who the Demon is and kill them before the end, while the evil team win by keeping the Demon in play. I’ve played it a few times with groups of 10 to 15 gamers, so seeing five top comedians run it promised to be a Fringe highlight.Today’s event had an impressive line-up. A couple of comics didn’t have much impact on the entertainment side, but the stellar cast also included the quick-witted Alice Fraser, American comic Gianmarco Soresi and modern-Fringe, future-Taskmaster-legend-in-waiting Bec Hill.Hosted ably by Jon Gracey, the godfather of live gaming formats, the rules were explained clearly and succinctly enough for unfamiliar audience members to grasp before the fun began. Each of the comics shared hilarious stories of morally questionable wrongdoings, including Bec’s embezzlement of arcade tickets and Gianmarco’s full method acting portrayal of Daniel Day-Lewis’s Oscar-winning turn as Christy Brown in My Left Foot – in a restaurant.The banter between the comics was sharp, with Alice pointing out that there were two female Australian comics on stage, before “killing” Bec with the Highlander line: “There can only be one.”There was some opportunity for the audience to get involved, with the generic shout of “Too many sherries” when the drunk character was mentioned. But it felt as though more interaction could have been built into the format, perhaps with on-stage roles that allowed the crowd to engage directly.The team played through two games, with a few roles repeated across them. This felt like a missed opportunity when there are so many characters available, or that could have been created especially for this format, to give more variety to the gameplay. A few sound cues were used, but more effects could have enhanced the atmosphere further and pushed the show towards becoming an unmissable cult hit.If you’re familiar with Blood on the Clocktower, or like similar formats, this delivers everything: comedy, drama, murder, betrayal and twists. And if you’re considering going next year, you’ll likely find some games you can join at your local board game café or social group – it’ll be the most enjoyable market research you do all year.

Walking into the room at the start of Biff to the Future is a wondrous thing. The set is beautiful, with little corners of the stage dedicated to various locations from the trilogy, most notably the central clock, while 80s bangers play as the audience enter.The show begins with writer and performer Joseph Maudsley bounding on stage and introducing himself as Biff. He’s definitely got Biff’s energy, and can’t be blamed for not bearing much physical resemblance to him, but Maudsley doesn’t try hard enough to embody his voice or mannerisms. From the outset it’s clear the show can’t reach its potential, because no matter what happens over the next hour, the audience aren’t going to feel close enough to watching the real Biff.Biff opens with a fun Power of Love parody that sets the scene well, before we launch into an overview of the trilogy from our antagonist-turned-protagonist’s perspective. It’s a great idea, reframing what we think we know about the franchise in a similar way to how Wicked adds extra lore to The Wizard of Oz through Elphaba’s eyes.From an aesthetic perspective, the show is triumphant. The sound and lighting are strong, with some top-notch sight gags, tongue-in-cheek quips pointing out flaws in the films, and plenty of enjoyable exposition. The action is fast paced and covers a lot of ground, mostly focusing on the first two films, with interludes paying tribute to the final entry in the trilogy. There’s good audience involvement, with members invited up to help out – including driving a remote control DeLorean. But the key to the show’s success lies in its central performance. Not only does Maudsley not fully embody his primary character, he also takes on Marty and Doc in equally underwhelming style.The show relies on its audience having seen the whole trilogy. While it’s accessible without that knowledge, you’ll be playing catch-up. It’s family friendly, though there are a couple of references you might need to explain to younger children afterwards. The premise has all the ingredients for a smash hit – Biff seeking a sympathetic redemption arc – but without a more refined stage persona there’s little grounding for an emotional response.If you’re a fan of the trilogy (and let’s face it, who isn’t?) I’d still recommend it. So if you feel like taking a punt, make like a leaf and go and watch Biff to the Future.

Darkfield is a company worth keeping an eye on. They are creating some groundbreaking immersive experiences that place each audience member at the centre of their own narrative. Arcade is an experience unlike any I’ve had at the Fringe before, and must be experienced in person to truly appreciate what they have created.The venue is a shipping container on Potterrow lined with arcade machines. On entering, we are briefed that this is a mostly auditory experience in which you are immersed in darkness, guided through a story with headphones, and given the choice to answer “yes” or “no” with the push of a button, as well as to insert coins at various points to drive the story in a Choose Your Own Adventure style.Arcade transports you into a dystopian world where you play Milk, navigating life-threatening decisions through a series of storyline options. I believe the ultimate goal is to get on a boat to safety, but the two times I played it I ended up with a treacherous doctor, or being celebrated at a fateful post-assassination party. Playing through twice really helped me appreciate how much has gone into creating this world, and the many ways that simple decisions can play out. It has as much replay value as seeing your favourite improviser or variety line-up multiple times during the Fringe, and you’re guaranteed to leave wanting to go straight back in and do it all over again.The world they create is dark and as well imagined as you could hope within the 20-minute runtime, with dramatic dialogue and unpredictable shifts in action with each decision you make. At times there is a bit too long between decisions, and as everyone’s story needs to terminate at the same time, conclusions can be abrupt.The tech is flawless, with excellent sound quality that takes full advantage of stereo, flashes of light and sprays of water when someone is shot near you. I think there was a wind effect too, though it was mild. There are probably opportunities for more of a 5DX experience – perhaps future iterations could include vibrating floor panels, smells or even an electric shock handle to further enhance the immersion.Darkfield have been ambitious with Arcade, and succeeded in their mission to create a memorable story with plenty of paths, brought to life with high-quality machinery that pushes the potential to its limits. It’s short and runs throughout the day, so keep an eye out for both the event and the company in future festivals, as you should be able to fit it in between shows. But make sure you leave enough time in your schedule for a second visit.

Andrew Frost is The Greatest Card Magician in the World. Except, he isn’t, as he claims soon after he comes on stage. Yes, this lowers expectation to reasonable levels before we are given the opportunity to reach this conclusion ourselves, as he confesses that this was a quote from a random reviewer that becomes an underlying theme of the show’s narrative. But also, it immediately erodes trust and negates the reason most of the audience probably selected this show above the plethora of competition.Frost is an amusing and personable performer, and as he welcomes us in and warns that this show is going to be a full hour of him finding our cards, he lacks the showmanship required to be classed as a “great card magician” – the stage skills being equally important to the dexterity required to master sleight of hand. Many practitioners of the magical arts will state on their website that they have been voted “the greatest magician in the country”, before adding a footnote that this poll was conducted solely among their family, but to put this claim in your Edinburgh show title is audacious if you can’t back it up.To his credit, he is a good magician. The range of tricks is pretty wide considering he’s confined himself to using playing cards for the whole show, and his execution of the effects will baffle most audiences. He provides a strong finale, making good use of a Chekhov’s gun that had been dripped into the narrative. His scripts, sleights and audience interaction are all solid, though he puts up a barrier between us by telling the audience he’s disappointed with some of our reactions.Most of his tricks are tried and tested, even if he does frame them slightly differently. If you see a lot of magic shows, there’s not going to be anything in here to blow you away, and if you’re new to magic, it’s a safe introduction to card tricks. Were I to review Frost at a performance in your local town, it would probably be worthy of an extra star – there’s certainly nothing bad about it. But at Edinburgh Fringe, for an above-average ticket cost, your time would be better spent enjoying one of the more experienced high-production magic shows in the same price range, or on the Free Fringe, which still has some of the top magicians at the festival.

Josie Long is one of the most infectious performers you could hope to see. Few comics have her mastery of physicality and tonal nuance, demonstrating how intimately she knows her stage extension of herself with every syllable, movement and inflection. I would suggest this could only be achieved with generations of practice – but it was also true when I first saw her headline a comedy night at university, back in autumn 2003.In her 2025 show, Now Is the Time of Monsters, Josie is back jumping around subjects – and indeed the room itself – as she energetically turns the whole venue into her canvas. Lots of comics cover plenty of ground in an hour, but few compare to Josie in the deftness and dexterity with which she weaves in and out of narrative threads (whale diets are a particular highlight). The audience are kept on their toes but never left scratching their heads. It’s the perfect amount to follow, delivered at the perfect pace.Over the course of the hour Josie refers to many giant prehistoric creatures, questions of morality and updates on her current life. The poignant messages she delivers about the state of the world manage to be interesting and funny, without ever verging on preachy.A couple of off-the-cuff comments suggest Long wasn’t really feeling the audience that day. I could picture her telling fellow performers the crowd was subpar, even though from within it, it felt like we were all with her. While she was careful not to make us feel bad about it, she risked alienating herself, and similar comments in the hands of a lesser comic could easily have been enough to drop the show’s rating by a star.There are epic callbacks throughout – but you’d expect nothing less from a seasoned pro of Josie’s calibre. The audience hangs on her every word, with big laughs flying about from a national treasure in the making, and an epic conclusion that ties everything together to perfection.

Rapidly rising star Archie Henderson brings his alter ego Jazz Emu back to the festival, in what would be an absolute shoo-in for the Best Dressed Award, were it to exist. He bounds onto the stage with endless enthusiasm and frilly shoulder pads that go on for days, wielding an epic musical instrument, the likes of which I’ve never seen before – an electronic wind instrument (EWI).The Pleasure Is All Yours lies somewhere between an exploration into Henderson’s clown and a one-man variety show. A lot of the material might not appear award-worthy on paper, but in the hands of such a well-crafted character, the audience remain in the palm of his hand. He opens with a hilarious “How satisfied are you?” survey as he announces his mission: to gruntle, and things only get nuttier from there.Aside from the striking visuals, Jazz Emu has a remarkable accent and speech pattern, and one can’t help but hang onto his every word. From epic sight gags (see: the waxing and waning moon) to kooky songs, sharp one-liners and utterly bizarre ideas such as his commentary on the contents and functions of the human body, Emu is a surrealist fan’s dream come true. One could almost be forgiven for predicting that Jazz Emu was extra-terrestrial, though this is disproved when he takes on the guise of an alien in the second half.There was a quite remarkable moment in the second half, when Jazz was just starting to deliver a callback to a comment from 20 minutes earlier about a sneeze. At that precise moment, I gave out my only sneeze of the entire Fringe. Hypnotic stuff. Another 10 minutes later, he blessed me. Now that’s real comedy.The only negatives from the show were that some of the writing didn’t fit onto the screen – which feels like an easy fix – and that the members of the front row he tried to engage with gave him absolutely nothing to work with, and it took him a trifle too long to cut his losses. It would also have been nice to hear a bit more from the EWI.Some of the characters and social media personalities who have exploded from nowhere over the past five years really don’t translate to a live audience, or to a demographic who don’t engage with TikTok and Instagram. But you can rest assured that if you like kooky, quirky and intelligently crafted surrealist acts then Archie Henderson’s Jazz Emu is a keeper. The pleasure really is all ours.

When Susan Edsall’s partner of 11 years died, her life fell apart. Out of the blue, something told her to walk the Camino de Santiago. She didn’t believe in voices and knew nothing about the pilgrimage route, but she followed the impulse. Buen Camino, at Gilded Balloon at Appleton Tower, is her autobiographical story of those events, combined with elements of fantasy and more mysterious voices.She carries a mantra that keeps her focused on her aims and hopes: love, grace, beauty and freedom – a far cry from the life of heavy drinking she had fallen into. She knows she has to move forward and find new meaning without Jim, when her previous purpose had simply been loving him. She now believes that with his journey a brighter future awaits, for, as she says in the other mantra that divides the scenes: “The Camino provides.”Her personal quest makes this more than just a travelogue, though names of key places are included, along with details supplied by the Weather Fairy about the conditions she will face on each section of the route. Projected images, both real and fantastical, of people and places accompany her narrative, providing a visual focus. Through various voices she creates a multitude of characters that add entertainment value and enhance the story, though there may be too many for clarity.It’s an interesting rather than gripping journey along the road and through her life. Earnestly told and well presented, it is clearly of great significance to Edsall – though it’s not one that would inspire me to embark on the Camino.

When it comes to Copla, Alejandro Postigo is not only a pre-eminent exponent and performer of the art, but also a world authority. It was the subject of his PhD thesis at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, and he is currently Senior Lecturer in Musical Theatre at the London College of Music. His knowledge and talent combine in his latest show, Copla: A Spanish Cabaret, a celebration of Spain’s vibrant cultural and political history, brought to life with a queer twist. The show makes its Fringe debut at Assembly George Square.So, what is Copla? In an interview with Broadway Baby, Postigo explained that it “is a popular song tradition that emerged in Spain in the early 20th century. It’s often compared to torch songs or chanson because it blends folk roots with theatrical flair. At heart, Copla is storytelling set to music. Each song is a miniature drama about love, shame, defiance or heartbreak.” His show is an illustrated and practical guide to the genre, in which he performs songs, shows video footage and photographs, and relates a fascinating history that reaches out from his homeland to other parts of Europe and the USA.We are invited to join him in a song from The Sound of Music, sung in both English and Spanish — the musical he fell in love with as a child, which stirred his early love of singing. We hear the same song performed by numerous artists over many decades as an example of how Copla spread, and also how it was both repressed and subverted under Franco to boost his ideology. It was even exported to be sung in German under Hitler. But after the Civil War, it was reclaimed by the people, especially the marginalised, who featured in many songs concerning relationships outside heterosexual marriage, love gone wrong, laments for a lost homeland, or bawdy celebrations of forbidden passion. The warmth of this heartfelt music has the power to bring both tears and laughter, or simply the chance to sing along with your favourite diva. In the show, we also enjoy live violin accompaniment.Copla: A Spanish Cabaret is not only an entertaining show but also a joyous celebration of an often overlooked Spanish folk tradition, and a well-crafted educational tour, vividly told with passion, colourful costumes and, of course, song.

“Well, what the hell are you going to write about that?” asked a friend who went into Barnie Duncan: Oooky Pooky with me. I could only reply: “I really have no idea.”Being weird at the Fringe doesn’t necessarily make a bad show – in fact, sometimes it makes a terrific one. At times Oooky Pooky is terrific, but it leans heavily towards the bizarre and creeps close to the line more often than not. Duncan’s background is in physical comedy, but here he allegedly plays himself in a caricature-ish performance that borrows much from clowning. As he says: “Clowns are meant to get away with shit.”I really don’t know what to think of this act, which may itself betray a kind of brilliance in the mania. On the one hand he is genuinely engaging from the start; on the other, about halfway through it begins to feel a little like watching a car crash. It’s like waiting to hear when that one teacher is going to face career-ending allegations – and nobody will be surprised. It’s a bit oooky pooky, a bit grubby, and may leave you uneasy. Especially as he wonders aloud about kissing audience members.Still, there are moments of sincerely excellent clowning. If you are comfortable with uncomfortable comedy – as though Ricky Gervais and Noel Fielding had been combined – this is the show for you. If you like teabagging (literally) and bukkake (less literally), then this is perfect for you.

Fragen Network bring their distinctive style of experimental theatre to theSpace on the Mile with Hunger, an adaptation of Knut Hamsun’s late-19th-century groundbreaking novel.Their reimagining begins with the anonymous Writer sailing away from Kristiania on a boat bound for England as a deck hand. He is exhausted, wet from the rain and waves, and has a fever. The book he will go on to write is only just formulating in his mind as he relives his memories of poor choices and the cruelty of his time in Norway.Stylistically intense, physical and immersive, the cast are already performing as we enter, surrounded by an array of masks. The sounds of seagulls and crashing waves accompany sweeping and cleaning movements on deck. Verbal engagement with us recurs throughout. While carrying out mundane tasks, phantoms of the past appear. He would like them to go away, but knows that the intrinsic value of all he has endured is the key to the masterpiece he will soon pen. For now he experiences an in-between state – a latter-day Janus marking the points between two different times and the dualities of suffering and hope.The performance is divided into four parts, with three memory sections each assigned a dominant colour: yellow, green and red. The fourth part, under natural white light, weaves between them in the present. The vignettes illustrate events in his life of poverty. We meet a limping beggar, a cake seller, the organ grinder’s daughter who calls the police on him, and we witness the famous parade down Karl Johan, a daily ritual in which the leisure classes of Kristiania meet and greet one another. He plays a prank on two sisters, follows them home and falls in love with the one who looks out of the window at him, naming her Ylajali. Next, he finds lodgings, where we are introduced to the landlady, her husband and father, whom he taunts, before a sailor arrives to lodge and seduces the landlady. Finally, he fantasises about Ylajali. In trying to understand her, he applies makeup and dons a glamorous dress.Hunger is an extraordinary and complex piece; a niche work that may not have mass appeal but will certainly impress theatre buffs. It is influenced by German Expressionism, the Neue Tanz of Mary Wigman and Harald Kreutzberg, Butoh pioneers Kazuo Ohno and Tatsumi Hijikata, as well as Munch and Käthe Kollwitz. There is even a flicker of Chaplin’s tragic Tramp.Writer and director Roland Reynolds performs with Zaza Bagley, Angel Lopez-Silva and Anastasiya Zinovieva, with design by Denis Girenko, lighting by Zidi Wu and photography by Yijia Fu and Xin Wei.

Searchlight are always a dependable, instructive and quietly moving choice at the Fringe, and in Chamberlain they use their characteristic narrative solidity to explore the legacy of British prime minister Neville Chamberlain and the terrible decisions he was forced to make in the 1930s.In the latter half of the 20th century, Chamberlain’s reputation seemed unlikely to recover from being the man prepared to appease the Nazi machine. He appeared destined to be overshadowed by the showman who succeeded him in Number 10, and who contributed to its defeat. Against Churchill’s naughty smile, the cigar, the homburg, the oratorical skill and the victory against fascism, Chamberlain’s quietly spoken personality never really stood a chance.But just as revisionist interpretations are now prepared to acknowledge the complexity of Churchill’s imperial and racial views and frequently questionable strategies, Chamberlain’s famous declaration of “Peace for our time” is slowly being allowed the room to breathe and be re-evaluated.At the distance of nearly a century, our analytical goggles may be clearer, but life has moved on little. Land ambitions by deranged dictators still see neutral countries struggle to strike the balance between political savvy and humanitarian indignation. Races still deem themselves inexplicably superior to others. Innocents are still being sacrificed on the altar of one man’s hubris.So it is horribly apposite that we spend an hour in Chamberlain’s Downing Street office, the hour immediately prior to his declaration of war on Germany. David Robinson is a thoughtful Chamberlain, running through moments of his personal and professional life as if searching for approval for what he is about to do. The gravity of declaring war and sentencing thousands to their inevitable deaths weighs heavily on him: he would of course prefer peace. But he must do what he must do.He confides in his assistant Jack Colville (Freddy Goymer), while wholly aware that Colville too will soon need to distance himself from the Chamberlain administration and throw his lot in with Churchill. He longs for the anonymity of the Birmingham suburbs. He worries about the delicate health of his wife and the likelihood that his son will have to fight. Robinson cleverly suggests the unbearable layers of anxiety peeping through the repressed emotional register of an Edwardian patrician soon to change the world, and we are gently encouraged to feel for the awful decisions he has little choice but to make.The enormity of the moment naturally means the text is heavy with historical detail, and the company change up the energy with numbers from the BBC light programme, which was interrupted for Chamberlain’s declaration. Michael Taylorson brings a lightness of tone and charming vocals to these moments, switching between the silliness of George Formby and Ivor Novello ditties and the yearning of White Cliffs of Dover with lyrical ease, reminding us that life – in all its glorious technicolour – still plods on even in the darkest times.

I bumped into Abnormally Funny People’s producer, Simon Minty, outside the Pleasance Dome during the first weekend of the Fringe. He was as charming as his on-screen persona suggests and chatted about the show he has been bringing to the festival for two decades.Abnormally Funny People showcases an ever-changing roster of comedians with visible and invisible disabilities, and on the showing I attended the strong line-up aptly demonstrated why the show has garnered fans across the years.The performance I caught was MC’d by Alex Mitchell, with sets from Don Biswas, Harriet Dyer and Lost Voice Guy. Across the board, their material leans into the disabilities that have brought these particular comedians to this particular stage, and this feels important in recognising and normalising conditions which others may either struggle with themselves or struggle to embrace in others. The most familiar situations frequently have the strongest comic hit-rate, and it is a rare treat to have a dedicated hour in which an audience can acknowledge the frustrations and daftness of a world too often treated with kid gloves or ignored completely. An estimated 25% of the UK population is living with disability, and neurodiverse diagnoses are rising with growing acceptance and awareness. So there is no shortage of anecdotes or observations from a community only relatively recently being invited to share their stories in the mainstream.Not that this is a worthy or mawkish hour. Far from it. It is self-deprecating, outrageous and very funny. Each act of course plays with their own condition, but not to the exclusion of other material. The snappiness of the format ensures an engagingly broad range of comic styles and approaches are platformed throughout.What Minty and his team have achieved in bringing this show together should not be underestimated, and deserves far broader recognition. In 2025, we are interested in seeing funny comedians at the top of their game who just happen to share a disability. But it has taken real grit and foresight to bring us to this point, and the contribution of shows such as this has helped us all laugh louder and longer. And most importantly, without exclusion.

What would you do for love? Would you travel back through time, or sink into the mossy depths of a peat bog? Bog Body, the debut production at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe from women-led company Itchy Feet Theatre, takes this premise and runs with it, weaving together myth, history and personal grief into a darkly comic solo performance.Jen Tucker’s script is bold, ambitious and thematically dense. Love, belonging, justice, decay and mental health all surface in quick succession, each treated with wit and a sharp philosophical edge. But while the writing is nuanced and robust, the 40-minute running time feels too compressed to allow any one theme to fully unfold. Instead, the audience is presented with a multitude of ideas. Fascinating? Yes, but occasionally overwhelming. One can’t help but feel this is a story that would benefit from a little more room to breathe.As Petra, Maddie White is captivating. Alone on stage, she balances emotional depth with comic undertones, shifting from nervous bride-to-be to grief-stricken sister and obsessive truth-seeker with skill and immediacy. White is a natural storyteller, and her performance ensures that even as the narrative grows increasingly layered, the audience remains firmly tethered to Petra’s emotional truth. She handles moments of audience interaction with ease, building a spontaneous, believable presence that draws spectators into Petra’s unsettled world.This is Itchy Feet Theatre’s first time at the Fringe, and it marks a strong start to their festival journey. There is much to admire here: a complex script, a committed and talented performer, and a production team clearly unafraid of taking risks. That said, the constraints of a short Fringe slot mean that Bog Body doesn’t quite reach its full potential. Still, what emerges is an evocative and unsettling piece of theatre that lingers in the mind long after the performance ends.For audiences seeking something experimental, haunting and brimming with potential, Bog Body is worth the journey into the moss.

The room is close to packed for Thanyia Moore’s August at Pleasance Upstairs. She repeatedly thanks us all for coming, even the stragglers. “’Cause if you had asked me to come to your show upstairs, I wouldn’t have come,” she says.Moore eases into the show with some crowdwork, which she does with the naturalness of someone with more than a decade’s worth of experience under her belt. There is a sense that she does this for our benefit and hers, as August covers how, on what was supposed to be the first day of her debut run at the Fringe in 2022, she had a miscarriage. Moore doesn’t allow the quiet that falls over the room to last long: “Stay with me, I’m fine now. But if you don’t laugh, I’ll be sad – irony.”Moore doesn’t deal with sadness well, we learn over the hour. She says she texted the only five people who knew she was pregnant about what had happened, then proceeded to block them. “I needed time to work out my material before they got involved,” she says wryly. As she was waiting to be seen at the hospital, she began composing August, because “as a comedian, we don’t have a bad day, we just find material.”The conversational tone in which Moore shares her story, and her razor wit, maintains a light energy in the room that belies the subject matter. She matter-of-factly lets us know she went back to London for treatment and then returned to Edinburgh to finish out her Fringe run – all while continuing to avoid concerned loved ones, including her partner. Rightly or wrongly, Moore doesn’t care for our opinions, nor does she need them. Despite what she went through, she’s proud of herself; she made it to the end, even getting her first standing ovation in the process.Which was deserved then and certainly warranted now – though when some of us start to stand up and cheer at the end of August, Moore warns: “No, stop or I’ll block you.”Throughout the show, she says she tried to remind herself to enjoy the view on the various trains she had to take. Hopefully she can enjoy the rightly earned flowers we’re trying to give her too.

There are a whopping three shows dedicated to Tom Lehrer at the Fringe, so it was tragically poetic that the great muse shuffled off this mortal coil a mere week before this year's festival started, aged 97. Hearing Mitch Benn talking about this icon in the past tense struck a different chord to the one I expected to feel when I bought my tickets a month prior.Benn introduces the show speaking in Lehreresque language, his voice a recognisable attempt at emulation but not quite verging on “spot on”. However, the song he wrote in Lehrer’s style would have made the maestro proud – establishing a theme that would run throughout the show, with every lyrical amendment.The show isn’t exclusively about Lehrer, as Benn also regales us with updates on his recent diagnosis as neurodivergent, elite-level commentary on nerd culture, and quality material covering a brief biography of radio comedy.We’re treated to a couple of piano performances – the first time Benn has performed on one since his teens – but he spends most of the show on guitar. In an ideal world, we’d have the piano songs played on piano, but of course they translate well to guitar, and having optimal performances should rightly take precedence over hearing the music in its natural habitat.Being a tribute show rather than a tribute act affords Benn the creative freedom to update a number of the songs, which can at times contain outdated lyrics. One piece that is ripe for it is Lehrer’s signature tune, The Elements Song. Benn performs it as the comedy god intended, then adds his extra verse containing the elements added since inception (significantly improving on my smug adjustment of the final lyric for karaoke performances: “These were the only ones of which the news had got to Harvard. But since this song was written, 16 more have been discovered”).There’s plenty of variety throughout, with a glorious Lou Reed parody, Arnie impression and heartfelt finale. I took a friend who had never heard of either Lehrer or Benn before and she loved it, as did the teenager sat in front of me. The music is timeless and deserves to be resurrected for the next generation – and Mitch Benn is very much the man to do it. So get yourself along while you still can. I promise, it’s even more fun than poisoning pigeons in the park.

If you ran a survey among magicians of who the Edinburgh Festival Fringe’s best practitioner of their art is, don’t be surprised to see Charlie Caper ranking some way above his closest rivals. He has also been leading the way in bringing AI and boundary-pushing modern tech into Fringe magic shows long before ChatGPT became a household name, and is still one of the festival’s forerunners across all genres. Caper masterfully designs and creates his own machines and does so to a phenomenal standard.He opens with his traditional flawless patter and unimpeachable magical skills, with beautiful and creative use of tech-incorporated D-lites, and some of his more familiar robot friends that have been tweaked and updated for the best part of a decade now.A glorious addition since the last time I caught his show was a Black Mirror-style robopup who performed beautifully choreographed and executed tricks, that were magical rather than magic, and it’s a further testament to Caper’s ingenuity that he’s able to create machines that would capture international headlines had they been shared with the world by a tech billionaire.For those who have seen forerunners of Charlie Caper – The Future before, there are certainly new treats in store, but he’s also missed the opportunity to update everything, including his Charlie robot performing the same (albeit gorgeous) magic feat it has since inception.Whether you want to see spellbinding magic by one of the festival’s leading masters of the craft, or breathtakingly creative futuristic robots that captivate and entertain, you’re onto a real winner here, as Caper can be trusted to deliver in the past, present and future.

Finding a USP at the Fringe is haaard. No matter how original your brand, there will almost always be a couple of other shows queuing up to nab half your audience. But if you came to Scotland this year with your heart set on seeing a comedy harpist, you were destined to stumble across Scarlett Smith – and destined to love her.From the moment she stepped out on stage in her endearing pyjama-like boiler suit, welcoming the room into her intimate world, she captivated. This only grew once she took to her equally striking harp, deftly tapping away at a sound effects box with her feet as she launched into an opening of The Weeknd’s Blinding Lights.Smith more than earns her label of “electroacoustic harpist”, weaving in and out of genres and moods as she takes the audience on a whirlwind journey through pop and classical snippets in between anecdotes and observations. Her script is well written, striking a neat balance between music and speech, and her character is infectious and engaging – though the delivery of some lines felt a little rehearsed. Her persona leans more towards theatrical character than the relaxed, polished raconteur of most comedians, and it feels as though this is what she is striving toward. With a year on the standup circuit to sharpen her skills, Smith’s show could very well be pushing for media attention in future Fringes.The songs are perfectly chosen for fun and flair: snippets of the Jurassic Park theme, two Taylor Swift numbers (coincidentally, this reviewer’s favourite and least favourite), and a couple of earworms that will have audiences humming down the Royal Mile for days. There were a handful of big laughs, but more than anything expect to find a smile transfixed to your face for the full hour, from the saucier material through to the highbrow voting game, and capped off with the best burp I’ve ever heard from a performer.

Expectations rightfully run high. Figures in Extinction is like the return of 1970s supergroups: Simon McBurney’s theatrical inventiveness and Crystal Pite’s dazzling choreography, working with the renowned Nederlands Dans Theater. Crikey!Section [1.0] presents “figures” of things that have become extinct due to human activity. The stripped-down human bodies – without crass anthropomorphism, imitation, or costumes – capture the characteristics of birds, a frog, a collapsing glacier, a herd, by their gait, alertness, or the shape and undulations of the herd collectively. The lighting design, by Tom Visser, is acute, highlighting features so that the humans become “other” and remote – but sometimes, almost relatable, depending on the animal.Section [2.0] is the unifying “humans” section of the three pieces. The voice-over is mostly a recorded lecture on the different modes of attention of the left and right sides of the brain. The left is focused, abstract, mechanistic; the right is intuitive, implicit, relational. Modern society is dominated by the left-hand side. The dancers, dressed in suits for this section, illustrate the lecture. They split into two sides, take turns as the ‘lecturer’ – miming while mirroring the words with gestures and movement – and representative tableaux appear and disappear at lightning speed (internet gossip, an autopsy, dominance, the prefrontal cortex). The video design, by Arjan Klerkx, is strikingly used to amplify the theme of specific scenes.Section [3.0] is Requiem. The final theme explores the relationship between the living and the dead. This section has the most abstract recorded text, while simultaneously featuring the most emotional and affecting dancing and acting, enhanced by the music of Owen Belton and Benjamin Grant, expertly positioned throughout the production to support the action on stage.Evocative hospital scenes are acted out, with stunning set design and props by Michael Levine, combined with abstract dance sections and hallucinatory tableaux on the experience of death. The performers are in full medical costume for some scenes or dressed in their own clothes when giving personal reflections. The hospital deathbed scene brings to mind the work of video artist Bill Viola, while later scenes with the bed are reminiscent of Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa.Throughout each section there is analytical, abstract, quantitative text – all left hemisphere. There is a constant play of tension and resolution between this and the intuitive, elusive, implicit right-hemisphere actions and tableaux of the dancers – especially in the gorgeous solos and duets that abandon text in favour of expression and emotion.Considering the piece deals with the most important questions there are – extinction and death – the overall effect is contemplative rather than emotional. The unifying theme is our culture’s emphasis on left-hemisphere thinking and the resulting cost to the world and human well-being. The show’s balance of left and right demonstrates a solution, and the combination of talents has achieved a production where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Before David Elms can describe a room, he first has to build a rapport with his audience, and he does this with expertise and grace. He appears on his bare stage and explains the novel premise before bringing each of us in to contribute to the development of his surroundings. With each person he approaches, asking us to suggest what item is inside his room, he follows up with thought-provoking questions to eke every ounce of potential from what may initially seem like mundane ideas. But one man’s list of 50 mundane ideas is another’s philharmonic orchestra.One thing that struck me about the format and execution was the incomparable ratio between low quantity of laughs (often multiple minutes of engaged anticipation between them) and high quality (full room-wide belly laughs prompted by passing ad libs or facial expressions outranked the number of titters – no mean feat). Never before have I seen a comedian attempt to garner so few laughs and achieve such high success rates with each foray from the theatrical nature of the show into the comedic interludes.Among the inclusions in the unique room described for and by Elms today are an aggressive, aging cat; coat hanger artwork; Tetris on a Gameboy; and an ancient musket. After 40 minutes, the collaborative effort is fully unravelled, and Elms embarks on a mostly mimed journey through the labyrinthine room, incorporating every detail of every item into a seamless narrative with epic callbacks (after multiple teasings, the cat finally dies), audience participation (seriously, how do children still know the Tetris theme?) and a bloody, murderous finale. One gets the feeling that with an unadventurous audience, the mime could turn out quite tame (indeed, Elms gleefully tells us it usually is, but not so today), but we lucked out in maximising the joy that could be extracted from this unique room.While it’s great to have the room kept in our imaginations, I was also curious to see it visualised and was half-expecting (even hoping) Elms to announce at the end that he would have the room generated by AI to keep a gallery online, both prolonging memories and boosting engagement. But for now, the memory of our bespoke room and the horrors that unfolded within it will remain purely for those fortunate enough to witness it.This is one of those few Fringe shows that benefits from repeat viewings, so make sure when you go, you test Elms to his limits and give him creative and out-of-the-box suggestions to work with, and you too could be part of creating invisible magic.

Rob Auton’s CAN opens with a cute introduction voiced by his parents, asking the audience to switch off phones and dispose of crisp packets. I suspected this was foreshadowing a narrative thread with callbacks to the novel approach to opening the show, but it wasn’t to be. Early in the show, Auton drops the best simile I’ve ever heard in a comedy show and tells a great story about kettle bells with an epic payoff, laying the groundwork for the narrative thread that would run through his hour-long story. His delivery is understated and quirky, his script littered with fun observations and quippy asides.CAN is a motivational speaker with a goal: to change people’s lives without them being aware of his impact. It’s an enjoyable listen with plenty of peaks and troughs but missing a magic touch. Auton’s ad libs are great while they last, but often lead to him losing his train of thought and having to break character to get back on track. At one point, someone opens a can – he has a great interaction with them (though misses the can/CAN connection you’d hope a high-level pro could capitalise on) – and struggles to jump back into things. Were this a show with a neurodivergence thread running through, that might enhance it, but here, where it doesn’t get a mention, it puts a barrier between performer and audience. At times, this really felt like a well-polished work in progress rather than a sellout run. Or perhaps that’s just his brand. The show was fine, and I’d completely understand how some audience members or reviewers could find it a five-star experience, but I’ve seen many better shows by more impressive acts in much smaller and emptier rooms.Towards the end, I noticed the woman to my right had nodded off, and across the aisle, another was close behind her. Contrastingly, about 10% of the audience gave an instant standing ovation, and the roar of approval he gained during the bow is something only heard in response to seeing your heroes. I can understand how Auton has amassed a following, but his performance and writing style is clearly a crowd-splitter.

Joe-Kent Walters’s headline-grabbing character, the working men’s club host from Hell, Frankie Monroe, is fast becoming one of the standout cult heroes for this generation of the Edinburgh Fringe. Fresh off the back of winning the Best Newcomer award last year, Frankie was tipped to gain a nod for Best Show before this year’s festival too, and it’s not hard to see why.Sometimes it’s hard for shows to justify the hype, but this one is a real comedy party. The character is remarkably crafted and performed lovingly throughout. Walters is a master at improv and building rapport with the audience, and one almost feels as though he must have been brought up in working men’s clubs himself, if only he weren’t the wrong generation. He maintains total command of the stage and his character, while the show is populated with inventive props and creative gimmicks. For the whole hour, I felt as though Walters must have made his bones as a street performer, as there were many techniques in his craft that you see on the street, from repeatedly saying “Yes” to encourage affirmative responses from his audience, to long set pieces with copious padding that don’t go anywhere other than to build rapport. Consider this an observation rather than criticism. There’s no doubt his crowd give the same encouragement and desired response as the most dramatic street shows you’ll see on the Royal Mile.His crowd work is on point throughout, responding beautifully to heckles, many of which he encourages, and garnering a roomful of laughter for interjections as basic as “Hello there.”DEAD!!! (Good Fun Time) has a loose narrative, but you’re attending for the fun and variety. The show is apparently much the same as last year’s winner, so you shouldn’t have to do too much research to find out if this is up your street or not. It’s probably one of those crowd splitters that could get two to five stars depending on the reviewer or audience member, but even those to whom it doesn't appeal can’t help but admire the flawless stagecraft.

Established in October 2024, Cask and Vine present their Fringe Festival debut with an insightful and informative act that delivers a succinct history lesson on Scottish whisky. Our host for the evening, Chris, is as enthusiastic as he is knowledgeable, reflecting his 20 years of experience within the industry. He saves his funniest anecdotes for the latter part of the evening – good timing, given that everyone is merrier by that point – and shows great ad lib in the pockets of open chat that emerge more steadily in the second half of the event. Sparing us the long-winded introductions typical of many whisky tastings, Chris cuts straight to the point by instructing us to simply take a drink to begin.We start with Loch Lomond Spearhead, a young and, some might say, prickly whisky, unpeated with notes of vanilla and nutmeg. Unlike the other whiskies we’re offered (and most Scottish whiskies at large), Spearhead is a single grain – a rarity in Scotland that forgoes malted barley to use cereals instead, typically wheat or corn. Perhaps archaic for our setting, it’s a nice inclusion that allows Chris to comment on Scottish refinements to whisky making from its grain-based roots in Ireland.Glen Scotia Double Cask follows to present a Campbeltown classic: lighter in hue, but with a more oily texture reflective of its coastal location. It boasts sweet, spicy undertones of dark chocolate and toffee with whispers of salt. This is succeeded by our penultimate dram, the more mature Glen Scotia 18: a wonderful follow-up to its youthful counterpart. Compared to the Double Cask, the 18 has a bold honey nose with a sweet body and salted caramel finish.Structurally, the inclusion of the two Glen Scotias is an effective bridging point that gives pause to the history of Prohibition and the Great Depression’s impact upon the once 30-strong distillery bosom of Campbeltown, reducing the Kintyre settlement to just three working distilleries today. Finally, we return to the Bonnie Bonnie Banks with Loch Lomond 18: dark gold in complexion, with a honey-raisin nose and softly peated finish – a brilliant way to round off the evening.The shape of the show is more last-third heavy than an even quartet, with an elongated run-through of distillation between drams one and two. By the end, we’re left with a few filled Glencairns and only 10 minutes to go. But we’re not under pressure to neck these or rushed out the door; rather, we’re given the opportunity to finish at our own pace upstairs. Chris is approachable and coaxes the small group of strangers into getting to know each other better, where even the quietest of dram-lovers will be chatty by the end. The act delivers beyond the billing of a ‘wee dram’ to gift us four tipples in a convivial setting.

If you’re looking to see one of the most exciting new comics on the British and European comedy scene, look no further. Theo Mason Wood delivers a truly genre-defying tour de force of surreal, and at times heartbreaking, comedy in Theo Mason Wood: Legalise Kissing. Fans of Brass Eye, Steve Coogan and The League of Gentlemen will feel at home here.In a way, it’s surprising it’s billed as standup. Part clowning, part comedy set, part spoken word, part mental breakdown – Theo adopts the character of a hapless comic and spoken word artist, struggling with a breakup and a flatlining career. It’s certainly not a show for the squeamish, but there are jokes sharp enough to persuade even the most tender-hearted. Mason Wood’s audience interaction is sublime as he twists through depraved stories of awful nights out and relationship woes. We remain in equal parts aghast and captivated as the show ultimately expands into a surreal adventure exploring various fundamentals of the male psyche. Quickly, two camps are established: those buckling over in laughter and those gripped but perhaps a little afraid.It doesn’t come as a surprise that Mason Wood is one of the writers for the acclaimed Guy Ritchie Netflix series The Gentleman – the tone is here, but with Legalise Kissing, we see a blistering demonstration of a new comic in love with the boundaries of society and what pushes people into extreme situations. There is a clear curiosity with modern masculinity, honesty and consent – themes present throughout Mason Wood’s work so far (his previous Camden Fringe show with The Caravan Guys was titled How to Beat Up Your Dad – The Musical) – but these are handled with an abundance of depraved silliness and joyously playground gags.A wholehearted recommendation to see him in all his twisted glory before he blows up. Don’t expect an endless stream of quotable one-liners, but do expect deep laughs and to be taken on a debauched ride that will stick firmly in the mind. He may not need to legalise kissing, but you do need to catch him at the next opportunity.

So many of the UK’s top comics and satirists have cut their teeth in the Oxford Revue that the alumni reads as an embarrassment of riches… Rowan Atkinson, Sally Phillips, Stewart Lee, Armando Iannucci, Al Murray, Alan Bennett, Dudley Moore, Michael Palin and Terry Jones are just a small sample of those who have gone on to become household names.Now in their 62nd year at the Fringe, the OR’s current gang treat us to 45 minutes of innovative sketch comedy, ranging from the observational to the musical to the absurd. Seemingly going through something of a hiatus on our screens at present, with fewer water-cooler moments than earlier iterations, sketch comedy is nevertheless alive and well in Edinburgh, where the new kids on the block are writing and performing their hearts out to appreciative audiences who enjoy the box-of-chocolates nature of the genre.The eight-strong cast are fresh-faced and witty, with some standout performances suggesting a healthy career in comedy performance may lie tantalisingly close. At its best, the writing is sharp and gratifyingly unpredictable, the essence of sketch work meaning that each scenario lands differently for every audience member. Joining the gymn; New Year’s Resolutions; the overthinking husband; and I’m Too Sexy are particular high points, with The Very First Christmas as the sparkling star on top of the tree.Watching emerging young performers find their feet is the very DNA of the Fringe, and as such, shows like this are not to be missed.

A birth is danced in The Nest at theSpace @ Niddry Street, marking the first professional show by the company Ale Martín, dedicated to building bridges between Butoh and contemporary dance.In an interview with Broadway Baby, Spanish performer Alejandro Martín de Mier explained that Butoh is a Japanese style of dance dating from the 1960s. “It’s characterised by slow movements and an abstract way of showing ideas and meanings. It really goes to the subconscious part of the mind.” There is no formal technique to Butoh, but he has a background in contact improvisation, contemporary dance and physical theatre, which is evident in this performance.Speaking of The Nest, he said, “It's about birth and transformation. It is a way of living. Imagine each moment lived as a baby trying to come into this world; a small chicken cracking the egg. In my show, I present reality, rawness, struggle, enthusiasm, joy and pain.”His movements are a study in the art of control. Positioned mostly on the floor or, when standing, bent in two, we witness a series of foetal contortions with minute and intricate movements of the feet, hands and fingers, along with rotations on the spot. Shaking and quivering occasionally give way to stretching sequences that suggest the unborn’s struggle and hope for birth and release from the confines of the womb, though that moment has not yet arrived.The soundscape, combined with music created and performed live by his partner JULI(o), attempts to capture the feelings associated with birth: “pleasure, contractions, fear, pushing, heaviness, excitement, release, intensity.” He explains, “First, we just use guitar and amplifier, drone style with a little bit of hardcore. Second, absolute silence. And third – oh! I love it! – it is a loop in crescendo with different instruments like Tibetan singing bowls, claves, shaker, hand drum, voice and other sound effects.” The effect is both ethereal and earthy, reflecting and enhancing the moods associated with birth, with the help of simple lighting that ensures the focus is always on the movement.These elements combine in a fascinating and hypnotic dance, a slow-motion evocation of the first tentative movements of a new life.

The Cab Vol caves are dark, dank and drippy. It’s good, therefore, that Stu McPherson immediately adds a bit of silliness to proceedings, something I definitely wasn’t expecting. Last year I wrote that McPhersons show was his most accomplished to date. This year, working with director John Aggasild on Crisps and a Lie Down, he takes a huge step up.Speaking about his “little family” that he’s created – himself, his girlfriend and their dog – it’s a chilled-out start, the kind of vibe I usually associate with McPherson. But it’s his physical impression of his dog excited to go for a walk where I first burst out laughing.McPherson and Aggasild work in perfect harmony and the direction really feels like an asset, drawing out sides of him I’ve never seen before. Even when he jokes about wanting to appeal more to the “thickos” in his audience (is he talking about the Americans that he frequently translates for? I’m saying nothing…) the craft on display is sharp.From sound effects to secret strokes, McPherson proves himself a comic wise beyond his years, delivering razor-sharp comedy with a deceptively gentle touch. Crisps and a Lie Down proves once and for all that Stu McPherson is the real deal – confident, creative and unmissable.

Natalie Slaiman depicts a true-to-life mental breakdown in her one-woman show How to Escape. This dark comedy is troublingly familiar to anyone who has spent a little too much time around a campfire at a festival or who has ever got stuck in a cycle at a party they grew to regret. While the production values are a little light, there is a heart of gold here, and you will laugh nervously as much as belly chuckle.After graduating, Slaiman apparently wasn’t ready for a real-person job, so ran away to the Fringe to flyer. Having survived crowd rejection, Edinburgh’s streets and continually running into artists, she wanted one last hurrah before going into the world of work. What follows is a comedic telling of the downward spiral that ensued. Slaiman’s vocal range and clownish comedy style come together for some excellent laughs which often seem to have an edge to them, and it becomes clear something is awry early on.The show feels raw and emotionally available, but at times a little repetitive. While some voices – like the worst New York fun-aunt you can imagine – are amusing, others feel grating and misplaced. I repeatedly got the sense that the show didn’t know if it was a comedy or a dark comedy. Either could have been compelling, but trying to have both ruins the chance for either to truly grip.There’s a gnawing awareness throughout that it would be all too easy to fall into this land of make-believe and never claw your way out. It makes for a disquieting darkness which I personally feel Slaiman should lean towards.

Highly Suspect is a highly original theatre company who have developed a niche in interactive mystery thriller-driven theatre in which the audience is given files of information to help solve puzzles as the narrative unfolds.In my 2021 three-star review of a previous show of theirs, I surmised that the format is strong and could be looking at five stars in future iterations, highlighting areas for improvement as: cramming too much into the hour-long runtime; actors spoiling puzzles before we have the chance to conclude them ourselves, even with giveaway clues; and the actors not quite taking ownership of their characters. I can relievedly reveal to you that all of these flaws have now been addressed and the show has met its full potential. The extra five-minute leeway allows them to give the narrative, performances and puzzles their due attention; the puzzles are all solved in time, with enough spare to hear audience members divulge and justify their theories; and the four characters here are expertly crafted and performed, complementing each other perfectly.We are greeted by our wonderfully named host, Claud Earwinkleman, a masterfully gender-swapped version of Claudia, performed with quirky panache that lies somewhere between tribute and parody, perhaps a little closer to Alan Cumming. But it’s Claire Voyance who truly steals the show, and it’s hard to take your eyes off her in all her gleeful kooky glory. All four carry the show well, with witty ad-libbed commentary on the audience’s petty reasons for accusations. The script is filled with quality quips, puns and asides, as well as running gags – although the first act relies too heavily on rapid-fire dad jokes to the point of overkill, but that’s the only real criticism.We have plenty of time to look at the clues while the cast mingle with the audience, and the puzzles are all solvable, while leaving cunning Easter eggs and layered references so even the most seasoned of solvers will leave feeling like they were challenged, while newcomers will be able to access everything too.With great intellectual stimulation, well-paced and controlled action, a perfectly devised narrative with excellent humour and writing throughout, and eking out every inch of its potential, Highly Suspect should be quickly becoming a Fringe staple for anyone looking for puzzling interactive immersive theatre. So go on and support them. Or are you … a Traitor?

The regal Music Hall at Assembly Halls fills early as anticipation builds for the concert ahead. 27 Club, as the name suggests – and as most audiences will know – pays homage to the famous musicians who died at the age of 27. For those unfamiliar, the list includes Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix.The live band, featuring Australia’s own rock icons Sarah McLeod (The Superjesus) and Kevin Mitchell (Jebediah), take the stage to perform some of music’s most famous and industry-shaping songs. Four vocalists rotate through the setlist, each capturing the distinct essence of the artists they represent.What immediately strikes audiences and performers alike is the mystery surrounding the number 27. These legendary songs will never again be sung by their original voices, silenced too early, but they live on in cultural memory – kept alive by tributes such as the 27 Club.More than just a rock concert, the show doubles as a living documentary. Between the music, the performers share stories and vital details from each artist’s life, creating a knowledgeable, insightful blend of live performance and cultural history.The room is filled with heads bobbing along as 27 Club delivers a heartfelt tribute and an electrifying experience, striking all the right notes in a dazzling display of skill and talent. It is a reminder not only of the music these artists left behind but of the fragility of genius and the legacy that continues to echo long after.

This is no Taggart detective drama, but suffice it to say, “There’s been a murder!” and a small town in Fife is shaken to its core. The place is riddled with police; the net curtains are quivering and the tongues are wagging. Thus, Without Compromise Theatre sets the scene for Derby Day, which makes its debut at theSpace Triplex.For one tight-knit group of friends, however, the event is too close to home for comfort, and matters need to be resolved. The victim is their lifelong friend. The investigation is dragging on and those conducting it have met a wall of silence, as anxiety mounts within the group. They have already been interviewed, but have given only the bare essentials of the night he left them and was later found dead.Jade is pregnant. Kirsty Stevenson creates an appropriately calm, motherly character who seems to be the main source of stability, given the chaos that is to come. She talks comfortingly to her sister-in-law Chloe. Maria Woodside balances her vulnerability as the victim of sexual abuse with the durability she demonstrates in living – if not coping – with the trauma.The tension in the air is amplified incrementally with each scene, an artful writing skill that makes the narrative increasingly captivating. With the entry of father-to-be Danny, Xander Cowan takes us to the next level. Clearly all is not well with him, not just because it is Derby Day and he has to shout at the TV in support of his team. He knows things he has not told the polis. Cowan starts by appearing nervous and on edge before he explodes in the next scene, when his buddy Harris pushes him too far and confronts him with the harsh reality of the mess they are in.With Kieran Lee-Hamilton, at his impassioned and forceful best, barking reason brilliantly opposite the irrationality of Cowan, we are soon thrust into perhaps the most confrontational, aggressive and chilling argument at the Fringe. The hair-raising rammy, as they might call it, is a stunning piece of theatre. All that remains is for painful decisions to be made and for events to take their inevitable course.Writer Michael Johnson more than fulfils the company’s aim of telling honest, working-class stories for working-class audiences and beyond. He tackles abuse and criminality head on with credibility, staged against a stark white set designed by Danny Menzies and Loz that allows nothing to detract from the intense dialogue. Meanwhile, director Lucy Pedersen superbly builds and relaxes the tension in a model arc.There is a side to the story that remains unfulfilled and leaves a question hanging, but maybe, like Taggart, there will be another episode. Let us hope so.

I settled into the comfy seats at Edinburgh’s Dynamic Earth, excited to see how they would incorporate video into the planetarium to enhance one of the greatest albums of all time, Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. A couple of other people have already reviewed the album itself, so I won’t go into much detail about the music (needless to say – would recommend), other than to mention that the sound quality was stunning, and with the enhancements I was able to pick out lyrics in quieter sections I had never heard before. A good start.I had high hopes for the video companion to the album, and Dynamic Earth did not disappoint. They guided us on a stunning journey across the galaxy, with crisp detail at every stop. From the textures as we hovered over the moon during On the Run, to the clockwork mobile of Time, then speeding through the rings of Saturn for 12 parsecs at 1.5 times the speed of light, this was everything we could have hoped for. Every beat of the video was in perfect sync with the music – just think how much better The Wizard of Oz would have been if it had had the foresight to match Pink Floyd’s rhythm so harmoniously.I did feel a little let down at the avoidance of explosive imagery to coincide with the crescendo of The Great Gig in the Sky (the high point of the album for me), but all was forgiven with the next track, as we were put in the perspective of astronauts floating weightlessly in a tin can far above the moon, before being transported into a Tron-like world during Money.At various points, we were treated to psychedelic bursts of colour and sea creature-like figures dancing through the cosmos. It did, at times, feel as though there were creative depths the team could have plumbed further, given the infinite possibilities available to the imagination, and the ticket price is around 25% higher than it should be.The Planetarium Lates: Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon is a stunning reimagining of a contender for the high point of 20th-century musical artistry that cannot fail to impress. It is also a great opportunity to introduce your children to what proper music sounds like, so here’s hoping it makes its way to the groundbreaking 3D planetarium at We The Curious in Bristol – surely England’s best science museum – and to every other worthy screen around the nation.

I’m lucky enough to count a few trans persons among my friends and, although it’s not a subject often discussed, there’s generally a feeling that their transition is to be celebrated – a becoming of who they really are, of who they were meant to be. Diana Salles takes the intriguing approach that, to become the woman she is today, she had to kill the man she was. Delusional: I Killed a Man is a multidisciplinary contemporary circus show that tackles this feeling with heart, skill, humour, and beauty.Opening as the arrival at a funeral, we are greeted by Salles in mourning black. She glides among the audience, expressing her grief before throwing herself into the performance. It’s a spectacular use of circus theatre, utilising aerial silks and hoop, physical theatre, and contemporary dance, along with singing and an intriguing selection of music that, although not always subtle, clearly conveys the intention of the piece.The aerial performance is both spectacular and nuanced; there are moments of breathtaking beauty in the air, followed by sudden death-defying drops that bring gasps from the enraptured audience. Seeing her entwined in silks makes me wonder if the big question of Delusional: I Killed a Man is whether Salles truly murdered the man she was in order to create this complicated, talented, vulnerable, yet strong woman. Or was this a metamorphosis? Did Salles spring forth from a body that was simply a cocoon, allowing her to be reborn as she is now?Circus theatre is fast becoming the hot genre at the Fringe, and Salles has delivered an incredible example of the genre. In this show, Salles presents a performance as tightly delivered as a classical monologue and as thrilling as the highest drama. This is a show that will stay with you long after the applause has finally died.

How To Win A Pub Quiz is Alex Love’s love letter to comedy and quiz formats that has been gathering momentum as a Fringe cult smash for a full decade.In the hands of a lesser comic or quizmaster, this show could easily flop, but Love is a master of both, striking the perfect balance of skills to ensure his show reaches maximum potential, and then some.He opens with a comedy routine combining personal insights, trivia, and great gags that instantly cultivate the kind of rapport a regular quizmaster might take weeks to establish with regular teams. More than half the Fringe shows I’ve seen this year contain some commentary on Oasis’s role in the festival, but Love handles it in a totally individual and engaging way that outshines the generic, crowbarred references elsewhere. Despite the fact that the quiz is the show’s USP, he does not just settle for that, outstripping some of the festival’s top-rated comedians in terms of both quality and quantity of laughter.By the time the questions began, the affectionately teased audience was in the palm of Love's hand, aided by his ability to recall when certain audience members last came to his show, even dating back to 2015. It’s clear that he possesses the qualities of a quizmaster perhaps even beyond those of a comedian. The way he incorporates questions based on the initial material is novel and varied, including some truly hilarious twists and revelations.Returning audience members are both rewarded by generation-spanning in-jokes and callbacks, and challenged (or rewarded, as you see fit) with questions and material that have endured across multiple Fringes. Newcomers are fully welcomed as well. If you like the sound of the show, it is guaranteed to be a festival highlight, as it delivers everything it promises and then some.

As my group of co-agents and I sat in the waiting lounge of the Royal Scots Club, we were greeted by an utterly adorable recruiting agent who came to set the scene. She was a fun and quirky character, and I was intrigued to spend the next 50 minutes with her. However, she was only there to introduce our main agent, Agent Noble, played by Nathan Glover, director of the multi-show theatrical escape room company Agent November. Getting into suspicious-spy mode, I strongly suspect that the lady was meant to be our host, but her handler had her stand down to represent the company as he knew there was a reviewer present. Treachery was afoot. This was disappointing, as I have reviewed him before and wanted to see what his minions could deliver, but I still could not fault Agent Noble in his guidance through the journey.His faux-suave agent guided us stealthily into the venue, where he revealed we had all been poisoned (dum dum dummm) and had just half an hour to solve the clues, crack the case, and find the cure. After an intriguing video introduction explaining the high stakes and crime details, the eight poisonees explored the room to complete puzzles, open padlocks, gather evidence, and conclude the story. The clues are wide-ranging and take the correct amount of time, controlled perfectly to nearly bamboozle puzzle-solving newcomers while still not allowing seasoned experts to fly through.The storyline wraps up neatly, showing that the writing is carefully considered as a counterpart to the puzzle element for which the show was selected. It treads the line perfectly between being engaging and not over-indulgent, and having a live actor with us really enhances the experience. There are no major flaws, but there is perhaps more space for ‘wow-factor’ puzzles with advanced tech or concepts that stretch closer towards the ever-raising glass ceiling of what can be achieved in interactive entertainment across the Fringe.Agent November has four shows of varying lengths running multiple times throughout the day. I have seen two now and feel confident recommending them all, as the company can certainly be relied upon to create high-quality immersive and intellectually challenging escape theatre.

Venus 2.0 has an ambitious goal: to portray a complex tapestry of historical change and political evolution through dance. The performance focuses on the life of Mary Richardson, a suffragette activist turned fascist. It starts with an exposition-heavy introduction which feels slightly strained, if rather charismatically delivered, but at least explains why.In their words, "Contemporary dance and narrative clarity are not always best of friends," and with that in mind some latitude is certainly earned.The choreography is well tuned and the cast deliver it ably. There is a distinct undercurrent of emotion and flair throughout, which remains impressive. The dance itself is great, and the silhouette work occasionally employed is particularly striking. It is especially impactful during the forced feeding sequence depicting Richardson's imprisonment and hunger strike.Unfortunately, at times the performance loses its sombre tone. The depiction of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti as a comedic figure feels jarring and difficult to reconcile with the broader piece. Later, it becomes clearer that the contrast was meant to align with a contemporary figure who has inserted themselves into politics. Regrettably, this connection is not fully realised, so it feels forced rather than earned. I also struggled to connect with Mary Richardson as a character; her fall to fascism is not adequately explored, and the narrative feels rushed.The most unsettling and ultimately redeeming part of the performance are the speeches from Oswald Mosley. The bombastic gesturing and dance from a deliberately ethnic minority performer wearing a white mask, overlaid with the penultimate British fascist’s words, is arresting and troubling in an extremely well-handled episode.

If comedic genius lies in the ear of the beholder, then any ears attuned to political discord, dishonesty and overwhelming disbelief at the state of 2025 can surely only concur that Matt Forde is precisely that.Forde’s slick standup combines a merciless ability to skewer those who most deserve it with a rich roster of howlingly accurate impersonations, gifting his audience the cathartic laughs they are clearly desperate for in a world gone mad. In recent years, Forde’s shrewd eye for the ridiculous has seen him embrace his own health problems as an integral part of his set, adding layers of vulnerability and humanity to his work. And while he may chuckle at his assumed identity as a poster boy for the conditions his recent chordoma has left him with, there is no doubting that by shining a light on such medical unmentionables Forde helps both to normalise and to lighten the load of life-altering diagnoses for others.With all this personal and global material, the only downside (as always) is that an hour in Forde’s company simply does not feel long enough. Razor-sharp observations flow thick and fast, with an almost flawless rate of hits. Trump and Starmer are the particular stars of this show, but there are guest appearances from a range of other surreally redolent establishment figures which tickle the funny bone precisely because life itself has become as unpredictable and inescapable as a Benylin-induced fever dream. There is even a cameo from the awful Boris Johnson, serving as both a comic salve and a warning to humanity.We know that comedic genius does lie in the ear of the beholder, so it is entirely possible that Forde’s intelligent reflections will not land with every punter. But it is hard to imagine who these punters might be, other than a Mr N Farage of Clacton, who is treated throughout the set with exactly the levels of respect he deserves.It is a strange feature of ageing that we seem to laugh less readily and less heartily with every passing year. Perhaps we have heard it all before. Perhaps the world is just less funny. Matt Forde turns all of that on its head. We not only have permission to laugh at what scares us but are invited to weaponise our collective laughter against the total tossers in charge of our lives. And for a magical 60 minutes, laughter does indeed prove that it can sometimes be the best medicine.

Translating real events into a drama for the stage is a challenging quest, but the Lace Market Theatre have succeeded with a clear and compelling presentation in Once Upon a Bridge at theSpace at Surgeons Hall.On 5 May 2017, a jogger inexplicably shoved a woman into the path of a London bus on Putney Bridge, leaving the driver to narrowly avoid tragedy. Caught on CCTV, the assailant ran on as though nothing had happened. Dubbed the “Putney Pusher”, he was never identified, despite a police appeal and widespread media coverage.Sonya Kelly’s play reimagines this random act of violence in a powerfully chilling and intriguing “what if?”. Director Beverley Anthony seats the three characters most intimately involved in the incident on evenly spaced chairs, face-on to the audience, resembling interviewees. It is a starkly simple device that appropriately reflects the gravity of the situation. In turn, they provide backgrounds to themselves, relate their side of the story and reflect on how it has affected them.Luke Willis creates a cocky, self-assured jogger who almost manages to remain oblivious to the possible consequences of his actions until the horrors finally overwhelm him and he breaks down emotionally. Clare Moss sensitively and delicately relates the traumatic experience the woman endured, wondering why it had to happen to her. Gurmej Virk similarly describes events as the dutiful bus driver – a family man who takes pride in his work and punctuality and always seeks to do his very best.There is great imagination in the creation of the characters and their lives, which draws interest in them as people. Their narratives eventually collide, and the first exchange of words towards the end comes as a dramatic breakthrough.It is a reminder of how easy it is to become part of life-changing events in the impersonal urban jungle.

Jenny Tian asks the sold-out room at Assembly George Square’s Studio Two if anyone has done “a big move”. No one answers at first, then Tian acknowledges that the space makes it look as if she is “about to give a boring lecture”. This elicits some titters that relax the room, so when she asks again, a few people pipe up.Tian’s “big move” has taken her from Australia to London, with the next stop being America – “I know, an unpopular opinion,” she says. While her travels only cover three countries, Jenny’s Travels also loosely refers to a “growth journey” that Tian – and, she later realises, her mum – have been on.This is a guesstimation, as the set is pretty light fare. Tian covers some of the cultural and generational differences between her and her mum, dating and Home Alone 2. There are some fun moments of physicality and a couple of sharp quips, but nothing that particularly shakes the table.It is a safe set and a fine way to spend an hour, helped by Tian’s Aussie affability. Her diciest material comes when she compares the parallels of signs of autism with “just being Chinese”. There is clearly more to be mined if Tian truly wants to break out from TikTok star to fully fledged comedian.

Aaron Pang’s quest for a relationship lies at the heart of his Edinburgh Fringe show, and he shares his hopes and fears with the audience with a charm and honesty that propel the narrative and bring us face to face with his particular dating conundrum. Because, in addition to unpicking the nutty problems of choosing Tinder pictures, writing a suitably witty biography and curating “sexy” interests, Aaron walks with a cane. A cane which, he notes, carries its own legion of socially awkward questions and difficult conversations – especially on first dates.Thus begins a tender, intimate and uncompromising hour in which we share Aaron’s medical history and how he feels that his disability has impacted his ability to find love. To be honest, I have no idea whether the story we are told is autobiographically true or not, or whether the “Aaron” we see in front of us is the genuine article or a dramatic construct. Not that it matters – the message is the same.We are required to check in with ourselves and consider both what we think of Aaron’s disability and what we want to take from his story. It turns out, he tells us, that too many people need his story to have a happy ending. And, be it down to sympathy, narrative neatness or an opportunity to absolve oneself from awkwardness, these optimists are doing a well-meaning disservice to those living with a disability. It is not up to others to navigate a medical journey that is not theirs. And for as long as we need another’s condition to be “cured” we can neither read the person in question as a whole, nor give their lived experience the respect it deserves – such unintentional ableism discounting the reality of living within a world that is not designed to be accessible for all.Pang is a natural storyteller – full of charisma and twinkle – and Falling is fascinating and thought-provoking but also very, very funny. Beyond this, it is human to its core and asks us to explore our own relationships with the concept of disability as much as to engage with Aaron’s romantic arc. Not asking for any favours – just to be heard.

There's no shortage of shows that tackle the plight of soldiers sent to the front to fight for their country, and Michael Hughes found his niche in The Last Bantam at Greenside @ George Street.Patrick Michael Wolfe, a teacher from Dublin, made many attempts to join the army at recruiting offices in Ireland and England, but was always rejected because he was below the regulation height. His motive for enlisting was to secure Irish Home Rule, a promise that was made to Irish recruits who joined up. He heard that a unique regiment had been formed by Alfred Bigland, the MP for Birkenhead, Cheshire. Bigland believed that shorter healthy men, many of whom worked in mines, could make a valuable contribution to the war effort. He wrote to the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, who agreed to the idea but refused to fund it. Undeterred, he formed Bigland's Birkenhead Bantams, who took the aggressive fowl as their emblem and later became 15th Battalion, 1st Birkenhead, The Cheshire Regiment. The 30,000 men were all between 4’10’’ and 5’3’’ (147–160 cm).Clad in an authentic replica uniform and bustling with personal equipment, Hughes tells the remarkable story of these men and highlights the contribution of Irish recruits to the war effort and the attitudes they encountered among the ranks. It is a story of patriotism, prejudice, courage and betrayal, the action ranging from the city of Dublin to the horrors of the Western Front, with the Easter Rising carefully noted.Handling a topic that might easily become heavy, Hughes ensures there are light moments, with humorous tales and even a tune or two within the narrative of war, all delivered in the lyrical tones of his homeland.The show is for anyone who enjoys a well-told story, and even more so for those with an interest in WWI history who want to understand it from a personal perspective.

I was excited to see that Samuel Carroll had returned to Edinburgh with his new chapter in the adventures of Bennett Cooper Sullivan; a Victorian adventurer performed solo by Carroll with boundless energy and sophistication. One of the joys of reviewing is seeing artists grow in their craft.The physical performance was exceptional and grounded, and the storytelling is well written. I was giggling from the start, but perhaps a little too well written for some of the sleepier audience members due to the early start time. However, Carroll was a master of his audience and brought them round by the end, all of us hanging on every word.We started with a jailbreak. Sullivan would be happier exploring the mysteries of ancient lands, but duty calls – the Royal Society – and sadly our hero must return to urban life, and London, when an unsuccessful assassination attempt brings him to Edinburgh. Carroll flourished as a madcap range of other characters such as surgeons, professors and bar keeps.The character has morphed between chapters from a curious civilian bystander to a professional adventurer with a toolkit of improbable skills. He learns much from everywhere he goes, cracking jokes both high and low brow along the way.The show had a wonderful give and take. Sullivan would start to explain the situation he was in, and we were all fascinated to know how on earth he was going to get out of that one (or how Carroll was going to act that as one man?) – and he nailed it every time. For me, the sign of good mystery writing is that I can see how the plot fits together just ahead of the reveal, and this show gave me such a wonderful moment of realisation.What I appreciated this time was the depth to Sullivan. There were moments that had real heart, where he would reflect or have doubts, or face an injustice head on and not be able to change things. In addition to the glorious innuendo.This year the show took place at Summerhall in the Anatomy Lab, in what would have been the Royal Dick Veterinary College in its Victorian heyday. I had hoped, given Carroll’s skill for detailed period script writing, he would be inspired for a historical caper that drew upon the long history of medicine here in Edinburgh – not to mention Burke and Hare and all the skulduggery surrounding them. I couldn’t have been more thrilled.The resonance between story and location was delicious. We were listening to a lecturer regale us with their adventures in unstudied lands and new sciences, sat in the same seats that served the Victorians all those years ago.Storytelling at its finest. The Cadaver Palaver is perfect for fans of Sherlock Holmes or Oscar Wilde.

For a play that starts just after nine o’clock in the morning, you might be forgiven for thinking the cleaners have forgotten to put their trolley away, but it is actually a clue that Romeo & Juliet: Out of Pocket at theSpace @ Surgeons’ Hall is going to be an irreverent take on the Bard’s great romantic tragedy.The two-person adaptation begins with an exchange between the professors who co-teach the Shakespeare course. Eduardo Zucchi plays the visiting Mexican academic who sees and emphasises la pasión of the text, while his British scholar counterpart, Felicity Ison, is obsessed with structure, language and grammar. What follows is a high-energy, eccentric and bonkers romp through the play that debates whether it is one of hope or despair but ends with the pair overcome by the sheer romance in the air.The aforementioned trolley, complete with cleaning items, mops, gloves and a host of other bits and pieces, is actually the props repository and the couple waste no time in deploying it. Director Alonso Iñiguez has them frantically using everything they can lay their hands on to create over-the-top characters and boost the comedy.The accomplished performers work well as a physical theatre comic duo, bouncing off each other’s energy to create a fast-paced, frantic farce that is mad but fun. Some lines and speeches from the original play are also given a twist in delivery, confirming that even the most sacred text can be abused and distorted.Do not be deterred by its being advertised as bilingual. The bulk of Argentine playwright Emiliano Dionisi’s script is in English and the few lines that remain in Spanish can be understood by context and add to the humour.Grab a coffee and enjoy a light-hearted, lively start to the morning that should put you in a good mood for the rest of the day.

Smita Russell’s one-woman show Odds Are takes us through the impacting story of her desperate attempt to find meaning in the inexplicable, by way of “myth, maths, medicine and memory.”Russell holds court in the intimate Roxyboxy at Assembly Roxy, slowly stripping away items of clothing as she recounts how she has been pregnant nine times but experienced seven losses. She suffers from excessive nausea “like Kate Middleton” and during one pregnancy, doctors discover she has a chorionic haematoma, like her downstairs neighbour – but their babies survive and Russell’s do not. Two years in a row, she loses two babies on the same date: New Year’s Eve. “What are the odds?”Her medical diagnosis of “just bad luck” does not hold weight for someone who so values maths and science. Russell consults specialists and mathematicians as she grapples with the question “why me?” She even emails astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson, who replies, but she never answers him. “I ghosted Neil deGrasse Tyson ‘cause I was an asshole,” she quips.Russell’s ability to inject humour into Odds Are is admirable, but it remains a heady hour, heavy with subject matter, statistics, science, and Greek mythology. She shares how writing her story has helped, as has making peace with myth and science coexisting. She ends by asking if hers is a story “of bad luck or good?” We are still not sure, but it is a deeply moving one nonetheless.

The teaching profession in the UK has been in crisis for some time. Current statistics suggest that just under a third of teachers quit within five years. This is the looming scenario for the unnamed protagonist of Meg Coslett’s new play MISS, now playing at the Lion and Unicorn Theatre in Kentish Town. Played by Coslett herself, an English teacher simply referred to as “Miss” struggles through a single day in the classroom, encountering a wide range of educators, students, and parents, all brought vividly to life through outstanding multi-rolling performances by Joe Sefton, Georgia Maguire, and James Coward.Switching between a series of monologues and full dialogue scenes, MISS charts the trials and tribulations of everyday teaching. Each class period becomes a different adventure with its own cast of students. Coslett trained as an English teacher, a background that proves invaluable to her writing. The observations, nuances, and humour of secondary school life are astute and, at times, profound. One standout scene sees Miss confronted with a boy she suspects is caught up in drug running after school. In class, he is lethargic, but she cannot directly address his wider life beyond education, leaving both characters suspended in a painful dynamic where the truth must remain unspoken. The tricky balance of educational and pastoral responsibility recurs throughout the piece – in some scenes more successfully than others – but always with an eye to the professional, emotional, and legal constraints under which teachers must operate.The play resists easy categorisation as either drama or comedy. Yet the comedic crown surely belongs to the School Receptionist (James Coward), who valiantly spins across the stage in a wheelie chair: a loving homage to the unappreciated matriarchs of countless British secondary schools.Interestingly, the teaching staff seem to have less developed interior lives than the students, perhaps a deliberate result of Miss’s perspective as the narrator. While she clearly cares for her pupils, her attitude toward her colleagues is coloured by disillusionment. Her own dreams and motivations remain elusive as well; what is most apparent is how her mental energy is fully consumed by the school day, an environment she frequently contemplates leaving behind.Altogether, MISS is a strong, impactful piece of theatre that concisely explores the complexities, toxicities, and fragile human goodwill underpinning the British education system.

Few have not heard of Lady Jane Grey, the ill-fated “nine days Queen” who had the misfortune to be moved about the political chessboard of Tudor England like the low-ranking pawn she was, inevitably to be cut down when the all-powerful Queen Mary snatched back the throne that was rightfully hers. But in this powerful piece of new writing, Laura-Rose Layden brings Jane’s final moments to life in a deeply affecting hour which illuminates her earlier years and mourns the woman she might have become.The Greenside venue at Riddle’s Court is most evocative for this historical journey, and the intimate Clover Studio allows the audience to feel every minute moment with the unfortunate Jane. Clad in a simple green Tudor gown, Layden uses the tiny stage to great effect, working in tandem with lighting changes and sound cues to revisit the places she knew before her incarceration. Her physical control is superb, creating a range of moods and ages with pinpoint precision. It is hard not to feel for this slight, young girl, buffeted on the waves of happenstance. Layden’s eyes – full of searching and confusion – communicate a profound understanding of the dreadful life of privilege, and its attendant pain, that Jane was born into.Layden has also written the piece, and it is easily one of the most beautifully crafted you will hear at the Fringe this year. The script is achingly poetic, conjuring devastating reality with a sophisticated yet lightly delivered linguistic register which haunts the air and draws the audience into Jane’s thoughts as if we are in that tiny Tower room with her.The fusion of actor and character is exceptionally strong, and Layden’s powerhouse performance weaves a nightmarish spell on the audience as her fevered mind flits between the key moments and characters of her young life as she awaits execution. Her short but happy time in the court of Queen Katherine Parr; her miserable home life with an overbearing, ambitious mother; a dreadful marriage; an adored sister… Layden dispenses with the heavy historical exposition which many will already know and drills down into the more universal themes of yearning and emotional solitude.Layden’s Jane is a more complex, involving and recognisable figure than the pious, uptight source might suggest. This is a wise choice, maintaining audience interest while communicating the wider themes of female subjugation and historical brutality. Another key production decision is to showcase her beautiful vocals by progressing the plot with art-rock style songs, reminiscent of the ways in which Miranda and Lloyd Webber use music to elevate mood and deepen understanding.The beauty of the Fringe is that, if you search through the hype and hysteria of big names, you can find little gems such as this tucked away up cobbled alleyways, waiting to be uncovered by those lucky enough to secure a ticket.

Whether it is in the grand way she glides around the stage in Pleasance’s Bunker One or the subtler action of wearing the microphone wire over her shoulder like a delicate shawl, movement forms an integral part of Ayoade Bamgboye’s debut hour, Swings and Roundabouts. She informs us that she has taken a clowning workshop so is “more playful now.”Bamgboye slips as seamlessly around the stage as she does accents, dancing between received pronunciation, north London and Nigerian depending on what will best punctuate a punchline. Naija often wins out, with the volume to match. She is also as likely to burst into song as she is to ask people if they were born vaginally or via C-section, since she has a theory about how people enter the world and what it means for their destiny. Accompanied by a grin that is part mischievous, part manic, we never quite know where she might go next, either in the set or in the room. She keeps us on the edge of our seats and her every word, yet never once do we feel in unsafe hands – likely thanks to that clowning workshop.This all contributes to excellently built tension, as Bamgboye consistently refers to an “old me versus new me.” While we are aware that something significant has happened, she does not reveal it until the final 15 minutes of the show. That reveal is all the more commendable given the hour starts and ends with a story about eavesdropping on a terse conversation between a customer and a shop assistant in The Co-op, “the purgatory of supermarkets.”Not the most captivating of openings or satisfying of finishes, but Bamgboye carries it through by being completely captivating herself and by using carefully considered turns of phrase. Her love of language and British idioms in particular is best exemplified by a game of sorts that she calls the “World Cup of Peril,” where we debate what is worse between pickles, jams, ordeals and binds.Eventually, Bamgboye reveals that the ordeal she is grappling with is the death of her father and the subsequent grief. She shares a beautiful supermarket analogy about the loss of a parent that moves someone in the audience to tears. Bamgboye gently goes over to hold their hand, as she complains about the lack of innovation in the condolences space: “It’s all ‘sorry for your loss’ – next!”Bamgboye is an enthralling storyteller and as charismatic as they come. While Swings and Roundabouts does cover much of the identity-focused material that has become customary in debut shows, few are exploring it as affectingly as she is.

Dangerous Goods is intersectional feminist cabaret which wears its heart on its sleeve from the start. The central conceit is that we are in a dangerous workplace and toxic chemicals are afoot. Unfortunately, the acts that follow stray wildly from this theme, so the show feels a little disjointed. The real connective tissue becomes a strong feminist message, which plays well with the crowd.God, I want to love this cabaret. It is exactly the sort of in-your-face bold feminist messaging that I adore. The routines at times feel a little underwhelming, as though the performers believe they are breaking dangerous ground when they are not quite doing so. I kept waiting to be wowed. Then we’d reach a moment where it seemed to be building, only for it to peter out. The line-up had everything you’d expect in good cabaret – fire, aerial, cyr wheel, powerful vocals, provocative humour – and I loved Hot Brown Honey. It just feels like a show that almost got there but didn’t quite, especially given a few flawed executions and missed opportunities.That said, the cast do occasionally deliver. Leah Shelton’s burlesque act is one of the best I’ve seen in the last year and deserves exceptionally high praise. I was a little frustrated that the show didn’t trust the audience to understand the latex-clad performer was a sex doll, so they emblazoned it on her back. This perhaps sums up the whole issue with Dangerous Goods: there is a lot of telling and not always enough showing. That minor gripe aside, Shelton’s act was powerful, well conceived, expertly choreographed, and exactly the kind of out-there burlesque I’d like to see more of.I did enjoy myself. This is a good show and some of the acts were standout – Bridie Hooper’s straps and hand balancing were powerful and evocative, for instance. I just feel that if you’re going to call yourself rebellious, claim you’re going to shift paradigms and blow minds, then you ought to do that. Dangerous Goods is good cabaret that could be great cabaret, with a gorgeous message. It just needs some polish.

Ben Jonson famously said of his contemporary that Shakespeare was “not for an age, but for all time,” and in this new piece from the Cross-Gartered Players, we see how his Illyrian characters might fare if translated to modern London.Billed as 'Twelfth Night meets The Thick of It', Yellow takes place in a shabby law firm where Malvolio is lying low after his fall from grace in the employ of Olivia (now a governmental minister). We meet plenty of recognisable characters: the young idealists, the dodgy overgrown public schoolboy, the newbie desperate to make a difference, and the damaged soul lurking in the corner – Malvolio.The piece is very well-staged in the airy Niddry Lower. If you like your Shakespeare, there are plenty of references to his life and works that will tickle your palate. And if you are of a more political bent, the machinations and moral capriciousness bowl along steadily, asking the audience to question their own ethical stability.If you are unfamiliar with the source material, it doesn’t matter. Yorgos Filippakis as ‘Mal’ conjures the reimagined awfulness of his downfall with sensitivity and sincerity, while Heli Pärna plays his confidante Rosie with a generosity that allows the bigger characters to shine. As befits a setting in the machine room for plots being laid and inductions dangerous, the writing is never tempted to create characters that are too sympathetic. We are treated to the three-dimensionality of humanity without seeking to excuse it. A brave choice, and one which reflects the original most effectively.

Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here plays as audiences pile into theSpace @ Niddry Street’s studio, of course. The song speaks for itself; its themes are self-explanatory and somewhat foreshadow what’s to come in this new play from Without Compromise Theatre.Wish You Were Here – the play, that is – unfolds in Glenrothes over the course of one tense engagement party. Three working-class men are brought back together after three years of estrangement: one now lives in Edinburgh and works in theatre, while the others have remained in Fife; one a reformed addict now engaged and expecting a child, the other an unemployed couch surfer dependent on his friends for shelter, food, and drugs to forget the trauma of his mother’s passing. Once a tightly-knit group, these men’s relationships are tested in brutally tense and surprisingly hilarious scenarios throughout the domestic gathering, often toeing the lines between dark comedy and bona fide tragedy.At its best, Wish You Were Here settles into theatrical naturalism, where dialogue sounds almost impromptu and off-the-cuff – perhaps some of it is – using the Central Scots dialect and slang to draw attention to the difficulty of genuine emotional expression, or at least clarity of expression, in male friendships. An example might be two of the male characters hugging it out very frankly, with one of them fighting back tears by saying something along the lines of, “You’re the best cunt I’ve ever met.”Moments like these are laugh-out-loud funny, as audience responses attest, but also deeply heartfelt and earnest in delivery and impact. The relationships are fully sketched, characters developed, and themes extracted: from queerness and self-acceptance to drug addiction and cycles of violence. By the end, every narrative turn feels legitimate, if slightly rushed, and unapologetic based on the complexities of these characters’ actions and motivations. Having disarmed its audience with boyish humour, the dreadful realities of grief and addiction catch us off guard and offer some semblance of perspective come the play’s close. This is a brilliant and critical entry in this year’s Fringe; one of the first I have seen that deals head-on with contemporary Scottish themes, culture, and society.Needless to say, Without Compromise Theatre is a company to watch.

Tim Kenneth Kicks the Bucket is a philosophical comedy that is equal parts silly and highbrow satire in the vernacular of Whit Stillman and Dead Poets Society. In many respects, this fusion of easy, self-aware fun-poking – mainly rooted in one of the characters’ low intelligence and lack of self-awareness – and philosophically minded irony works. We are presented with three totally distinct characters: the titular Tim, a philosophy professor at Rutgers University (where much of the play’s action unfolds), and two students whose incongruous personalities drive much of the play’s conflict and comedy.Pencil, an archetypal nerd who idolises Professor Kenneth and is written expertly in the ear-splittingly privileged East Coast argot of The Secret History, does not seem like he would get along with the archetypal slacker Scooter, who, like an early Richard Linklater subject, detests education and everything about it. When Scooter pranks Tim Kenneth on the worst day he could possibly have been pranked, it is the final straw: Kenneth finds himself plummeting into a helpless existential spiral befitting a professor of philosophy. Together, Pencil and Scooter aim to rescue Professor Kenneth and, in doing so, discover things about themselves and each other.On paper, it is a tried-and-tested premise with a familiar setting and vibe, but there are moments of brilliance and authenticity sprinkled throughout this hidden gem: think The Holdovers meets Falling Down, where the power dynamics are shifted and the vulnerability of the teacher or authority figure is brought to the limelight. Tim Kenneth Kicks the Bucket poses questions about education but also makes very important points about self-perception, masculinity, and privacy, all communicated with predominantly slick dialogue, smooth direction, and some gut-wrenchingly funny gags. The audience did not stop laughing for the play’s duration. The unique personalities of the two central students were also acted with nuance and fully realised characterisation; the differences between the characters’ physicality were well observed in particular.That said, the play suffers from a typical case of losing momentum around the halfway point, once we have got to know the characters and they had decided to help their professor in the most absurd way possible. After this, what began as a tightly structured and compelling scenario devolved into far too much randomness and unfocused chaos, which, while driven by the clashing personalities of the central duo, felt far too incongruous with the style of comedy the play had established in its first half. In fact, so much of the second half seemed to come out of nowhere that the production felt more like a set of distinct sketches rather than the one-act drama the exceptional first part established.Tim Kenneth Kicks the Bucket is a play with real heart, wit, and wisdom, performed by a magnetic ensemble, but it falls victim to a loss of narrative drive and seemingly does not quite know what it wants to be.

If charming storytelling is your thing, then The Light Catcher at theSpace on the Mile could be the perfect start to your day. Sensitively written by Niranjan Pedanekar and delicately directed by Sanket Parkhe, this English solo play traverses the world, introducing us to fascinating people as we visit a number of diverse countries.Ritika Shrotri plays a celebrated photographer who goes on an emotional search for her favourite shot. But where might she find it? She travels from the Indian sub-continent to the UK via Ethiopia, Venezuela and North Korea, relating the sounds and sights and creating vivid portraits of the people she meets: a lady in one country, an immigration officer in another, then a police officer and child, and the attractive Alejandra. In all, we are introduced to ten people for whom she devises idiosyncratic voices and characteristics, and we see her in evocatively lit scenes and silhouette, enhanced by a soundscape that creates appropriate locations and mood.The characters all have stories; some heartwarming, others hard-hitting, but they are always combined with a visual element. Since childhood she has seen things in frames, with images delineated in black and white and all the shades in between. She had a Polaroid that captured those magical moments, and now she pursues the ultimate image.Shrotri moves effortlessly from one scene to the next and from one character to the next in a series of graceful vignettes set to a pertinent soundscape in this delightful production.

A musical about a post-apocalyptic touring burlesque cabaret inspiring audiences to get busy with repopulating the world is certainly an original premise. With a book by Andy Colpitts and music by Michael Wookey, The Family Copoli wears its influences on its fabulously designed sleeves (costume by Ana Mocklar and Julia Schanen). There are hints of Cabaret, Moulin Rouge, and maybe even Shock Treatment, with a heavy serving of Mad Max where the grotesque sits alongside the beautiful. The real plot of the story is less about the show, leaning heavily on the familial in-fighting that drives it. The set design allows the cast to effortlessly take us from stage to backstage, as this is where the real drama is played out.The titular family is fracturing. As disagreements about setlists and casting choices grow into arguments about the morality of their mission, Justin Lee’s patriarch attempts to keep everyone in line. There are stand-out performances from Oscar Llodra as the Emcee-like Frolino, and Jack Henigan and Cece Wagner as the twins, Pickin and Grassaline.The songs are where this musical shines; there’s not a weak number in the show, from the Weimar-esque opening Old Gold to the heartfelt Triangles in Space. Unfortunately, the direction is inconsistent. The cast smoothly transition between scenes and there’s always lots of business going on in the background, but there are several moments where cast members are speaking lines upstage – sometimes while crouching and digging through suitcases and boxes – which makes dialogue difficult to hear, especially when the band is playing. I must also raise that the ending feels weak; there is an Act 3 revelation that is meant to shock, but the exact same subject matter is the punchline of a comedy number earlier in the show. It’s a mixed message, and the show ends with no real resolution.The Family Copoli is an ambitious new musical from a talented team and features an excellent cast. I hope that this show continues to develop – there’s definitely more story to tell about this complicated family dynamic, and I would love to see it.

I previously saw Improbotics 18 months ago at Brighton Fringe and marvelled at the creative concept, plundering AI and combining it seamlessly with improvisational comedy. Some shows come up with a novel and groundbreaking idea before the competition starts springing up but settle on it without fully exploiting the potential. Not so Improbotics, which has a wide range of technological advances for entertainment purposes that translate really well to a stage show. The main criticism I had first time around was that the improv element just didn’t carry any weight, and I hoped that with a year and a half to polish this and let the performers hone their craft, it might be pushing towards the giddy heights of ‘unmissable content’. Sadly, the improvements since then are imperceptible, and this remains a five-star format with four-star tech and two-star performances.The show kicks off with our intro to the charismatic robot Alex, whose monotone delivery of AI- and human-generated concepts is endearing and promising. By contrast, the overly drawn-out intro from Piotr, the creative mind behind the show, loses all momentum. Some auteurs appreciate that their skill set doesn’t extend beyond conceptualisation, and while Piotr is perfectly able to speak on the mic, and hearing from the passionate producer briefly is atmosphere-enhancing for a period, it’s over-indulgent and might be better delivered in the hands of one of his more capable teammates.The small stage is overpopulated with nine poor-to-average improvisers, which feels unnecessary when the USP of the show is the tech element. Some of them look like they could be brand new to improv, and I’ve seen more adept performances from entry-level improvisers. While the format pivots on the robot and other technological components, it still requires better-than-amateur improv to justify the efforts and premise. The AI is the true star, and it’s a shame that large proportions of the show use it minimally. The highlights are when Alex is put centre stage, and the long-form piece superimposing three improvisers’ faces into an audience member’s to reenact three multiverse versions of herself, had she made different life-changing decisions at various junctions.The gimmicks are great, and despite a couple of apparent technical hiccups that didn’t really interrupt the flow of the show, Piotr and his team still have the makings of a five-star experience. In their hands, though, it can’t be long before a more able team of performers sneaks in to fill this burgeoning gap in the market. If you like the sound of the show, it’s still a proper fringe experience and will provide memories and talking points, but if you’re here for quality improv, then you’ll want to look elsewhere.

Escape Room: The Musical is a great premise that surely appeals to my fellow fans of genre mashups, in which a cast of seven play out a mystery thriller intercut with songs and problem-solving.It’s a strong setup, but a weak opening number doesn’t bode well, as the songwriting and vocal performances here are very amateur. The cast seem proud of their performances though, and you can occasionally feel the tension as they pause for laughter or applause that never arrives. Despite lacking gravitas, there is still expectation that the show will deliver on the novel idea.As the drama unfolds, we learn that the characters have been invited to the escape room by a mystery person and they each have secrets to reveal. This tried-and-tested premise (albeit in other locations) could really lead somewhere, and the writing is fine if not a bit underwhelming. Some of the characters are well-defined and engaging enough, and the script certainly isn’t without jokes that land well. Although there are actually some excellent jokes that just don’t get their deserved acknowledgment due to suboptimal delivery.A couple of the songs are quite enjoyable, though the musical elements are probably the weakest part of the show, yet the audience remain hopeful until the end that a great twist or revelation will justify the journey. There are some major flaws I can’t discuss without spoiling the ending regarding some characters’ significance to the plot, and I found it somewhat ironic that one character said in the final act: “You can’t be hiding parts of the puzzle in your head,” when this is exactly what the writers did to their audience.The escape room element is a fun idea, but the audience don’t really get to participate in solving them, or even being fully briefed on what all the puzzles are, as they’re explained by the cast as they proceed through the story. This could probably succeed as a more interactive piece, putting the ‘Escape’ element centre stage while the ‘Musical’ part humbly retreats. In the hands of another creative team, this could easily be a four-star show, and perhaps if they keep working on it, they’ll get there. It still held our attention to the end, but judging from some of the comments I heard from audience members on the way out, perhaps the venue was the real escape room all along.

Brilliant and ambitious in its range, Dancehall Blues combines dance, text, voiceover and film. It is choreographed, with input from the dancers, by the acclaimed David Bolger of Dublin’s CoisCéim company, whose work has appeared at the Sydney Opera House and the Venice Biennale. This is dance theatre for our difficult times. Yet anger is tempered with lyricism and, surprisingly, the magic – perhaps illusory – of a burgeoning love affair, symbolised by a dance hall mirrorball.Set in a fictional 2030, it harks back to Orwell’s dystopian 1984. The two dancers first appear clad in hazmat suits, suggesting a post-nuclear apocalypse has occurred. Film projected on the back wall shows crowds and police in riot gear with shields. It is then revealed that the couple are in a dilapidated hall, possibly a former dance hall. The mirrorball makes a dramatic entrance. Throughout, sirens wail and the noise of angry crowds reminds us – in between the more playful and hopeful relationship developing – of the threatening world outside.The two dancers complement each other beautifully. Emily Kilkenny Roddy is more lyrical, while Alex O’Neill is a bad boy from hip hop, street dance and jazz. Yet she can rise playfully to match him, and there is great chemistry between them. Delightful angular armography is topped by witty chairography. O’Neill is mesmerising: angry, expressive and endlessly inventive, his rapid movements include krumping, chest popping, swinging arms and contorted fingers, but he can also melt into the lyrical love duets. Their relationship has an ambivalent edge, though. Is it real or imagined? A large gilt-framed mirror, tipped forward, projects images of the dancers in hazmat gear alongside the reflection of their ordinary attire, suggesting the world of the mirrorball – and of their love – is illusion.John Gunning’s lighting design is striking. The stunning music and sound design by Ivan Birthistle creates atmosphere, from a thudding bass to Pergolesi’s uplifting Stabat Mater sung by Philippe Jaroussky, and finally Jacques Brel’s sentimental, quintessentially French Ne me quitte pas. The show ends on a note of hope. The couple finally take ballroom hold – so clever to leave this to the end – and waltz around the lowered mirrorball, spinning and twinkling until its scattered light fills the space. A magical, ecstatic ending.With a bit of tightening of the hazmat beginning and some longueurs between the action, this could be a five-star show.

Caligari, an eerie, darkly comic, metatheatrical riff on Robert Wiene’s silent film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, takes audiences to Weimar Germany – sort of – into the central themes and messages of the post-war classic – kind of – in order to say something supposedly new, using concepts from the 105-year-old original as the backbone for this new play-within-a-play’s meaning.We are presented with a chorus of nameless narrators, all of whom have been affected by the tyranny of Caligari, as a character within the play but also as a symbol of the long-known interpretation of Caligari as a corporate metaphor for power, corruption, and unwanted authority. They must take it upon themselves to tell the story their way. The 2020s may be as fitting a time as any for a play like Caligari, which revamps and re-explores the prescient messaging of the film, which has been called the first ever horror movie and a game-changer for cinematic expression – after all, we have more than enough hideous and maniacal leaders in the world. That said, this play offers nothing apparently new in either style or substance.The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is regarded as both a staple of German Expressionism and a cultural landmark of Weimar Germany. The critical consensus is that the film is a potent synthesis of motifs about authority, aggression, and delusion, largely inspired by European war governments, casualties of WW1, and what Siegfried Kracauer analysed as a subconscious desire in German society for tyranny. All of these themes are apparent in the film, a gorgeous exemplar of theatrical mise-en-scène which tactfully celebrates its own performativity – as well as its innate anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist commentaries. The film remains a political and cultural landmark about innocents caught in the line of fire of aggressive forces and corrupt power structures. Who is forgotten and left behind?Caligari – the play – cherry-picks significant themes from Wiene’s classic and delivers a lacklustre retelling with very little thought of its own. Striking make-up and some compelling performances cannot save the production from clunky direction, heavy-handed exposition, overblown delivery, and missed opportunities for a more physical, Berkoffian approach to the storytelling. The Fringe is no stranger to retellings or to repurposing classic texts to tell new stories and explore new dynamics, but the central take-away of Caligari – which the script wastes no time in pressing upon its audience – is something already fully explored in the original. What is new here?There is certainly a play to be found – a new story to be told about the other victims of Caligari’s hegemony. But this production’s endless starting and stopping, its repeated breaking of the fourth wall, and its disruption of narrative flow suggest a dearth of ideas rather than engaging metatheatrical trickery – as it might have been perceived a century ago, around the time The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was released. The Pirandello-esque aimlessness of these characters feels less like a charming cerebral thought experiment, crossing the boundaries of reality and fiction in pursuit of greater meaning, and more like an exhausted gimmick that brings little to the table. Indeed, very little, to the Caligari debate at all.

So You Think You’re Funny features three up-and-coming comics who are already making waves and winning competitions on their way to potential stardom, following in the footsteps of some of your favourite comedians who trod the same path. The acts today, and for the whole run, were all worthy of their success so far and complemented each other well.First up was Ciara O’Connor, who took on the guise of quasi-compère in getting to know the audience and setting the atmosphere for the evening, before seamlessly flowing into her material. She had a confident stage persona and a wide range of solid material that did not rely too heavily on being trans. Her trans-chess analogy was a set highlight.Next up was Bert Broadbent, who talked – as too few comics do – about his glasses. As with so many stand-ups, much of his set focused on his appearance, and while amusing, I prefer comics to verge into more original and diverse subjects that you don't hear in the majority of sets. A strong act who will not disappoint nonetheless.The standout for me was the final performer, Fab Goualin, who offered witty commentary on his Nigerian-French heritage and coming out story. Despite – and forgive the hypocrisy – both being topics many comedians cover, Fab proved to be a master of the callback, tying his set back to epic discussions from the previous acts. This helped establish SYTYF as a cut above some other Fringe compilation shows, where comedians often arrive mid-bill and repeat interviews with the same audience members.You will always be in safe hands with this brand, who work tirelessly to quality-control their acts based purely on merit and ensure you leave struggling to identify any lowlights in the lineup.

Reviewers never set out to tear a show apart, we want to be entertained. But our job is to give an audience a realistic expectation of whether a show is worth their money and time, and sadly, on occasion, we will stumble across a show somewhat lacking in artistic merit. Enter Ruth Rosie.Ruth opens Agent Red’s AUDITION with an overview of what awaits us: one audience member will be interviewed in front of a green screen and then superimposed into a video of a completely different scene. Ruth proves not to be a natural performer as she nervously ambles her way through an unscripted introduction, sharing how she was a Fringe-goer who had an idea so exciting that she dedicated herself to writing and learning the complex tech requirements to make it a reality.To her credit, the idea is promising, and in the hands of a charismatic performer with a team of experts supporting her, she may well prove to be an able producer. But as it transpires, this is the closest Fringe show I’ve ever seen to being The Room, except our auteur lacks Tommy Wiseau’s magical touch to make a disaster into a cult smash.Nearly everything that could go wrong here goes wrong, and yet it appeared to run smoothly for her. My friend was selected to be the ‘candidate’ and was briefed in private while the audience was ignored, when there was no reason to exclude us – the first of many extended periods of dead air. She was then involved in a prerecorded video interview with an actor, where she was presented the opportunity to give generic scripted responses to questions about whether she would make a suitable secret agent.We were then subjected to a video lasting over ten minutes of Ruth explaining in excruciating detail the challenges she faced along the way – how she learned coding, issues with the tech, and the plethora of curveballs that every Fringe show faces but usually has the grace to conceal from audiences in favour of putting their best face forward. Were this script a Facebook post for the select audience of her friends and family, it would be TL;DR a mere 5% in, but being subjected to her joyless ordeal became one in its own right for the audience. And so, when the video ended and she continued with live updates of issues since the video was shot, this just added insult to injury.Finally, we made it to the headline event where we could assess whether the ends justified the means as we watched the eight-minute video into which the auditionee was inserted. We were warned in advance that she would appear ‘ghostly’, but she was basically transparent, sitting awkwardly on the end of a table while prerecorded actors played out a meaningless scene around her, with a handful of lines randomly interjected by our spectral addition. It was only after we left that my friend pointed out that it wasn’t even her featured in this screening.Agent Red’s AUDITION is a strong idea, bringing modern concepts and tech to the festival at the beginning of the AI and accessible high-production tech revolution. Sadly, though, the premise fell into a woefully underqualified pair of hands. Here’s hoping future iterations can drag it closer to its potential.

Police Cops is a three-man show built on a bedrock of nostalgic laughs, with a dizzying array of props held together by the comedic chops of performers who own every inch of the stage from the moment they take to it. The trio are amazingly inventive, have comic timing down to the millisecond, and know exactly when to go over the top – as well as occasionally shrug carelessly and gloss over something that shouldn’t make sense.Usually I come in here and compliment seamless technicals that augment an already excellent show. Police Cops is the sort of production where you can see all the seams, tape and frantic energy holding it together – and it only adds to the whole experience. You will belly laugh, snort, giggle and utterly lose your mind at this camp tribute to all the classic (sometimes terrible) action movies of the 80s and 90s. Right down to the facial hair on show. Going through good effects to bad effects and then coming out the other side slickly into good effects that look sort of bad takes a certain brand of genius I really admire.An early moment includes the “Uncle Ben tragic death character development” of almost every inexplicably ripped protagonist from these decades. It has all the staples: corny language and morality, a mysterious murderer, “heartfelt” and overacted dialogue. More importantly, though, the show comes right out and tells you what to expect with the soon-to-be-departed observing: “It’s snowing, Johnson.” before the third member of the cast walks past quickly to scatter white paper cuttings over them. The crowd howls, the lights shift, and the performers smirk because they know they’ve got you in the palm of their hand.Buckle in, because this is the formula for the rest of the show. Constant laughter, 80s dialogue and witty asides as two of the trio play out a scene while the third rolls out fitting “effects”. The genius is that it’s almost the opposite of spectacle – but it really works. The whole performance is tight, like a well-tuned muscle car thrumming with energy provided by the cast and fed back to them wholeheartedly by the crowd.If you are a fan of 80s and 90s action flicks – or really not a fan – this is the show for you. You will get the references. I cackled at the self-aware depiction of the grizzled old cop, the plucky young buck out to become the Best Police Cop Ever, and the dubiously international villain. It’s so on the nose and so knowingly winking at the audience that you can’t help but love every minute. There isn’t an ounce of slack in the show. It keeps a steady cadence of laughter running through the whole performance.They even manage to make a meta joke about a cash grab after ten years – like all the best serial action movies. Magnificent.

Rachel Kaly is a melancholic jester. In an hour about their respective neuroses, feud with their dad, and grievances on their own sexuality, Kaly will have you laughing the entire hour.Their tone of voice is like no other comic in the game. A sort of lesbian Larry David mixed with the social criticism of Chloe Petts – Kaly has built an hour that is an absolutely charming way to spend your afternoon.Their discussion of trauma is raw and vulnerable. They never miss a swift slice into landing their punchline. A comedian to watch, Rachel Kaly is a must-see at Pleasance.

A sleeper hit from last year’s festival, Dan Hazelwood’s lost history Ascension returns to the Edinburgh Fringe at Bedlam Theatre until 25 August. The play, largely a one-man show performed by Hazelwood himself, richly sketches a portrait of the Dutch sailor Leendert Hasenbosch, who was marooned on Ascension Island in the South Atlantic in 1725 for sodomy. Its contents are inspired by Hasenbosch’s diary, discovered after his death, in which he detailed his daily survival on the island, surrounded by barren rock and sublime ocean, haunted by the demons of his past.Hazelwood has constructed a sensitive and uplifting, if slightly meandering, memory play about Hasenbosch’s life, boldly updating – or rather, repurposing – his tragic story for 21st-century audiences. The play attempts to assimilate themes as far-reaching as religious trauma, the weaponisation of faith and the internalisation of shame, explorations of queer identity, love, family, acceptance, self-acceptance, intimacy and the absolute. For the most part it tackles these themes relatively seamlessly, threading them together within the purview of a deathward plot. This is an intelligent, pristinely choreographed and technically impressive hour, bolstered by a dynamic central performance from Hazelwood that keeps viewers hooked.The predominant focus of Ascension is recollections from Hasenbosch’s past, which the play successfully dramatises and weaves around the events of his present (his dying days) – from sexual awakenings to his employment with the Dutch East India Company. These are the most compelling parts of the production, counterposing religious piety with desire and romantic discovery. While the play suffers here and there from being overly explanatory in its themes – particularly its political and social messaging – and thus trusts its audience slightly too little, there is real subtlety and brilliance in its vignette-like structure, as well as eloquent catharsis in Hasenbosch’s ending.There is a neatness and simplicity to this play’s narrative, structure and purpose, which audiences have clearly been responding to. No doubt this year’s festival will not be the last we hear of Ascension – or of Dan Hazelwood.

Seattle-based Suitcase Dance Theatre returns to the Fringe with another original dance piece featuring a talented ensemble of dancers of mixed ages. pAges is presented as a series of vignettes pulled from a journal chronicling a dancer’s life – from childhood, through dance school, career, love and family, to later life and bittersweet memories. Loosely based on the experiences of director and choreographer Veronica Mendoca (who also performs), it is a compelling yet slight performance that hints at a deeper, more powerful piece yet to be staged.The cast of ten are mostly dressed in white costumes painted to make them seem like living sketches. It’s a striking visual and works well to convey that we’re watching journaled memories unfold before us. A standout moment sees some of the cast don dark flowing tops with long sleeves, used to create a cat’s cradle that entangles another dancer. It’s beautiful and sinister at the same time. Other sections, however, feel a little on the nose: three dancers are tormented by others in T-shirts labelled ‘fear’, ‘angst’ and ‘self-doubt’; another moment has a barre become literal bars to imprison a dancer. By contrast, routines left open to interpretation feel stronger. I found myself veering between intrigue and disappointment.The choreography makes good use of the small stage, although it’s a shame that the seating layout means I rarely saw the dancers’ feet, especially during the tap sequences. Dance loses something when you can’t see the feet. Still, there are many beautiful moments in pAges: the choreography is tight and dynamic, the dancers know when to be characterful and when to let movement speak, and the music choices are fabulous – I could imagine making a Spotify playlist based on this show. Criticism aside, this is a talented troupe and the beginnings of a strong production. If you’re a fan of dance that mixes classic and modern styles while telling a story that’s easy to follow, you can’t go wrong with pAges.

Old God is a whimsical fool. How old is he? Where did he come from? Why does he have a fruity little outfit? We don’t quite know. What we do know is that he wants to have fun with us.From Jeff Bezos miming to T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Old God is greatly informed by classical art and physicality. But that doesn’t take away from the lovely idiocy that comes with my personal highlight of the show: the Marzipan Hand song. You’ll just have to go to the show to see this special moment.Played by Alec Jones-Trujillo, the indulgence of the classical clown is joyous to see. It merges thoughts of the old jester with what it means to incorporate clowning in the modern world. There are lovely moments of audience interaction as well as unmasking. Old God spins rhymes and myths as fast as we can process them. The endurance and energy of the show are captivating and impressive.There is a moment of unmasking in the show that steps over a line and made me question the performer’s self-awareness. While Old God never stops building on his bits, this particular moment – involving a description of a Palestinian person – struck me the wrong way. It lacked self-awareness, even if it did further his joke about his unmasked character.

Chloe Petts loves boobs. She’s made that abundantly clear in her new hour, appropriately named Big Naturals. In a stand-up set that digs into what it means to grow up with lad culture, date baby gays and question one’s masculinity, Petts has complete control of the room.I was impressed by how nuanced Petts’ examination is. It’s honest, hilarious and never misses a beat in returning to a joke she’s already set up. She comes from such a genuine place and, in the same sentence, can be hilariously cynical. It made me grateful to see a stand-up hold a truth-telling position, especially one informed by gender.There’s an acknowledgement of her own masculinity and its respective problematic aspects. In a very sincere moment she talks about her dad’s approach to conflict, which is to be soft spoken. I was laughing and at the same time reflecting on how valid a subject this is – especially in comedy.I absolutely loved the show and believe it deserves the continued acclaim it’s receiving.

The Fiascoholics are bringing the world to an end with a brand-new crazy comedy 4’S A CROWD (Or What Not to Do When Stuck in a Bunker During the Apocalypse) at theSpace@Surgeons Hall.Which means it’s really all over before it starts, but that doesn’t stop the company from dutifully regulating admission to the bunker and devising rules for living together in an apocalyptic age, where the only survivors are the people you might have wished dead. There’s a young lad, described as just a geezer (which says it all), a zealous Welsh boy scout who certainly didn’t earn his management skills badge, a C-list actor who even at that level is overrated, and two billionaires claiming to be the same person, whose wealth has clearly increased at the cost of their brains. If these remnants of humanity are the gene bank of the future, there is little hope.Given the choices available, who would you kick out of the bunker, as thanks to another chaotic mistake, five people have turned up to take four places? Would it make any difference anyway? But critically, the supplies of Wotsits are dwindling rapidly.As the creators say, “The show aims to subvert conventional apocalyptic storytelling by rejecting the idea of heroic protagonists and instead throwing together a chaotic, selfish and deeply flawed group of characters… it is an ironic and witty satire – mocking elitism, privilege and performative activism.” I couldn’t have said it better myself, which is why I’ve left it to them, but I would quite simply add that it’s fabulously bonkers.The show clearly emerges out of an imaginative, chaotic flurry of creativity, abounding in absurdity to create a comedy that never takes itself seriously in its drive to provide exuberant entertainment. If you appreciate The League of Gentlemen and Accidental Death of an Anarchist combined with the Commedia notion that character creation reigns supreme, then this is for you.

As the blurb on the Edfringe site suggests, you need some pre-drinks to appreciate this one. Watch Me Die! is theatre produced with the attitude of packing a suitcase by stuffing in clothes any old how and jumping on the lid to get it shut.Written by Jake Smith, the play is a fever dream of a contemporary Wars of the Roses, combined with a bisexual version of Othello where everyone is shagging each other.The stage is taken by Miles John, playing Benedict Masters, a soldier under the command of Colonel Olivia. However, the acting/narration is supplemented by the Dead Fool Society team with animations, filmed sequences, written text, sound effects and a puppet.Giving a summary makes it appear more put together than it is. It's a ragbag of jokes – many of them aren’t funny – but the quantity makes up for the quality, so that at least one member of the audience is laughing or squeaking at any one time. (And there are a few good puns thrown in.)There’s no character depth, no proper structure, no analysis of anything. John, as Masters, and the show as a whole, have the sole aim of grabbing and entertaining the audience by any means necessary. It’s not that the fourth wall is broken, but that there don’t appear to be any walls.I can’t recommend it as theatre, but if you want a late-night show that is held together by bits of string but is eager to entertain you, then this is worth a punt.

Gaudeamus Artistic Company’s stated intention is to offer the Italian community in Scotland the means to reconnect with or discover Italian culture through theatre. Indeed, the excellent cast symbolise the cultural links between Scotland and Italy, not to mention the iconic and charming venue Valvona & Crolla, a visit being highly recommended at any time of the year. The set immediately suggests literary endeavours, with piles of books everywhere, some immediately identifiable as Italian classics.We meet Domenico Serino, Erika Boetto and Eva D’Amico (also the director), who are due to perform imminently at Edinburgh Festival Fringe. They playfully debate the merits of different ideas, in essence performing a series of vignettes, as they decide on the format upon which they will settle. Among those debated and, in some instances, discarded, are works by Venetian playwright Carlo Goldoni, the noted children’s writer Gianni Rodari, Rosso di San Secondo, Alessandro Baricco, Eduardo De Filippo, and last, but hardly least, the influential literary figure of Luigi Pirandello. Serino intermittently tries and, spoiler alert, fails to convince the others to embrace Alessandro Manzoni’s The Betrothed, derided as a “student’s nightmare”. These scenes are delivered in Italian, with English surtitles, ensuring that the array of English and Italian speakers can all enjoy the proceedings. It is a fusion of drama, comedy, physical theatre, storytelling and song. The highlight is perhaps their performance of Achille Campanile’s La Quercia Del Tasso (Tasso’s Oak), in which the many different meanings of the word ‘tasso’ blend together comically and at rapid-fire pace.As is generally the case with vignettes, some land more easily than others; however, the joy of the show lies in the cast’s charming chemistry.So why is the title No Shakespeare? The production leans into the idea that you can find the Bard everywhere at Edinburgh; but here, on the other hand, they will serve up some lesser-known Italian cultural gems. A worthy ideal indeed.But the last word lies with the message of Domenico Modugno’s Three Bandits and Three Donkeys: if someone is willing to listen, literature and art will always live on. We’re listening.

Always, Sometimes, Maybe is the clown show I’ve been looking for all Fringe. Subtle, gentle, energetic, funny, with just a hint of sadness and a perspective that keeps the audience riveted. I frequently found myself leaning in, even as it felt the principal performer was reaching back to seek connection.Michele Stine mainly depicts an endearing janitor who turns trash into treasure and makes the mundane into art. With the aid of puppets, also made from cast-offs, and well-tuned miming, they give life to the remaining cast. It all comes together in a giggle-worthy spectacle that will have you smiling fondly as you leave, and perhaps taking a chance on new friends. It is not grand or heavy on effects, but the best clowning isn’t – and this is top-tier clowning full of soul. Mixing the frantic with the gentle, loudness with softness, we get a fun-filled show with room for tremendous depth.The show begins simply, with a headtorch providing the only illumination, before clap-on lights startle the clown by revealing the audience. We walk through the day-to-day of a lonesome janitor, who doesn’t initially seem sad. In fact, the performance is upbeat throughout, if a little timid at times. You can tell from the earnestness of the character that they desperately want to share their findings and favourites – especially with the children in the audience, who were immediately engaged in helping sort loot from leavings in the pile of rubbish. By the end they’re almost conducting surgery, such is the sense of trust and comfort that Stine creates with their expressive features and joyful manner.As we explore deeper, we find things that Stine and their characters struggle with – making friends, or even small talk for two. It somehow manages to stay fun even as we share tender moments of what it feels like to be a little different. The latter half of the show reads like a love letter to the neurodiverse and to those who struggle with acting “normal” when that doesn’t come easily. Without ever using labels such as autistic or ADHD, Stine gives a beautiful and vulnerable performance of what it is to exist outside the norm, the struggles that entails, and the reassurance that it is okay regardless of how difficult it may be day to day. It leads by implication, tugging heartstrings by leaving much unsaid. It doesn’t need to be said – it is written large in everything depicted.Always, Sometimes, Maybe is exceptionally entertaining clowning. It isn’t too on the nose with its message, but rewards those paying close attention.

Without memories, how much of our identity would remain? Separated by a wall, 49 and 64 cannot see each other and have only fleeting, imperfect recollections of the past. 113 is a conceptually ambitious but technically simple production that dramatises the conflict between the stories we tell about ourselves and the reality of our lives.The crowd is split in half so that we only see one of the actors for the whole play, cleverly enabling the audience to share in 49 and 64’s sense of separation. However, the physical distance between the characters only highlights the lack of chemistry between them.So much of the plot is spent uncovering their respective backstories that little space is left for character to emerge through action and manner. Consequently, the love story strand of the plot feels unconvincing and somewhat gratuitous.113 is a thought-provoking play that poses interesting questions about the relationship between memory and identity. However, this production fails to maximise the potential of its premise and ultimately falls short due to an unnecessary romantic subplot and unconvincing characterisation.

Jenny Ryan is becoming quite the multi-talented entertainer. From first coming to public prominence as The Vixen, the imperious quizzing titan on ITV’s The Chase, she went on to wow with her spectacular singing performances on Celebrity X Factor and is now onto her second Edinburgh Fringe show. With Björn Yesterday, she really comes into her own as a stage performer – warm, likeable and confident, she puts the audience at ease with effortless charm and wit.The show begins with Ryan dazzling her way onto the stage in a fabulous sequinned cape before positing the (by her own admission) absurd theory that ABBA never existed, which she presents in the form of a lecture, Venn diagrams and all. Part comedy cabaret, part memoir, Ryan reveals how she fell in love with the band as a teenager and cleverly draws parallels between that and her simultaneous loss of faith in the Catholic church. Her analysis of both ABBA’s body of work and the Mamma Mia! movie franchise is genuinely fascinating – and hilarious. Who would have thought it contains more multiverses than the MCU?One shortcoming is that, for a show about ABBA by a performer with such a wonderful voice, there is a curious lack of singing. She teases a few bars of The Winner Takes It All, breaking into tears for comic effect, and offers a few snippets of songs throughout, but only commits to a full rendition in the much-wanted singalong finale.Overall, for any ABBA, quiz or comedy fan, the show is a real treat and a delightfully joyful way to spend an hour. I won’t spoil the ending, but suffice to say the question of ABBA’s existence is resolved happily. A word of warning, though: you will never listen to Chiquitita in the same way again.

In the Bushes is not so much “Nature, red in tooth and claw” as Nature, pink, with shits and giggles.Apparently, there’s a handout explaining that choreographer Léa Tirabasso’s inspirations for this show are Guy Debord’s work and Henry Gee’s critique of “human exceptionalism” (I confess I completely missed these references when I went). But it’s less bemusing to know a key theme is the animal reality that underlies human culture. The resulting show is surprisingly cheerful, warm, and funny.The dancers are like toddlers in a play group who have raided the dressing-up box. The girls giggle incessantly (and infectiously), the boys are more sensitive and nervous. They dance in sync as a group, or, increasingly as the show continues, one of them has an amusing idea which others copy. Like toddlers, they like a bit of anarchy, and they like to laugh (a lot). They like to show off to each other – and to members of the audience. Their combination of vulnerability and simple enjoyment wins the audience over from the get-go.We see a sort of random development: they discover singing and practical jokes, explore sensations such as cuddling, slapping bottoms, kissing and nudity, develop rituals for the dead, and finally learn to pretend.The performers are superb in clowning, physical theatre, dancing, and sheer energy. I can’t imagine how they can even smile for such a length of time.It’s a show full of absurdity, silliness, and fun. Weirdly, you feel there’s also a lot of truth.

We file into our seats around a single woman, Maria Teresa Creasey, taped up and face down on the ground. We’ve had weirder weekends. I was expecting a jab that never came from Creasey about me being a little too comfortable with taking duct tape off women.My role as a reviewer is often to make sense of what a show is like or about for our readers, but Degenerate actively resists the process of sense making. The show hops genres at milliseconds' notice – horror, drag-esque lip syncing, stream of consciousness, character comedy, stand-up, prop comedy, and tap dance. It somehow avoids feeling fractured through the sheer hutzpah of Creasey, who rolls us through the tonal whiplash.The very loose storyline involves Creasey coming to terms with aging, as a woman and what that means regarding the roles she is now expected to play. What is Hollywood’s obsession with younger and younger women? In these flashes, Creasey speaks directly to me, as someone who has completely forgotten what age they are – I am post-30, and I stopped being an actor after becoming sick of constantly being asked to read for love interest, mother, or hag, and that’s it. Her response is to embrace the idea of an eternally young and sexy vampire.The show has a shotgun approach to audience interaction. You might be able to avoid the blast by curling up really tight in the back, but everyone is getting hit at some point. Throughout the piece, Creasey talks to members of the audience as if they are fellow performers in the show or goes for more traditional stand-up crowd work.The bits that worked least for me were the moments where Creasey imitated and lip synced along to extracts from women in horror films. Some of these were stronger than others. In good drag, it doesn’t matter that you’re lip syncing because you are also ascending or cracking jokes about the source material. Here, it felt these moments were played a bit too straight. They were a good chance for Creasey to flex her acting muscles, but they took chunks of time away from the fascinating performance surrounding them. I wanted more in the room than some quick references.Creasey is a masterful MC of her own strange, satirical horror-variety act. I will keep the description light to avoid spoilers, but the finale is surprisingly affirming.

Marc Burrows times this show perfectly – bringing Britpop knowledge and comedy to the masses just as Oasis relaunch their world tour, Pulp score a #1 album, and pretty much every Britpop band you’ve heard of (apart from Blur, who did their thing last year) are touring again. Britpop Hour, hosted by the leading aficionado on the genre – or should that be “style”? – talks you through the entire history of one of the central components of 90s UK culture, with plenty of amusing anecdotes and insights.The show kicks off with a brief but hilarious exposé of some of the worst lyrics from some of the best songs. There are only two, though, and one feels he could have plunged deeper. Even so, it reminds you that, even if, like me, you consider yourself an authority on the subject, there are some wake-up calls in store. And we all need a little time to wake up.There are certainly laughs throughout the show, and Marc is an able and confident frontman, though you should go in expecting an amusing TED Talk rather than a laugh-a-minute rollercoaster of aisle-rolling. That said, he does refer to a couple of his jokes being shortlisted in the Top 20 by leading newspapers.Britpop Hour charts the whole history – from the bands who paved the way for the revolution through to its climax. Expect to learn more about my favourite 90s band, Pulp (PS, I am the proud owner of a Jarvis tattoo), and some of the surprising things they predate, having formed in 1979 (NB – a missed opportunity not to mention they formed before Thatcher came to power). His Jarvis dance tutorial was a real highlight, and I delighted in having the audience encouraged to try out his epic moves at the end of the show. Multiple brownie points were lost, however, for getting the lyrics to Common People wrong on the screen in the final crescendo.There’s a good deal of variety here as well, with Burrows whipping out his guitar to demonstrate repetition in musical themes, à la Axis of Awesome, but abridged. I loved the graphs showing where different bands sit on the Britpop spectrum, and it’s enlightening to see someone talk about some of this nation’s greatest music with such passion to reach a new audience. I went with two Irish friends in their thirties and was shocked to hear on leaving the show that they had never heard the term “Britpop” before, nor had they come across Pulp! For shame!So if you too know anyone in desperate need of a musical education, you can’t go wrong with treating them to this Britpop hour. Maybe you’re going to be the one to save them. Woo hoo!

Ontroerend Goed’s latest arrives at ZOO Southside with a disarming premise: make your audience the subject of your theatre. Turn the lens of your drama – literally – onto the people who traditionally consume it, and turn them into the source of the performance instead. It makes for a tasteful, low-pressure, audience-centred experiment with its heart in the right place.Directed by Alexander Devriendt and performed by Karolien De Bleser, Charlotte De Bruyne, Patricia Kargbo and Leonore Spee, Thanks for Being Here trains a roaming camera on the crowd and folds the live feed into the action. Recorded messages from earlier audiences are woven through, and the quartet guides a few gentle, low-stakes moments the whole room can share. You can keep your head down if you wish; the piece doesn’t strong-arm anyone.The execution is tasteful and tidy. The video reads as portraiture rather than surveillance, and the performers handle the room with care – soft cues, clean timing, no smugness. There is a quietly lovely sequence where fragments from past audiences seem to stitch us to other nights; another finds feeling in a slow pan that becomes a group portrait. The show’s heart is unmistakably in the right place: it is trying to honour the act of gathering, and there is a fine communal spirit throughout.That said, the balance between creativity and novelty is not always right. The central conceit – “the audience is the artwork” – is clever, but the machinery around it can feel like neat packaging for a fairly slim idea. What begins as a generous invitation could, for some, slide towards gimmick: thoughtful window-dressing on a concept that doesn’t quite evolve.The piece does raise the etiquette of filming without scolding, and it nudges a room of strangers towards a brief sense of belonging. I admired that restraint. I also missed a stronger emotional arc. The closing gesture is tasteful and unforced, but I left thinking more about the polish of the method than the charge of the encounter.There is enough craft here to recommend, especially if you are curious about audience-centred work and allergic to being put on the spot. But the performance never fully escapes its own frame. It lands as a considered, well-made experience that is easier to admire and enjoy than it is to love.

Release your grief and conquer cancer through pulsating discos and wild workouts in an endless round of partying. That’s the message of Sarah Asante Gregory and performer/co-writer Bex Wall in Life Would Be Pretty Dull Without Sex, Raves and MDMA at theSpace at Surgeons Hall.If that sounds wild and outrageous, it’s because it is. As Wall says: “This story comes from somewhere real. It’s about the weird, unspoken places grief takes us – and how music, madness and human connection can carry us through.” Gregory adds: “We’ve created something raw and ridiculous, but also deeply human. It’s not about tidy answers – it’s about being seen in the mess.”Wall’s slick, psychedelic, leotard-clothed body gyrates to the sounds of the 90s, seemingly possessed of more energy than she knows what to do with. She tries to expend it all in this 50-minute romp, but by the end there is a sense she could do it all again. Her powerhouse performance is unrelenting as we tour raves around Europe, but nowhere can she escape the two fiends that fill her mind.A frenetic lifestyle is precisely what her deceased brother would have wanted her to embrace. It was exactly how he lived and died – in a drug-fuelled, alcohol-driven, sex-ridden excess of partying and clubbing. Her own end might come differently, however, given her breast cancer diagnosis. For her, life is a battle on two fronts, as she lives with a duo of demons who are as likely to attack her head on the dancefloor as they are in the tranquillity of her home or on a lonely walk.The joy of this highly personal show is its life-affirming message and refusal to become self-centred or self-indulgent. There is no navel-gazing morbidity, but rather a challenge to defy the odds. Her dance may be physically on the floor, but mentally it hip-hops between letting go and holding on, as her head grapples with the complexities of grief, the guilt of survival and the joy that can come from embracing both.The show is full of contradictions: of finding alternative answers to a situation; of looking tragedy and misfortune in the face and standing up to them; of defying the obvious. This is a raw and brutally honest dive into life as it is, legal or not. Wall wears her heart on her sleeve, gives it everything and dares you to join her in the dance of life and death.

King Arthur’s Body feels like Arthurian fan fiction brought to the stage. As anyone who has read fan fiction will tell you, that means it is hot, gay and full of political remarks. They have clearly found their audience, and the crowd lapped it up – especially the quip about JK being “She Who Must Not Be Named”.The performance imagines what might have happened if two old queens – Merlin and his owl Archimedes – were responsible for raising the once and future king Arthur. It is camp, funny and never takes itself too seriously. Arthur is played first as a mere babe and then a Gigachad (his words). Lancelot is an exuberant twink caught between bisexual urges (who hasn’t been there), while Guinevere is all sex appeal and magic.This is a very loose retelling of a small portion of the Arthurian story. It leans more towards fanfic in the way it plays like a horny tryst superimposed on recognisable characters. And that’s okay – I’m as here for the ménage à trois as anyone.Unfortunately, they are trying to fit a lot into an hour-long show, and what suffers is the interplay. Sequences feel forced, some pseudo-spiritual-sexual handwaving is a little odd, and they end up being very on the nose about what they are up to. If they cut much of the first third, they could focus on what much of the audience is clearly here to see: medieval polyamory in action.

Sensitive and evocative, A Journey of Flight, created in Shetland, is about the migration of birds. Choreographed by Kathryn Gordon and danced by herself and Jorja Follina, it is full of birdsong, images of birds, wings and shadows, with flickering light suggesting wings.Animated film by Alison Piper of seabirds is projected on the walls and on white sheets hanging from washing lines. The material is underlay for wind turbines – a hint that blades and birds are not good friends? Sliding across the floor or leaping and dipping, the dancers suggest flight. Shirts held out become wings. Hands cross, casting shadows on the sheets, but there is nothing so unsubtle as arms flapping. The choreography is simple, the two endlessly circling the space – perhaps too simple – but it allows the audience to imagine the vast distances birds traverse.The soundscape by Jenny Sturgeon is one of the delights of the show. Birdsong recorded in Shetland, including the strange churring of storm petrels at night on Mousa, is mixed with electronic weirdness and live vocals: a song in Shetlandic, a poem by Kathleen Jamie and the traditional song Mullalyo among them, accompanied by a mountain dulcimer, a guitar and the rattling of limpet shells.Towards the end, there are voiceovers from locals about the need to leave and the need to return home. More could be made of the human parallels in the choreography itself, but there is much to recommend in this charming show.

Matt Hale is becoming known as the party hypnotist for the Fringe, and this year his show is all about the party decade that was the 1990s. Before the show starts, we’re welcomed in with a mood-setting playlist of some of the decade’s bangers. He opens the show shirking a traditional suave suit in favour of his own now-traditional colourful jumpsuit and sets the scene with some party moves and singalongs that get us in the mood.After briefly discussing the nature of trance and running a quick suggestibility test on the audience, he invites us up. Twenty volunteers go up and I’m among the half who do not succumb to his quick induction, a couple of the instructions of which I found a little unclear. But he had nine of my counterparts comfortably under his spell – a couple of whom showed potential to become memorable, but standout moments were scarce.The next 30 to 40 minutes gave us a journey through the 90s with plenty of dancing, instruments and random escapades and… wait, no, actually it was pretty much all dancing. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to dance to in the 90s and nothing felt out of place, but there’s also a lot of other things to take advantage of within the decade, and hypnosis gives Hale complete creative control to demonstrate the range of phenomena achievable under trance.He promises, and delivers, a 90s party, yet it felt like a wasted opportunity to have more than half of it focused on something any extrovert would do even if not induced. I prefer my hypnotists to prove to their audience that the volunteers are truly under the spell with at least a couple of skits that can only be achieved under trance. As an example, one man who became Liam Gallagher was given the suggestion to get the crowd singing along with Wonderwall and get angry at anyone who didn’t participate. Hale got the singalong, but the volunteer never showed any negative emotions to his crowd, and wasn’t reminded to do so.My highlight was having girl talk in Scatman language, culminating in her scatting to the Fresh Prince theme – finally, a standout Fringe moment.There’s no doubt that the audience loved it, and may have even preferred the party atmosphere to a more varied display of references or psychological exploration. If you want a fun, upbeat hypnosis show then this is going to be the one for you – it’s just a shame that the volunteers aren’t given the opportunity to demonstrate the full extent of what their depth of trance could really attain.

Mr Handsome is a washed-up celebrity. Played by Ellen Turnill Montoya, the right hand has been forgotten: with AI and feet pics all the rage, Mr Handsome needs to land an audition. But he has one problem – he misses his best friend, Lefty. Through whimsical onstage gags and audience participation, Mr Handsome takes you on a giggly ride through the lonely life of a single hand.The construction of Mr Handsome’s show follows the shape of a hero’s arc. He sets out on the journey of trying to get booked for a modelling audition, with the help of his agent – a pair of bright red lips who repeatedly kiss the audience hello. But he needs his other half, Lefty. Mr Handsome auditions members of the audience to see if they can play the part. In a series of challenges, the chosen participant must match Mr Handsome’s vibe.Ellen Turnill Montoya has a beautiful onstage energy, constantly revving the audience up in new and inventive ways. She delves deep into each bit and takes every moment to hilarious extents. This is very much a clown show, recommended for those who want to watch something silly and sweet in the afternoon. There is never any shortage of Mr Handsome’s charm.While some moments seemed aimed at children, it was still a fun time for audiences of all ages. Never lacking whimsy and a certain joie de vivre, Mr Handsome is a delightful way to spend an afternoon.

“This is a love story,” Jess and Iona tell us. Well, it’s probably two love stories, in truth.Iona (Leyla Aycan) and Jess (Catriona Faint) met at an Edinburgh bus stop during the Fringe. They continued to run into each other in queues and at a box office where Iona was working, and became friends. They reconnect every August at the Edinburgh Fringe and revel in its chaotic and often frantic environment.They recount how they go to bars, clubs, random Fringe shows – all set against the backdrop of late-night chips, fights, spires, hills, crowds, queues and drinking. Their friendship seems assured. Jess is spiky, visceral, sharp of tongue. Iona is more measured, perhaps a little introspective. Their different personalities give rise to a harmonious yin–yang balance, their chemistry palpable as Jess struts and Iona dabs. The queer sexual attraction is obvious – so why are they not together romantically? What’s holding them back?Their hedonistic adventures at the Fringe are only part of the story. Jess and Iona are recreating these August moments in a theatre environment, interspersed with real-time dialogue. Róisín Sheridan-Bryson’s fragmented, time-lapse writing places the audience inside the headspace of our protagonists. Their hopes, fears and desires are intimately conveyed, resulting in a simultaneously disjointed and fluid narrative.And yet, if this friendship is to adopt a romantic dimension, they are in danger of running out of time, as Iona is contemplating moving on. They are open about their identities, but strangely apprehensive about taking a decisive step – seemingly fearful of creating a fault line in their friendship.Laila Noble’s direction is excellent, the whirlwind pace contrasting with genuine stillness and tenderness. But what elevates this often blisteringly funny production above much of the Fringe is the wonderful pairing of Faint and Aycan. Faint conveys her extrovert and fragile nature in turn. Aycan’s performance is equally strong but more still, touchingly conveying hurt when Jess kisses a man. Their chemistry is palpable – they simply bounce off each other, charmingly and lovingly.But can they find a way to finally say what they’ve always wanted to say?Ah yes – what’s the other love story? Lost Girls / At Bus Stops is also a love letter to the Edinburgh Fringe itself: its joys, disappointments and contradictions unconditionally embraced by Sheridan-Bryson.

Sometimes, it's what’s not being said that holds the most power.Mikey Burnett’s Colours Run leans heavily into the “kitchen sink drama” movement of the 1950s and 60s, portraying the struggles of working-class angry young men.The production is set in a Leith flat, where brothers Pongo (Ruaraidh Murray) and Pete (Sean Langtree) cohabit. Both are Hibernian football fans, with Pongo a member of the hooligan firm the Capital City Service, whose motto, “These colours don’t run”, gives rise to the play’s title. The Hibs–Hearts Edinburgh derby may lack the deep-rooted sectarianism seen in Glasgow, but the rivalry is historic, and violent skirmishes between the rival firms occur frequently – usually away from the stadiums.Pongo returns home after a premeditated stramash with Hearts fans. His hand is bloodied, but his body language suggests something is troubling him more profoundly. Pete is coaxed into the lounge, his feelings hurt by not having been invited along. Pete has learning difficulties and is a simple soul. Pongo is unemployed (or “self-employed”, as he sardonically quips), but his main role in life is taking care of Pete. Their mother died young, and the brothers are all each other have.Pongo reveals he did not even make it to the match, as the encounter with the Hearts fans got out of hand. He is agitated, pacing the room and frequently checking the front door.It becomes clear that Pete cannot fend for himself, with Pongo controlling virtually every aspect of his life. Some of their backstory is revealed: domestic abuse, Pete nearly dying as a child, and a father who is still despised. The squalid flat, the baseball bat and general debris all point to their quality of life – Leith’s gentrification has not reached everyone. But it’s their rituals that are more revelatory: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, the cornflake counting, the dancing, the music and Pete donning his mother’s dress.Increasingly, there are hints of disturbing and traumatic events from their past, but today’s events threaten to break their fragile ecosystem and pierce their clear brotherly love.The performances of both actors are nothing short of a triumph. Langtree’s exuberant portrayal of Pete, constantly seeking reassurance and approval, is in stark contrast to his cosplaying as the host of the quiz show. It’s a most impressive range. But it’s Murray’s brooding, simmering rage, resentment and frustration that really catch the eye.At the core of Colours Run is the electric chemistry between the two brothers. And here, much credit for this production goes to director Grace-Ava Baker. Murray’s silences, pauses, stillness and barely contained rage have been honed to perfection, with Langtree’s fragility laid bare. It could easily be a homage to Pinter.

Being asked to compose a rhyming couplet about a stranger was an unwelcome reminder of high school English for a lunchtime Fringe comedy set. Thankfully, the comparison between Trevor Lock’s new show How to Drink a Glass of Water and third-set English class ends there, sort of. Equal parts intellectual and banal, Lock takes the audience on a philosophical and personal journey in his first written show since 2011.Questions about how the audience discovered his show quickly derail into confessional, honest declarations that come in the form of questions for the crowd. Lock writes new definitions of letters from the dictionary, imagines a series of surreal hipster restaurants and creates a long list rewriting Shakespeare’s line All the World’s a Stage. Even without a microphone (blame the Fringe mafia for that one) Lock sweeps the audience up in a series of questions, lists and instructions that feel almost like poetic or comedic exercises. From pooing in someone else’s house to feeling like you’ve never truly been known by anyone else, there is sure to be something that rings true in this beautiful hour of comedy.Lock is known for his comedy shows that revolve around audience participation, such as Community Circle, the highly praised interactive social experiment that has appeared regularly at the Fringe since 2017. Although we are invited to put our hands up and share in his frank honesty, Lock also seems content to let the audience sit back and let him take the reins. When he eventually reads out the couplets, they are made touching and funny more by his spot-on delivery than the poems themselves.Prompted by a misspelt text, Lock imagines his life flashing before his eyes in a captivating final sequence. This is something a bit different for Lock, a show that reveals more about the comedian himself than the audience member sitting next to us. Switching masterfully between philosophical musings, spot-on observations and personal confessions about relationships and bodily functions, Lock seems well within his comfort zone despite the new territory.Combining humour and poetry, this brand-new comedy set will have you wondering why Trevor Lock isn’t a household name. Lock’s style of comedy feels like what the classroom could have been in an alternate reality if school was entertaining and taught you how to live your life. Part stand-up, part brazen confessional spoken word, forget genre and leave expectations at the door in this beautiful and poetic hour of comedy.

The term ‘nobody’ tends to be bandied around a little carelessly. But if your identity is systematically removed from you, it has a chilling resonance.Tilly Wedekind was an accomplished performer, married to Frank Wedekind, an acclaimed and influential playwright known for Spring Awakening. Frank wrote roles for Tilly, perhaps most famously performing eponymously in the "Lulu sex tragedies".Frank began to deconstruct aspects of their married life and dramatise them on stage, having Tilly perform as a version of herself. This controlling side of his personality became the crux of their marriage, as he revelled in audiences consuming a kaleidoscopic view of the couple.Frank was violent, promiscuous and pushed boundaries, organising threesomes and contracting syphilis from prostitutes.The lines between reality and fiction became disquietingly blurred. Frank turned Tilly into Lulu during their married life and expected her to enact the female roles. Tilly’s identity was compromised, effectively making her his puppet. Their relationship became co-dependent, with Tilly declaring that "Frank was my life". Driven by profound jealousy and having created roles and attributed lines to Tilly’s characters, Frank would exercise leverage over her by reassigning roles or lines to other female actors. With her identity stripped away, she was in essence Tilly No-Body.Tilly’s mental health was compromised. After a breakdown, she wanted to leave Frank and ultimately attempted suicide. This was unsuccessful, but the physical repercussions were severe, and her recuperation lasted many months. Eventually, Tilly re-emerged and found her voice, re-establishing her career. She was no longer a nobody, now ‘Tilly Somebody’.Bella Merlin is the writer and performer. She depicts Tilly’s adult life using a blend of physical theatre, comedy, song, music and puppetry, receiving spontaneous applause when she played and sang while balancing on a ball. She is clearly a talented performer, engaging and adept. There are many threads and nuances to this tale, but there is a slight feeling that the production is somehow not quite the sum of its constituent parts.Domestic abuse is depressingly rife, sometimes leading to femicide or suicide. At the heart of this most interesting production is one woman’s survival, empowerment and finally finding her voice in a patriarchal world.

Matty Jagiello’s and Aurelio Lova’s comedy split-hour might be the gayest show at the Fringe. Quite the claim, but they may just take the coveted title – and not just because of the name.The Prolapse: The Boys Open Up is part of PBH’s Free Fringe and marks Jagiello’s and Lova’s first time at the festival. On day two of their four-day foray, there are still some initial nerves, but they quickly get us onside, which, indeed, helps the boys open up.Jagiello and Lova guide us through grim Grindr accounts, the burden of bottoming – Jagiello has a helpful sports analogy for what turns out to be an overwhelmingly straight audience to explain the concept of “tops” and “bottoms” – and “Adam fucking Sandler.”In a cosy room early in the afternoon, we’re a small crowd, but the boys have us in hysterics, earning multiple applause breaks. They each charm in their own way: Lova, on the surface, a measured storyteller who catches you off guard with a dark misdirect; Jagiello, a strutting, caustic menace who delights in painting pictures in explicit detail.The joke-per-minute rate is impressive for a debut, showing a lot of work has gone into honing the show. Some punchlines get lost, as each seems keen to stick to the script or be time-conscious. It is a credit to their writing that they get an intimate crowd erupting over content that would usually work best in an evening timeslot. It would have been nice to let the laughter die down and play with the audience a little more before rushing on to the next bit.The Prolapse is doing a criminally short run, so you only have until 17 August to catch this defiantly queer, delightfully naughty show.

“Who’s ready for an hour of comedy?” asks Shalaka Kurup as she introduces herself on stage in the Attic at Pleasance. And she certainly delivers.From the outset of her debut Fringe hour, Kurup lets us know that her dream is to go to therapy. Emigrating from India to the UK doesn’t cover the “uniqueness” she desires, so she’s convinced a therapist’s diagnosis will help make her special – and, more importantly, be great “for the plot.”On paper, this might not sound like the most likeable protagonist or premise. But Kurup is so self-aware, to the point of hyper-awareness, that you almost find yourself equally incredulous that someone with a PhD in trains doesn’t fall on the autism spectrum.The gags come thick and fast – or fast and furious, in honour of Kurup’s inexplicable love of the film franchise. Yes, the literal “doctor of trains” is also partial to a “why sad, be fast.”There’s not an ounce of fat in Get A Grip: what could have been an hour of navel-gazing in the wrong hands is instead a show as slick as it is sardonic. Kurup is a formidable writer, with the stage presence to match.

Wendy Houstoun has never shied away from complex subjects. There aren’t many more slippery than the theme of this show. There is sometimes ridiculous talk of a performer being “brave” – but this show is genuinely brave.Houstoun warms us up with a train-of-thought run-through of social history through the 80s and 90s. It’s very funny, and she’s very charming.Houstoun needs all her charm for the rest of the performance, where she is portrayed as the sole contestant in a gameshow called Watch it!. She gets three strikes for offences against “woke” – after that she’s cancelled.Animations and video clips punctuate the performance, along with plenty of jokes. She discusses her multiracial background; there are light-relief asides that transform into ambiguous metaphors of privilege or appropriation.There’s a powerful sequence dramatising social media’s dark undercurrent of paranoia, with the fear of hostility and the implication of physical violence.The show faces up to the anxiety of causing offence – of failing to keep up with whichever topic is the new sensitivity, or the latest nuance of language. There’s fear of youth.But does giving credence to these anxieties simply feed the hysteria of what is actually an exaggerated problem? Maybe Houstoun is turning a bit gammon? Or maybe I’m guilty of being a bit too woke?Houstoun knows she is pushing uncomfortable buttons – on a tightrope without a safety net of common agreement.The slippery nature of the topic is why it induces paranoia. I’m not entirely convinced by Houstoun’s gameshow – but isn’t that her point?

There is a point in every child’s life where they wish to be a slithering monster or want more than anything to fly. That’s the essence of The Unlikely Friendship of Feather Boy and Tentacle Girl. It takes two contrasting fantasies and pairs them in the duo of Sidiq Ali and Vee Smith, the creators and performers of the work. Through them we explore themes of friendship, struggle, dreams and belonging.This is a show about self-acceptance and connection. It delivers beautifully. You can tell from the outset that it’s geared towards children and, as a first introduction to circus or aerial, it is masterful. There is a great deal of accessible dialogue, delivered with a childlike enthusiasm and earnestness that is quite heartening. It paints the picture of two dramatically different ideals, portrayed by two very different-looking people, and delivers the message that it’s quite all right to enjoy and aspire to anything. It lands more as a storytelling piece than upper-echelon circus.The aerial work is gorgeous, principally on Chinese pole, though it isn’t necessarily the most eye-catching. It is impressive and emphasises joyful trust between the performers. Their performance is incredibly characterful and left me feeling like I was watching two children at play. That said, it seemed slowed so a younger audience could appreciate it. Ali and Smith are veteran circus performers – I know they’re capable of something tighter and more rigorous. That said, I understand entirely why they made this creative choice. It leaves this as accessible and inspiring circus for the next generation, rather than the masterclass they are capable of. A little tightening and this could easily be a four-star – or higher – show for all.

It’s a pretty sight in the Space’s Auditorium. The lights hang low, shifting slowly from purple to green to blue. A murmured awe pervades in the effervescence as the shadow of five musicians looms larger in the dimmed room. And then, a gentle glissando, as we bleed softly into our acoustic opener Rhiannon for Maia Elsey to emerge, adorned in classic boho-chic dress and fingerless gloves as our Stevie Nicks for the evening. It’s a nostalgic mood, fearless and witchy, hurling us back to memories of The Midnight Special of 1976. Elsey is thoroughly captivating, addressing us directly as she sings: “Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win?”. There’s an ethereal dreaminess to it all, broken only by the gradual background cymbal swells. All until co-vocalist Sarah Leanne’s appearance breaks the softness to harken the guitar, drums and bass to kick in. It’s a powerful statement, one that tells us to love not judge the performers before us. In one of Night Owl’s most prolific acts, arguably their greatest demonstration of unified group dynamics, The Fleetwood Mac Experience’s bold opener is only eclipsed by the rest of the show to follow.An inter-musical nod to the success of Rumours sparks Alex Beharrell into action as lead vocals on Don’t Stop, his uplifting tenor an excellent tribute to Lindsey Buckingham. The enthusiasm is palpable and infectious, with the backrow of the auditorium already on their feet, and love from the crowd is certainly not lost as we transition into the mystified Dreams.One may assume that the soft ballad Songbird would deprive the show of its vitality and urgency; quite the opposite. Sarah Leanne, our Christine McVie for tonight accompanied by Harry Whitty on keyboard, delivers a heartwarming rendition that makes for the perfect halfway point, allowing us a brief respite from the more frantic numbers, and gives pause for reflection on Fleetwood Mac’s past. Peter Green’s battle with mental health is addressed, as is the turbulent band’s constant rotation of members, along with the alcohol-fuelled tit-for-tat clashes between Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. It’s a curt history lesson, but necessary given the demands upon the performers.The watershed moment comes in the endearing performance of Everywhere, presenting Leanne a brilliant opportunity to display her mezzo-soprano, with excellent back and forth between Leanne and Elsey in the call-and-response outro. Evidently, the heavy hitters are best relished at the show’s conclusion, with Go Your Own Way shining a spotlight on Bernthall’s tremendous vocal range, but it is also where the entire band comes together: everyone throws their heart into it, from Louis Porter’s finesse on drums to James Sinclair’s splendid guitar solo, it exceeds all expectations as a tough act to follow, only for the septet to pull it off with an unforgettable closing rendition of The Chain.Beyond the on-stage skills, the production values cannot be undersold with credit to Harshad Jadhar’s expert handling of sound and lighting transitions. Praise must also go to the Night Owls' artistic direction where they have made clever choices in their song selections that abide within the confines of tight Fringe slots. Unfortunately, as with all their shows, they must make sacrifices: fan favourites like Little Lies or Silver Springs simply cannot make the cut. But that’s okay, we can live with that. The show is a loving testament to one of rock’s most adored music groups, one handled with care but willing to take risks where afforded. Truly, The Fleetwood Mac Story is that fleeting comet of a musical tribute that shines brightly with unforgettable warmth and remarkable talent as it blazes through a galaxy of emotions from laughter, sadness and joy.

As the audience enters the theatre – in this case, the Etcetera Theatre, an intimate performance space above the Oxford Arms in Camden – they are greeted by the soft glow of a pair of washing machines. Their lights shift in different colours with the hypnotic coolness of a lava lamp. What at first seems like a playful visual flourish soon reveals itself as something more layered. In Bezerk Theatre’s Spin Cycle, this is no ordinary launderette but a space where memories, relationships and emotions are rinsed, wrung out and re-examined.Two strangers meet at the threshold between clean and dirty laundry, both literally and figuratively. Noel (Rhiannon Bell) quickly draws the attention of Kit (Zofia Zerphy), and the two fall into a rapport that is equal parts flirtation and curiosity. Their banter is easy; what begins as casual small talk soon deepens into unusual revelations. The coincidences in their experiences, particularly in matters of love and heartbreak, start to feel less like chance and more like inevitability. This is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind combined with the launderette meet-cute from Baby Driver. Yet in this case, the script avoids focusing on the “why” of Noel and Kit’s apparent amnesia. Instead, it asks the harder question: “What is there to say now?”Zerphy and Bell exude excellent chemistry. Their performances maintain a gripping rhythm throughout, sliding effortlessly between flirtatious exchanges and raw vulnerability. The dialogue, penned by Zerphy, is witty and personable, hitting the playful beats of a romcom before veering into heavier emotional terrain. It is at once familiar and dreamlike, offering a compelling meditation on love, loss and the messy, cyclical nature of relationships.

With a nomination for Best Show at the Edinburgh Comedy Awards, it’s safe to say that Ruaridh Miller is riding the high of an excellent Fringe debut. With fresh eyes and remarkable promise, Doonhamer-turned-Edinburgher Miller makes a powerful statement to the global comedic stage this August with boisterous vigour and irresistible droll charm. There are local points of interest and Scottish humour. There is a wealth of social commentary. There are webbed toes. Miller’s Fringe debut is anything if not a delight to behold: a passionate display of industriousness, tightly written gags and creative reflexivity working in brilliant harmony.From the offset, Miller’s energy is playful yet commanding, concealing a wit as sharp as his catty claws with early blood drawn from his swipe at the royals. Structurally, the show is airtight, reflecting excellent rehearsal on Miller’s part as he coolly handles the larger setups while leaving himself open to creative deviation with playful audience interaction. “I realise this room is like a sauna,” Miller remarks, chiding the lack of windows before gifting the AC remote to the enthusiastic women in the second row. “I leave it in your capable hands if we freeze or melt.” Miller has a natural read for people and is acutely aware of his audience’s mood, with an inbuilt state-of-the-art crowd radar that knows when to move on or double down.That Miller chooses to draw from the local comedic well of inspiration – his vanguard a ripping anecdote on Edinburgher self-loathing – lends a welcome voice to the Fringe’s all-too-often London-dominated circuit. The local skits provide a launch pad for the next fine set piece, which introduces the act’s namesake: his oft-mispronounced forename, the bane of every airport passport clerk, swiftly leading into a riotous dispatch on his misadventures in Poland.We could dismiss another early-30s comic rueing the death of their 20s, but Miller’s response to this is uncharacteristically upbeat in the face of lifestyle changes. He negotiates grey hairs and the rules of veganism, twisting them just enough to be both satirical and original.A font of political intrigue, one could be forgiven for deeming our cheery-grinning comic for sententiousness in the third act with a clarion call for social justice in the face of increasing fears for civil rights under Trump’s America. But he forestalls preachiness just at the right moment to return well-earned dividends, landing bullseyes on Elon Musk that bleed into a roasting of Neuralink and the prospect of Pornhub mind viruses. Similarly, his take on smoking-advertisement warnings is a slow burner but ignites laughter from every corner of the room, and sets up a larger bit on his amusing disavowal of LinkedIn.Is there a little wear and tear in the show’s joints? Possibly, with the topic sentences of “I want to talk about” casually thrown in. But Miller doesn’t succumb to the comedian’s curse of disconnection and poor timing, bypassing any spare moments with the fluidity expected of top-brass comics. No, Miller is that long sought-after act who blends candid real-life stories with the charisma to match – and he has all the hallmarks of a future comedic triumph. For now, we give thanks and praise to have his debut grace the Fringe, but it’s undoubtable that in time we’ll see his act ascend to higher comedic planes.

We are all the Moonkid. At least that’s how it feels watching them stand awkwardly at a party, alone with a red solo cup. Their glowing, round mask is remarkably expressive, and Lucy Ellis, the performer behind it, masters the physicality to punctuate these beautifully sombre moments.Moonkid shifts between four characters: the titular Moonkid, a wilderness safety coach, a pretentious poet and a horny nun. Though wildly different in tone, Ellis connects them all through themes of loneliness, wonder and yearning.My personal favourite is Moonkid – I could happily watch a five-hour show of the Moon going about their daily life – but the other characters bring plenty of comedic charm. The audience is often laughing at Ellis’s quick wit and inventiveness, while the vulnerability they carry through every role is undeniable.This is unmissable alt-comedy, delivered with a rare mix of earnestness and heart. Make your way to Hoots at Potterrow for an authentic Fringe experience from a singularly skilled and utterly delightful performer.

As I went on a Friday it was a relaxed performance. It’s great to see a show actually committing to a relaxed performance, as I’ve attended many that don’t change anything about the performance. As someone who is disabled but doesn’t entirely gel with relaxed performances, I’m glad nonetheless to see this one actually being so.Queer Tales for Autistic Folk takes place in three parts: it begins with a standup introduction before we get into the game proper, and ends with a funding-mandated thought-provoking coda.There is a sheer self-deprecating core to Cerys Bradley’s performance that is endlessly engaging. The show is based around Bradley predicting the audience prompts to the adventure book, something they admit on stage as an autistic person is a real struggle. This means the improvisation is not as polished as the prepared sections, but that gives the show its undeniable charm.The game at the core is a legally distinct Choose Your Own Story (not a Choose Your Own Adventure book), and the cultural touchstones in the set are equally nostalgic: going to Blockbuster and renting VHS tapes, that kind of thing. We start our adventure going to work, and the internal monologue narration of the storybook allows Bradley to crack jokes at neurotypical life from the perspective of someone outside it. We didn’t have as many instant deaths as I was expecting from the genre, and I have endless respect for the audience member who chose to die rather than play zip-zap-boing.The show is heavy on audience interaction: if you’re looking for something in which you can blend into the background, this is not it. The biggest laughs of the night are about diagnosing parents and aimed at the Arts Council. It was clear I was among my neurodiverse community.I absolutely loved a moment featuring VHS tape covers, and longed for more reveals like that. They were each a work of art. If you’re reading from the Arts Council, this show has a thought-provoking and challenging ending that resonated deeply with me, particularly as someone on a 15-year waiting list for an ADHD diagnosis. Bradley speaks truth to power when they state that diagnosis matters until it doesn’t. We all have our queer adventures to live.The real gift of the show is Bradley’s ability to engage as a storyteller and highlight the importance of shared joy, taking part together and sharing our silly stories.

In this charming one-man show, Robert Daws plays the much-loved humorist P.G. Wodehouse, whose whimsical – near anemoic – worlds of ferocious aunts and amusing romantic scrapes shielded him from acknowledging the darker moments that haunted his life. “Everything is made better with a joke,” he tells us – and it seems he was determined to live by that very tenet, pushing down any potential for self-pity or contemplation in favour of a very considered silliness.Wodehouse was nothing if not prolific; his well over 300 books, plays and stories remain greatly esteemed today for their very specific brand of superficiality and sparkle. But for a writer whose reputation still leans heavily on his depiction of a particular type of Englishness, Wodehouse was, in reality, an itinerant who never truly inhabited the imagined worlds he wove for his readers.An “Empire orphan”, Wodehouse was sent from Hong Kong to England at the age of two and would not see his parents again for many years. Brought up by a succession of formidable aunts and twittish, mischievous uncles – who would later provide ample fodder for his cast of upper-class characters – he was perhaps happiest within the confines of Dulwich College, which offered just the right amount of structure and artistic freedom, and sowed many of the seeds for his literary career. Wodehouse attained such immediate success on the writing scene that he moved to France for tax reasons in the 1930s – a decision destined to have repercussions he could never have imagined. From there, he became a German prisoner of war, a figure of political mistrust in the UK, and an eventual exile in the United States: a quintessential Englishman adrift on a sea of fan adoration and establishment opprobrium for the second half of his life.The piece is set in Wodehouse’s handsome Long Island home, shared with (and majestically titivated by) his wife, Ethel. His great chum and collaborator Guy Bolton pops by from time to time. They walk their dogs. But there is an emptiness at the heart of “Plum’s” life – an emptiness that an earnest young biographer is keen to explore.Wodehouse himself would rather not. It’s not his style, he explains. He prefers to splash about in the ridiculousness of Berkeley Mansions or Blandings Castle – in situations he can control. Not that Plum would recognise this need for autonomy, of course. As played by a wide-eyed Daws, he is an innocent – quite literally – abroad. A little boy whose preoccupation with make-believe is preferable to the awful realities of life. And this love for froth and fandangle is underpinned by a scattering of self-penned jaunty little numbers, which also serve to change the narrative energy and punctuate the introspection of an anti-introspective.Daws initially conjures Plum (he found his given name, Pelham, tricky to grapple with as a young lad) with a joyful glee redolent of the “silly arse” set themselves. This brings an even greater sadness to his moments of reflection – such as when he tells of the death of his beloved daughter Leonora. It takes an actor of Daws’s stature to switch between these moods of frivolity and fragility with the sincerity and sensitivity necessary to bring an audience up short. This is supposed to be a light-hearted land, in which the worst thing that can happen to one is an amusing incident with a Victoria sponge… inviolable, safe. The awfulness of the real world is not supposed to invade its borders. With an economy that echoes Wodehouse’s almost visceral need to rail against emotional gloom, Daws draws a picture of aching desolation and internalised pain.But Leonora was not the only mainstay of his life to be snatched cruelly from Wodehouse. An apparently naive mistake during the war resulted in a wave of revulsion and scrutiny, a suspicion of Nazi activity, and a life lived far from the leafy shires and mansion flats that tickled a global readership. Daws plays Wodehouse’s almost infantile outrage that such a thing could happen with an awkward believability that belies Plum’s intelligence – and hints at the upper-class exceptionalism and political gaucheness he was more used to lampooning than experiencing himself. For although foolish and thoughtless his decision to broadcast on German radio may have been, a sympathiser he was not.This is a lovely – and surprisingly affecting – hour in the company of a consummate professional who is able to move and amuse in equal measure, and a wonderful opportunity to explore the life behind the literary legend.In one of his earliest novels, Wodehouse wrote: “I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.” Little was he to know then that it would one day make the perfect epitaph for the story of his own life.

Ohio bills itself as an “ecstatic grief concert”, and the tagline fits. Indie-folk duo The Bengsons turn their performance space into a small, attentive congregation and deliver a gig-theatre ritual about love, faith, and the slow fear of losing sound when music has made you who you are.Shaun Bengson grew up in a strict Lutheran community in Ohio; he’s inherited degenerative hearing loss. Abigail is his partner in life and harmony. Together they build a story in songs and plain speech that asks a child’s blunt question – what happens when we die? – and sits with the honest answer: we don’t know, but we can choose how to live.The form is the point. Two performers, microphones, a guitar, keys and loops; slides that quietly annotate what we’re hearing; and captions and a sign language interpreter who are not add-ons but core to the drama. At the show’s centre, they manipulate microphones and captions so consonants vanish and frequencies drop out. You don’t just hear about hearing loss – you experience it. It’s a simple device, and one that’s devastatingly effective, reframing how we receive the show. Accessibility here isn’t a compliance line; it’s a propulsive force.Musically, the set is lean and strong. Harmonies blossom without tipping into sentimentality; the best numbers land like tightly plotted short stories – clear voice, clean image, no fuss. Caitlin Sullivan’s direction keeps the concert energy focused; anecdotes swell to anthems and settle again without false climaxes. I admired the way the show treats faith: it interrogates certainty but doesn’t mock belief, and it holds space for a father who stays in the church even as a son walks away. And there’s a weird-and-wonderful highlight when Abigail, with her clearly exceptional singing talent, leads a hymn that all but deifies worms – saints of the soil – turning a mordant idea into a tender nod to decay, renewal and acceptance.There are soft spots. The braid of themes – religion on one strand, hearing on the other – can loosen in the middle, and a couple of stories feel baggy. If you’re hunting for theatrical spectacle, this is deliberately small-scale; its power is closeness and craft.By the end, Ohio earns its quiet catharsis. It’s a clear-eyed, skilfully made hour where accessibility becomes art – and art becomes a way to live with the unknowable.

Nowhere, Khalid Abdalla’s solo “anti-biography”, directed with cool care by Omar Elerian, maps a life across turbulent histories: from Glasgow in the 80s, to Egypt’s 2011 uprising, Britain’s “citizens of nowhere” rhetoric, and today’s war in Gaza. The form is deliberately collage-like – spoken testimony, phone footage, an old-school slide carousel, precise light and sound, bursts of movement, even a quick, creative audience task. The shifting vocabulary is as much the argument as the content: complexity doesn’t tidy up.Abdalla’s presence anchors it all – warm, lucid, principled, and generous with doubt. The design team create a handsome, nimble media environment that elevates the essay into theatre without sanding away its edges. When the threads align, the show crackles: a fervent Gaza passage where testimony and image finally run on a single emotional line; a sly physical sequence where the body says what speech can’t; and the audience-drawing beat that quietly reframes spectators as co-witnesses. These moments feel genuinely civic – poignant, resilient, now-here.Yet the collage sometimes sprawls. The piece cycles through lecture, confession and rally so frequently that focus blurs; it explains, then re-explains, as if unwilling to trust what’s already landed. A few autobiographical detours feel tangential rather than cumulative, and the 90–100 minutes without an interval begin to tell – the final third in particular would benefit from a firmer edit. The sensory hits (haze, strobe, loud sound) add atmosphere, but occasionally play as punctuation where cutting would be cleaner.The result is a compelling, intellectually alive act of witness: provocative and humane, formally rich if not uniformly tight. If you prize ambition and political clarity, you’ll feel its charge. If coherence is your north star, the overstuffing may nag.

Edinburgh has a rich history – and an even richer natural world to observe. That’s the focal point of Hutton in Edinburgh. Using James Hutton’s ideas on nature and the evolution of the Earth, this walking tour invites people to see the city through an entirely new lens.Hosted by Angus Miller, the tour takes us on a journey through Edinburgh’s landscape, exploring how Hutton saw the world hundreds of years ago. But it’s not just Miller who leads the way – James Hutton and his sister Isabel also join the tour. Through actors and an original script, the pair are brought vividly back to life. It’s a great way to share information while blending storytelling with immersive theatre. I was pleasantly surprised when we turned a corner and found two actors in period costume recounting their life stories.The walking tour itself is peaceful and slow-paced – perfect for those who want a gentle stroll through nature, mixed with history and a chance to learn more about geology and the Earth. It’s easy to take the landscape around us for granted as something that’s just there, but this tour made me stop and really think about what Arthur’s Seat means in a geological context – and how beautiful Edinburgh truly is.This is a tour led by people who have a clear passion for Edinburgh’s natural history. As someone with little background in Hutton, science or geology, I never felt lost or confused. Occasionally, the script felt a little clunky – but I always had a smile on my face whenever the actors playing James and Isabel appeared.This is a tour worth doing. It’s a calm, engaging walk in a peaceful part of the city, offering a moment to breathe amid the hustle and bustle of daily life. Hutton in Edinburgh is easy to follow and an easy way to learn something new.

I really enjoyed Heading Into Night – it felt exactly the sort of farce that sits well at the Fringe. Daniel Passer gives an excellent performance as the principal clown in the production. He strikes just the right tone: harmless, sympathetic, and entirely watchable as he rolls through a series of increasingly bizarre situations that only ever seem to beset a sad clown on a bad day. His depiction doesn’t push too hard in any direction, keeping the character likeable and engaging.You want to root for him, and you're only too eager to find out what’s inside the many, many boxes on stage, which he rootles through with real mastery.Unfortunately, this is a very good clown in a not-quite-finished production. The clowning is great, while the routine itself feels looser – padded out in places. I also felt at least one of the other cast members could have been cut, particularly given he only plays the same riff on the guitar a couple of times. Again and again, I felt like the performance wasn’t really going anywhere – and I really wanted it to.If you’re going to commit to silence, I think you really ought to commit to it. In the final minutes, Passer speaks – and slightly undermines the persona he’s so diligently built over the past 50 minutes.All of that said, I’ll be going back to this performance in six months or a year. There are glimmers of greatness here, and it’s world-class clowning that just needs that final layer of polish to become something truly outstanding.

How do you make theatre about a catastrophe that is still happening? An ongoing genocide, where the tragedies of each day outpace your rehearsal notes? Cutting the Tightrope attempts to answer – urgently, if imperfectly – by refusing to pretend distance. A compendium of short pieces assembled at speed and staged with momentum, it gathers artists who won’t accept that “neutrality” is the safest posture. The evening is part rallying cry, part reckoning with the limits of art when the news keeps getting worse.The project’s roots matter. It was born out of growing censorship in the UK arts funding climate – those chilly memos and guidelines about “political activity” that have landed like riot shields in the halls of UK cultural and political power, aggressively pushing back on protest against the massacre of Palestinians. The show treats that context not as preface but as subject: programmers second-guess themselves, a festival official engages in an increasingly unhinged battle with a watermelon, artists argue over language while counting bodies. You can feel the fight over what art is for running through the veins of the production.As an experience, it’s deliberately rough-edged. The bill – eleven pieces by a dozen writers – doesn’t chase polish so much as pressure; quality varies, but purpose doesn’t. Self-reflexive sketches about timidity in middle-class homes rub up against testimonies that carry the broken lives of Gaza, where hope lies strewn across the rubble like rose petals in the ruin of a bombed-out florist’s shop. At times, the meta-theatrical handwringing risks indulgence. Yet just when you think the night might turn inward, a monologue lands with a thud of lived detail – like a Walthamstow cat-sitter finding hope in a community united against fascism.Is it uneven? Of course. But that unevenness feels ethically honest for a work made in the blast radius of an ongoing atrocity. What lingers is not a single killer scene but the collective refusal to look away and ignore what’s happening – not only on the ground in Gaza, but in our own halls of power, where state-mandated silences and profit-protecting agendas make this country complicit in the killing. Cutting the Tightrope may not tidy the world, but it makes the case – loudly, vulnerably – that art should risk its voice when lives are at stake.

I haven’t seen everything at this year’s Fringe, but this is probably the most important show on in Edinburgh right now. This is art as a genuine attempt to make a difference in the world.There’s a lot of information about this event online, but I suggest going in with as little prior knowledge as possible. Although described as a “performance lecture”, the show is more of a process. To fully engage – to break from the usual gridlock of debate and thought – it’s best to attend without preconceptions.The focus of the lecture element is on Lord Arthur James Balfour and his Scottish connections. This is Balfour of the Balfour Declaration of 1917 – the first official support for Zionism from a politically and militarily significant country.The event combines text, archive research, film, expressive movement, audio effects and discussion. The performer and writer, Farah Saleh, is welcoming and engaging. Her humour is unexpectedly light-hearted, but she has the quiet authority of someone prepared to stand up and be counted.The audience is drawn into the performance, and this is handled so well that by the conclusion, participation is both enthusiastic and deeply felt. This is far from an episode of Question Time; it’s an opportunity to contemplate, and to think afresh.A great strength of the work is that it overturns the sense that we are trapped by history. Instead, we are shown that imagination can be used as the first step towards a new future.It could be argued that the Reparations letter used to drive the show is simplistic. But the point of this work is to rethink what is possible – or impossible.It could also be said that the complexities of history aren’t examined in depth. But that is for academics. This piece prompts present action, breaking away from the usual sterility of get-out clauses and ‘whatabouts’.Whether the show’s impact will prove just a fleeting fantasy, I don’t know. But every change in the cultural and political weather starts off small.I urge you to judge for yourself – go along to Summerhall and participate in Farah Saleh’s inspirational Reparations’ Evaluation Committee.

The live band plays as audiences find their seats, the air tingling with anticipation for the night ahead. Your favourite musical theatre kids are back in town – welcome to Baby Wants Candy.Every night, audiences witness both the opening and closing night of a brand-new musical that doesn’t exist until that moment. At the start of the show, suggestions are shouted from around the room, and from hundreds of wild ideas, three are chosen for a vote.For last night’s soirée, the winner was Leonardo DiCaprio Challenge 25. With an all-American cast, the performers quickly asked what “Challenge 25” meant. After learning of the UK’s tradition of ID-ing those who look under 25, the stage was set for a completely improvised musical.From live music to lyrics, dialogue to dance breaks – everything was made up on the spot. These masters of improv follow the golden rule: say yes to everything. That “yes” leads the musical into wild twists and unexpected turns, with mistakes and miscommunications instantly becoming inside jokes shared between cast and audience. Some of the directions Leonardo DiCaprio Challenge 25 took were so outlandish – including a time-travelling plot twist – that the audience was doubled over with laughter.Past shows have sported titles like Finding Emo and The Devil Wears Primark. Some storylines flow more smoothly than others, but what’s always guaranteed is joy. Overflowing from the stage each night is not only skill and talent, but pure fun. Baby Wants Candy is a delight because the performers’ excitement is infectious – their adrenaline-fuelled twinkle in the eye cannot be faked.

Amy Annette graces the stage in flowy linens, framed by a fitting Ikea vase and floral fixtures. In an hour of intricately woven stand-up, we’re taken on a journey through her mind. Doomscrolling, national identity and online chess are just some of the topics covered in this giggly hour of comedy.I was floored by Amy’s attention to detail and her ability to convey such a specific perspective. She’s entirely present – and deeply lovable. With hot takes on everything from Labubu to Ozempic, there's a rare sincerity that never comes at the expense of the comedy – it always deepens it. The whole set is upbeat, feelgood, and a genuinely lovely way to spend an hour.Watching Amy Annette play the “fun aunt” is both charming and true to life. One of my favourite moments in the show is when she talks about being called an “old soul” as a child – which, she explains in hindsight, was probably just code for being gay. But Annette's wit isn't surface level. She ends the show on a powerful note, in a move that feels both sincere and courageous. In a completely serious tone, she discusses the ongoing EHRC consultation.For those unfamiliar, the Equality and Human Rights Commission is currently consulting on updates to its Code of Practice for services, in response to the UK Supreme Court’s ruling on the definition of “sex” in the Equality Act 2010.“This section sets out how trans people can potentially be banned from both male- and female-only services. It also introduces what we believe is a wholly unworkable and inhumane subjective test for whether or not trans people should be excluded from single-sex services that align with their ‘sex recorded at birth’ – based on if they cause ‘distress or alarm’ to others.” – transactual.org.ukAmy takes a gratifying moment in her show to be deeply serious. The term “distress” is so easily applied, she notes. The language is rooted in blatant transphobia, she explains. I left the show thinking it was deeply admirable to take space for this kind of statement. She urges her audience to look into it – and strikes at something real.

At 31, Michael Welch lives an enviable life: a loving partner of 14 years, a steady civil service job, two adorable feline companions, and a beautiful home in the capital’s commuter belt. What could make Welch want for more? Try the EuroMillions. All Rizz, No Filter hits a jackpot this Fringe in an act that beats steadily with a TikTok-esque approach to set-ups, driven by the undercurrent of Welch’s grandstanding personality.In many respects, Welch’s show is like an aeroplane ride: a slight delay at the beginning followed by rapid take-off to adjust to his tempo, but once up to speed you barely notice how fast you’re travelling as he races across a bountiful ocean of topics without hitting turbulence.Welch’s self-confessed ADHD is by no means a superficial quirk thrown in for the sake of neurodivergent box-checking. Rather, it is as much a part of the show as his jokes – his own comedic battery that powers the bulk of his set piece on cults. Indeed, the curt set-ups are the lynchpin of the evening: an anecdote about McDonald’s blends seamlessly into a quip on the hinterland of anal sex for vanilla couples (with a double whammy at the expense of the royal family), where the Portobello comic never lingers too long before sidestepping into his next topic with composed ease.In less capable hands, some of Welch’s material might seem contrived. The existential dread of hitting your 30s? The lamentations over your first grey hair? It’s nothing new, yet we are instinctively drawn to Welch’s natural raconteur, with a slick, quickfire delivery mixed with elements of deadpan, particularly in how well he reads and uses his audience in well-loved ad-lib humour. Once you buy into the notion of a show built around a stream of consciousness with a millennial backdrop and thematic exploration of the numbers in our lives, it becomes a thorough delight to watch, with Welch rounding off the night with aplomb and applause.

Imagination, not history; hugely inventive; the chutzpah of gender-swapping; visually stunning, with flashes of brilliance – Scottish Ballet’s Mary, Queen of Scots, choreographed by Sophie Laplane and co-creator James Bonas, is Mary’s story reimagined as the dying Elizabeth’s memories in flashbacks. It should have had everything going for it, but somehow the relentless pace of angular, jerky choreography became tiring, and the relationship between Elizabeth and Mary failed to move.Why not have the younger Elizabeth played by a tall man (Harvey Littlefield)? To be a stronger ruler, she had to deny her womanly side. Eye-catching, with long auburn hair, bare legs and puffy pants, sometimes on stilts to symbolise the gap between her and her courtiers, she is above them but also constrained. In contrast, the older Elizabeth (Charlotta Ӧfverholm) is a frail woman in her underclothes, her wigless, wispy hair revealed, wandering in and out of the action. Mary (Roseanna Leney), always in black, is young and lively. The Jester (Kayla-Maree Tarantolo), in lime green, is a highlight: it is inspired to make her Death, skipping and playful, rejoicing at each character’s doom.What one remembers are the visual details: Catherine de’ Medici in a steel hoop; spies as flies; Mary a spider consuming Darnley; a steel cage that descends on her; the dead Rizzio suspended from the ceiling; secret codes as graffiti. There is also some hilarious relief from the drama, such as old Elizabeth in her bath with the Jester washing her underarms and tickling her, and Mary’s baby (James) portrayed as a white balloon. Old Elizabeth (childless) is also shown cradling a baby – a white balloon, which is then popped.The two main duets are strong. Mary’s dark, fatal attraction to Darnley (Evan Loudon) is brilliantly conveyed: flinging her head back as she is lifted, then falling in a roll to be caught. This submission is then reversed as she exits, dragging Darnley behind her on the floor – genius. Rizzio (Javier Andreu) and Darnley’s bi-sexual relationship is less stunning, but still fascinating as they vary the power dynamic. Apart from a formal dance of the Elizabethan courtiers, it is a shame that this quality of choreography is not maintained in the uninventive ensembles, which become tedious.Warning: it is essential to read in advance the detailed synopsis online, or via QR code (the sheet given out at the show is useless) to understand who and what is going on.

Sometimes in life, you just have to push back.Erica (Eleanor Higgins) meets Jessie (Naomi Denny); both lesbians, electricity is in the air along with pounding dance music. They bond over a shared love of Tony Soprano and Lindsay Lohan, but their lives are far from straightforward. Living in urban Croydon, Erica is constantly short of money, maxing out her overdraft. Jessie at least has steady employment in retail… that is, until events conspire against her and she is fired.Erica’s sense of injustice at the universe is heightened when her mobile phone is stolen. The subsequent police interview does little to restore her faith in natural justice. During a visit to a nightclub, a man is overly persistent and, while fending him off, his mobile phone slips out of his jacket. Erica pockets it, probably without thinking about the consequences.Erica and Jessie are sucked into small-time criminality. Their ground rules as to victim selection lend them a veneer of victimless crime: they will only target rich, white men, leaning into a vague sense of pushing back against the patriarchy. After a shaky start, they become proficient at theft and fraud, small-time hustlers now.Suddenly more financially self-sufficient, Erica begins to date Stevie (Kit Sinclair) and becomes smitten. However, Stevie has a more clearly defined moral compass, and once she uncovers Erica’s various subterfuges, there is no future for the relationship.Jessie has got her life back on track and extricated herself from these criminal activities. However, when Erica is robbed of her stolen stock and cash, she is reluctantly pulled into one last job to help her friend, with dramatic consequences.There is a cacophony of noise at the outset: Alabama 3’s Woke Up This Morning competing with police sirens sets the scene for the relentless pace of this production. The action is interspersed with a series of voicemails from the unseen Mark. These calls offer a small insight into the impact of crime on one of the victims, but also serve to ramp up the pressure on Erica.Higgins portrays the rudderless and at times frantic Erica with aplomb, casting light on her life choices. Denny’s Jessie is layered, in turns measured but fragile.Wanted is partly predicated on Higgins’ own experiences, but at its core it is a story about injustice. Gender inequality, wealth division, the criminal justice system and nepotism all come under Higgins’ crosshairs in this comedy-drama.

Alfie Jones debuts as writer and performer in This Blighted Star, an intriguing monodrama at Underbelly, George Square. Developed through Omnibus Theatre’s Omni-Wright Playwriting programme, the story follows a CCTV operator who becomes consumed by the disappearance of his childhood friend, Ivan, in their small Midlands hometown during a sweltering summer.The fragmented footage is played to us on a large screen, several times, with rewinds. The images enable detailed examination of people’s movements and even shadows. But how are they to be interpreted? Who are the couple in the first few frames? Why does he push the girl away? Who is he talking to on his phone and what is he saying? Is the black car in the foreground in any way significant? These and other questions need answers, and the evidence needs to be interpreted.The operator is legitimately employed by the council to survey camera footage, although his obsessive replaying of these sections is probably outside his remit. But he is hooked on it, and we become drawn into his fixation, minutely examining each frame, looking for clues or anything he might have missed.As the narrative progresses, we are drip-fed insights into his and Ivan’s youthful relationship, his infatuation with him and subsequent rejection by him, and his jealousy towards those Ivan befriended. We learn more from conversations he has with Brian, a 66-year-old man he relates to, and we watch TikTok posts he makes under a disguise, challenging the police investigation. As the truth gradually comes to light, a new star burns in the sky, brighter than the rest. A glimmer of hope? Or more uncertainty?Director Alice Harding says, “When I first read Alfie’s play I was taken aback by how deeply original the piece is.” She is absolutely right. To frame a play around CCTV footage, with an added immersive soundscape, and then combine it with a moving personal story reflects a highly creative and imaginative mind, and has resulted in an end product that is refreshingly different. The icing on the cake is Jones’s charismatic and endearing performance. The clarity of his delivery is a joy to the ear, and his ability to carry us on a gripping journey of crime detection, obsession and love is remarkable.

This two-hander opens with the tropes of a ghost story. Annie has agreed to be filmed for a paranormal documentary. The interviewer wants to record an account of a simple spooky event – Annie’s dead father appearing on the beach. But Annie isn’t going to settle for a simple story.The two actors, James Robinson and Dawn Steele, play multiple roles. Steele is especially impressive, instantly switching between fully formed characters and giving Annie a highly charged, but believable, display of emotions. The device of using the video recording allows close-ups of Annie to be judiciously used: full of grief or guilt, Steele’s expressive face is almost overwhelmingly powerful. Robinson plays the secondary characters with aplomb, but there are times when the portrayal of the key role of Brawn, Annie’s brother, feels like overdone bluster. This may be because the character of Brawn doesn’t quite ring true in the writing. He is sometimes a bit of a plot device, and the impact of his own story’s conclusion is rather wasted.Ellie Keel’s debut subtly yet vividly shows the effects the death of a father can have on each member of the family. There is grief, there are suspicions of family secrets, and there is an unwillingness to let go.As the story progresses, Annie delves ever deeper into her memories, detailing the accumulation of small events, coincidences, and mistakes that lead to a tragic conclusion. The play is subtitled “A Thriller”, but it is not a thriller in the conventional sense. There is no malicious human agency. Instead, the gradual mounting of all those details gives a sense of a family cursed by fate.The play could be accused of being overstuffed with too many incidents and half-developed themes. However, with such strong performances and well-judged direction by Matthew Iliffe, the show is an emotionally raw examination of the hidden currents of grief, guilt, and responsibility.

According to performer Rachel McKay Steele, “Shiva for Anne Frank started as an ill-conceived, one-off bit in a comedy show in 2018." It has since evolved "into an exploration of girlhood, growing up Jewish in the American South and collective grief.”Those elements and many more are present in the show that, sometimes rather uncomfortably, wraps her own story around that of Anne Frank. On stage a cloth covers a hand mirror on the occasional table, reminding us of the rules of shiva, which, although centred around a deceased person, is actually designed to help people with the grieving process.Screen projections assist the passage of the show and the telling of Anne’s story, with visuals that include anticipated images of Anne Frank, her family and the Holocaust, but also others that illustrate her wide-ranging tangential material. Steele is at pains to point out the side of Anne that goes beyond the innocent, speculative girl in the attic keeping a diary of everyday events, highlighting passages that provide insight into her sexuality and feelings.It is the abundant other material that often feels incongruous, and in the midst of it we might well wonder how we got here. Steele’s personal story of girlhood, Bat Mitzvah, a nose job, an obsession with Paul Rudd and coming to terms with Jewish identity and bisexuality is a launch pad for diversions, of which there are many. In no particular order, we somehow manage to cover ICE raids, Springsteen, menstruation, female anatomy (illustrated), October 7th, interfaith marriage, anal sex (with more anatomical illustrations), drug-taking, chlamydia and bulimia, among many others. These cannot all be remnants of the ‘ill-conceived’ 2018 show.Although a comedian, her attempts in that area fall rather flat. There is some humour and a display of her limited tap-dancing abilities. By the end, with the Israel/Gaza situation looming large, Steele has become so emotionally involved in the material that she is holding back tears. It is certainly shiva with a difference.

Paldem appears to be the story of a young couple, enjoying modern life with a healthy and vibrant sex life. Things take a turn, however, when Kevin (Michael Workeye) records one of these sessions with Megan (Tash Cowley) on his video camera. It is a little unclear whether this was unintentional and whether it was livestreamed via OnlyFans (a subscription-based pornography internet platform).Whatever the intention, Megan is turned on by the idea and curious to explore further. The toothpaste can no longer be put back into the tube, and they inexorably dive down the paid-content rabbit hole. They begin streaming and success follows. They have more than 100,000 subscribers and are trending on various tags.And yet… how comfortable are they with their new world? The uncertainty ramps up when they agree to a foursome with an Italian couple (Lewis Peek and Daniela Manuwuike). As the Italian couple wait at the door, there are clear tells that they have not thought everything through. The Italians’ obvious comfort with this streaming and promiscuous environment is in sharp contrast with Kevin and Megan’s hesitancy.Time marches on. Kevin tells Megan he has a date later. Evidently their relationship is polyamorous, yet there is something unsaid in the stilted subsequent conversation, Kevin later conceding that he has invented the date.Megan, it subsequently transpires, is now in a relationship of sorts with George, a man of whom Kevin is contemptuous. But there is a further revelation to come, stretching whatever relationship they still have to its limits.This staging is bold, and credit to Zi Alikhan for the pace of the production. The script can perhaps be tweaked and will doubtless find its sweet spot.There is more than a hint of Pinter’s Betrayal embedded in this tale, not just at the heart of the story but in the silences and pauses, beautifully played by Cowley and Workeye. Paldem is a highly contemporary comedy-drama, but with age-old themes at its core. While it ostensibly is a glimpse into the voyeuristic world of online streaming, the essence of the play is the relationship between Megan and Kevin. Initially, they are playful and symbiotic, later uncertain, strained and dishonest. The arc of their relationship is adeptly performed, and its disintegration laid bare in the charged final moments.

Mary: A Gig Theatre Show brings Mary Queen of Scots back to life in a story we think we know, but told in a fresh and inventive way. A dynamic group of performers use new music to reimagine the life of the famous queen.Each of the performers had moments where they held the audience’s attention. From striking guitar solos to powerful vocals, the sound of the show felt full and balanced. Nothing dragged, and no one on stage looked like they weren’t having the best night of their lives. Often, they included the audience to make sure we were too.The concert atmosphere worked well. The performers used their space beautifully – taking over corners and aisles – in a way that felt engaging. The concept of Mary Queen of Scots telling her story through a gig was executed with flair. Audience involvement was frequent, from clapping along to even a brief singalong. At no point did I feel separate from the action.An hour may not feel long enough to tell the life story of a queen – and I found myself wishing it lasted two hours, it was that entertaining – but the show did cover many key moments. Still, I wanted more storytelling, both in terms of structure and in my sheer enjoyment of the production. Some transitions felt abrupt, yet the history being told, combined with the music’s emotional pull, kept me invested.This is a must for anyone who loves inventive storytelling and live music. If you think you already know the story of Mary Queen of Scots, Mary: A Gig Theatre Show offers a bold and surprising new way to hear it.

Julia Masli: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha is now in its third year at the Fringe, and it has grown from a fantastic late-night clown show to an unmissable cult masterpiece performed around the world.The concept is simple: Masli approaches audience members with a microphone on the end of a prosthetic leg, and asks, “Problem?” This facilitates an hour of hilarious, and often deeply emotionally affecting, theatre. One audience member responds that he is tired, as he has just arrived in Edinburgh that morning and has already seen six shows. Masli speaks gently to him about the importance of sleep and pacing oneself, pulls a double bed onto the stage, and invites him to nap for the rest of the show. Another man states that he is unhappy, and doesn’t like himself, and Masli has the audience shout compliments at him before having us carry him on our shoulders while the crowd cheers and applauds.The show is gentle and deeply heartwarming in many ways, but also carries a tone of darkness and danger – of not knowing what she’ll do next. Masli paces up and down the aisles slowly and deliberately, dressed like a Victorian alien, while dark and serious synth music plays in the background. She asks cutting follow-up questions of participants, with no care for social etiquette or what you’re “not meant to ask”. She is probing and deeply present, like a therapist who has just landed on earth – someone who cares deeply about us but who is also scarily unpredictable and unknowable.The stagecraft of ha ha ha ha ha ha ha is fantastic. Most of the problems that are brought to her lead to a prop being used that feels as if it was placed on stage especially for them. The night has a magical quality and leaves me wondering how all of this was possible. I won’t go into detail on what these props and prepared elements were, as I am sure many will be used for different purposes in future shows, and the surprise is a big part of the fun.If you enjoy clowning and deeply personal, honest audience engagement, you owe it to yourself to see Julia Masli: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – even if you have caught it in previous years.

The tragedy of Pompeii is well known and well covered in media, but rarely do the topics of local government and ancient tragedy come together in people’s minds. Yet Fishing4chips’ It’s Gonna Blow decides to look at the famous classical disaster in a brilliantly pantomime-like fashion, as it explores the different responses to an impending and obvious disaster.Set in a city council meeting at Pompeii town hall on the day of the eruption of Mt Vesuvius, It’s Gonna Blow follows a wide variety of figures from Pompeii going about what will be their last day alive, with the audience acting as additional residents watching the meeting take place. Each cast member, despite the large amount of multi-rolling, fills their characters with bounds of life just before they are snuffed out. From Sean Wareing’s weaselly council administrator and bashful pumice protection salesman, to Freddie Walker’s local farmer desperate to find out who has messed with his bins, and the suspiciously similar looking husband-and-wife pair – each character is as distinct and bombastic as the last, and it never feels confusing as they speedily swap between them, sometimes in what feels like seconds.The plot, although somewhat simple, moves things along excellently. As the show explores how the rich try to escape the island while leaving the common audience members to burn, it is the strength of the audience work that turns what could have been a fairly basic structure into such a fun time. Yasmine Meaden’s extreme environmentalist parody and Elinor Solly’s mime pull the audience literally onto the stage in a way that never feels forced but earns every laugh it gets.It’s Gonna Blow covers a lot of ground in its hour. With hordes of distinct characters, brilliant audience interaction and clever use of the audience’s awareness of the impending doom to heighten the hilarity of bureaucratic failure, Fishing4chips have created a unique experience – as much fun to (somewhat) star in as it is to watch the insanity unfold.

This cramped little show fundamentally fails, as advertised, to explain how the iconic BBC science fiction series helped writer/performer S J Wyatt “come to terms with being a bipolar, queer, neurodiverse, wannabe activist” – although the psychiatrists they view as emotionless Cybermen would doubtless be interested in their repeated Mother/Dalek comparisons.Consisting of various reminisces that neither gel together nor build momentum, an unfortunately silence-laden “song” mid way, and a banal self-penned episode called The Biphobic Monster of Doom (performed by some innocent audience members), this is frankly disappointing.On the plus side, though, the sparkly home-made props are quite good.

A Minor Theft follows the story of Sophie (Beth Mullen, as both writer and performer), a young woman who briefly kidnaps a baby from the local town centre. Although the concept could easily veer into the horrifying, Mullen’s approach is lighter in tone. Sophie, we quickly learn, has no ill intent towards the child; instead, she’s driven by irritation at what she sees as poor parenting by the ‘neglectful’ mother, who seems more interested in chain-smoking than caring for the infant, which, despite being only six to nine months old, already has a broken arm. The situation, though morally dubious, is framed as an impulsive act rooted in a distorted sense of care.In this stripped-back one-woman show, Sophie tries her best to care for the baby, buying her warmer clothes and making sure she’s comfortable. Mullen’s script is well-crafted and sincere, balancing moments of humour with a gradually unfolding emotional undercurrent. We come to understand Sophie’s history and motivations over time, with the narrative revealing just enough at each step to keep us engaged without cheap twists. As a performer, Mullen is charismatic, emotionally agile, and at times electric. With Baby Clementine represented by either a pushchair or a raincoat, she draws the audience fully into the relationship between woman and child.Sophie’s monologues are often comedic, her dry observations and wry delivery masking a far more morose interior world. The writing smartly uses Sophie’s growing rage toward the child’s mother to build tension and guide us toward the final reveal. Mullen shows admirable control in letting the emotional weight land when it matters. Ultimately, A Minor Theft is a sharp, succinct, and affecting play about motherhood, denial, and grief.

I don't usually condone audience members interrupting a show. However, when his one-liner makes me laugh more than the act's material, you know there's a problem.The good thing about this show is that it’s clear effort and heart have gone into it.With all honesty, the show reminded me of a bad X Factor audition, except unironically. A naive singer steps up in front of a small panel to judge them. The panel knows it’s not great, but the singer continues until the inevitable gasp of laughter because it’s just a little too awkward.This show had all of the above – singing (yes, really), silences, awkward laughter – and here I am giving my decision at the end of it.The usual comment after a bad singing audition is, “You need to do something else with your time.” With the heart and effort that Tristan Wolfe clearly possesses, maybe it’s time for a career rethink.

The composer, Huang Ruo, and director/designer Basil Twist relate four ancient Chinese myths in a hybrid of music concert and puppet drama in Book of Mountains and Seas at the Lyceum.The production has an atmosphere of ancient ritual – the resources used are spare and primal. The puppetry uses natural or ageless materials: driftwood, silk, Chinese lanterns. The musical resources are primeval – a choir of twelve and two percussionists, conducted by Miles Lallemant. The libretto (written by Ruo) is in Mandarin, but also uses invented words. This approach adds to the sensation of witnessing a mysterious, profound ritual.The overall message of the stories is mankind’s insignificance when compared to Nature. This humility is a valuable message and, in the broader context, completely true. The choir and percussionists perform with superb clarity and control. The puppetry effects are gorgeous and striking: for example, the sea of silk, or the giant puppet of the last tale. The lighting (designed by Ayumu ‘Poe’ Saegusa) is ingenious and highly effective – adding to the storytelling and beauty of the stage, while being discreet enough to maintain the sparse, elemental tone.The problem is the sparseness becomes wearing. The episodes go on for too long, and it’s frustrating that more is not done with the outstanding resources – the musicians, the giant puppet.Ultimately, the show falls between two stools: too varied to be hypnotic or contemplative, but not modulated enough to maintain excitement or interest.

With the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina fast approaching (August 29), the Willow School Theatre Department of New Orleans brings a passionate and timely production about the disaster to the Edinburgh Fringe 2025. Katrina is perhaps the most famous hurricane in modern history, a tropical cyclone that swept the Gulf Coast and New Orleans, leaving devastation in its wake. Fatalities totalled 1,392, with damages estimated at $125 billion. But as much as the hurricane itself, it is the aftermath and lack of federal response that have stayed in historical and cultural memory – nowhere more so than in New Orleans.Based on collected interviews, found text, and stories, these high school performers present a detailed account not just of the hurricane – the (lack of) preparation, the damages, accounts of entrapment and isolation – but also of the events that followed. It tackles themes of classism, systemic racism, and neglect by the US government, all of which continue to shape society twenty years on.Translating oral testimonies to the stage is a tall order, and sometimes The Katrina Project rises to the challenge, showing the quality of these young performers, all of whom have inherited the Katrina legacy. At times, though, the production falls into facts and figures, losing sight of what makes its strongest moments so effective – allowing performances and individual perspectives to breathe and turn into cries for justice.This is clearly a crucial entry in the political catalogue of this year’s Fringe, and I would recommend it to anyone wishing to learn more about Katrina’s history and political context – especially around race and class in modern America – and to experience the story told by survivors, flawed though this praiseworthy production may be.

Charlie Chaplin is perhaps the greatest physical comedian of all time. But he was so much more than that. Smile: The Story of Charlie Chaplin shines a light on some of his life.Born in South London poverty, he was sent to a workhouse aged just seven. Anyone familiar with his later tramp-pathos work will not have to look far for the inspiration. He later lands work at a circus, which tours to Vaudeville, USA. He is spotted by Max Sennett of Keystone Studios, signed up, and by 1918 is perhaps the most famous man on the planet. He co-founded United Artists, giving him artistic and distribution control over his work.Chaplin wrote, directed, and produced his own material, even down to composing music, including Smile, the title of this production.Aficionados of Singin’ in the Rain will know the pivotal moment for the film industry when talkies became fashionable. Chaplin resisted this for some considerable time, producing City Lights and Modern Times without dialogue. He relented with The Great Dictator, satirising Hitler.He fell under the gaze of the House Committee on Un-American Activities. His friend Hanns Eisler was deported for being a communist, and Chaplin was forced to relocate to Switzerland, returning many years later to receive a lifetime achievement Academy Award.He was married four times and fathered 11 children, his last wife being the daughter of playwright Eugene O’Neill. A life less ordinary indeed.Marcel Cole tells Chaplin’s story using clowning, mime, narrative, silent-movie-style backdrops, and significant audience participation. He is clearly a skilled artist, with almost balletic movement.Cole’s show came to Edinburgh in the wake of various five-star reviews and accolades. Audience participation can be a hit-or-miss affair, and on this occasion, it was decidedly the latter, undermining the show. The narrow and raked space gave the performer a hill to climb. He scampers through already claustrophobic rows of seats with audience members hastily grabbing drinks and bags, encountering reluctant or simply inadequate participants. I doubt the audience-scripted dialogue was audible beyond the first rows, and the giant balloon-comedy bit simply does not work in this environment, clattering into one of the Fresnel lights. A shame, because the story and performer are definitely interesting.

Summarising the action of this show is like relating one of those hazy dreams where the details constantly shift. It opens with the magician’s assistant, Marie (or is it Mamoru?), performing the bullet trick. She’s the assistant, but also the magician. The settings alternate between the stage and the dressing room, with a mirror-image dressing room and alternate stage. Mamoru mimes to recorded speech, but usually speaks in her own voice. She changes from a woman to a more gender-ambiguous figure, and finally a man – perhaps.As a performer, Mamoru has a charming air of uncertainty. At first, the performance appears a little amateur and ramshackle, a random collection of absurdist jokes. But as it progresses, underlying themes emerge. There is even a narrative structure.On one level, Marie/Mamoru is a comedy character who could have appeared on Vic Reeves Big Night Out (for those old enough to remember that series). On another, the show could be David Lynch on drugs.The striking thing is the sense of fluidity – Marie’s body is fluid in gender and its physical components. Identity also shifts: is it Marie or Mamoru? Is the mirror Mamoru the same as the first Mamoru? Is that audience member the magician or the assistant?How powerful these images are, and how long they will stay with you, is open to question.Why is it called Painkillers? I have no idea.

Fast Snail Productions, a new Scottish production company, make their Fringe debut with Note of Concern at theSpace on the Mile – an intriguing, dark drama packed with dry humour, wit and intelligence.A ten-year high school reunion is taking place in the main building. One former student decides to revisit his most memorable classroom, where he was taught by his least favourite teacher. One of his former mates, from whom he became estranged after a dispute over a girl, does the same. When the door handle comes off in his hand, they find themselves trapped. An air of nostalgia overtakes them and, as they begin to resurrect the past, some hard truths emerge that neither is prepared for.Meanwhile, they start poking their noses where they don’t belong. Through mysterious clues left on the blackboard, they discover the combination to unlock the desk drawer, where they find old pink punishment slips that recall incidents from their schooldays. When they break into the store cupboard, a pungent odour is released and an unexpected twist takes the play to another level. Will the shared stress of resolving this situation reignite their friendship, or do old scars still run too deep?Note of Concern is tightly written by, and stars, Fringe veterans Will Evans and Jordan Monks. They are an engaging duo and highly accomplished actors – the sort that inspire confidence and convince you you’re in safe hands. The script is focused, developing plot and characters at pace with no excess verbiage. Slickly directed by Stephanie Austin, it is superbly delivered with an air of Orton about it: bizarre events, strange circumstances, stilted conversation in awkward situations, dialogue that shifts from quick-witted to hesitant with the odd faux pas thrown in, well-timed pauses, an irreverent take on situations, and an element of detective work.It all makes for a rewarding, action-packed 45 minutes.

In Jack Traynor’s debut Fringe hour Before I Forget, he promises to share his best stories “before he forgets” because dementia runs in his family. One such story involves how Susan Boyle helps him get through substance-induced comedowns. So, not only is “best stories” used incredibly loosely, you can fear not about this being yet another “sad, but uplifting” comedy show.That qualm is immediately assuaged as our introduction to Traynor is him bursting into the almost sold-out room, screaming “Come on!” and handing out hugs and high-fives like he’s fresh out of a pre-SuBo sesh.Traynor is out of breath for most of the show – as are we. He ricochets around the Pleasance Bunker stage, with no issue crowbarring himself between a couple (because he has a question for only one of them) or staring unblinkingly into someone’s face.Dementia and how it affects his family, particularly his “granda”, is woven in alongside relentless riffs that cover the gamut from his disdain for American tourists to crabs. There is no time to recover from the previous joke – nor his truly impressive range of impressions – before Traynor is hollering about something else. On that note, this show might not be for those averse to yelling.The mood never dips, which is a real testament to Traynor’s talent considering he is, occasionally, talking about “your mind falling out of your arse”. Such is his skill, honed across comedy clubs and Scottish prisons alike, that he can make dementia an utter rip-roaring ride.

The rating of a show is not always just about the performance. As we know, many elements come together to make something truly outstanding – and this can include background research, the devising process and the purposes that a play in the realm of social drama can serve in terms of therapeutically helping others.Insiders was created through video links with Scottish prisoners during the Covid-19 pandemic and was first performed in November 2020 via live stream. The final version was devised by Sam Rowe (coordinator of Creative Expressions), Neil Leiper and Garry Sweeney from the contributions of 14 Scottish prisoners, and went on to tour 11 of Scotland’s 13 male prisons. It was devised with touring in mind, with no need for a set.The Edinburgh stop at St John’s Church sees a stage erected on the chancel steps with a black cloth forming the rear wall. Each of three chairs seats a prisoner who is in his cell. On a fourth chair is musician Michael McMillan. He plays the guitar and sings original compositions that tell stories and embrace reflections on life. In turn, the prisoners vividly describe the contents of their cells – the pictures, artefacts and memorabilia they are allowed that provide comfort and consolation. It’s a modern place that permits a TV, a mobile phone and video games. Once we have that picture, we enter the lives of the insiders.Danny (Sam Rowe) is in for murder and battles anger and loneliness. Craig (Sean Connor) is trying to put behind him years as a drug dealer and addict. He finds strength in his new faith and fervently reads his Bible. He does not want to be released because he fears going back to his old ways. Richard (Garry Sweeney) is a middle-class newcomer who does not fit in. We move from monologues to dialogue as conversations between them enhance our insight into daily routines and prison life. The air is often tense and the slightest remark can provoke a heated response. Tempers flare, insults fly and anger is released. There is harsh language and serious questioning of what God is up to – none of which is watered down for this church performance by three actors who have a fine array of accents and are completely immersed in their roles and the creation of unique individuals.Creative Expressions is a department within Bethany Christian Trust, “a national charity dedicated to ending homelessness in Scotland”. The company seeks to provide opportunities for people “to express themselves through the creative arts in communities across Scotland”. A particular aspect of its work is in the criminal justice system and prison service, often in collaboration with chaplaincy. Hence its material commonly explores “faith, recovery and rehabilitation”, enabling people to reflect and engage in forward planning “whilst developing positive networks and a renewed sense of self, aiding resettlement and reducing reoffending”.Insiders is not just a gripping drama but also a powerful vehicle for revealing prisoners as people and providing them with a means of expression.

The newly written musical I Am Autistic follows the story of three autistic teens going through life in high school. It covers the topics of relationships, bullying and discovering yourself.Being autistic myself, I feel that the show offers an excellent portrayal of ASD, raising awareness very effectively and helping people to understand how to live alongside people who have autism, how to accommodate them, and how to adapt so that all can live happily together.The songs are very upbeat and have a pop feel about them. The three main characters are superbly put together. Their story made me cry midway through the show because I can relate so much to the performance, which just shows how well written this piece is and what an amazing performance has been created about autism.However, I also feel that the show mainly focuses on the negatives of autism – although it does have a very happy resolution (which was the highlight of the show for me). I feel like it could cover some different types of Autism Spectrum Disorder and display other aspects of it in the show as well.I like the decision to cast autistic actors in the leading roles because this gives autistic actors a chance to be themselves without having to worry about other people’s opinions of them. The production could also be improved by showing some aspects of autism in different life stages as well.In general, however, this play means that autistic people who watch the show will be able to see themselves in it, and I love that about it. I think it helps people without autism to live more comfortably around autistic people, so the show was a notable success for everybody.The actors wear simple, everyday costumes to create a normal high school day. The set is very simple, using four boxes of a cubic shape which are rearranged effectively to create different environments. The simplicity of this is strangely beautiful. The depictions of fidgeting, strumming and bullying are very accurate, and this really captures the real-life experience of autistic people.Although the main storyline is rather sad (as it depicts autistic people being bullied), the resolution really gives me personally a new hope for the future of people who are autistic, showing that eventually we can be accepted and that we can, and will, be able to live better in the future.(Editor’s note: This review was written by Clark Dearson, aged 12, who performed in Much Ado About Pirates at the Fringe by Westcliff High School for Boys.)

December 21 is always the longest night of the year. In 1988, it was the darkest.In the mid-1980s, tensions were rising between some Middle Eastern and North African countries and the United States. In 1984, Libyans acquired timers for bomb detonators. In 1986, a discotheque in West Berlin was bombed, killing three Americans. Shortly afterwards, the US retaliated by bombing Libyan bases, killing an estimated 60 people. In 1988, various reports criticised lax security at Frankfurt airport. That same year, the US mistakenly shot down an Iranian passenger aircraft, killing all 290 people on board. And so to 21 December 1988, when Pan Am flight 103 departed from London to New York, having originated in Frankfurt.The deadliest terrorist attack in the UK followed. A bomb, sent from Malta to Frankfurt and intended to be aboard this flight, exploded over the Scottish town of Lockerbie, killing 270 people, including 11 on the ground. While most of the victims were American, there were victims from many countries.Annie Lareau was a drama student at Syracuse University, spending the autumn semester in London with many classmates. Christmas was looming and they were all heading home, but Lareau could not afford to travel with her friends, opting to return alone the next day. This was a tough call for her, as she had a fear of flying.When news of the bombing broke, she was numb. Theo was her closest friend – now she saw images of Theo’s mother collapsing at the airport.Of the myriad feelings she had, relief was not one of them. She experienced survivor guilt, which later manifested as self-destruction and self-loathing. The inevitable media frenzy did little to ease her fragile mental state, with a news producer trying to manipulate her into crying for the cameras. At breaking point, she entered a series of abusive relationships, the survivor guilt pushing her to try to feel something.Fuselage flits between the prelude and aftermath of the bombing and her eventual visit, later in life, to the scene of the crash. Colin, a newly recruited 18-year-old policeman, had been first on the scene. Thirty years later, he is still haunted. A now middle-aged Lareau visits him with her daughter, walking the fields where her friends – and others – landed. The visit was inevitably traumatic, but it appears to provide a modicum of closure.Multimedia provides the contextual backdrop, with news reports and photographs. Brenda Joyner and Peter Dylan O’Connor play multiple roles, but the focus remains on Annie Lareau, on stage revealing her personal story. Mikaela Milburn’s excellent direction ensures the narrative sweeps along with pace, with silences and stillness landing, the storytelling fluid and nuanced. All the performances are layered – ranging from teenage exuberance and the thrill of adulthood, to conveying the weight of seismic events.It was not just fragments of the plane that fell onto Lockerbie: body parts, clothing, luggage and personal effects rained down. Lareau had lent Theo an earring, which she recovered from an archived box at Syracuse. One of her friends had bought a deerstalker for her father as a Christmas present, posthumously delivered. These were not just fragments of wreckage – they symbolised fragments of memory. Those who died were not nameless victims; they remain in the thoughts of those who loved them.Many audience members were reduced to tears by the end, along with a visibly emotional Annie Lareau, whose bravery in telling her story in person is unimaginable. Anyone present will not forget this production any time soon.

Think of all the songs you love to sing along to – not just the new ones, but the ones that get everyone on their feet. Britney’s Baby One More Time, Flo Rida’s Low, through to modern hits like Chappelle Roan’s Hot To Go. Now put them on the accordion, with a remarkably confident man with splendid hair leading the way.This is the essence of Accordion Ryan’s Pop Bangers – songs that get your grandma dancing at a wedding with all the enthusiasm of an 18th birthday party. The whole point is to hand out licences to let loose, have a great time and maybe get a little wet.Yes, Accordion Ryan even provides his own scooshie guns, which come into their own on key songs.Accordion Ryan’s Pop Bangers isn’t so much a performance as an experience. You need a good crowd to make it work, and midway through we lost some oomph – with the room just over half full – but it remained fun throughout. I also kept gently expecting Ryan to do more with his performance, but it stayed consistent from start to finish. It’s a show that does exactly what it promises.Ryan himself brings an earnest enthusiasm that’s endearing. He feels like a slightly intense but exceedingly positive music teacher who insists you will have a good time. It feels like this could be a recurring late-nighter for many Fringes to come – and I’m very glad to see it.Obviously, we closed on Queen – but what else did you expect?

There is much to admire in A Covert Affair. There is also much to be desired. I was instantly drawn to its synopsis: two operatives from opposite sides of the Iron Curtain locked in a game of seduction and espionage to exchange state secrets. The conflict is explicit from the start. These are spies whose national loyalties are tested by love, whose misdemeanours risk severe punishment, and who face constant threats in the tense setting of mid-century Budapest.The premise offers all the ingredients for a high-stakes political thriller, echoing the romance and tragedy of a Cold War drama like Paweł Pawlikowski’s Cold War. The dangers are built in – perhaps so much so that the play largely leaves them unspoken. Absent are the local threats of the Hungarian secret police or the looming possibility of our lovers being caught, tortured, or killed. What the production most needed was greater world-building: importing historical and social detail from the period, or even just the streets of 1960s Budapest, to ground the dramatic stakes before moving us through a series of steamy interiors where differences between the lovers inevitably widen. Without that foundation, the hour-long narrative feels flat, and we have to be reminded that what the protagonists are doing is dangerous.While the historical and ideological context is clumsy, the central performances offer much. Faced with a wooden script and lacklustre direction, the actors find a sense of pace and turn corny, misjudged jokes into moments of endearing awkwardness – subtly drawing the characters closer. By the final sequence, when the two dance together – which might have made a stronger closing moment – there is a genuine connection, an aura of longing. It is one of the few flashes of brilliance in A Covert Affair, and it makes the experience at least partially worthwhile.

This isn’t a production for purists, but then opera isn’t pure; it has always been about noise, spectacle, and danger. Part of the wonder of opera is that so many things could go wrong. There is always risk. So why not add aerial artists without safety nets and acrobats tumbling from bone-breaking heights?Directed, set designed, and co-choreographed by Yaron Lifschitz of Circa, this is total theatre: all the senses are bombarded in a production that excels in every component. It is also a production where the director’s vision is paramount. The show is dominated by stark images – black, white, or bold red against a dazzling white background. Even the surtitles are a work of art.The overture begins, and a slit in the curtain reveals a woman in a red dress, precariously twisting and turning on ropes that seem to reach the sky. (The Playhouse’s huge stage is used to full effect.) The audience gasps; many more will follow.Lifschitz’s staging is modern – the action plays out in Orpheus’s mind while he lies in a mental institution. Rather than a straightforward adventure, we witness an interrogation of the big questions: desire, fantasy, loss, and death. This focus on Orpheus’s mental state allows for high spectacle. The stage can be flooded with tumbling acrobats or aerial doubles, because here, any man is Orpheus and any woman is Eurydice.Lifschitz notes that Gluck included extensive ballet sequences, so using those passages for acrobats does not detract from the singing or action – it’s how the opera was designed. I have seen my share of circus shows, and these are the most elegant, fluid acrobatics I have ever witnessed.Countertenor Iestyn Davies as Orpheus and soprano Samantha Clarke in the dual role of Eurydice and Amor are outstanding. Despite the spectacle, they are never overwhelmed, and when the singing should dominate, it does. The sung dialogue beginning “Come satisfy your husband” would be gorgeous enough to overcome a hurricane. In the end, this opera belongs to Orpheus, and its success rests on the shoulders of the singer in that role. Davies rises to the challenge of all the strange stage business required of him, singing throughout with indefatigable clarity and emotion.In the original myth, Orpheus takes a fatal risk and causes Eurydice’s second death, the gods’ trickery proving that death is inevitable. Gluck and his librettist, Calzabigi, added a further twist – Amor reunites the lovers to show that love can triumph over everything.Lifschitz adds another layer. The opera closes with the massive stage covered by corpses, followed by a final shocking, dazzling image that burns into the mind and lingers long after the curtain falls.

What an absolutely brilliant production this is, surrounded as it is by the knowledge that such a wonderful experience and opportunity is being given to younger performers. Talentz is a Kent-based musical theatre company providing golden starts in theatre to young people aged 4–21, including this chance to star at the Edinburgh Fringe. These are five-star opportunities from a five-star theatre company, and we should salute their endeavours.In this production, we see the traditional story of The Wizard Of Oz (and if you don’t know it, you are banned from the Fringe) played out with elegant, colourful costumes masking minimal set and props, which seems a sensible, practical decision for a touring youth company. The show is double-cast, which is an excellent way of giving more opportunities to young people. Although this production features the Emerald cast, the lead parts are clearly matched up, and it is evident that there are many talented actors in both casts. For example, Milo Brown plays Hunk here with such great stage presence and energy that we know he will make a fine Scarecrow when the Ruby cast take to the stage. Similarly, Sully Toms handles the cameo of the Professor with plenty of colour and should portray an excellent Wizard.In this production, however, it is the Emerald cast who play out the famous story very enchantingly. The aptly named Leo Banfield gives the standout performance as the Cowardly Lion in a well-judged orange suit. His Lion is gentle, affable, lovely, and he handles both songs well, with a charming King Of The Forest. Scarlet Watson offers a very motherly Glinda, with a bubble-making machine to die for. I am secretly hoping they are on sale in the foyer. Ellie Pascall’s Dorothy has an excellent singing voice and holds the familiar tale together well in her pivotal role. The idea of a human Toto is interesting and effective in this production, where it is intelligently handled by Coco Rose. Izzie Kemp is the smiliest Scarecrow you could ever see, and the sunflower in her dungarees brilliantly captures that. Henry Pye gives us a very sorrowful Tin Man, clearly troubled by his oily squeaks. And who could blame him? Daisy Spear as the Wicked Witch and Rebecca Moreschi as the Wizard complete the list of principals, each delivering a sound performance. The wider company provides enthusiastic support, and particularly strong moments come from the apple-throwing Talking Trees and the Jitterbug dance, where the five travellers work together to great effect. The singing is strong throughout.We’re off to see the Fringe! In this production, Talentz are enriching the Fringe too, with sunny charm, gentle warmth, and a marvellous opportunity for young people.

The Copenhagen Collective was formed in 2024 to provide a Danish base for 16 international artists to develop their performance skills in contemporary circus and acrobatics. In this, their first ever show, we see the product of their labours. There is an ever-changing acrobatics display, reflecting modern circus skills and collaborative working. This is accompanied by an original soundscape comprising classical violin, piano, and other acoustic instruments.There is a lot of walking around, which may be a commentary on being in Edinburgh during the Fringe, but when the acrobatics start, they are without question spectacular. We are left in no doubt whatsoever that there is consummate skill involved. Towers three and four persons high are made, with performers backflipping and springing into the high positions from every conceivable angle. Supporting this is a succession of richly choreographed movement pieces that are elegant, well coordinated, and beautiful. We particularly enjoy a smooth opening piece where the collective walks the stage together, slowly losing members until the stage is scattered with performers – it is quite a moment. The movement is well supported by powerful lighting in varieties of deep blue.So far, so impressive. However, it is difficult to see what story lies behind these acrobatics. It does not seem to add up to anything much. There is certainly huge trust between performers, which is something of a story in itself, but other than this, it is not really clear what tale is unfolding. Genesis implies beginnings, but this theme is never really explored. In short, there is stunning agility and spectacular acrobatics but no real story, no direction or journey to drive forward the movement and achieve progression.The Copenhagen Collective will clearly be back and have much to offer the Fringe. Many in this audience spring up in the increasingly hackneyed standing ovation. But with a stronger storyline, their second offering could be something truly extraordinary.

The 25th Annual Putnam Country Spelling Bee is a quirky musical that is quite tricky to pull off. Its premise is that of the “trapped in a lift” variety, namely that a group of children are competing against each other throughout to spell complex words in a spelling bee. The words are generally words that they will probably never use or need, crammed full of Zs and Ys and lurking Cs, and to some extent this creates a futility in the enterprise that is perhaps a dry commentary on the teaching of literacy within primary education. However, the real heart of the musical is to play out the backstory of each competitor so that the richness of their life story is revealed, explaining and endearing them to the audience. Such is the key to this musical, and at its best, it has secured itself Tony, Drama Desk, and Theatre World Awards on Broadway, and a place in the hearts of many American high school theatre programmes. At its best. However, this depends on the charm of the characters shining through the tedious pointlessness of the competition. This never really happens in this production.We are greeted with a busy stage, decorations of bunting and signage all pointing to the fact that a spelling bee is about to start. All very informative and all very practical, but it makes it hard to escape the setting and keep dynamic as we move later into the backstories of the characters. A series of young competitors are presented, after which we bounce between spelling attempts of varying success and breakout song-and-dance numbers as the competition heats up. It is disciplined and clean but without charm, the primary characters lacking the innocence that might win you over. Of these, George Rohan’s nerdy William perhaps gets the closest in an accomplished performance. Madeline Watson also has fine stage presence as Mitch. But it is never quite clear what age the adults are portraying – there is a brattish nine-year-old, an abandoned 14-year-old, a nerdish 12-year-old – these are all enormous differences within school age, and it is hard to believe this is the age range actually intended by the production. A smart costumier is controlling the colours, which makes this attractive to look at, but not sufficiently to compensate for the lack of light and shade within the character stories. This was not helped by some colourless songs, which tidy choreography doesn’t save, and I do not blame the five people who walked out during an unnecessary song about erections. By the end, this character’s member was the only thing that was standing.All in all, this is a tidily presented show from competent performers that clearly has its fans in the audience, but it never casts a spell over me.

Surprises are not uncommon in shows, but the way Almost Everything suddenly takes off past the halfway mark is stunning.It’s also interesting that a theatre company of young people has opted for a naturalistic, domestic drama complete with matching set, neatly and authentically designed by Tiffany Yu. The sofa, the occasional table with chairs and a chessboard, and another with drinks immediately place us in a comfortable apartment. It belongs to Charlie. He’s an architect, currently looking for a new flatmate, and is conducting interviews. Some he’s dismissed and others have pulled out, which leaves Becca, who is perhaps something of a gamble, but by now he has little choice, and she is determined to move in.Perhaps inevitably, the extent to which living under the same roof can remain a professional landlord–tenant relationship comes into question. Can cohabiting remain purely platonic, or is romance in the air? Will Becca’s excessive drinking and active social life prove too much for Charlie? Scenes move on apace, with incidents building up and the relationship becoming more complex but still leaving uncertainty as to where all this might be leading.Then Becca’s older sister, Emily, arrives on the scene, and the dynamics change – not just in the household. After she is established as a character, events pile up, and an eruption occurs with a devastating wedding speech. Thereafter, the tension mounts, relationships rise and fall, and a couple of twists elevate the drama to a powerfully new level. “Wow! Where did that come from?”The play is written by Lauren Barrie (Becca) and Ben McGuinness (Charlie), who, together with Imogen Eden-Brown, give solid, impassioned performances under the neat direction of Graham Newell. They all benefit from the quality of the realistic conversational writing, clear characterisation, and a well-developed plot.

What a piece of work is Hamlet. How infinite in possibilities. In form and movement, how agile. Yet in truth, it is also poorly stitched together, enigmatic, and full of holes. The plot has flaws everywhere, and much is left unanswered or unexplained in the text. That is its richness. Shakespeare’s Hamlet emerged between 1599 and 1601 and is probably a patched-up version of the original Ur-Hamlet, perhaps by Kyd, with a slightly more credible ghost and some elegant soliloquies to boot. Matching its characters, the play’s flaws create its enigmatic genius. Is there another Shakespeare play to match it?The Fringe has long enjoyed exploring the versatility of Hamlet, from this year’s wonderful New York Circus trapeze performance to a memorable musical version now many years old. In this production, Sam Blythe presents a new one-man interpretation. Here, an aged actor in a nursing home (also called Sam Blythe) finds trinkets that slowly remind him of his days playing Hamlet. One of these is a red clown nose, which, once donned, draws him back into the role. The play then shifts between a troubled real world – full of lyrical Welsh accents, words of Dylan Thomas seemingly spoken by Richard Burton, and Wlad Fy Nhadau – and Elsinore, where we hear predominantly Hamlet’s lines.At the epilogue, Sam Blythe (junior) movingly describes the show as a tribute to his father, whom he describes as a wonderful actor who never got the chance to speak Shakespeare in his own accent. Surely Sam Blythe is a perpetual, walking tribute to his father every time he steps on stage. He is a magnetic actor of phenomenal intensity and power, inventive, charming, and full of skill. He can turn on a knife-edge between comedy and pathos. I had the privilege of watching his breathtaking Animal Farm, showing daily at 13.00, and both shows are remarkable (and unmissable) solo efforts. If Sam Blythe’s performance prowess is inherited, that is already quite a legacy, and all his performances are, to my mind, fine tributes to his genes.Tribute aside, speaking dispassionately, there are probably better things that Sam Blythe can do with Hamlet than this. The concept doesn’t fully leap from the stage. The decision to use a clown nose to denote Hamlet is problematic, as we hear the lyric beauty of Shakespeare’s verse spoken through a pinched nose. It might have been better to place the clown nose on the real-world persona, leaving Hamlet’s lines to be spoken more clearly. The best moments come when Blythe uses his wickedly inventive character skills to create the Ghost and the Player King. A one-man Hamlet in the style of his Animal Farm would surely be sensational, perhaps still sitting within the wider concept of “an aged actor remembers.”As a stand-alone show, this is an interesting concept that needs further work. As a tribute, it is deeply moving, and succeeds in Blythe’s attempt to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Long is my journey through the Pleasance Courtyard to the Beyond. Loud and suspiciously familiar is the music that fills the corridors of the Dame Katherine Grainger Rowing Gym. Missing is the LOTR logo from my T-shirt as I weave among the elves and orcs crammed into this chamber. I have no memory of this place, even though I was here a couple of hours ago for a one-man show.I speak in the style of The Lord of the Rings, for everything about it is grandiloquent, majestic and verbally disordered – from Tolkien’s commandingly professorial text to Peter Jackson’s scenically beautiful film trilogy. And, like anything so infused with grandeur and gravity, the temptation to send it up is irresistible. Such a temptation has produced Fly You Fools, a spoof retelling of Peter Jackson’s first Lord of the Rings movie, The Fellowship of the Ring. The critical word in this show’s title is, of course, “Fools”. Fooling is surely one of the hardest performance skills to master and, done badly, is there anything more tedious? But when done this well, good fooling is an absolute joy – and here it is done very well indeed.Recent Cutbacks has sourced four clowns of the highest calibre and the result is spectacular and highly comic. Three black-costumed figures take centre stage with a fourth at a sound effects table. Multiple characters are quickly and inventively created to give a faithful, if tongue-in-cheek, rendition of the story. Elegant choreography sits alongside goggle-eyed goofery to create something truly hilarious. Props are simple – including a Burger King crown and two beards on a stick – and are adroitly used. Lighting and sound support the action elegantly.The beauty of this show is that everything is offered in plain sight. This includes the remarkable sound effects that accompany the action: a recorder, crinkly paper, bells and the obligatory coconuts. The use of paper towels and cutouts, with rear projection, to create the Mines of Moria is quite brilliant. This goofery is inventive, hysterical and masterfully delivered.If there is a drawback, it is that the films are now 25 years old – how many people under the age of 30 have actually seen them? Without seeing the films, it may be difficult to follow the plot and impossible to catch the clever references that are the comic heart of this show. This is a shame when there is so much that young people can learn from a comic performance of this quality. A family show should be for the whole family, not just for the mums and dads. Given the popularity of the recent Rings of Power series on Amazon, an opportunity was perhaps lost to hold the attention of all ages by widening the reference points.That said, today’s performance is without question a comic joy. The best things come in threes, and this is no exception: Tolkien’s 1954 text, Jackson’s 2001 movie, and Fly You Fools in 2025 – each, in its own world, a masterpiece.

Before I knew it, I was charmed and delighted by the host of characters depicted solely by the talented David Hoskin. Fringe feels best when you don’t really know what you’ve walked into. A Haunted House has exactly that feel as you enter the space, with a remarkably detailed model of a haunted house on display in a dank basement. With simple eyebrow waggles and shoulder shoogles, he had me hooked, and the joyfully spooky world within the house is somewhere I would happily revisit again and again… if I ever leave.A Haunted House is a silly, camp performance where The Rocky Horror Show meets The Addams Family in one mime’s body. Mime doesn’t feel quite appropriate, as it evokes painted Parisian performers, but it is the only description that captures the full-body performance Hoskin gives. From spasming tremors and terrifying tongue motions – which play as funny rather than horrific – he sets the stage expertly. It’s deeper than that, though. A subtle change in eyebrows or the set of his mouth gives an entirely different character or cosmic horror moment from one beat to the next: vampires, ghouls, eye-eating monstrosities and, of course, our host Uncle Lester.Hoskin feels like he’s capering with himself and, though he works the audience perfectly, we’re very much in his world. This is a masterclass in physical theatre and a near-perfect one-man show.The show uses the structure of a tour of the house – and some memory jars – to segue from vignette to vignette. A standout moment was a very simple: “BOOO…ks… we’re in the library.” This is the vein for most of the show: hilarious and spooky, but rarely scary. It feels rather a lot like a midnight-black kitten trying to convince you it is quite ferocious.You can feel the distinct Britishness in A Haunted House – the true evil at work is the local council. Cue thunder and dramatic lighting. Or worse yet, support workers for Age UK with dubiously spelt names. The work doesn’t take itself seriously at all, even including jabs at the Fringe with perfectly timed entries of characters asking if the show has started yet.If your favourite scary movies make you laugh, if you lean towards the bizarre, and if you’re ready to be impressed by a queer icon in the making, please visit David Hoskin in A Haunted House… for you shall leave not quite the same as you entered.

Some German Jews managed to escape the Nazis. Clare Fraenkel’s grandfather Heinz was one of them.Heinz Fraenkel was at a Berlin cinema on 27 February 1933. This proved to be a momentous night historically, as the Nazis burned down the Reichstag, effectively bulldozing German democracy a mere four weeks after Hitler had come to power. While the second world war was still some time off, persecution was already rife in Germany. The film he went to see was interrupted by stormtroopers, complaining about the heritage of one of the actors. Later, at a party, a well-wisher tipped him off that the Gestapo awaited his return to his apartment, advising him to flee immediately for Paris. Clearly blessed with strong instincts for self-preservation, he carried his passport and simply boarded the night train to Paris, and onward to England. He had his German citizenship revoked by the Nazis.England was not entirely a safe haven. As the Nazis conquered much of Europe, the UK narrowly avoided the same fate. As a Jew and a journalist, Heinz would have been a marked man. The British government interned many German nationals in what were effectively concentration camps, Heinz duly swept up as an “enemy alien”. He was relatively fortunate to be placed on the Isle of Man, rather than running the U-boat gauntlet of being transported to Australia.After the war ended, he returned to Berlin as a war correspondent, only to be arrested in Soviet-controlled East Berlin. Upon release, he settled back in the UK, raising a family – which brings us to Clare’s part of the story.Despite being born and bred in the UK, Clare feels a disconnect in the wake of the Brexit vote. It has created a jarring sense of loss of roots. She and her brother decide to apply for German citizenship. As part of post-Nazi restitution, Article 116 II of the German legal system permits citizenship for those who lost it under Nazi persecution, and as direct grandchildren this permission is inherited. The revocation of citizenship is, of course, chillingly echoed in today’s geopolitical landscape.Clare is an engaging and likeable performer, weaving storytelling, shadowplay and song elegantly. Some of the staging and characterisation choices did not entirely land; nonetheless, this is an interesting insight into our recent history.Why did Heinz wait until the end of the party before fleeing to Paris, every second potentially crucial to escape? Like his granddaughter, perhaps he wanted to take control of his own path.

Skank Sinatra is the sort of flaming-hot queen you’d want to take on Ol’ Blue Eyes’ mantle. They manage to flirt with their gimmick without leaning too hard into it, while at the same time showing a genuine love affair with drag culture without labouring the point. What we get instead is a standout drag performance that feels polished, professional and positively popping with personality.Jens Radda takes the role of Skank Sinatra to guide the audience through a series of big band classics – but make them queer. The lyrics have been reworked in places for a performance that feels flirtatious and at times filthy, but some slight changes in intonation achieve the same effect quite handily. A slight head tilt at the lyrics of The Lady is a Tramp, after all, and you’re most of the way into a flamboyant drag performance already.If you’re a fan of drag acts, queer culture or, frankly, a bombastic good time, then this show is well worth attending. It doesn’t break the mould, but it doesn’t need to. Skank drizzles southern hemisphere charm and gay decadence over every aspect of this show. I wish there were something truly eye-catching in there, but this is still a great night out at the Fringe.

A one-man play in a compact space is really something of a highwire act – if the actor doesn’t immediately grab your attention it can be an extremely tedious hour. It’s a relief, then, that Thom Tuck delivers a sublime tour de force as Scaramouche Jones, a clown reliving the story of his life on the eve of his death and one hundredth birthday on 31 December 1999.The externally unassuming venue could not be more perfect for the performance. The intimacy of the small yurt gives the impression that you are backstage at the big top for the clown’s swansong – and with stage and performer working in symbiotic harmony, we hear Scaramouche tell of his experiences through major moments of the 20th century. Reminiscent of Woolf’s Orlando in miniature, from his birth in the Caribbean, venturing across Africa, then into Europe, he encounters multiple tragic experiences, each leaving an indelible mark on his visage. One tale in particular, telling of his time in a concentration camp, would be jarring if done by a lesser performer, but here it is delivered with great humour and incredible tenderness.Tuck’s indefatigable energy holds the engrossed audience in his thrall throughout – a fact proved undeniable when he receives a well deserved standing ovation. If there is a better intimate one-man show at the Fringe, I have yet to see it.

Kumar Muniandy's solo show Second Class Queer is an honest and thought-provoking exploration of life as a queer Tamil-Malaysian man in Berlin. Written and directed by Muniandy, the intimate piece moves between the challenges of being queer in Malaysia and the complexities of queer dating in multicultural Berlin, where every potential partner arrives with wildly differing experiences and perspectives.The narrative unfolds through a series of speed dates, in which Krishna (Muniandy) converses, debates, and occasionally argues with a stream of men represented by disembodied voices. Krishna exudes charm and charisma, yet his partners often focus less on his conversation and more on his appearance. His ethnicity is questioned; at other times, it is his body shape. While these inquiries may be well intentioned, they reveal a deeper undercurrent of cultural insensitivity, reflecting the blunt approach to sex and dating often found in Berlin’s queer community.Muniandy weaves a parallel story using an onstage projector. In the play’s opening, a dedication appears to an unnamed Malaysian teenager killed in a violent, homophobic attack. This figure haunts Krishna’s narrative. Alongside this, memes and images flash up, satirising attitudes toward brown people, particularly those from Muslim-majority countries, with a sharp, dry wit.The result is a piece that is both poignant and empathetic, balancing humour with unflinching social commentary. Muniandy holds the audience’s attention with ease, delivering a script that deftly navigates intersections of queerness, race, and diaspora identity. His storytelling is confident, layered, and altogether human.Second Class Queer offers a compelling portrait of one man’s experiences while speaking to broader truths about belonging and prejudice. It is an engaging, incisive work of new writing – highly recommended for anyone interested in theatre that challenges and connects in equal measure.

Nick Hornedo feels like a sad clown: self-aware, feckless, and just a little bit pathetic. It is a fine balance to get this act right, but as the hour-long, wince-inducing spectacle went on, it just felt like kicking a puppy.His monologue lurches from “Woe is me” to “But I’m so talented” without the charm needed to carry that off. To his credit, Hornedo manages to deliver a sometimes relatable cringe-fest for millennials who had their first love stories online and their hearts trampled in theatre.Sad clown shows are all about arc; Nick’s story does not really have any. I went in wanting to root for him; instead, I just sat and cringed with him in a drawn-out performance that should probably be in a different category.

From disparaging French Disney employees attempting compassion to the struggles of being a “big girl” among pashmina-shrouded, petite friends, Helen Bauer delivers an hour of powerfully honest and utterly seamless comedy.Big laughs are not in short supply as Bauer comes out all guns blazing with tales of ghostly interactions with Queen Victoria and toying with the idea of motherhood. With neatly placed callbacks and pitch-perfect timing, the hour flies by in a flash, leaving a sense that everyone wants just a little bit more. The whole show feels like a conversation with friends – a testament to Bauer’s impeccable crowd work and disarmingly direct delivery.Bauer does not shy away from the quiet, leading us through perfectly curated moments of vulnerability with her and her younger self. There is a swell of love and support for her in those quieter moments that seems to fill the space – a collective longing to be present for a refreshing and brave performance.Tackling tough topics with sincerity and grace, all the while making the audience roar with laughter, is a true gift – one which Helen Bauer undoubtedly has.Prepare to be charmed and utterly enchanted by this moving, hilarious show. Bless Her is a must in your fringe itinerary – get a ticket while you can.

Relationship management. No, this is not corporate jargon – this is more serious: just how does she get her boyfriend to take the rubbish out?Unusually for the Edinburgh Fringe, Clean Slate is staged in a traverse setting – in other words, audience members sit in rows on either side of a catwalk-style stage. The set initially is a kitchen island, with our protagonist, Louisa Marshall, cleaning vigorously. The set, incidentally, proves to be ingeniously mobile.The reason for the traverse staging becomes clear as Marshall’s tale begins. This layout facilitates a more intimate atmosphere, and more importantly, it provides a platform for significant audience participation.Alesha Dixon’s The Boy Does Nothing seems an appropriate introduction once Marshall shines a light on her relationship with her boyfriend. She describes her immediate attraction, heightened when she visits his pristinely clean flat. This proves to be the domestic high-water mark, though, as he reverts to type once they cohabit – his domestic incompetence being either indolence or, more disconcertingly, even strategic. Marshall ends up performing all the household tasks, including cooking for her own surprise birthday party, while he slips off to the pub.The audience are immersively involved in this unfolding narrative – a bold choice that appears to pay off, as they unreservedly revel in the antics. Marshall struts the space, bending even the hesitant to her will. They participate, witness, observe and become the fall guys for cleverly set-up jokes. Her playful style belies an impressive performance ability: when they go to couple’s counselling, she conveys a visceral yet measured rage; when she falls silent, it is deafening.There is a message of female empowerment somewhere here, but it does not quite land in the melee. Louisa Marshall’s intense, energetic and powerful performance, however, promises much for the future.

The play opens with two friends, Natasha and Judith, discussing ideas for putting on a show – the show we are watching. That may sound like a novice fringe piece, but Chunky Jewellery is far from self-indulgent, and very far from unskilled: like the best theatre, it performs the alchemy of turning the specific into the universal.There is plenty of comedy as Natasha and Jude try out different ideas (all brilliantly performed) such as live looping Ed Sheeran-style, and 60s songs like Then He Kissed Me. But these are abandoned for either comic reasons (Jude did not meet her bloke across a dance hall but on Tinder) or because they develop into areas that are too painful (“too much of a downer”) for the show they have in mind.There seems to be no limit to the talents of the performers – there is clowning, dancing, singing, comedy – or touching the heart with pity and quiet sadness as the stories of the friends’ turbulent year are revealed.The stories explore the lives of women, particularly the joys and, in this specific year for these women, the pain of being a daughter and a mother: the stresses of bringing up children alone; the sorrows of break-ups; finding out you are pregnant just as your mother is dying; the ache of disappointed and failed relationships; the guilt of feeling you are failing your children or disappointing your parents.Often, even the moments of greatest solidarity between the two friends hide individual problems and pain.This sounds gloomier than the show is, because it is mixed with comedy, friendship and the joy of performance. But it is refreshing to see the lives of mothers – the good and the bad – presented with such realistic, unvarnished truth, and with no easy answers.A key scene is when the friends chat about Natasha's present of a chunky necklace – the sort of gift mothers receive as they approach middle age. The final scene turns those presents given by loved ones into a ceremony that movingly celebrates the multitude of mothers’ roles, and the strength found to meet them.

Chicago-based Orchard Theatre Company makes its Fringe debut with an intense exploration of ethnic and religious identity in The Lost Priest at theSpace Surgeons' Hall. The show is jointly directed by Julia Grace Kelley and Gabe Seplow, who also serves as the writer and performer of this solo journey.Gabe approaches the table and lights the Shabbat candle. "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat." They speak the language, were brought up in the tradition, though somehow managed to talk their way out of their bar mitzvah. The questioning emerged even when they were a child, and as the years passed, it became more critical, more central to their existence, and more profound. They became increasingly aware of the complex situations in which Jews have existed throughout history—beneficiaries of the sympathy that followed the Holocaust, who now have leaders in a land where their ancestors once lived, leading a genocidal Zionist state.Seplow gives a tormented, anguished performance through fragmented reflections, grappling with familial history, the weight of antisemitism, the search for meaning in religious rituals that once felt familiar, and a conflicted relationship with their heritage. Yet there is humour within all that soul-searching. As such, the play becomes an agonised meditation on the complexities of identity and the longing for connection.Though not officially a work in progress, it is, like so many Fringe shows, a piece with considerable potential for further development, yet one that is already a rewarding drama.

“Know thyself.” This hubris-fuelled throwaway snippet of pop psychology is proffered by our protagonist’s boss. It does come from the Oracle of Delphi, though, so there may be something to it.Referred to as the ‘CumEx-Files’, Teater Katapult’s The Insider casts a light upon a £50 billion tax fraud, spanning multiple countries, involving international banks, many of which are household names. The scheme hinged on the premise that the same tax refunds could be claimed multiple times. It connected a network of traders, accountants, and lawyers. The root cause was, as ever, greed, but the fraud was facilitated by Thatcher’s 1986 ‘Big Bang’ city revolution and the sheer complexity of cross-border tax equalisation systems.The house of cards crumbled when investigators began to dig, and our story centres on a mid-level corporate lawyer, heavily implicated in the scam, who turns whistleblower.This is an immersive show, innovatively directed by Johan Sarauw. The audience is required to don a set of headphones to hear our unnamed protagonist (Christoffer Hvidberg Rønje) interacting with a series of investigators, colleagues, contacts, and family. The only live voice is that of Rønje, who, until the final moments, is encased in a glass-panelled structure, depicting a corporate office, investigation room, and—stunningly—a club rave. The opaque nature of the CumEx scheme is distilled by Rønje using a white pen on the glass.The production leads us from the protagonist being initially approached to join the network by his boss, to his subsequent attempts at recruiting others, and then to his volte-face and decision to turn evidence. The complexity and audacity of the scheme, as it unravels, takes your breath away.The impact on the protagonist is depicted iteratively. As we enter, he is in the glass office, suggestive of a cage. He appears to be trying to keep a lid on myriad emotions: nervousness, anticipation, and apprehension, as he non-verbally conveys the seriousness of the events to be revealed.The mental toll is clearly onerous. While he was initially seduced by obscene financial rewards and perhaps power, his family life has suffered. Now that he is cooperating, the relentless and detailed investigation grinds on.Rønje’s performance is startling. With no physically present co-performers to push against within the space, he conveys his inner turbulence viscerally and physically. The effect of the headphones is that we feel we are inside his head as we witness his disintegration. The denouement, in which he removes himself from the kaleidoscopic fishbowl, is chilling.“Know thyself.” Probably increasingly, he does not; or if he does, he doesn’t like what he sees.

If you’ve still not been to Albania, then writer/performer Alex Reynolds brings it alive in a vibrant rollercoaster journey through this thrilling country of charming people and stunning landscapes, combined with the discovery of lost family history, in Land of Eagles at Pleasance Courtyard.This sweeping, action-packed story is inspired by true events. Reynolds and her Grandpa are thick as thieves at six and sixty-six, but worlds apart by eighteen and seventy-eight. “Don’t tell Mum,” she says to him. He promises not to, on one condition: that the next time she goes on an adventure, she promises to take him with her. Then, one day, he asks to go home—not to his semi down the road, but to his historic roots. Her bluff has been called. Albania is a distant, mysterious land, and he can’t venture there alone.What follows is a wild, crazy journey, by turns unexpected and fantastical, as the unlikely pair soon find themselves journeying into the heart of a place unknown. The history of this dark, little-known country, which was cut off from the rest of the world for some forty years by its tyrannical dictator Enver Hoxha, is laid out in intriguing anecdotes and perilous paragraphs of narrative, told at an unrelenting, breakneck speed. The story is filled with passion and excitement, as the curious granddaughter is exposed to the culture of a country she has never known, yet is part of her heritage, and uncovers the truth about her grandfather’s life before he came to England. But as their journey reaches an end, she must now find a way to say goodbye to the grandfather she has only just had the chance to know.The storytelling remains engaging, poetic, and humorous throughout, packed with vivid imagery. For those of us who have experienced the hospitality and self-determination of the Albanians, it’s a joy to relive times spent there and hear themes of national identity and resistance to oppression brought to life.

To say there is a housing crisis in Britain is something of an understatement, with successive governments proving unwilling or unable to reverse a generationally disturbing trend. Rents have spiralled beyond affordability, especially in city centres. The tightening of lending criteria following the banking crisis, along with the inability to save for a deposit, have proven to be stubborn barriers to homeownership.Resentment has grown, therefore, towards the wealth division, and a perception has emerged of parasitical owners subduing an entire generation. Which brings us to How To Kill Your Landlord.Burke (Robbie Fletcher-Hill), Harriet (Frankie Weatherby), and Joq (Elijah Khan) live in a flat, seemingly at the whim of their landlord, Archie (John Gregor). The apartment appears to breach swathes of housing law. There is also the suggestion that Archie conned Joq’s grandmother out of the flat, fuelling their sense of grievance. When Archie lets himself in unannounced and verbally gives them one week’s notice to quit, they decide to murder him.What follows is a series of absurdist, slapstick events, with a sold-out Bedlam crowd enjoying the antics.The performers are clearly talented, with Weatherby in particular delivering a measured performance. However, the script lets them down, giving them precious little to push against. Setting aside the decades of housing law being ignored in this premise, incredulity is simply stretched too far, too often, in this production. With some rework, there is a decent piece of comedy theatre here, and the theme of generational disgruntlement is definitely ripe for exploration.

An immersive theatre experience where a successful comedian cooks real food while having a “meltdown” is an exciting prospect. Unfortunately, Enjoy Your Meal doesn't live up to the strength of the premise it was built on.It’s hard to tell through what lens this show should be viewed. Cory Cavin has impressive credentials as an Emmy Award-winning comedian, so perhaps it would be fair to judge this work as a comedy; but it doesn't really present much in the way of humour. Perhaps it was created as a serious play, but there isn't much of a plot or character development, and if it was meant to be naturalistic, the acting was unconvincing. Maybe it’s intended as a food demonstration, but the food wasn’t particularly tasty or interesting, and didn’t have much of a story behind it.Cavin’s character comes across as a very sweet and kind man, gently guiding his dinner guests through the experience, but at most, he seems slightly stressed—far from the “meltdown” referenced in the show's blurb. Ultimately, the concept is fantastic, but nothing is pushed far enough to make it more than a light appetiser in place of a full meal.

Caroline McEvoy had a great start to life. She was Mum and Dad's favourite, had an innocent charm, and managed to survive The Troubles. Never mind that the Good Friday Agreement was signed mere months after she was born.That was until her brother Jonathon was born.McEvoy gives a comedic retelling of her upbringing, which seamlessly connects to her life today, and it lands extremely well. The jokes are laced with millennial references, self-aware nods, and a series of lists to keep things organised. She is, after all, the eldest child, and that comes with expectations. Or, as McEvoy puts it: "It means unpaid labour and responsibilities."Although it can be inferred early on, McEvoy doesn't acknowledge that her brother is autistic until nearly halfway through. You can hardly blame her, given the stories of episodes and tantrums that made her early life a struggle. They are all delivered with excellent punchlines, but also a certain soreness that feels deeply real.The material spans a wide variety of topics: from disability to questioning sexuality, Ireland's troubled past to having your dreams shattered. It feels deeply personal, and McEvoy manages to navigate through it all without getting bogged down. The only sections that felt particularly close to the bone also revealed a righteous protectiveness of her little brother.Caroline McEvoy is witty, clever, and cutting to just the right degree, and Train Man is well worth seeing.

It can be hard to imagine an afterlife where a punk from the 2000s and a girlie-girl from the 90s are forced into limbo together, but Perfect Dead Girls, by Elizabeth Robbins and Chelsea Grace, brings to life a dead world built on those oppositional ideas.Perfect Dead Girls follows two unnamed dead girls in their afterlife – exploring what makes them tick and the events that defined their lives. The two are complete opposites, yet form an odd friendship despite their circumstances. Robbins and Grace bring these characters to life – or death – perfectly. The world is shaped by their contrasting styles and personalities. It is a thrill to watch them in short but impactful scenes with seamless transitions between each other, keeping the audience captivated even in the gaps.While the concept is intriguing, some questions remain unanswered. The world created through character work and set design is compelling, yet the story could have been more driven. For every moment that lands like a punch to the gut, there are equally many I wished had been explored further.This is a play worth seeing. Despite areas that feel too open, the chemistry between the two actors and the imaginative world they build makes it compelling. The piece is both comical and heartbreaking in its approach, which many will appreciate.

Modern reality TV contests are well-trodden ground for the public. Shows like I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Out of Here have been on air for 23 years, so their conventions are well known and have been thoroughly parodied before. It’s why Shark Bait Theatre’s Crocodile Tears is such a fun time. While it is certainly not the first show to spoof programmes like I’m a Celebrity, Jess Ferrier has written a tightly polished, hilarious piece that feels refreshing and enjoyable despite its familiar inspiration.Crocodile Tears follows the final few episodes of a survival-themed reality TV show, just before the prize money is about to be awarded, when a sudden, undiscovered illness infects one of the contestants, leaving the final five and host Casia Whittaker (Abi Price) stuck on the island awaiting rescue. The show cleverly uses the formats and conventions of reality TV to its advantage. Frequent asides to “camera” develop character, while familiar tropes like phone votes and Geordie narrators set the scene and add to the show’s strong sense of wit.Each contestant is a delight to watch, from rules stickler Rueben (Rory Drinnan-Murray), to religious fanatic and abstinence influencer Daisy (Robyn Reily), to conspiracy theorist Faye (Darcy De Winter). Though they might initially seem like one-note tropes, each character is fully developed, and their outlandish traits are used to maximum comic effect. Adding to this, the flamboyant and under-prepared Casia’s scenes feel chaotic, raising tension without sacrificing humour.Crocodile Tears is great fun from start to finish. Its writing and direction ensure there is always a laugh to be found. The characters, which could have felt like stereotypes on paper, are fully realised. The show makes bombastic scenarios work without ever feeling absurd or implausible, making the audience truly feel like they are watching the contestants in the jungle and laughing along with every outrageous premise the producers have thrown their way.

Step behind the scenes into the world of dance with Bolero as it explores the painstaking, arduous backstage process of putting together a dance show.On entering the space, the dancers are already on stage, warming up in their colourful joggers and white vests. A man steps on stage, loudly talking on the phone. He’s the director of this fictional dance company.In this play-within-a-play, dark-comedy combo, audiences soon discover they are attending a rehearsal for a brand-new show. The director loudly and obnoxiously critiques the piece, giving notes and making the dancers repeat sections multiple times. His absurd requests and over-the-top commentary keep the audience laughing, even as the dancers push themselves to their limits.The routine blends acrobatics, floor work, and contemporary dance with strong partner work, all phenomenally executed by the two performers. Technically skilled and soulfully delivered, the choreography is captivating to watch. The show’s simple set design, minimal props, and straightforward storyline allow not only the dance, but its focus, to shine through.As the piece is performed several times, Bolero becomes an exploration of how music transforms movement. From metallic tones to primal percussion, the same choreography feels entirely different with each iteration. Layered with the director’s evolving notes, the performance subtly shifts before the audience’s eyes. Whether these changes improve the piece is left for each viewer to decide.Beyond physical demands, Bolero examines the psychological pressures dancers face – their personal lives shaped by the demands of the company. Funny yet painful, exaggerated yet truthful, Bolero offers a revealing glimpse into the creative labour behind performance, illuminating a process often hidden in a truly imaginative and beautifully crafted work.

Three dancers are wired to equipment which makes their muscles move involuntarily.We see muscles twitch in an unnatural way, but I don’t believe the majority of the performers’ movements are controlled by computer. This ambiguity isn’t a fault; anyone who has had to report a problem via online chat knows there is no practical difference between machine and human bureaucracy.The experience is intellectual, not emotional. The piece prompts thoughts. Should technology rule us, or the other way around? The dancers largely seem unconscious of manipulation – is humanity in a “boil the frog” situation?However, you can get those thoughts after a few minutes of the performance, or even from seeing the photograph of the dancers.Isaiah Wilson has made interesting work in the past, but Score, while unique, has little beyond the initial concept.

Step into Luke Rollason’s weird medieval world, where the castle walls are made entirely of loo roll – and so, it seems, is everything else. It is the princess’s flowing hair, the wizard’s beard, Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. This is Rollason at his most silly, populating the stage with fairytale misfits brimming with magic, whimsy and glorious foolishness.He strides on in pink pyjamas, loo roll dispensers attached to his body with makeshift devices, and a homemade crown perched on his head. As “King Midas”, cursed so that everything he touches turns to comedy gold, he charms the audience with his deliberate attempts to win them over with his wide-eyed, bushbaby charm.Rollason is never performative, at times hinting to the audience that a particular moment is failing, which is always met with guffaws of laughter. While this approach can be risky for some, it reflects Rollason’s commitment to clown – embracing failure and riding the wave of the audience’s energy. Whilst committed to the chaos, the production remains well paced and carefully structured. Each episode is a vivid motif from his eccentric fairytale world, with the tomfoolery dialled to the max.The audience participation in the show is beautifully judged, with Rollason’s experience on full display. He reads the room with precision, mirroring and steering the crowd while keeping the sense of spontaneity alive. Even when he peels back the curtain, it is done with control.Towards the end of the show, Rollason reveals a deeper layer behind his folly. Whilst making a wish as the ugly duckling (and its surrounding characters), his father’s heartfelt wish for his future slips in, stirring questions of career, happiness and self-worth. His self-anointed “king” persona swells, only to be gleefully toppled – earnest, but never for too long.A surreal, imaginative cacophony of fairytale fun, Luke Rollason, Luke Rollason, Let Down Your Hair is proof that visiting Rollason’s comedy kingdom should be at the top of your to-do list.

Golden Time (and Other Behavioural Management Strategies) is a beautifully creative critique of the ‘one size fits all’ approach of the British school system. Writer and performer Kate Ireland explores the rigid rules imposed on children that begin in primary school, with a particular focus on the concept of ‘Golden Time’ – that hour of play gifted to children who have been well behaved throughout the week. The result is a beautifully touching hour that both educates and empowers, holding a mirror up to our childhoods and sparking meaningful reflection.Directed with sensitivity and precision by Giulia Grillo, Ireland takes the stage as both narrator and storyteller, at times guiding the audience through tales of her time as a teacher’s assistant, at others taking to the microphone, weaving in personal memories and inviting the audience to share their own. Childhood recollections – what got us in trouble, how we spent our precious free time – are recalled with warmth, humour and mutual encouragement. Playful drawings and doodles enliven the creative captioning, adding a charming visual flourish. A particular highlight is the inclusion of archival clips of Jenny Mosley, Golden Time’s 1980s creator, whose strict yet saccharine delivery feels like real-life satire. The clips speak for themselves, both funny and unsettling, amplifying the critical edge.Clodagh Chapman’s thoughtful dramaturgy is clearly evident, especially when the show gains emotional depth as Ireland connects with a neurodivergent child in her class who, like her, does not fit the mould, making the commentary on conformity and difference even more resonant. There are moments where the performance strains slightly, yet the poetry in Ireland’s writing is undeniable – allowing it to breathe and do the work on its own would elevate the show further.Golden Time is an insightful exploration of childhood, control and individuality – cleverly staged and thoughtfully performed. A golden hour in its own right.

Francisco de Nata is the larger-than-life creation of the brilliant Keaton Guimarães-Tolley, who storms the stage with castanets, party music and a mischievous glint in his eye. From the moment we meet our long-necked friend, we are his willing accomplices in a world where the ordinary becomes the extraordinary.Francisco communicates only in grunts, sighs and the occasional exasperated murmur, yet his emotions feel all the more visceral. Think a more measured Mr Bean without the obnoxious streak. Conjuring entire stories from inanimate objects, it is his charisma and ingenuity that skilfully carry the show. With nothing more than a wink, a tilt of the head or a forehead kiss from his giraffe costume, he instructs his audience as surely as if he were speaking, and we are under his spell. The audience participation is wonderfully simple and thoroughly cheeky.Guimarães-Tolley is riddled with creativity: chaos unfolds with some ingenious sound cues, and even watching paint dry (literally) in silence becomes an exercise in anticipation and joy. He reads the room immaculately, knowing exactly when to push a bit, when to pivot and how to coax participants into going the extra mile – his scolding and re-instruction always delivered with a wink. Some struggle with alienating the audience in such moments; Francisco draws us closer.As if we were not entertained enough, a surprise cameo appearance from Francisco’s Portuguese grandmother over the phone offers a glimpse into his private (albeit bonkers) world, deepening our connection further without breaking the spell of his own silence. Not that we needed it, but this also provides a fresh narrative framework that deepens our affinity with the entire show.By the end, you leave beaming, cheeks aching from laughter, carrying the warmth of having shared in something rare – clown comedy at its most inventive, intimate and alive. Francisco de Nata is a masterclass in play, and Guimarães-Tolley’s giraffe is a bright yellow star at this year’s Fringe.

What if Portia never made it to Venice? How would the trial have proceeded? What might the outcome have been? Writer-director Martin Foreman offers one possibility in A Pound of Flesh at theSpace on the Mile.Foreman seizes the “what if” opportunity and rises to the occasion in his reimagining of The Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare has Portia save the day for Antonio, but what if a tragedy prevents her from completing the journey from Belmont and the trial goes ahead without her? Will it mean that Antonio is doomed, and will Shylock be able to carry out the demand for “a pound of flesh”? “The oft-told tale begins with money ventured ’gainst a bond of flesh. But hold! See now a new path taken, tragedy appears and with sad death marks consequence of greed.”This revised version is convincingly written in a combination of Shakespeare’s words and additional material that echoes the Bard’s rhythm and imagery, seamlessly fitting into the original. In addition to the display of imagination and skill in the writing, the production is blessed with fine actors who successfully carry through the new plot.Antonio (Gabriel Bird) is troubled by his deep longing for Bassanio (Ollie Hiemann). Bird makes this obvious throughout, but always with subtlety and a manifestly aching heart, whilst also battling with his legal troubles. His yearning for Bassanio is matched by Portia’s (Millie Deere) and is easily understood as soon as Hiemann enters. Who would not fall for him? The soft tones and sultry disposition make Bassanio adorable to all.Deere encapsulates Portia’s intelligence, privileged upbringing, delicate scheming and abundant love for Bassanio, while Michael Robert-Brown as the Doge and other characters creates an impactful presence in all roles, adjudicating with precision and equanimity. In a stunning piece of casting, Shylock becomes a female role played by Danielle Farrow, whose dignified and stern demeanour makes for a towering presence as she states her case with legal precision, angry retribution and just conviction.The antisemitic elements of the play are not shied away from, which heightens the impact of Shylock’s impassioned “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? ...” and is forcefully proclaimed. Delivery is of the highest standard throughout, with all lines carefully and clearly enunciated.This production is a joy for all lovers of the Bard who care for what might have been.

Ruxandra Cantir’s cabaret show isn’t about vegetables. It is performed by vegetables. The show will appeal to those with a taste for the very silly. Cantir is a superb clown – her faces, comedy voices and movements generate roars of laughter and completely win the audience to her side.She uses costumes, masks and puppetry to appear as a lonesome pickled tomato who feels she has come down in the world, a lounge-singer potato, a lovestruck and pretentious performance poet onion (my favourite), an overproud mother with her baby carrot, and a gherkin.Expect terrific audience engagement, outrageous puns, songs and a touch of the grotesque.Unfortunately, after the deliciously funny sequence of the first bunch of sketches, the material starts to wilt. Repetition or shouting – or even the goodwill of the audience – is not enough to save the increasingly ropey quality of the final section.Midday might not be the best timeslot for this show, but it has the advantage of allowing any young teenagers who are fans of the absurd to go along.Hilarious and fresh in the first part, it starts to go off in the second.

This is a fresh take on the Dracula story, focusing on secondary characters from the original: Robert Renfield (the lunatic of the title) and Lucy Westenra (the vampire's victim). Rather than explaining their behaviour as simple “evil magic”, Lewis Mullan's fascinating play explores the psychology of the victims. Did they have personality weaknesses to exploit? Did the vampire – in this production, the Countess – arrive at the perfect moment to use their insecurities and (sexual) frustrations?Here, the role of the vampire is almost secondary. In many scenes it is unclear in what sense she is present – in the victim’s imagination, by telepathy, or physically there.Despite the unusual emphasis of the play, Dracula’s predatory character is nevertheless fully fleshed out. For example, when Renfield arrives at Dracula’s castle, we watch her probe for character weaknesses and explore ways to gain psychological dominance.The young company impresses. Lewis Mullan (actor and author) shines as Renfield. Gothic madmen can easily become one-note shouting or mere quirkiness, but Mullan always maintains the humanity beneath the lunacy.Dracula is played by Arzaneira Deepsri with an unsettling blend of sinister and sensual. Her vampire has a Bela Lugosi accent and a slight dominatrix vibe.The four roles are completed with Lucy (Elliot Shaw) – conflicted and frustrated both intellectually and sexually – and Dr Seward (Aydan Macdonald), who, as seems de rigueur in modern Dracula tales, is given the character of rather a prat.With a bit more polish, this production could compete with anybody’s.

Bec Hill is adamant that what we are about to see is not a show. She is very clear that there is no director, no dramaturgy, very little planning, and she is not quite sure if it is going to work. It is a bold way to open a comedy show, although her decision to spend the first few minutes before this statement hand-inflating an airbed, putting on a fitted sheet and stuffing a duvet into a Brum-themed duvet cover was already a bit of an indication that this was not going to be a very conventional hour of stand-up.What follows is a chaotic mix of classic bits from Hill’s previous shows and appearances, and some bonkers new material relating to her recent divorce. Stand-ups finding material in break-ups is nothing new, but here we are presented with an optimistic, heartfelt and unhinged hour in which Hill addresses her insecurities about being single, dealing with her ex moving on, and mourning the loss of a deep and close connection, while also celebrating the time they had together and the new shape their relationship will take moving forward. There are moments of exquisite silliness and clowning, including extended skits on the phenomenon of James Bond, a brilliant take on a well-known sexy song, her longing to be on Taskmaster, and the best car alarm impression I have ever heard, followed by genuinely moving observations about love, connection and loss (and how much she wants to be on Taskmaster) before swinging back to perfect one-liners that land every time. There are also a couple of appearances of the flip charts for which Hill is well known from her spots on The Jonathan Ross Show and 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown.Hill is an accomplished comedian with a dorky, self-deprecating style that she has developed to a fine art. This hour of comedy is painfully funny and yet vulnerable and open – as Hill closes the show, she thanks us for being there because, without an audience, how could she do this? It is a pleasure to be there and to, in a sense, feel as though we are witnessing a new chapter in Hill’s career.Just put her on Taskmaster already.

On 26 April 1986, the Chernobyl nuclear power plant exploded in the Ukrainian SSR, now Ukraine. Atomic Tales is not simply a reconstruction of the events surrounding the disaster, but a portrait of profound, irreparable loss. One of Italy’s most acclaimed actresses, Elena Arvigo delivers a tour de force performance as Lyudmila, the wife of a firefighter. Arvigo is more than up to the task of expressing the inexpressible, drawing from seemingly unfathomable emotional depths in this impressive, visceral performance.The monologue won Italy’s top award, Le Maschere del Teatro Italiano, for best solo performance, and is only more poignant for being translated from Italian to English. Spoken in a language that is not her own, Arvigo navigates the challenges of translation, using gaps in understanding to highlight the inadequacy of language to express suffering and loss.Atomic Tales was drawn from Chernobyl Prayer, a book of monologues from survivors of the disaster collected by Nobel peace prize winner Svetlana Alexievich. Arvigo painstakingly recreates Lyudmila’s disorientation, shock and exhaustion as she recalls the last few weeks of her husband’s life. There is no break in the emotional extremity of the piece and at points it becomes almost unbearable to watch. Yet by delving into Lyudmila’s harrowing experience, Arvigo captures the insidious and devastating nature of a tragedy that is almost impossible for the individual mind to imagine.The piece forms part of Arvigo’s ongoing project, Le Imperdonabili (The Unforgivables), a series which attempts to shed light on women’s experiences of conflict and disaster. Arvigo switches masterfully from the intensity of Lyudmila’s grief and unwavering love for her husband to her cold, impersonal treatment at the hands of doctors and administrators. The set is simple – a wooden table strewn with flowers and a folding bed – capturing the disruption to ordinary domestic life.Projected shadows fill the stage, reminding us that in this one story are a million others. After Lyudmila is rehoused in Kiev, Arvigo warns against going blindly into the next tragedy, recalling not only those who experienced similar losses in Chernobyl but also every person affected by present political tragedies. Exploring the profound, reverberating impact of war through one woman’s experience, Atomic Tales is an urgent, harrowing and stunningly performed piece for the present age.

It takes a certain audacity to mash up The Beatles, the first international symposium on gender identity, and the transmasculine experience. In Someone Has Got to Be John, they turn that unlikely combination into something sharp, surreal and thought-provoking.The premise is based on imagining the company as a struggling but committed tribute act to The Beatles, but there is the glaring absence of one important element – John Lennon. But Speakbeast aren’t really here to talk about The Beatles. They’re here to talk about authenticity, and what it means to inhabit an identity that the world insists on misreading. While a trans person is obviously not simply an impersonator, and they make this perfectly clear, it acts as a powerful metaphor for not being seen by the world as how you see yourself. And thanks to their inspiration from The Beatles, it has a phenomenal soundtrack.Structurally, the piece leans into a form of montage or post-narrative collage. They dip between the band squabbling, lip-syncing to archival academic audio recordings, and character monologue. This refusal to hold the audience’s hand makes the show feel a bit like a puzzle at times, challenging the audience to form their own picture, but as you place the final piece of the jigsaw you may discover you lost some of the pieces along the way – who was John the YouTuber again? Have we met this psychologist before? It is beautiful and intellectual, but without a completely flawless execution this style of theatre can leave audiences not fully satisfied. This doesn’t mean it’s not a worthwhile watch – the opposite is true. This is a company who are so close. Speakbeast are such an exciting young company; their style is original and feels truly authentic. They feel provocative but caring, and loaded with undeniable potential.The performers themselves are a delight to watch. They have a great ensemble energy where you can tell that the relationships are fully authentic. For the most part they have an effortless charm and a captivating sense of purpose. In one of the production’s most powerful moments, a performer applies testosterone gel onstage. It’s an act presented without spectacle or apology – just another part of life, as ordinary as tuning a guitar. In the current climate of trans panic in the UK, that quiet normalcy becomes radical.

Like a warm cuddle and a folk gig all in one, Michelle Burke’s Mind How You Go is an utterly charming way to spend an hour. Weaving stories of her childhood in Ireland together with her family’s past, it illustrates how where we come from impacts where we go.The stories of her family’s legacy are scattered with joy as well as sadness. From prison stints to joining nunneries, she presents an intriguing lineage. As she tells each story, she places a representative item onto a wooden ladder which remains centre stage throughout. As the tableau of items builds, it forms almost a shrine to her personal heritage – a beautiful image and a delight to watch slowly build.Burke has a voice that feels as much a part of her storytelling as her words. Warm, lilting and steeped in character, it carries an easy intimacy that draws you in whether she’s spinning a tale or launching into song. The songs themselves are taken from Burke’s forthcoming album, set for release this autumn. On stage, these tracks feel lived-in. At its strongest moments the melodies feel like they have been passed down through the generations, yet still breathe with the freshness of personal ownership. Songs such as The Crow show real depth of lyricism and will stay with you long after you leave the room. Some of the lighter material, while providing a nice contrast in the theatrical setting, simply do not carry the same sort of musical weight. All the songs, however, connect seamlessly with her spoken material, blurring the lines between concert and storytelling in a way that feels entirely organic.The overall effect is something quietly magical: a collage of memory, music and meaning. You leave not only with a clearer picture of Burke’s own history, but with a gentle reminder of the threads that bind all of us to those who came before. Without any grandeur or big gimmicks, Mind How You Go is a testament to folk tradition and the strength of simply good craft.

Get ready to run with the pack in Circa: Wolf. From Australian new wave contemporary circus, Circa’s latest project opens with a bang and never lets up, attacking every movement, every moment, every look with precision, commitment and control.Libby McDonnell’s form-hugging costumes in shades of black and nude perfectly complement the wild, heart-pounding beats of DJ Ori Lichtik.The performers channel a primal spirit, moving as one with seamless mounts and dismounts, their effortless acrobatics pushing the human body to its limits in a jaw-dropping display of strength, flexibility and trust. The cast’s chemistry is undeniable – funny and playful at times, sexy and electric at others – while the pulsing angst of the music captures the true spirit of the wolf.The relentless pace makes it feel as though the audience is in the wild, moving with the pack, a cold shiver running down the spine each time a performer locks eyes with the crowd.Their fierce energy spreads, enveloping the space. A seat-grabbing, spine-tingling experience builds to a crescendo of daring, precision and primal force – Circa: Wolf is circus at its most visceral, thrilling and unforgettable.

Broken Planet doesn’t give much away on entry; its fliers do that job. What you see is what you get: a broad, run-down stage contrasting with a lone, relaxed guitar player strumming as you enter. I thought I had wandered into the wrong show.That only made it funnier when the bizarre and bombastic ensemble got to work. Even with alleged full knowledge, I could not have anticipated what was to come. I was giggling consistently throughout.Broken Planet is a truly rotating, cabaret-esque show that leans into the weirdness cabaret is all about. Almost the entire cast is chopping and changing constantly, which gives it a taped-together and silly feel. It also makes it perhaps the most Fringe show I’ve ever seen: confidently chaotic, charmingly cheeky, just a little rough around the edges, while adding a spark of all-too-human hope.The central premise is established early: God (complete with clown nose, beard and goggles) turned his back on the world, it all went sideways, so it’s our job to fix it. How? Through a series of levelling experiences and farcical acts that breed connectivity.Clearly, there are some staples the cast trot out every night and a loose framework here. The magic comes from the oddities and intersections of everything else they attach to that structure. A somewhat harrowed baby floating in space is a key character, as is Safety. Throw in a very Rick and Morty-esque scientist interpretation of God, and there is a strong core. It sparkles when you add the soft and soulful music that seems almost at odds with the lunacy of the performances – but it really goddamn works.As with all rotating cast or guest-spot shows, your mileage may vary. When I saw it, I was pleasantly surprised and utterly delighted. How the hell did Full Out Formula realise they could do that with an egg?! Chloe Matonis was also excellent in her depiction of Sergeant-Lieutenant Love. I hope Nerf Karaoke is included every evening, as it begged utter gay abandon.One element that may have been missed is that the closing moments involve a dazzling finale to the sound of a volunteer audience member’s heartbeat. If they can find a way to tell the audience what they’re listening to, it may well underscore this moment of radical connection – and we just might save the world.

Artifacts dangle from a spinning wheel that sits atop a pole and dominates the stage in Exhausted Paint: The Death of Van Gogh, by experimental US playwright Justin Maxwell at theSpace@Surgeons’ Hall and is the key to the structure of the solo show, directed by Penny Cole.The opening and closing sections of the script are fixed. Between these, segments correspond to each hanging object, but they are not necessarily the same each day. The order of the passages is determined by Drew Stroud’s spin of the wheel. He then unhooks the prop and tells the related story.In his own words, what follows is a “tilt-a-whirl, unrelenting dash through the life of Vincent.” The debate surrounding the artist’s mental condition comes through not just in the show’s content but also in Stroud’s performance. At times he is sane, rational and able to explain his feelings about life, art and the people he meets. In contrast, he can seem to be in a very different world. Van Gogh experienced at least eight major episodes characterised by anxiety, memory loss, partial paralysis and hallucinations. He was frequently hospitalised and famously cut off part of his left ear after a major disagreement with fellow artist Paul Gauguin – all part of several tumultuous relationships he had with artists in the avant-garde community he helped create. The show imparts a good measure of historical material.Stroud animatedly romps through these events, also including Van Gogh’s problematic dealings with women, ranging from glamorous socialites to whores in brothels and sexually transmitted diseases. As Van Gogh wrote in an 1887 letter to his sister, “For my part, I still continually have the most impossible and highly unsuitable love affairs from which, as a rule, I emerge only with shame and disgrace.” Fortunately, he had the devotion of his brother to sustain him.There is tremendous pace and abundant energy in this show – perhaps too much at times. Moments of quieter, calmer introspection would provide more variety in delivery for a performance that currently exists at a continuously frenetic level.

“Have you got a home for me?”To say there is a housing crisis is something of an understatement, with successive governments proving unwilling or unable to reverse a generationally disturbing trend. Rents have spiralled beyond affordability, especially in city centres, and ownership is a distant dream for many.Resentment has grown towards the wealth divide and the damage to communities caused by short-term holiday-let platforms, subduing an entire generation. Which brings us to Home Sweet Home, Miriam Cappa’s autobiographical tale. The crisis here is not that of the UK, however – instead, we find ourselves in Rome, where our protagonist is house hunting.She takes the stage tentatively, dragging a tattered suitcase that appears to hold her worldly possessions, her silent uncertainty speaking volumes. She delivers an adaptation of Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” soliloquy, plaintively seeking a home while leaning into the wealth divide fuelled by the crisis.The production is frequently interrupted by telephone calls from lettings agents. In Italy, the gulf between the haves and the have-nots is accentuated by employment status; some people have lifetime job contracts, whose guaranteed income is especially favoured by landlords. Those on the periphery become de facto second-class applicants. She receives a call with a promising lead, only for the apartment to be rented in real time.She is advised that house hunting is a full-time activity, but as a trained actor she must work interminably long hours as a waitress – not to mention applying for and attending auditions.She imagines seducing a landlord and creates a tasteful burlesque, including a swirl of flamenco-style dancing. Her Lecoq training is evident, as she displays her comedy, clowning, puppetry, drama, dance and mime repertoire gracefully and magnetically, gliding around the stage. Her face conveys a plethora of emotions quite beautifully.Cappa’s relentless optimism and perseverance are severely tested by constant rejection, which could all too easily take their toll on her mental health. She resists her family’s overtures to return, determined to forge her own independent path.Such is the scarcity of available housing that success is often achieved only through personal contacts, indicative of a broken and possibly corrupt system. Cappa’s tentative enquiry – “have you got a home for me?” – becomes an increasingly desperate mantra. Precisely which country or city the search takes place in is almost academic; the theme of Cappa’s frustrating quest for sanctuary will be hauntingly familiar across much of the world.

Lewis Major, world-renowned Australian choreographer, director, and creative entrepreneur, returns to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe with Triptych Redux. This year, he takes to the stage himself for the first time in a decade, following a broken back injury that ended his dancing career yet inspired his move into choreography.In true Major style, Triptych Redux delivers a spectacle of dance and movement, paired with a poetic interplay of space, light, and sound. The design feels ominously captivating, with lighting as integral to the performance as the dancers and music. Moving lights play with shadows and shapes, weaving around and alongside the artists to create visual illusions that are magical and mesmerising. At times, dancer, sound, and lights merge into a single, otherworldly entity – an effect that lingers long after the piece ends.Across four distinct sections, separated by brief pauses, Triptych Redux presents shifting visual and sensory landscapes, all uniquely immersive. The result is an awe-inspiring, hypnotic experience that holds audiences suspended between movement and stillness, light and shadow, reality and dream. It is an unmissable exploration of the body’s resilience and the poetry of motion, and a much-anticipated return for Major to the stage.

Telling the untold story of Juana I of Castille, The Queen is Mad is an ambitious musical depicting the ever-evolving confinement and oppression of a woman seeking freedom in all its forms.Though there is a lot of ground to cover in recounting her tumultuous life, the production feels a little sluggish. At points, significant chunks of exposition, told directly by the protagonist, slow the pace, especially when paired with songs that cover much the same ground. The acting from all three performers is incredibly strong, but there are moments that feel stilted, as the dialogue leaves little room for the cast or audience to explore the unsaid.Clever use of costume and stage allows for fluid storytelling between the trio, proving the old adage of ‘small but mighty’. Vocally, it delivers – most notably Maria Coyne, who moves from jubilant to utterly sorrowful with undeniable ease.With Sondheim and SIX listed as comparable musicals, the production’s PR feels a little disconnected from the performance itself. While there is the fast-paced lyricism of Sondheim, alongside overlapping melodies, there is not the same razor-sharp quality of his much-loved work. This piece has a strong score in its own right, and the comparison may do more to hinder than help when it comes to audience expectation.The Queen is Mad is a solid work weighed down somewhat by an exposition-heavy book. With the songs able to do much of the heavy lifting, the heavy-handed first-person ‘tell’ moments dull the score’s shine. It is still an enjoyable hour with wonderfully talented performers and, with a tighter plot and more focused dialogue, could be something really special.

Speed Queen takes place in the Isle of Wight’s last launderette, where Ozzy Algar, as Pet – an islander in her twilight years – folds laundry, shares gossip and spins half-forgotten histories. It’s an intimate hour of storytelling, opening a door into a world at once specific and universal.You might enter expecting a straight hour of character comedy, and the laughs, when they arrive, are plentiful: tightly scripted or spun on the spot, they are always sharp and whimsical. Skilfully directed by Tanika Lay-Meachen, Algar is a natural with a punchline, whether it’s a knowing aside or Pet spinning a yarn. Algar is just as compelling in the quieter stretches. Pet’s monologues about local eccentrics, island history and the private lives of neighbours are rooted in character and never lose their grip.The performance itself is faultless. Algar’s commitment to Pet is unshakeable, with Catherine Tate-level immersion, and her audience work is a masterclass in control. She draws us in with a glance, a pause, a shared smirk – building a relationship that feels unforced but watertight.Original music by Tom Penn, with Algar’s own lyrics, is woven into the show, featuring smoky, lilting numbers that evoke wartime jazz standards. They transport us to the faded glamour of Pet’s youth as a showgirl, adding layers of romance and melancholy. It’s here the production’s themes settle in: the passage of time, the bittersweet nature of memory, the encroachment of change.The show may not leave you skipping out of the theatre, but it lingers. Tender, funny and quietly devastating, Speed Queen is proof of Algar’s deft hand as both comedian and storyteller.

The experience of being a girl in her 20s and living through a global pandemic is both unique and universal. Fruitcake manages to make this a true statement. While not everyone was a girl during the pandemic, everyone can find a part of themselves in this play.Fruitcake is a brand-new play by Dulcie Johnson and Tildy Poisner. They capture the weirdness of living through a global pandemic and still feeling that life needs to keep moving, as presented by five girls living in one home together. Through the ups and downs, I grew increasingly connected to these girls. Their comedic timing is brilliant, and their chemistry is off the charts. The whole play is simply a charming and fun time.The poetry interspersed throughout is as well written as the straight scenes, though it sometimes feels a little disjointed from the main portions of the play. At times, I wanted more from the scenes themselves. It does not feel as if there are many stakes for the girls, and the conflict could be stronger. While the plot did not always draw me in, the chemistry of the cast and the wittiness of the writing did. I always found it comedic, even if, just as often, the play’s drive seemed lacking.Fruitcake is worth seeing for its fun atmosphere and creative writing. It might not be the most action-filled play – but it is a worthwhile experience – especially for girls who lived through a pandemic.

Stepping inside the famous blue Lafayette circus tent in the centre of the Meadows, audiences are greeted by the sound of songbirds. On stage, the faded walls of an old house and a wall-mounted corded telephone immediately set the scene in the past. As the weather turns, a man arrives at the house, escaping torrential rain, to a cryptic pre-recorded message welcoming him inside.FLIP Fabrique’s Six° is a profoundly moving and poetic acrobatic exploration of life and finding oneself through others’ stories. As Robert, our main character, steps into the house, a sense of mystery sparks – it’s clear there is something not entirely ordinary about this place.Six° is a puzzle yearning to be solved. As the rest of the cast appear, they seem unaware of each other, even as objects move around them. Slowly, it becomes clear the house overlaps decades, revealing the lives of some of its past guests. Through breathtaking acrobatics, juggling, hula-hooping and clowning, each guest’s story unfolds – tales of love, loss and friendship – woven into a heartfelt, one-of-a-kind circus performance.The exquisite set design is a pleasure to view, and its versatility will keep audiences wondering what might happen next. Six° captivates children and adults alike, offering a beautiful reminder that our lives are shaped by the stories we share and the people we meet along the way.

This show is hard to rate because it is an experiment rather than an entertainment. It depends on whether that idea floats your boat.The audience sits in darkness. Most shows in that genre aim for scares and high drama. This experience is quiet and contemplative, and demands concentration and patience. A voice guides the audience in imagining various images – that’s the bulk of the show.Even for someone attracted by this idea, the most positive response is likely to be “That was interesting.” There is no scientific or psychological wizardry. As a show, it doesn’t work, but it has sincerity, and it’s different. It would be interesting to see what the author does next.

The field of sex work has radically changed over the past few years, with the rise of OnlyFans and increasingly sensationalist sexual acts reaching national headlines, inspiring further uptake and ever greater sensationalism in turn. Body Count tackles these issues head on, leaving very little to the imagination, as the high-energy, insane show strives to tackle the difficult questions surrounding sex work and women’s sexuality.Body Count tells the story of Pollie, an OnlyFans megastar taking on her most ambitious challenge yet – sleeping with 1,000 of her subscribers at the Edinburgh Fringe. As audience members enter, with several adorned in provided blue balaclavas, Issy Knowles’ Pollie arrives ready to begin, coming out completely “naked” in front of the audience and prepared to perform any and every sexual act. The show then follows the attempt to sleep with 1,000 men, interspersed with an interviewer preparing a documentary and asking about her life.Despite the show jumping between disconnected scenes – from sex act, to interview, to flashback about Pollie’s life – the tight writing keeps things easy to follow. Knowles’ performance as Pollie works wonders in ensuring that this narrative stays coherent, with her not only fully realising the witty, sexy persona she clearly wants to put on, but also being brilliantly raw as Pollie is tested when the challenge drags on, or when recounting her own difficulties in coming to terms with her sexuality.Knowles’ writing is also immaculate. It tackles the difficult nature of sex work and the questions it raises with great sincerity, while also allowing the audience to laugh at some of the more absurdist elements of the piece – be that the impersonations of the men coming to sleep with Pollie or the horrific absurdities of the sex work industry. The show is incredibly polished, in writing, acting and direction, and despite the potential for a bombastic and simple parody of Bonnie Blue or other OnlyFans creators, it instead provides a funny, heartfelt examination of women’s sexuality, and asks how, in an industry where sex literally sells, who truly controls women’s bodies?

A trampoline hangs midair above the audience, and a spring mat is laid out centre stage; the afternoon promises acrobatic entertainment. Welcome to The Ruckus, starring Canadian circus artist and clown Arielle Lauzon as Nancy, our hostess for the matinee.A little dishevelled and with rollers still in her hair, Nancy is getting ready to go out. Where? Audiences may find out – or not – as she also gets unready. Along the way, our fabulous hostess enlists the help of the audience and her four friends to make it to the night.Draped in a sparkling pink suit, Lauzon charms as Nancy, drawing the audience in and encouraging them to take part in the fun. In true pre-going-out fashion, her comedic routines involve multiple outfit changes, showcasing her physical comedy and effortless clowning. Lauzon’s high energy and determination carry the show through a whirlwind of colourful costumes.Her four friends can be likened to the Spice Girls of the circus, each with a distinct personality and talent that shines in their acts. Expect giant balloons, hula-hooping, roller skates, acrobatics, aerials and gymnastics – all met with cheers from all ages.For circus connoisseurs, The Ruckus channels an absurdist circus style – chaotic yet always in control. It exists because it is and indeed it is a joy to watch, though its storyline feels more like a loose thread than a clear arc, leaning into pure entertainment.Nevertheless, tying it all together is Nancy’s humour and favourite singer – a certain world-renowned Canadian superstar whose name remains unspoken here for the surprise. Audiences can prepare for an impromptu karaoke session to top off this wild ride.

Equal parts stand-up, wildlife seminar and love letter, 100% Badgers sees comedian and PhD graduate Matt Hobs showcase his deep affection for Britain’s most misunderstood mammal, in a fusion of badger facts, sharp jokes and winning West Country charm.Only at the Fringe could you squeeze twenty people into a tiny karaoke booth and call it a show – but the sweet-natured Hobs makes it work. In his warm Bristolian manner, he instantly wins his miniature audience’s affection, earning belly laughs to fill a much larger room.Despite the tight squeeze, there’s no awkwardness, just a generous, self-deprecating host refreshingly free of swagger. His hand-knitted badger hat and badger-crested cardigan complete the picture of a man who truly, unapologetically, loves his subject matter.Yes, it’s a show about badgers – but this is no gimmick. The visual presentation, combined with Hobs’ unhurried storytelling, teaches us everything we need to know about the species, from the rare ginger badger to the macho honey badger. And, between the cheeky punchlines, there’s a genuine environmental message, urging fellow badger lovers to help conservation efforts by reporting roadkill or emailing MPs.This isn’t a show for kids – Hobs admits he doesn’t like them much – but there’s plenty of dry humour and unexpected laughs for grown-ups. At £2.50 RRP, there’s more value per gag than many of the acts in the bigger, pricier venues.As a result, 100% Badgers is massively oversubscribed. To avoid both yours and Nice Guy Hobs’ disappointment, be sure to buy your ticket in advance.

I have some terrible news: Twonkey has passed away. However, there is hope for fans of surreal humour, scruffy puppets and batty songs in the form of Twonkey’s heretofore unknown wife (now widow), Twonketta. Dressed in an outfit that screams naughty maid from a Carry On movie meets very low-budget Rocky Horror cosplay, Twonketta totters about the tiny stage at Dragonfly in fabulous heels, doing her best to continue her late husband’s legacy.All the regular gags are there, from the Ship’s Wheel of Knickers used to reveal the audience’s sexual proclivities and the play-within-a-play of the Transylvanian Finger Fantasy, to the supporting cast of fever-dream puppets – including the return of puppet Steve Martin, back to predict our future through the medium of his back catalogue of movies. We also get a couple of new characters, including Timothy Horsepiss, the fairground cat who is an inadequate ratter, and Cheeky Chips the fly, who revels in seeing all the things we do in private. All this is presented through the thick haze of some overenthusiastic smoke-machine use, which makes the show seem even more dreamlike than usual.There’s very little plot in the first half, but when the titular zip wire is eventually introduced, it’s in the form of a popular ride at a failing funfair where Twonketta’s own rollercoaster is falling behind. Some shenanigans involving sabotage and a faked death lead to a change in everyone’s fortunes but, as ever with a Twonkey show, the plot takes a backseat to the chaos.To say a show is ‘very Fringe’ is an easy (and often wrong) shorthand for anything weird, unusual or a bit out-there. In the case of Twonkey’s Zip Wire to Zanzibar, Twonkey continues to be the ‘Fringiest’ act on the Fringe.

Australian acrobatics troupe Gravity and Other Myths return to Edinburgh with their international smash hit Ten Thousand Hours – and if you’ve ever wondered what the human body can achieve through a great many hours of dedication, this show is your answer.At first, the performers seem a little serious – but for good reason: their blank faces reflect not smug ambivalence but extreme concentration as they begin to climb onto each other’s backs with feline grace in a tense game of one-upmanship.Without any rigging or equipment, the eight-person troupe use their own bodies as scaffolding to enact increasingly advanced acrobatics: walking towers, human trapeze, elevated somersaults. The moves are executed with utmost precision yet somehow have a playful suppleness, as if they hadn’t trained the same action for months on end. The ease with which they move through the air is almost frustrating for a ground-dweller like me.In the background, a digital timer flickers between numbers one and ten thousand – a nod to the years of sweat and repetition needed to achieve this kind of mastery. We’re even given glimpses of moves in their raw, beginner’s form before they bloom into polished, airborne versions – a rare gift in circus arts.There’s no single star here; every member matches up in skill, strength and precision. But there are moments of individual brilliance: one woman with nerves and thighs of steel returns to the floor to perform various dance styles, taking cues from the audience to showcase her versatility.If anything, the show could lean into more narrative threads like this, allowing us to feel invested in one person’s struggle or triumph – but Ten Thousand Hours doesn’t really aim to make heroes. It’s a celebration of collective effort, of bodies in absolute trust, where the perfect act is built as a team, one exhausting, painstaking hour at a time.Ten Thousand Hours was one of the best acrobatic performances I’ve ever seen. And judging by the gasps around me, I’m not the only one left breathless.

Lorna Rose Treen is both a Gaulier-trained clown and a previous winner of Dave’s Funniest Joke of the Fringe award. Her new show, 24 Hour Diner People, expertly blends character-based clown comedy with hilarious one-liners. Attempting to evolve her usual sketch comedy format, Treen this time situates all her characters in one American diner, dripping with Americana. We meet the waitress – a woman who dreams of running away and starting a new life (and is also addicted to eating coins and banknotes). We meet an awkward teenager who wants her crush to invite her to prom (and for him to “reset [her] like a Tamagotchi”). And we meet a couple planning to rob the diner at gunpoint (the boyfriend played expertly by a member of the audience) and an undercover spy.These characters rotate through the show, interacting with the audience and delivering hilarious and daft one-liners. Treen brings a chaotic DIY energy to the one-woman show and makes good use of props and stagecraft throughout – like a blow-up doll she uses to facilitate conversations between her characters. Many of the jokes are so daft they shouldn’t work, but do – thanks in large part to Treen’s charm and delivery.What doesn’t work as well are the framing device and narrative, with the ending feeling rushed and none of the characters or stories having a really solid, satisfying payoff. Treen sets up more than she has time to work with in an hour-long Fringe slot, and the show’s big foreshadowed climax falls a little flat.Treen tries to do many different things with 24 Hour Diner People, and most of them work. A clown show, a sketch show, a one-liner showcase and a piece of cohesive comedic theatre, it is very close to a masterpiece but ultimately bites off slightly more than it can chew.

Light-hearted theatre is often an element of the Fringe festival that does not get its due attention, with the focus more often landing on dark dramas asking difficult questions or big stand-up shows from up-and-coming comics. So it is a delight to see a romcom like Big Sofa Theatre’s Eggs Aren’t That Easy to Make, a piece of new writing that offers a welcome reprieve to a packed Fringe schedule while still covering salient topics in an engaging way.Eggs Aren’t That Easy to Make follows lesbian couple Lou and Claire as they prepare to have their first child, and how one drunken promise made years ago between Claire and her best friend Dan led to Dan becoming the sperm donor. The charisma between the three is genuinely heartwarming, with Lou and Claire’s romance feeling domestic yet sincere, while the friendship between Dan and Claire seems as old and strong as the best of them, even without the plot showing the passage of time.It is the strength of these relationships that carries the show. The plot, while simple, feels authentic and naturalistic enough for the sillier elements of the romcom setting to shine through. At times, though, this wit and silliness takes precedence over any tension within the story, as certain arguments and flashpoints feel a little too polite, not reaching the dramatic peak that the narrative suggests.Romcoms are always a little silly, and that silliness is often the strength of Eggs Aren’t That Easy to Make. Performances across the board are delightful, with relationships feeling authentic and human without losing comic potential. The script is tight, with its simple story brimming with potential, and despite moments when the tension on stage does not fully match the tension in the script, the result is a fun, engaging show well worth watching.

Around me I heard several people say, “Wow, it’s dark in here” – and dark it was. Both in the room and in the story that followed. Scatter: A Horror Play left me reeling from beginning to end, in a space where every time one person was scared, we were all scared.The play follows Tom as he recounts travelling to a small village in Wales to scatter his father’s ashes with his brother. Patrick McPherson plays the role, and for an hour he held my attention in this one-person show. Strategically, the set consisted only of a single chair covered in leaves and rot. It made my stomach churn the moment I saw it, and I couldn’t look away. Beyond that, McPherson built the rest of the world himself – the quaint village, the woods, the run-down B&B – and he did build this world.Every movement suggested the space he was in. His physicality and timing made everything feel real, even if it existed only in Tom’s memory. McPherson gave a performance that made me fear for Tom and be afraid of Tom. At times, his comic timing was spot-on – quickly followed by a jolt of terror – so the audience never truly relaxed, which is exactly what the show wants. And going in knowing it was meant to be scary, I’m glad I never did. I was uneasy from the first moment, even before McPherson appeared.Alongside the stripped-back set, the lighting design was phenomenal – from classic flickers to deep reds that darkened until the room was almost pitch black. Every element served the story, and when I wasn’t watching McPherson, I was bracing for the next scare.If you enjoy being frightened, this is a must-see. If you don’t, I’d still recommend it. From the storytelling to the performance to the technical craft, Scatter is a force to be reckoned with – and sometimes it’s fun to be scared.

The title might mean nothing – and is hardly gripping – but don’t let that put you off. In fact, Blandy tells the story of the real 18th-century Mary Blandy. But don’t look up the story beforehand, as part of the pleasure of the show is the way Mary’s story is revealed, combined as it is with the Europe-wide folktale of the pig-faced woman. And it would be a shame to spoil the pleasure, as the show is extremely entertaining.The script, by Coco Cottam, doesn’t offer any psychological insights or theses about society, nor does it provide any surprises from history. However, it is clever, funny and rather sexy. The narrative technique is sophisticated (and demanding of the actors) in mixing multiple events simultaneously.There are no fancy sets or costumes. The show succeeds or fails with the talent of the actors, and they live up to the demand. The many parts are played by Georgie Dettmer and Luke Nixon. They can both carry broad comedy, lust, pathos (what small amount there is) and have the ability to change between characters from one second to the next. They both have charisma to spare. Possibly because the main female roles are better, Dettmer in particular comes across as outstanding.I can’t write much else without giving away spoilers. So, if you are the sort of person who likes a highly entertaining, daft but clever show, without trimmings, that basically relies on the talent of the two actors, then this is for you.

Written by Tim Harris and directed by Jordan Lewis, A Most Pressing Issue is a farcical comedy set in a single office amid a raging prison fire, following four hopelessly inept prison workers who confront catastrophe with anything but sense. Rich in absurdist humour and tinged with existential threat, the show builds to a satisfying conclusion where the hysterical illuminates the historical.Harris shines as Ward Preston, the fervent yet slippery “head honcho”, evoking a Harry Enfield-esque caricature with bizarre facial contortions and impeccable comic timing. Matt Williams’ Orly, Preston’s loyal sidekick, is both endearing and ludicrous, displaying a flair for physical comedy. Their double act thrives on mutual folly, each amplifying the other’s absurdity. Natasha Mula’s Celeste, the lone sensible intern and only female character, acts as the voice of reason – though even she cannot withstand Preston and Orly’s chaos. Her role takes on greater weight towards the end, offering philosophical grounding that deepens the play’s impact. James de Burca’s Sergeant is another inspired addition, initially promising salvation before revealing himself to be just as inept. Together, these 'fools' bring distinct comic textures to the text, their interplay honed by Lewis’ sharp, astute direction. Greater earnestness in characterisation and less self-aware performativity could elevate the work even further.The humour is deliciously dry and absurd, especially when laced with deliberate winks to the audience. The script employs classic absurdist devices – most notably the ever-present existential threat just beyond the stage (the fire) – to skewer our deeply human tendency to dodge serious problems by losing ourselves in trivialities. The central metaphor is compelling, and Harris sustains momentum while deepening the thematic threads. One philosophical monologue from Orly, however, breaking character, feels heavy-handed; elsewhere, the writing trusts the audience to find the message within the madness, which is far more effective. While some beats feel familiar, the cast’s commitment invigorates the performance.A Most Pressing Issue is witty, tightly crafted, and in Harris’ own words, “too busy to be boring”. A sharply funny dissection of incompetence and denial, this is an absurdist gem well worth catching.

Never has a new show set me on the edge of my seat so fast. Vagabond Skies: The Van Gogh Musical is an instant classic. It is not one to miss.The musical follows Vincent van Gogh through his struggles with money, his art, and mental health, all while being supported by his brother Theo. Alex Bloomer plays the titular role and gives an amazing performance that left me reeling and wanting nothing more than to see him on stage again. Similarly, his chemistry with Richard Dawes, who played Theo, made me feel for these two brothers. This is especially poignant knowing how van Gogh's life ends.Outside of Bloomer and Dawes, the other characters and ensemble were equally compelling. Several musical numbers gave me chills, and I felt just as much like I knew van Gogh and his life as the performers did. They brought me into their world in a way I was not prepared for.The show had a lot of heart and took the material seriously. Upon walking in, a timeline is presented to the audience to help establish the story being told. Additionally, the program provides an in-depth story breakdown for viewers, as the show itself is a condensed version of the life of van Gogh. This could make for an odd viewing experience—often, I found myself a little confused by the story being told. But then I’d find myself drawn back in because of the performances and music. Despite this, I could not help but be captivated by this abundantly original musical. However, it's worth noting that the condensed nature of the production may present a disconnect from the story being told.This musical made me curious to know more about Vincent van Gogh and his life. As someone going in with very minimal knowledge, I knew after seeing this that I needed to know more. Going in with the understanding that it's condensed will make for an easier viewing experience. This project—while unfortunately abridged for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe—is one that many should see.

The Creative Martyrs are the sort of show you see once before going back again and again. They’ve well earned their cult-like following in the Scottish cabaret scene, but this was the first time I’d seen them at the Fringe. They did not disappoint; they are some of the best the Free Fringe has to offer.Taking to the stage, Gustav and Jakob immediately give off sad clown energy… before undercutting it with evocative grins on their powdered faces. They almost seem to wink at the audience, as if to say, “You’re in on the joke.” The joke — of course — being that society itself is crumbling before our very eyes. Some might say the end of the world is nigh. That doesn't mean we shouldn't laugh at our situation though, and the duo seem poised to point out our plight while chuckling along with us.This wry satire of the world's current affairs is delivered with Weimar-era panache, blended with hilarious songs and brief verbal interludes. The tunes are catchy and memorable, the sort of thing you'll remember weeks later when watching the news. Many also almost lull you to sleep with their mellow tones, as the duo come armed only with a ukulele and a cello — until the dark irony of the lyrics hits home.With just an hour and a handful of songs, you will fall in love with this duo. They have a certain earnestness that is endearing, and Jakob's baritone contrasts nicely with Gustav's more manic energy. The latter is often among the crowd, leading the way in everything from an exploration of the Overton Window via line dance (yes, really) to adding you to The List.The duo are doing what they’ve always done, albeit with a little more polish these days. If you’ve seen them before, you won’t be surprised or dazzled by their performance. But that’s perhaps the magic of the Free Fringe — you don’t need to be. You can keep coming back to a show and continue to be charmed, year after year. The Creative Martyrs are some of the best the Free Fringe has to offer, and you should go see them again and again.

A delicate yet subversive act of liberation, Masli and Lenoir dissolve the line between performance and communion in their hour in the Former Gentlemen’s Locker Room. As mischievous as it is soothing, this is a quietly radical exploration of sensuality, intimacy, and connection.Masli and Lenoir have created something sacred, and to reveal too much would be to rob the audience of the joyful sense of discovery they bring to the space. To write about it at all feels like trespassing on their magic, but to leave their brilliance undocumented would be just as criminal.We watch, transfixed, as Masli and Lenoir brush shoulders with audience members who are crammed into a bathroom, squeezing into stalls and crouching on the tiled floor. The two nuns waft calmly from toilet to sink, washing their hands as they go. Their silent serenity sets the tone: a graceful veil behind which a delightful trouble brews.Once we arrive in the space, woven in between their silent exchanges is Audre Lorde’s powerful speech, Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic As Power. We listen to Lorde overthrow the patriarchal erasure of women’s eroticism as we watch the pair interact and play with one another in the subtlest of exchanges. The result is a deeply moving and equally playful commentary on sensuality and inhibition, reclaiming eroticism as a force of connection rather than objectification.Breaking the silence is a deeply personal exchange between the two, which feels authentic and grounded, revealing layers of history and friendship. Their chemistry is palpable, and their willingness to reveal themselves both physically and emotionally lends the piece a profound sincerity. Masli and Lenoir’s powerful dignity commands the space. As Marc Chagall once said, “The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world,” and this piece embodies that fully. Their performances balance stillness with moments of bubbling, cheeky energy, never losing the thread of tender humanity that runs throughout.Julia Masli & Paulina Lenoir in Former Gentlemen’s Locker Room is a profoundly transformative and cathartic piece of theatre. Hypnotic, moving, and deeply powerful, this is a secret that must be shared. If you see anything this year, it must be this.

The setting is a Shakespearean gaol, furnished with period props. Iago sits alone in his cell. Enter the gaoler, stage left. He’s one of the Identikit minor characters that inhabit Shakespeare’s plays – usually a clown – ill-educated and a bit dim. True to type, the gaoler treats us to some decent physical clowning and a bunch of jokes that are much funnier than Shakespeare’s tend to be.The gaoler is troubled that he has no memories other than the daily routine of tending to Iago and a hazy recall of a few events from Shakespeare’s plays. And he’s very bored. He wants a purpose: a drama.The gaoler quotes Iago’s last line from Othello: “From this time forth I never will speak word.” Can the gaoler’s babbling drive Iago to such distraction that he speaks?At more than an hour, the play could benefit from a little trimming – there are moments where the material feels stretched too thin. It is obviously reminiscent of Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, but it lacks the equivalent meditations on eternity, infinity, and death. On the other hand, it does feature exciting fight choreography.The actors’ accents (Skye Brandon as Iago and Joshua Beaudry as the gaoler) sometimes drift between “Shakespearean” and modern Canadian, and some of the phrases used sound jarringly contemporary. In the context of this play, these aspects are important.Interestingly, in a key area, the gaoler has greater perception than the “evil genius” Iago. We know there is going to be a denouement, but who will win?

Produced by TuFlamenco, Flamenkids is just under an hour long and features one host, two dancers, and three musicians, all of whom work to explain the purpose behind flamenco dance and teach the audience a few moves. All the performers are highly skilled, particularly the host, who is an engaging presence throughout, helped by a microphone that ensures she can be heard over the usual chaos of an audience full of small children.The show uses a framing device, with the host reading a book about a girl named Carmen who lives in Scotland, with Spanish parents. Carmen’s love of flamenco dance inspires her to share it with her Scottish classmates. While the story is sweet, the reading takes far too long. With an audience of children mostly under the age of seven, it’s problematic that so much of the first half of the show resembles classroom story time rather than a flamenco performance. A more effective version of this production would limit the introduction of the framing device to five or ten minutes, allowing more time for the flamenco itself to take centre stage – as that is where this show truly shines.Once the performers start to teach the audience flamenco movements and rhythms, attention spans that had wandered during the first half are sharply brought back. The front of the stage quickly fills with children giving the steps their best shot. The individual performances by the talented dancers are exhilarating, the flamenco skirts beautiful to behold, and the musicians provide spirited accompaniment to the dancing. By the end of the show, the children are invited onstage to dance alongside the performers, with smiles all around. While the first section of the show is weaker, it ends strongly, and the whole production makes for a good introduction to Hispanic culture and dance.

A classical piano awaits us. And… a feather coat. The stage alludes to something left field, and we are not disappointed as Valentina Tóth sweeps the stage with a shock of red hair.She says that she is “very good at playing the piano.” Well, in the words of Muhammad Ali, it’s not bragging if you can back it up. She is, in fact, a former child prodigy. However, Fatal Flower is not a classical concert – far from it. It is a series of vignettes, all on the theme of ‘hysterical women’. We’ll come back to that later.Tóth introduces different characters performing in different styles: an exuberant song about genitalia, a Spanish soap opera with comedic simultaneous translation, a formidable piano teacher, a teenager aspiring to lose her virginity, a woman on a hen do (bachelorette party), a Medusa-inspired creation, and the denouement, in which Tóth boldly unravels body image.Female rage is never far from proceedings. Tóth tells of a Dutch television presenter who inserted a candle into an inebriated and unconscious teenager, laughing about it later on national television. Then there’s the Dutch childcare benefits scandal, in which computer errors led to arrests, bankruptcies, and suicides, its parallels with our own Post Office scandal obvious.The scenes are a fusion of piano, cabaret, song, comedy, physical theatre, and spectacular operatic singing. The highlight is perhaps the bride-to-be performing a song called I Will Kill Her about her friend who slept with her fiancé.Her talent as a performer is not in question; however, the smorgasbord of ideas in this production is a little too broad and uneven, and some of the comedy just does not quite land. However, the message of gender inequality is piercing.The label ‘hysterical’ is applied wantonly by men as a control technique. These women? While exaggerated for comic effect, they are normal human beings with fears, neuroses, and aspirations. They don’t need to be pigeonholed, especially by men. Valentina Tóth’s remarkable and visceral hour will not easily be forgotten.

There’s an unfortunate problem with Britt Migs that we’ll get out of the way early: she’s a five-star performer in a three-star show.Dolphin Mode is a good debut hour. It opens with a video recording of Migs on the underground, practising some self-care while duplicate versions of her try to tear her down. They even ask silly questions, my favourite being, “What are eyeballs made of?” After this, Migs bounds on to the stage, admittedly in her ‘flop era’ following her divorce, but still brimming with energy. She’s more than happy being “a beacon of hope for sad married ladies,” but as a performer in front of a crowd, she’s engaging, charismatic, and electric.Lasting just over 35 minutes (the day I saw it), the show’s material is a bit hit-and-miss. When it hits, it’s really funny stuff, with great potential to go from strength to strength – and it does. When it doesn’t, it’s a bit thin and, unfortunately, propped up with “and I was like… and he was like… and I was like…” If more work went into the structure and pacing of the show, Britt Migs could have a real gem on her hands. It’s just a shame that we, as an audience, left Buttercup at Underbelly craving just a little bit more.

Can Bacchic frenzy really be conjured by a single body? Ewan Downie’s solo Bacchae, guided by director Ian Spink, answers mostly yes. The performer delivers a stripped-back act of storytelling, physical theatre and ancient song that’s potent and precise, if sometimes tonally unadventurous.Downie slips between Dionysos, Pentheus and Agave, voice and stance clicking cleanly into each new mask. The staging is utilitarian – tilted strip lights in cages, a couple of symbolic props – and it suits the intent: no distractions, just a performer bending an ancient myth into a tight 55-minute arc. The sound world hums, the movement vocabulary is disciplined rather than madcap, and the ritual frame is well delivered.Yet the production’s fidelity is both virtue and limit. Contemporary resonances – gender flux, the human/animal blur, the slippage between victim and perpetrator – are present but rarely pressed; we sense them rather than grapple with them. Tonally, the show leans into solemnity, a near-unbroken chant of repression and release that can feel a little gruelling as it proceeds. You long, just once or twice, for irreverent bite or Dionysian swagger to roughen the ritual.The solo form, boldly chosen, trims away the power offered by a chorus’s tumult. Downie narrates the story with clarity and control, but without bodies to tear and witness, frenzy becomes an imagined weather rather than a visceral storm. Still, there are some passages that contain real force – those ancient songs carry a raw resonance.Overall, it’s a skilful, immersive, musically alive retelling that honours Euripides with care and craft. Some will find it satisfyingly classical; others may wish it took bigger risks and let the god off the leash.

Alan Watts is about to die. We meet him amidst a thunderstorm on his last day on Earth, 16 November 1973 – the whisky bottle within arm’s reach marking the occasion or simply passing another Tuesday.In his one-man homage, Jeremy Stockwell channels the much-loved “spiritual rogue” – his monologues challenging conventional thinking while he unashamedly downs another drink and reminisces about his success. He dispenses life advice with the confidence of a man who’s been married three times, fathered several children, and still hasn’t kicked the habit. Stockwell’s familiar cut-glass accent and languid delivery cause you to lean in, even as he’s dismantling the idea of spiritual authority.Mid-reverie, however, Alan is ambushed by a cramp. The fourth wall crumbles. “The show must go on,” Stockwell assures us. Is this a real slip, or a clever turn in the script? Impossible to tell at this point, leading to a little genuine jeopardy.The performance then veers into semi-autobiography, with Stockwell emerging from behind the guru character to share his own history: acting gigs, medical troubles, and the creeping solitude that comes with age. Alan and Jeremy become two sides of the same coin – both chasing meaning while wrestling their own shadows.It’s not all existential pondering. Stockwell delights in a bit of chaos, at one point opening the floor up for an audience Q&A with Alan. “What brings you joy?” one earnest punter asks. Stockwell’s reply is so perfectly pitched – equal parts Wattsian insight and cheek – that for a moment you wonder if the real Alan has popped in for a curtain call.Pleasing a small crowd of ageing hippies and me, the show will have Watts fans nodding sagely at the philosophy and reflecting on their own guru relationships. There’s enough bite in the writing, and enough self-deprecation in Stockwell’s delivery, to keep the show from sliding into incense-scented sentimentality.This isn’t a guru’s sermon, or even a biography. It’s one man’s theatrical reminder that the line between wisdom and bullshit is thinner than we’d like to admit – and that even the gurus are just muddling through, same as the rest of us.

The strange juxtaposition of bricks and nudity creates a raw tension. Inlet, choreographed by the Syrian-German Saeed Hani, is intensely visual, immersive, and above all, dance as embodied emotion. Referencing Roman myth – the story of Romulus and Remus – this dance/performance piece explores the significance of walls and borders, both of stone, barbed wire or of the mind. The dancers Francesco Ferrari, Ana F. Melero and Michele Scappa are superb.Founding his company in 2016 and based in Luxembourg, Hani is a choreographer of international standard, influenced by Pina Bausch and the avant-garde Dimitris Papaioannou, who directed the 2004 Olympic Games opening ceremonies, and is likewise interested in expressing emotions visually.Rainforest birds and torrential water create an environmental soundscape evoking the world of Eden, as we see only limbs appearing from behind two rectangular blocks. Eventually two males are revealed, their nudity as innocent as before the Fall. A woman crouches on top of a stone plinth, surveying the audience with two metal balls held to her eyes as if binoculars. It is clear the audience are to be implicated in the unfolding story. Slowly she stands and reveals, unashamed, her nudity.What follows is subtle, endlessly varied and unpredictable choreography, allowing the audience to interpret and bring their own experiences to the story. The lighting by Marc Thein, highlighting with squares of light or creating glowing columns, beautifully enhances the experience. Music by Jakob Schumo and the significant silence after the men fight are expressive, contributing to an artistic whole.There is nothing so banal as building a wall at first. Rather, the dancers shift the blocks around, steal them from each other, slap them down with a loud smack, pile them up or dismantle them as the relationship between the two males, and the three of them, evolves. It’s interesting that the dancers become clothed as the relationship between the two males becomes strained and a wrestling scene ends, as we know, in the death of Remus. The last scene has the depth of Greek tragedy, where the woman enters, bare-breasted but trailing a shroud-like fabric round her waist. She approaches the finished wall, a tall white column, then turns holding the fabric bunched in her arms as if cradling an orphaned or dead baby. As she is overcome with grief, pulling at her hair, one is reminded that in Arabic culture mothers show their pain, and Saeed, as a Syrian, is drawing on his own heritage.Along with the wide references from Roman myth to Greek tragedy, the audience might bring to mind the violence resulting in the Berlin Wall, a divided society in Northern Ireland, the Mexican/US wall, and contemporary issues in the Middle East – though none of these are explicit in this dance. However, the title Inlet, a place or means of entry, suggests that there is hope. Wishful thinking maybe, and not shown in this work.A must-see show and a choreographer to watch.

Back at the Traverse a decade on, Gary McNair’s one-man tale fits the room like it never left. The stage is dressed as a living room – carpet, chair, boxes – and that’s enough. Nothing showy, everything purposeful.During the course of the show, McNair tells us about his Gorbals grandad, Archie – gambler, raconteur, lovable chancer. The stories he relates all arrive with charm: the 1966 windfall on England; the outrageous final bet against a grim diagnosis that he’ll see the year 2000. McNair’s control is the pleasure here. He stretches and snaps the pace just so, flicking between boy, mum, teachers and punters with a tilt of the head or a change of breath. Radio snatches and hushes cue those turns, and images land cleanly without overexplanation. It’s quietly gripping, and shot through with warmth that never hides the cost of compulsion.McNair needles the big question – did Archie “win”? – but lands on something truer: what matters is the story a family can live with. The living-room conceit pulls its weight, too; those boxes stop being mere props and start feeling like the way we all handle a past – opened, sifted, re-packed.Mostly, this anniversary run feels fresh rather than nostalgic: a compact, deft 70ish minutes that keeps its swagger in check and earns its poignancy. The heavy blow lands in the quiet before the millennium countdown, when love and luck are both on the line and no one is keeping perfect score.

Not many people in the audience can say the title of this show. But thank god I can. As the only dyke sitting in my row, waiting for the much anticipated Count Dykula to start, I gleamed at the crowd of people who came out for this show. Count Dykula, a lesbian loner, attends Scare University. The Dean, Scarlet Fang, wants to enrol humans at the cost of banning monsters. Count Dykula and her friends must band together to take the dean down. This musical comedy left me delighted and impressed.With clever double casting, the trio of performers constantly juggle multiple characters, never failing to make us laugh by acknowledging the chaos. Striking a perfect balance between earnestness and camp, the show achieves exactly what it sets out to do. The journey feels full, never missing a comedic beat, with total insistence that Count Dykula is, in fact, a top.In the canon of the kind of Fringe shows you go to with a pint, this is one of the most well-crafted, funny and meaningful. Its use of camp creates a playful space where we root for the characters the whole time. Every character feels like they have a substantive backstory – take Werepug, for example: half werewolf, half pug. The songs are expertly crafted (and catchy), always pushing the plot forward. The comedy in both the songs and Dykula’s confessional asides cuts through the artifice of the musical.While the ending felt a little rushed, the show still delivers. It’s such a fun time it will have you howling. Catch this show while you can get a spot in the front row! The company, Airlock Theatre, is also producing Lesbian Space Crime, which I’m thrilled to see as well.Deeply silly yet serious in its engagement with an important subject – why are masculine women so persecuted? – Count Dykula will entertain you, make you laugh and even make you sing.

Brendan Tran will make you laugh through the tears. Perhaps more accurately, this show will make you cackle through your trauma.Brendan Tran’s Hole in the Wall L’Hopital is one man’s journey through grief after the passing of a father with whom he had a difficult relationship. It contains some quite funny queer comedy in an American style to get the audience comfortable before delving into its main subject matter. If you go into this show well aware of what you’re walking into, then it feels raw and self-aware. It is personally moving in how it makes light of an all-too-familiar tragedy.If this were in the theatre listings, it would have rave reviews and glowing praise. It grapples with a deeply complicated struggle with heaps of humanity, levity, and outlandish gay audacity. Brendan feels like an inappropriate laugh at a funeral, or perhaps an over-the-top coming out at a wake. He is a hot mess brimming with vulnerability and soul.The gut-wrenching lurches between laughter and loss make it a stand-out Fringe performance. Brace for whiplash.

This show is about nothing. SE Grummet and Sam Kruger from The Creepy Boys make that incredibly clear. Scored by electronic, upbeat music with songs about chickpeas and Donald Duck – the Canadian duo continually one-up themselves every moment in this performance.So what is something and what is nothing? They try to explain to us as we quickly understand the abstract language of the show. In a world constantly filled with something – shootings, homelessness, racism, transphobia, etc. – their hope is to make a show about nothing. A show that is so simple, unoffensive, and delightful – and much to our chagrin, they fail to do that. It turns out to be hard to stick to nothing when our world is so wrought with something.Bearing all – quite literally bearing all – the duo go pantsless, aka doing the Donald Duck, in the first twenty minutes of the show. While the first moment of shock value is hilarious, they never fail to build on every bit in the most wonderfully absurd and skilful way. The use of imagery is absolutely amazing: live puppetry and interactive, creative use of space only help us delve deeper into the Slugs’ world.As performers, there is something so charming about the Slugs’ purposeful naivety. They constantly straddle obliviousness and inventiveness, and we are very much along for the ride. The show is similar to taking poppers but if it lasted sixty minutes. Without spoiling the show, there is a specific moment near the ending that is so batsh*t and unlike anything I’ve seen at the Fringe (complimentary).And while the content of the show is hilarious and impressive, their friendship and performance chemistry is one of the most exciting things about the show. One imagines the origin of this show: two friends playing out of joy. In a world full of something, they laugh in the nothing. It proves to be the best thing we can do.

I deliberately went into Undersigned with as little information as possible, and I’d strongly recommend you do the same. That said, I am a reviewer, and as such, I’m duty-bound to tell you a little about the show. As much as I’ll keep things brief and vague, a big part of me hopes you don’t read further than this paragraph. Take my word for it, and go in completely blind. Without hyperbole, Undersigned is the most emotionally and psychologically confronting and transformative piece of theatre that I have ever experienced.Following a brief preparatory and safeguarding conversation with an attendant (in which you list any topics of conversation which are off-limits or too uncomfortable for you), you are led into a small room containing two chairs, a table and a small wooden box. In the box are objects central to the ritual about to take place: matches, a notebook and pen, a blindfold. You are blindfolded, the attendant leaves, and the performer enters.What follows is one of the most fascinating, challenging and uncomfortable conversations I’ve had in years. Yannick has a knack for playfully unpicking and digging into your fears, desires and values, facilitating an honesty and transparency rarely confronted even in therapy. Through the roughly 45-minute blindfolded conversation, I was encouraged to examine who I really am and what really matters to me, in a way that left me shaken and dizzy as I walked back out into the Cowgate.What struck me most about Undersigned was how ‘real’ it felt, and continues to feel. When I’ve attended other immersive one-to-one theatre shows, there has always been a sense that you’re ‘playing along’ for the sake of the experience. With Undersigned, the stakes felt cosmic, and I felt completely and genuinely immersed. I feel like I’ve been initiated into an ancient mystery cult; like my sense of self has been shattered, and is in the process of being reconstituted.I’m aware of how pretentious and unlikely all of this sounds. I ask you to trust me that I’m actually quite a down-to-earth guy. I’m not the sort of over-excited art snob who is prone to calling theatre shows “transformative” and “shattering”. I don’t think I’ve ever claimed that I’ve walked out of a Fringe show feeling “shaken and dizzy” before, and I don’t think I ever will again. Undersigned really is that good, and that important. If you can get a ticket (and that’s a big if – they have a long waiting list, and as I understand it, tickets are rarely made available outside of that), you’ll know exactly what I mean. Undersigned is an experience I don’t think I’ll ever forget. I really want you to experience it for yourself.

Timestamp is constructed on the thesis that women feel oppressed and stunted by the expectations placed on them. The show simply collects evidence to support the premise. There is no exploration of women’s lives outside this scope. There is nothing new.This narrow outlook is a shame because the two performers have talent and commitment. The show comes alive when they look away from the abstract and actively explore – when speaking about their own concrete experiences, or when they invite the audience to submit photos celebrating important women in their lives. That sort of focus could produce something original and engaging.

Narin Oz: Inner Child(ish) is a passion project for Oz. It portrays a series of experiences that are beautifully and painfully relatable for anyone neurodiverse.Unfortunately, this rawness often bleeds into an unpolished performance that is at times abrasive. Oz’s concept does not always reach full execution, and the intimate space sometimes becomes oppressive with her delivery. Jokes often fizzle into excruciating awkwardness, and at times it feels a little like a pop quiz on her struggle or outlook.That said, beneath all its flaws, Oz is likeable and funny. She pours her heart into this piece.

Bennett Arron has been a professional stand-up comedian for almost 27 years but, as he admits early on, he hasn’t performed on stage for two years – for reasons he will touch on during his set – and so is actually ever so slightly nervous.Not that you’d have guessed from his demeanour. Arron appears remarkably calm and confident—though not in an arrogant way. To help bring his audience onside, he’s overtly self-deprecating about his driving skills and sex life, as you might expect from a middle-aged father with grown-up children (one of whom is in another Fringe show and helping out “the old man” with the flyers). He’s honest enough to warn us that the show will cover such delightful comedic subjects as dementia, depression and death. But that’s life, to rely on a cliché, and there are plenty of laughs – even if some depend on the apparent stupidity of Las Vegas audiences or people who come into the room about three-quarters of the way through, clearly looking for another show. Arron barely blinks and acts with both grace and decency – which suggests such interruptions may be part and parcel of performing in the Liquid Rooms.As with many comedy shows at the Fringe, I Regret This Already is strongly autobiographical, and Arron isn’t shy to name-drop occasionally. Hailing from Port Talbot in Wales, he claims connections with the likes of Michael Sheen, Rob Brydon and Sir Anthony Hopkins. The latter, in particular, is involved in one of the small regrets that make up the narrative heart of the show – Arron’s feelings of remorse and sadness as much about things he didn’t do (spending more time with ailing parents, for example) as much as the things he did. This, it’s fair to say, is common ground for most of us and certainly a solid basis on which to build a show.There are serious moments throughout – memories of loss and illness, and brief concerns about how we appear to have forgotten how to communicate with each other, especially online. But these are generously balanced by laugh-out-loud moments of observational comedy, along with numerous wry asides in response to the audience. All of which suggest that, despite two years away from the stage, Arron is still on top form and well worth tracking down in the warren that is the Liquid Rooms.

Mythos: Ragnarok is exactly as listed – Viking gods settling their scores via high-octane wrestling. There’s gratuitous violence aplenty, but a compelling storyline elevates the chokehold.The lead protagonist is Loki (writer-performer Ed Gamester) – a charming, quick-witted hunk, just sly enough to narrate himself into hero status. As our guide through this world of Norse gods and title belts, Loki pulls the strings while pretending not to hold them. Mischief is his weapon of choice, and he uses it to dance around more muscular opponents – giving us a 360-degree view of his fan-club-worthy abs.Odin, played by Howard Drake, is a heavyweight force, and the supporting cast handle both mythological exposition and grapples with equal finesse. In a crash course on Norse mythology, we meet Baldr, Frigg, Hel, and even a thick-headed Thor who wields his hammer like it’s the only tool in the shed.This is no ordinary wrestling match. Alongside spectacular bodyslams that shudder through the tent, there’s a surprisingly coherent tale of shifting allegiances and family feuds, with a bit of underworld death magic thrown in. The agile pacing flips between dense mythic setup and sheer, adrenalised chaos. Immaculate arena staging allows the cast to get lost in their own lesser fights without ever pulling focus from the main action.After four successful Edinburgh Fringes and a world tour, Mythos levels up to the Underbelly Circus Hub on the Meadows, giving the production the gravitas it deserves. The story-heavy opening is a bold choice given the cabaret noise bleeding in from next door, but once the fighting kicks in, it’s pure adrenaline.I learnt things and I gasped – whether because of my investment in the story or because someone just got thrown on their back at terrifying velocity, it’s hard to say. But certainly, you’ll be both intellectually stimulated and slapped right in the lizard brain.

Three figures with their clothes pulled over their heads suggest the prison-like state of loneliness. Sadly, the promise of this striking image is not continued in the rest of this mishmash of movement, text, serious then comedic scenes. It is a shame that talented dancers are given incoherent and repetitive choreography by Malcolm Sutherland, himself one of the dancers. The trouble with alienation is that it alienates the audience. Thankfully, an absurdist romantic dinner for two – a Blind Date spoof where lipstick replaces Bordeaux – and later Metro’s ‘Rush Hour Crush’ enliven the show. The comedy sketches are great. Pity about the dance.

Luke Wright knows how to put a show together – an especially useful skill, because as a performer he walks a tightrope between the different aspects of his personality and material that lesser mortals would fall off.In Pub Grub he casts his keen-eyed focus on the domestic and the everyday: the necessary treat of pub grub but the worry about calories; Chelmsford, and gammons. The details of family life: Netflix and Harlan Coben; babies; Kevin and Perry; detective stories; TV dinners; childhood; friction with his dad; and his own fatherhood.Somehow, the show navigates the paradox that is Luke Wright: obscenities delivered in elegant verse and delicately placed emotion in sarcastic tirades; a naturally sardonic air paired with warmth and openness; a grip-by-the-collar performance poet who delights in formal poetic structures. He is a committed woke lefty who is developing a degree of tolerance for those with opposing views.The show delivers his trademark observational comedy and awareness of the absurdities of the culture we live in, mixed with poems of family relationships that manage to be unsentimental yet touching. We also get plenty of rude and extremely funny jokes.A consummate performance poet, Wright’s show is ingenious, witty, sophisticated, touching and vulgar. Throughout, he is always in formal control of the material, delivering a performance that fits together like a well-crafted box, closing with a satisfying snap.

Lolo (Lauren O’Brien) is on stage – this is her boyfriend show… or is it?The opening depicts a conversation with a loving boyfriend. They’re making plans and this looks like the real deal. She then circles back to her beginnings and recounts her backstory.As a child, she failed to read the popularity room, effectively marginalising herself. She is far from immune to cultural influences, however, and realises that she can reposition herself socially in a more accessible vein. A new approach meets with the desired outcome as she lands a sporty boyfriend. He moves away for career progression, the first of many short-term and unfulfilling relationships.She moves in with a man who has left his wife to be with her. She soon feels trapped and guilt tripped. She self-harms – a cry for help. There is the narcissistic actor, with whom she shares a deeply unsatisfying encounter, but she is still upset when he dumps her. We learn of the yogi who manipulates and robs her.Lolo attends a love and sex addict 12-step programme, but ends up being assaulted by one of the group, who wants to pimp her out. Despite her fear and the red flags, she is sad because he seemed nice.A tendency to self-destruction now evident, she is traumatised. She finds solace in songwriting and begins to create music.Lolo displays faulty pattern recognition, seeks approval and validation, before we get to the relationship with her mother. While hopelessly naïve, she at heart wants to be loved.Her sense of self-worth gets a boost with her burgeoning performance path, hitting heights at the New York City Fringe. She now has a filter and her own voice, demonstrated in the valedictory denouement.The show is a blend of music, comedy, storytelling and character work, but at its core is O’Brien’s charming and bold performance, exposing Lolo’s flaws and soul to the world.This is no longer Lolo’s boyfriend show: it’s centred on her. In her own words: “This is exactly where I need to be”.

In Who We Become Part 2: Breakfast at the Track / A Poster of the Cosmos, we find the second set of Lanford Wilson’s one-act plays, selected by New York-based theatre company Deep Flight Productions for performance at the Edinburgh Fringe this year. Admittedly, following The Moonshot Tape in this two-part series’ first instalment – especially Margaret Curry’s powerful solo turn as an abuse victim shaping the narrative of her past – is a tall order. The Moonshot Tape displays some of the greatest literary and dramatic flair of the late Pulitzer prize-winner’s deep cuts: a fiercely felt and emotionally vast piece of writing, elegantly mustered and executed by Curry, who also serves as executive producer of Deep Flight Productions.The second part of the Who We Become series is performed on alternating days to the first, on the same stage at the theSpace @ Surgeons’ Hall, with an equally minimalist approach to scenic design. In The Moonshot Tape, this stripped-back layout allowed greater emphasis on Wilson’s cutting language, enabling the words to fill the intimate space, as well as Curry’s calculated movements throughout. The benefits of minimalist staging in this second part – particularly in A Poster of the Cosmos – are less clear. There is an oppressive emphasis on stasis in this monologue’s staging, an explicit directorial decision that is initially appreciated but later, once the monologue moves between scenes, situations and interactions, feels ambivalent. There is an essential lack of clarity in A Poster of the Cosmos, which, while orbiting the central setup of an interrogation seat, could have benefited from greater movement to communicate more effectively its narrative and psychology – both of which are complex.While The Moonshot Tape contains moments of comedy despite its harrowing subject matter, A Poster of the Cosmos contains none. On the other hand, Breakfast at the Track, the other short play presented in this part of Who We Become, is packed full of absurdist circularities and meaningless repetitions that highlight – in a vaguely humorous way – the lack of meaningful feelings in the central relationship of a married couple. This, coupled with A Poster of the Cosmos, a drama about homosexuality and the Aids epidemic, creates an aggressive tonal shift across the pieces, which feels too stark to justify the pairing. Where the first part shines as an isolated one-act play, this second part does not work on the same level – as a Fringe show, but also as drama – since neither play presented here is as effective a piece of writing as The Moonshot Tape.That said, the second part contains brief glimpses of beauty, emotional nuance and genuinely terrific acting. I will be recommending Deep Flight Productions and this innovative two-part Lanford Wilson series as one of the lesser-spotted gems and welcome surprises of this year’s festival.

Ria Lina: Riabellion somehow blends whip–sharp intellect with feral mania in an accessible routine covering everything from motherhood to crime – two subjects that, in Ria’s view, are often interwoven.Between bemoaning her layabout teenagers and divorced husband – all of whom have the audacity to still live in her house – she delivers a self-aware and powerful performance. Her comedy chops clearly come from stand-up, and she works the room extremely well from the start.This is a solid stand-up routine: well attended, amusing, and not necessarily breaking new ground – but it doesn’t need to. It feels grounded and has room to grow.Where Ria truly shines is in a facet all boys recognise: mums are scary. Ria Lina: Riabellion is not a helicopter mum; she is a high-tech, missile-laden, covert-ops attack helicopter mother – and the best part is, she knows it.

Laser Kiwi is an entertaining sketch comedy performance with circus elements that do just enough to keep it fresh.The show feels like the lovechild of Richard Ayoade and a circus tent – leaning more towards its at-times stilted, stop–start style rather than tricks.Laser Kiwi often makes a performance out of drawing out a bit until it is stone dead on the floor. If you enjoy dysfunction and awkward silences, this is the show for you. Fans of their iconic “Mmmmm olive.” routine will know what I mean. It doesn’t return, but it might as well.That said, there are genuine chuckles, and the jokes land well in this polished performance. The pay-off in the end is just about worth it, and the circus we do see is well executed. The aerial rope work from Imogen feels solid, and the long-pass juggling from the lads is technically adept. I just wish there were more of those moments, as I kept waiting to be dazzled. I want more from these folks – and I think they can deliver it.

What’s in a name?This Fringe story is set in the Uttar Pradesh city of Kanpur. Except for some, it wasn’t – the British renaming it Cawnpore, as they had renamed Mumbai and Chennai, among others.The causes of the Indian Rebellion of 1857 were myriad: hubris, misjudgment, cultural insensitivity, and plain incompetence. Rumours of pig and cow fat being used to grease cartridges were not adequately addressed. The distribution of chapatis – a form of signposting discontent – was ignored. And the big one: the fact that Indians had been subjugated, asset-stripped, and, in some cases, enslaved.The Rebellion broke out in Meerut and rapidly spread along the Great Trunk Road and beyond: amongst others, Delhi, Gwalior, Jhansi, Lucknow, and Kanpur.At Kanpur, after a siege, there was a negotiated surrender of around 300 Britons, with safe passage by river promised. However, shots were fired, and a battle ensued, with many killed on both sides and around 200 women and children taken prisoner. As Havelock’s counterforces edged nearer to Kanpur, the 200 were massacred. Reprisals were severe, with mass killings, and ringleaders strapped to cannons to be executed in front of forced local observers. The British knew full well that, while death was instant, it prevented funeral rites for Muslims and Hindus.Niall Moorjani is the Indian captured by British forces and strapped to a cannon. They are threatened with execution if they do not provide the red-coated British officer (Jonathan Oldfield) answers to specific intelligence questions (to which they may not know the answers) and if they do not condemn the massacre. The officer’s demands for answers and entertainment become a game of cat and mouse, and we all know who wins that one.The set is simple, with a cannon and a Sikh tabla (Sodhi) providing ambience, percussion, and punctuation to proceedings. The staging is less so, however. The officer appears in the audience and, in turn, drives the narrative, hectors, interrupts, mocks, and demands. Moorjani, having been untied, is briefly even required to join the audience.Moorjani is a gifted and charismatic storyteller (Mohan: A Partition Story). When left space to tell the story, this comes through. The constant interruptions are symptomatic of where the power lies, but serve to cast a jarring shadow over the events. It is fair to question whether this staging choice might be revisited.Oldfield’s performance oozes entitlement and hubris, reflecting the era. The juxtaposition between Christian values and massacres is sharply conveyed.Nelson Mandela and the French Resistance: freedom fighters or terrorists? One of the most popular tourist attractions in Warsaw is the Museum of the Uprising. For decades, the Rebellion was known as the “Indian Mutiny,” placing a cultural and colonial placeholder into history. What’s in a name? Sometimes, everything.

Dance Base’s in-house companies cover each end of the age spectrum: LYDC takes dancers aged 14 to 21, giving them the opportunity to work with professionals, while PRIME features dancers aged 60 and over, with one aim being to challenge age stereotypes in dance. The four pieces in the show have been developed with professional choreographers.LYDC opens with Disconnect by Abby Warrilow, which builds from a soloist to a synchronised army of dancers before breaking into small groups and individuals. Do:Not by Marc Brew features dancers mirroring rapid routines while performers recite the emotional demands Gen Z must navigate, concluding with tight formations of electric dance. These pieces showcase the young performers’ energy, fluidity, confidence and self-possession.PRIME’s pieces use physical theatre to highlight individual personalities within a framework of strong group camaraderie. Ten by Robbie Synge comedically celebrates the company’s 10th anniversary, combining dance, singing, speech – and the group’s solution to an unexpected problem.The show uses clever lighting design to emphasise different groups of dancers. This is particularly effective in On The One, by Tony Mills, where a “box of light” is created to showcase solos, or where the group uses the lighting to create surreal animated shapes or architectural patterns with arms and hands.On The One finishes with up-tempo, propulsive music driving a fast-paced synchronised dance finale.The punning title Double Take is extremely fitting – the show prompts a double-take on our expectations of youth companies and of the over-60s.

Primal Bog might just be the most subversive show of the Fringe.The show begins with Rosa Garland stepping onto the stage fully naked and weeing into a cup. Before you’ve even processed that, they’re pouring orange slime onto themselves, slapping it across their skin. In a native Yorkshire accent, they introduce themselves as Gwyneth Paltrow, pushing her ‘Goop’ product to the audience.Directed by Posey Mehta, the show is a masterclass in absurd juxtaposition: after an extended bout of writhing in goo, Garland will make a statement that will have you in stitches. When they announce they don’t know where they are or how they got here, the show unlocks into pure chaos. They flirt with worms, perform dream analysis, play unhinged videos on a projector, get a tattoo on stage, and dump yet more goo over themselves. It’s gender-queer, gleefully grotesque, and utterly uninterested in fitting into a tidy box. And yet, despite the filth, slime, and anarchy, there’s an internal logic to follow. This isn’t random shock; it’s an artistic rebellion with teeth, raising a middle finger to rules.Garland dismantles every preconception of femininity, blasting through taboo after taboo with joyful abandon. It’s a celebration of weird, an ode to chaos, and an invitation for us to get as gloriously messy as they are, before rising like a phoenix from the ashes of “normal.” You laugh, you wince, you think—sometimes all at once. Does any of this make rational sense? No. But it does in your gut.If there’s a flaw, it’s in the pacing: occasional lulls in momentum leave you momentarily adrift. But perhaps that’s part of the point—disorientation as liberation. Either way, Primal Bog is a sensory riot, a taboo-shattering revolution that leaves you baffled and strangely elated.

It’s A&E, and Oliver is joining us in the waiting room following a dramatic accident involving a stationary car. Directed by the seasoned clown visionary Cecily Nash, Kathy Maniura is The Cycling Man: problematic, troubled, middle-aged, and riddled with privilege and mummy issues. Smothered in delicious irony, this hour of character comedy brilliantly demonstrates the depth and versatility of drag kinging.The Cycling Man himself is a finely tuned caricature: a posh Oxford graduate, member of the Islington Cycle Club, and self-important consultant who reads The Financial Times in shorts that are VERY padded. He’s obsessed with the 1968 film musical Oliver!, adores his quarter-zip fleeces enough to sing them an inspired ballad, and is utterly clueless about women—particularly his estranged wife, Susan. Combining hilariously accurate observations with quintessential drag whimsy, Maniura has excellently crafted a character with impressive detail.Using projections and PowerPoints, he tries to chart why Susan left him, and it’s corporate jargon galore. It’s a brilliant, side-splitting parody of the upper-middle class’ stiff upper lip: utterly real and ripe for ridicule. Between GoPro footage, peloton love stories, and thinly veiled machismo, we see a “mummy’s boy” desperate for safety and connection. If there’s a downside to the show, it’s that some of Oliver’s monologuing can over-extend and slow the pace of an otherwise dynamic performance.Beneath the ridiculousness lies a portrait of male fragility, loneliness, and the strange rituals we cling to when life spins off balance. Maniura’s character work is pitch-perfect, giving this absurd posh-peloton tragicomedy a high-quality finish.

Written by Dan Bishop and directed by Noah Geelan, this sharp comedy takes us through five consecutive Sunday meet-ups for a clinical drug trial. Four strangers, delightfully mismatched, are overseen by Dr. Evans (Emmeline Downie), who guides us through their weekly progress. With quick wit, strong performances, and a thought-provoking core, Brainsluts is both an enticing watch and a timely commentary on the gig economy.The show’s greatest strength lies in its richly drawn characters, each of whom feels vividly real and multidimensional. Duggan (Robert Preston) is the group’s rogue charmer and likely crowd favourite—an oddball desperate to be everyone’s mate yet perpetually met with the cold shoulder. Preston’s off-beat timing and earnest delivery make him magnetic to watch and deserve high praise, especially opposite Kathy Maniura’s Bathsheba: a blissfully unaware, job-juggling free spirit. Bishop’s own Mitch, an anti-job activist surviving on flyers and rebellion, pairs neatly with Bethan Pugh’s Yaz, a twitchy “nepo baby” whose godmother conveniently runs the drug company. Their tentative romance slyly riffs on the flippancy of modern relationships and the transactional nature of connection—perfectly in step with the play’s critique of the gig economy. Each character, in fact, reflects a different facet of society’s transactional flaws, allowing Bishop’s commentary to seep through the play without ever feeling heavy-handed.Bishop’s writing is sharpest in the group scenes: a guided meditation derailed by Duggan and Mitch’s spiralling neuroses (while trialling an anti-anxiety drug, no less) is a particular standout. Equally compelling is a tender moment between Dr. Evans and Duggan, rooted in her heartbreak, which places her on equal footing with the trial participants—another breadcrumb pointing to our shared interconnectedness. Downie shines here, her nuanced tenderness both truthful and quietly devastating.The pacing is well-judged, balancing entertainment with social critique—a notoriously tricky feat pulled off here with aplomb. That said, not every beat lands: a few character decisions feel ungrounded, and Bathsheba’s story arc leans into caricature without the moment of stripped-back vulnerability afforded to the others.Still, the intelligence of the writing endures, as do the standout performances. The ending is brilliant, leaving the possibility of the group meeting again hanging in the air, offering a glimmer of hope against a clear-eyed portrait of modern isolation and competition.Witty, perceptive, and carried by a cast at the top of their game, Brainsluts is comedy with both brains and bite.

No Milk, No Sugar drops us into a bustling cha chaan teng – a casual Hong Kong-style diner and a convenient platform for telling stories about home.Blending cinematic martial arts styles with slapstick comedy and acrobatics, this is physical theatre that wears its Hong Kong identity proudly, performed with such physical commitment you feel sore watching it.The problem with No Milk, No Sugar is that it is all foam and no coffee. The premise never develops into a meaningful throughline beyond serving a bun to a customer. The one female cast member is expediently used when someone needs to be theatrically thrown across the stage – a missed opportunity for a deeper storyline.While the chopstick swordplay and “how many bodies does it take to change a lightbulb” gag fit the diner setting, other moments feel like pet projects parachuted in – a beatboxing alien, for instance, that is neither humorous nor relevant.Taken in isolation, some set-pieces are mesmerising, such as the bubble-balancing dance that follows one fighter’s “death”. But any effort to find meaning is hurriedly undercut when the entire cast reappears in the next scene without explanation. Despite infectious enthusiasm for the craft of clowning, it is this grab-bag approach that keeps No Milk, No Sugar from landing a fully satisfying narrative.Still, as a showcase of Hong Kong’s eclectic theatre scene – part circus, part kung fu movie, part comedy sketch show – it is vibrant, athletic and impossible to watch without a grin. You just might leave wondering if the show needed a little more story, and a little less sugar rush.

There are a plethora of quiz- and game-related shows at the Fringe these days, and Not Another Quiz Night is a cut above the rest, combining two of my great passions – quizzing and chaotic partying.For quiz purists, the show offers genuinely interesting questions with a good mix of difficulty for all abilities and genres for all interests, but the real star of the show is that, as the title suggests, it is not just another quiz night. It also brings comedy skits, challenges, singalongs and all sorts of outlandish “celebrity” guests.Gregarious host Jake Bhardwaj sets the tone, immediately putting at ease anyone worried that there are not enough jokes or enough quiz for them, and brings the room’s energy to a point where the audience cannot help but get swept along with the joy of it all. Joining him is his DJ buddy, frequently playing crowd-pleasing bangers, and the aforementioned guests, including (minimal spoilers) a hilariously harrowing cameo by a now older and down-on-his-luck beloved childhood character.As the night progresses, the atmosphere and camaraderie create a closeness among the audience that makes it feel as though all your fellow teams are friends rather than rivals. By the end, it does not matter how well you have done – you leave feeling like you have just been at the greatest Fringe late-night party with your new best pals.

When shows are assigned to an early slot, they need to be punchy, engaging and well paced. Brits Abroad: Banned delivered on all these counts – blowing away any cobwebs and keeping me laughing in my seat.Set in the depths of fiery hell, where the Brits have been banished after nowhere else will take them for their summer holidays, the devil becomes increasingly frustrated that whatever horrible situation he throws at them, they continue to have a good time. We meet a selection of stereotypical British holidaymakers, all equally as insufferable as the next. While this could have become a breeding ground for clichés and tired jokes, it was largely avoided thanks to a competent scriptwriter who knew when to take the foot off the gas.I love tongue-in-cheek comedy and found a lot of the jokes jam-packed into Brits Abroad: Banned hit the sweet spot between wit and shock factor. With the protests across Europe against British tourists’ prominence in our media at the moment, the narrative felt incredibly timely. The ability to respond to contemporary social and cultural narratives was left a little dated, however, when it came to some of the jokes embedded into the show. I love a bit of Tory bashing as much as the next person, but it did feel a tad off the pulse. If this were a year or so ago, it would potentially have felt more relevant.Brits Abroad: Banned embodies what all Fringe shows are trying to achieve – keeping their audience entertained. This show does that in abundance. Boring people, avoid this; it will not be for you.

There were probably occasions when the ubiquitous socialite Truman Capote might have wished he’d been left off the invitation list – even of his own party. Garden Party – Truman Capote's Black and White Celebration at theSpace @ Symposium Hall is probably a case in point.We’re invited to don a black lace eye-mask to feel fully part of this immersive theatrical experience by Paris-based Kulturscio’k Live Art Collective that uses all available space. Two hosts, Sean O’Callaghan and Paul Spera, mingle with the guests and engage in chit-chat about the rich and famous, bandying around names such as Audrey Hepburn, Greta Garbo, the Bloomingdales, Peter Lawford and Patricia Kennedy, David Niven, Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood, Hope Lange and many more. Meanwhile, director Alessia Siniscalchi hovers around in the manner of an operatic diva, fanning herself. Cue song and dance routine as the gentlemen take to the stage as socialites for an interlude of musical entertainment with live backing from Didier Leglise, who has been seated behind his keyboard with guitar playing incidentally – all part of what they call the ballad of hypocrisy.More mingling follows and it terminates nearly 20 minutes before the end of its programmed 50-minute running time. As with many parties, you sometimes wonder why you went.

Level Up!, with its youthful cast and high-level concept, feels like a rookie player tackling hard mode – all ambition and big ideas, but lacking the prowess.“Life: the video game” sees three friends – Jo, Raff and Bobby – sucked into a games console where each must forge their own path through a surreal, challenge-filled virtual version of Life: Jo hacks the game’s coin system, Raff flings herself into the quest of saving the world, and Bobby becomes a conceptual artist after losing his purpose.Along the way – passing a dizzying parade of musical songs – we leap from climate collapse to crypto profiteering, with even a dedicated number about Satoshi Nakamoto, the mysterious creator of Bitcoin. To give credit where it’s due: it’s probably the clearest (and catchiest) explanation of crypto-mining you’ll ever hear.Guiding the three mates through ‘Life’ is a trio of game assistants – a cheesy, toe-tapping chorus who act as both commentators and chaos agents. Their presence is pure panto, and it works, in a knowingly silly way. But the show’s shifting tone is hard to keep up with – one moment earnestly rhyming about the state of the planet, the next leaning into market crash explainers, then suddenly breaking into a Texan-themed line dance.The cast as singers are vocally impressive, though lack the full-bodied commitment required for the show to level up, unsure – like us – whether they’re in a brilliant cringe-embracing satire or a slightly cloying student revue.There’s no doubting the ambition here – it’s an elaborate mash-up of musical theatre, gamer culture and economics lesson. The LED screens were a neat investment, but its young, inexperienced cast, already overstretched with a full album of concept songs – seems ready to buckle under the weight.Still, if you’re up for a meta-musical with a crypto crash course, a climate change cautionary tale, and a musical dance break or two – Level Up!’s creators may inspire you to press “continue”.

Theatre allows us to enter the hearts and minds of others, to explore cultures, to confront issues, to see things from a different perspective, to be challenged, to view history not only as the past but also as the present and the future, because it never goes away, it cannot be erased and will always be with us. Sometimes these elements come together in profound writing, imaginative staging and precise direction as they do in Kaddish (How to be a Sanctuary) at theSpace Triplex.Kaddish is a 13th-century Aramaic prayer. It means sanctification, a word related to the Hebrew Kadosh, meaning holy. The best known is the Mourner’s Kaddish, which never mentions death but rather proclaims the greatness of God and speaks of peace being established. When chanted in groups, it’s a reminder that no one mourns alone.There would have been Kaddish for Grandpa Saul, to whom his grandson, Sam Sherman, is given access via a mystical creature from Jewish folklore. A structural pattern permeates the monodrama as Sherman alternates between two desks. At one he is Grandpa, typing about and reflecting upon current events. At the other he is himself, with books piled up for research along with Grandpa’s writings. Thus the past becomes the present. A large wooden tree against the back wall dominates the set, a symbol that in Judaism can represent the connection between the physical and spiritual realms, but can today also be a reminder of how forests can be used for political ends.The writing is tight, with multiple short scenes, some at the desks and others using movement around the floor space, furnishing energy and pace. Disparate topics are often juxtaposed, providing thoughtful connectivity. Grandpa is revealed as an impassioned man of conviction and principle who will face up to anyone for a worthy cause. He fights Nazis in battlefields across Europe in WWII and confronts domestic fascists and mobsters in his hometown of Newark, New Jersey. Meanwhile, Sam gets swept up in the Washington, DC uprisings of 2020 and then, appalled at the actions of Israel's Zionist government, he draws us into the heart of current events, believing it is time to follow in Saul's footsteps and take a stand. But how can he tell his parents he intends to leave home for solidarity work in the occupied West Bank?Sherman is deeply conscious of the respect and sensitivity required to bring the journal of the man who inspired the shape of the play to life on stage; a relative who died years before he was born, yet still asks us to listen to the moral inheritance of our ancestors. They echo one another across decades in a dramatic arc that serves as a reflection on Jewish-American life, political fights and contemporary struggles. If that sounds heavy, there are times when it is, and rightly so. Burdens are rarely light. Yet there is plenty of humour and, as a playwright, Sherman knows exactly when to bail out of the depths of despondency and lighten the tone, and as an actor he knows how to time and deliver both.Sherman and Lila Weitzner collaborated on this first joint project and together, regarding it as culmination of years of friendship and shared commitment towards creating politically engaged theatre. The fruits of their labours are a dramatic triumph.

Protests are planned in support of Hong Kong’s fragile democracy. Millie, while along for the ride, is more keen on partying.Millie is the daughter of ex-pats, a “third culture kid” – raised in a different environment than that of their parents. She is used to being uprooted and is a Hong Kong resident without a sense of belonging. Her lack of British identity is laid bare at her school’s International Food Event. She is described as a “gweilo”, a Cantonese term simultaneously meaning white ghost or foreign devil – is she little more than a distraction?Jesse, a local and her best friend, is passionately committed to opposing the Extradition Bill, a mechanism by which individuals could be transferred to mainland China. Hong Kong citizens fear that once granted, it will be the pivotal moment for the demise of their democratic processes.Jesse and Millie set off for the protests, but Millie diverts them to her favourite bar, Danny’s; the fact that an underage teenager has a favourite being a tell. Danny expresses surprise upon learning that they are going to the protests; he had hitherto considered her a party girl. This stings Millie, her sense of belonging taking another hit. Danny is an equally committed democrat, broadcasting pirate radio, and ominously signposts a safe haven.Many of the protestors are still adolescents: Jesse and Millie, staggeringly, are more fearful of Jesse’s parents’ disapprobation than of the actions of the riot police. When Millie’s taxi is prevented from reaching its destination by protesters, she is more concerned about her hangover.Their evening chaotically spirals out of control, with protesters and riot police inevitably violently clashing. There are very few pupils the next day at school and without explanation the class has a substitute teacher – there have been many arrests overnight. But there are other reasons for absences: Jesse is in hospital, in a coma. If he ever pulls out, he faces arrest for assault and doubtless sedition.Mimi Martin wrote and performed this highly impressive production, drawing on her first-hand experiences as a former Hong Kong resident and gleaning verbatim stories from friends. Martin weaves her narrative between initially self-absorbed teenage and the gravitas of the political situation unfolding. She flits between characters impressively but with cultural sensitivity. Her storytelling ability is remarkable. Martin’s physical performance is striking: she struts the stage, she dances in a club, but it’s the moments of stillness, the understated anxiety, that haunt.None of this would be possible without Jessica Whiley’s exceptional direction. Every choice, every movement, every nuance, has been carefully honed.The closing scene, in which the realisation of the situation slowly lands, will live long in the memory. Every inner thought is conveyed on Martin’s face and despite a full auditorium you could have heard a pin drop.The stories of Hong Kong citizens’ voices need to be recounted to the outside world; Youth In Flames is a classic example of ‘actors as messengers’. This is a quintessential Fringe show: a small venue, a minimal set, but magnificent storytelling combined with flawless direction. Mimi Martin and Jessica Whiley – remember their names and see them while you can.

Grareth [no, that’s not a typo] Krubb (Trygve Wakenshaw, in a suit that’s too small for him) and Dennis Chubb (Barnie Duncan, “the swarthy one”, in a suit that’s too big) are allegedly account consultants for Rucks’s Leather Interiors. However, this pair, happy to hand out their business cards to the audience as we enter, frankly struggle to get anything done, taking office incompetence to new heights of laugh-out-loud physical comedy. Though there’s also the occasional, often surreal, verbal comment thrown in for good measure: “Imagine a room covered in skin” sticks in the mind!Wakenshaw and Duncan are absolute masters at this kind of physical humour, not least for managing to get almost a couple of minutes’ worth of physical contortions out of a simple handshake. Yet, while the jokes keep on coming, they’re sensible enough to ensure we have sufficient pauses for breath – otherwise they’d probably lose half their audience to laughter-induced asphyxiation.The show is recommended for 12-year-olds and older, possibly because there are one or two moments of more risqué adult humour – an unexpected diversion into the lives of pigeons, for example, ends with the briefest moment of “coitus”. And yet many children would surely really enjoy this, not least because there is a genuine child-like feel to both Wakenshaw and Duncan’s characters. Also, the show is grounded in a series of easily understandable games – some taking “management speak” literally – which the pair perform with exceptional skill.It should be said that this is not a new show: it debuted in Edinburgh the best part of a decade ago, but it still feels remarkably fresh and exciting, with even a sense of some visual and physical improvisation – although I suspect that it’s actually choreographed to within an inch of its life. There are also several running gags – one involving coffee cups – which build throughout the show to the increasing delight of the audience.Wakenshaw and Duncan are, without doubt, an exceptional double act: indeed, with their tall/short aspect, they have something of a Laurel and Hardy vibe – albeit without the overt physical assaults. Yet it’s also clear that this is, in part, down to their ongoing success as solo performers – each has their own shows in Edinburgh this year, as well as another fully improvised duo performance later in the evening. As Different Party proves, when they do choose to work together, the result is magical.

Having developed her material on the comedy scene in Dubai, Indian-born Saaniya Abbas is excited to be able to tell the jokes that would certainly get her in hot water back home. Her material touches on the cultural differences of her childhood in New Delhi, her education in a Himalayan Catholic convent school, and her experiences performing comedy in different countries. There’s also a lot of material to be gleaned from her experiences as a lapsed Muslim divorcee, but Abbas’s comedy is so much more than this. Her tight, hilarious set covers everything from Andrew Tate, artificial intelligence, and dating in your thirties to colonoscopies, drunken WhatsApp videos, and possibly the best armpit joke on the Fringe.Abbas engages the audience throughout her set, checking in to see if anyone shares her experiences and opinions and making sure that references are understood, especially when talking about her ex. Several of her punchlines draw applause, and she seems genuinely delighted to have such a response. It feels almost maternal, as if she’s determined to ensure that we’re all having a good time too.Of course, you can’t review Abbas without mentioning her phenomenal social media following. There’s a new breed of comics at the Fringe whose fame comes from skits and gags on TikTok and Instagram, and many find that their comedy, which works so well in short clips while scrolling on the toilet, doesn’t translate into a full hour of entertainment. However, it’s clear that Abbas earned her stripes on stage at comedy clubs, building her style and delivery, and she delivers a brilliant hour of comedy that’s over all too soon.

Back and better than ever, Cat Cohen’s Broad Strokes is her personal story of how the New York comedienne faced the one thing she wasn’t ready for: a stroke. Fortunately, it came from the same condition Hailey Bieber had, so at least it was chic.Having been diagnosed with a PFO, Cohen recognises the pure comedic and ironic bliss of having a literal “hole in her heart.” She tells the story of hitting rock bottom for a hypochondriac – actually being diagnosed with a serious illness. From amazing songs sung with glee about wanting to be a normal girl to another optimistic tune about wanting to have complete control over everything in her life, Cohen’s comedic tone perfectly straddles two perspectives – one being an inflated-ego-oblivious American and the other a deliverer of comedic truth.Having followed her Fringe journey since her debut in 2019, this is seemingly her first show to follow a single overarching narrative. The structure of the show provides the most amazing container for her to deviate from. There is never an empty space or silence she doesn’t make us laugh at. “I’m great with silence,” she insists. From a squeaky microphone stand that becomes Ariana Grande to her playful yet deeply serious beef with adult blonds, Cohen is a beautifully skilled performer.And while her onstage persona is so comically unself-aware, it provides the perfect set-up for her punches of truth. Broad Strokes is Cohen’s encapsulating singular work. Those who are not particular fans of musical comedy would enjoy the show as well. A skilled singer, Cohen’s use of music takes the narrative further. The rhythm of her songs, as well as the punchy choruses, provide the perfect landing for her jokes. And while there may be silences as we patiently wait for the punchline of the song, the timing is always so incredibly articulated. The show is so thoughtfully constructed. There is never a missing beat in terms of story. It’s dazzling, honest and surprising.Cat Cohen proves to be one of the most impressive American comedians at the Fringe. Unbridled and honest, she’s enrapturing and yes, but of course, oh so chic.

“I need you to keep your expectations for what’s about to happen SKY HIGH!”John Norris did not fail to deliver on his promise made at the beginning of Mr Chonkers. Gathered in an odd venue, Summerhall’s fitting Anatomy Dissection Room, the crowd sat in semi-circle wooden pews. Hovering above Norris, we look down at him as he performs his “entertainment showcase.” This is the container for Mr Chonkers – an odd audition with endless gags and surprises. And while there are times his show may seem like a hat on a hat – no, literally. He has a hat within a hat within a hat within a hat (and many more hats, but let me not spoil the show).To summarise the show would be like a list of Mad Libs. From Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine as a father, to an Italian boy with a love for magic, to Norris’s actual endearing love for his wife, who he earnestly applauds at the end of the show – Mr Chonkers is not formed like any other show at the Fringe.With excellent direction from Corey Podell (Underground Monk Show, Vanessa 5000), Norris’s chaos is always tightly connected to the next bit. And in times when we may get lost, there is never a broken connection with the audience. His capabilities as a performer are captivating. With a one-second look, he cuts through the audience like a knife. The audience is the most important relationship in the show, obviously. He uses the space like a playground.He includes circumstance in the pursuit of total presence. He tells us Summerhall is where the “art shit” happens. And while the material ranges from Norris’s impressive Chihuahua having his belly scratched to being a faceless monk with a people problem, there is a sense of artistic sincerity because of his level of acute awareness as a performer.Norris is a clown’s clown. This phrase is not to undermine his mainstream likability in any way but rather to highlight his total mastery of the craft. There isn’t an inch of the show where he is not completely present and open to the spontaneity of live performance. He is constantly engaging with us in new and surprising ways. Edgy is too simple a word. He’s unafraid to challenge himself with every performance, and it’s a complete delight to watch.This is an unforgettable clown show you’ll want to catch before the rest of his run sells out.

Fag Packet are a London-based cabaret duo making their Edinburgh Festival Fringe debut. Their act features two American, repressed housewife types, living their best lives at the centre of a pyramid scheme, with the audience cast as their lucky new potential recruits. They can’t wait to tell you all about the DYKE System.The show draws heavily on drag traditions in terms of characterisation, comedy style and cabaret interludes. However, they bring something original to the scene, taking existing tropes in a unique direction. Much of the audience was in complete hysterics as they moved through ever-increasingly high-camp sequences, all while dressed in the most fabulous matching business blazers you’re likely to see. The final sequence of the show is a joy to behold – one of the most hilarious moments of the entire festival. It is, however, notable that this humour will likely not be for everyone: it is loud, crass and heavily reliant on outdated lesbian stereotypes. In this regard it is very one tone throughout so, if this doesn’t sound like your thing, it probably won’t be; but if it does, you certainly won’t be alone. As a production this show teeters right on the edge between celebrating lesbians and mocking them. Where you feel it falls is ultimately up to you.The two performers exude an untamable amount of energy and create an effortless rapport with the crowd. Every line, every movement and every bit of intense eye contact feels precision-engineered for maximum comic effect – they are masters of character detail. The theme reinforces this, with the characters’ sexual repression providing the perfect backdrop for some of the most ridiculous gags. Although we can’t be sure exactly what the Dynamic, Young, Knowledgeable Entrepreneurs are selling, it’s clear that there will be no shortage of people eager to buy it.

Aidan Monks’ Playing Love follows a seminary love triangle full of wicked desire and scandalous secrets. The concept holds promise, and the writing offers moments of intelligent, refreshing dialogue.However, despite its strong foundation, the show struggles to fully deliver. The script sometimes feels overly dense and chaotic, rushing into hysteria and arguments before we’ve had a chance to connect with the characters. This makes it hard to invest emotionally or for moments of climax to deliver the way they are intended. The philosophising sprinkled throughout is thoughtful, but ultimately feels unresolved and leaves the audience wanting more closure, especially when the characters ultimately settle on leaving their fates to chance.While the humour lands here and there, inconsistent delivery and overly self-aware performances undercut many of the jokes. Direction feels unfocused and largely informed by a stereotypical view of the farce genre, leaning into exaggeration that often overwhelms rather than enhances the narrative.There’s definitely potential here, and flashes of brilliance, but the overall execution misses the mark. With tighter direction and more nuanced performances, this mischievous comedy could become a hidden gem.

The title of this show is misleading: it is not so much The Butterfly Who Flew Into The Rave as a pneumatic road drill challenging the Olympic speed drum machine team. And I mean that in a good way. What is accurate is the tagline ‘a 3-day rave condensed into an hour’.The dancer-choreographers Oli Mathiesen, Lucy Lynch and Sharvon Mortimer are already dancing as the audience make their way to their seats. It would not surprise me if the performers have already been dancing for half an hour.The music is adrenaline-pumping hard techno at full blast – courtesy of Suburban Knight’s Nocturbulous Behaviour album.What follows is an hour of non-stop synchronised endurance dancing at such speed it’s surprising limbs don’t fall off.Viewed simply as a feat of memory, the dancing is astonishing. There must be two or three moves or poses per second, all of which are detailed from the fingertips to the toes – and all perfectly synchronised between the dancers. It’s like firing a machine gun for an hour and remembering the name of every bullet.The experience is sweaty, grimy and loud. The dancers are unremitting and relentless, as if each is connected to a personal generator parked outside. Every so often, one or more of them look as if they’re tiring – but that’s just to trick the audience.There are a few slow-downs of seconds while they gulp cups of water, but near the end of the show they even swig while dancing. Presumably there is too much routine left to take time to pause.The show emulates a rave but the difference is these performers are choreographed to the molecular level. The movement is incredibly varied. Sometimes you might think they are repeating a sequence, but then you see they are doing something new.This is a short review for a five-star award. The show has no themes, no examination of a topic, no research of dance archives; there’s no message. What there is, is a show that is simply mind-boggling.

If something odd, funny, and a little spooky is what you’re looking for at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, then look no further than Baron Vordenburg’s Guide to the Paranormal. Although actual paranormal antics are minimal, Baron Vordenburg offers an absurd glimpse into his world of darkness and evil.This show is one to watch – even if it is not a show at all. Rather, it is a lecture hosted by Baron Vordenburg – along with sidekicks Grotesque and Gothic – preparing audiences on how to protect themselves from the paranormal. Even before the Baron walked on, I was drawn in by one of the actors in the booth in full costume, including just a dash of blood and an unsettling mask. Then, as the show started, those unafraid to sit in the front row were greeted by two women unafraid to stare back at the audience. Truly, the spooky atmosphere was set well.Just as I thought I knew what to expect from the show, the more comedic elements started. This tonal shift was weird and perfect all at once. It was a good reminder that I had signed up for a dark comedy, and it certainly got both dark and comedic. One of the best parts of these more comedic elements was Grotesque and Gothic. The two had wonderful comedic timing, and in playing characters that did not speak, they used their bodies to convey the story. Their comedy blended with costumes covered in blood made me wonder if I should run for my life or keep watching them galavant on stage. As things played out I could not help but wonder if everything I knew about the main trio was wrong. And I always found myself thinking about those two women at the beginning – so unabashedly afraid to stare back.As a play with a small ensemble, everyone had their moments of standing out and often made me wonder which direction I should look. Should I look at the Baron and his overpowering demeanour? Grotesque and Gothic letting the audience in on a little secret? Or should I still be worried the front door might open and let someone else in? Everyone left me enraptured and my eyes roamed to everyone. Though there are not heavy technical elements in this intimate space with an intimate cast, I felt a part of their story, not separate.Baron Vordenburg’s Guide to the Paranormal is a show that will stick with me. Perfect for people who like weird theatre and shows that don’t do what you expect them to.

Although he dedicates quite a lot of energy to convincing you that he doesn't, Nate Kitch knows exactly who he is and what he is doing in Nate Kitch: Something Different!!!!!Things not to expect from one of Nate’s shows are much sense, many actual jokes and any feeling of a beginning, a middle or an end. Things you definitely can expect are endlessly unexpectable fun, quite a surprising amount of faeces for a comedy show at the Gilded Balloon, and a section of something so simple and yet so brilliant that the entire room is rocking with uncontrollable laughter.It is a long time since I have experienced anything quite like it. Through scatological clowning (more scat than clown), his struggles with exclamation marks, Matisse, North Korea and a grandfather who gets younger with every mention, Nate takes us with him. He does lose me when he attempts to mime his way through the problems Canadian rappers have with snow. Although, obviously, a serious problem for the rappers (Drake specifically, in this case), Nate's mime skills are so pathetically sad, I find myself siding with Kendrick Lamarr. And that is something I never thought I would say.Excitingly, for followers of Nate's promotion of this show, I can report that he does actually have a hat. And it is very nice. I did lie about the ending, by the way. And it is worth waiting for… weird, but worth waiting for.

If memory is theatre’s most treacherous stage, then Dan Colley’s Lost Lear treads it with mesmerising assurance. Joy is a retired actor living with dementia, her memories teased out and tended to by carers who encourage her to live in a world where she is still preparing King Lear – the people around her “playing along” to steady her existence and allow the one-time blazing star of the theatre some level of engagement and stimulation as the condition strips away her memories.When her estranged son Conor arrives, the game casts him – devastatingly – as Cordelia. The piece shifts and swirls between present-tense caregiving, shards of Lear, and memories of a life of dramatic transcendence and familial abandonment. This bleed is the point: memory misfires, repeats, dazzles, collapses. Live video, projection, puppetry and tight lighting cues make those shifts visible without ever forcing the metaphor; the show’s form behaves like Joy’s mind.Venetia Bowe as Joy gives a performance of astonishing tact. Imperious in her imagined world, she does not hunt for pity; she lets thought arrive late, or sideways, and you feel the cost of the correction. When a line of Shakespeare surfaces, it is not a show-off trick but a flare in a raging storm – poignant because it risks not landing. There is wit here too, and a stubborn performer’s instinct that refuses to shrink Joy to mere diagnosis.Playing off this is a superb Gus McDonagh as Conor. He is tightly clenched, bewildered, resistant to the dramatic premise and torn between an irresistible urge to manifest love for his mother, and the deeply held bitterness of a spurned child. He carries the unglamorous truths of estrangement: the petty defensiveness, the reflex to say “that’s not how it happened”, the dawning realisation that playing along with the dramatic tragedy might be the only honest thing left in a long-broken relationship.Manus Halligan’s Liam is the hinge that keeps everything humane. Deft and unfussy, he finds the dry humour and practical tenderness of care work – the rhythm that allows the production’s bigger ideas to breathe. Together, this trio make the meta-theatre feel earned; this is not cleverness for its own sake, but a working method for humans to stay close and relate to each other, breathing a powerful, intensely recognisable personal pain into the grandeur of Shakespearean tragedy.This is a production that resists tidy catharsis – rightly so – but the emotional clarity never blurs. What remains is pathos without mawkishness, intelligence without chill, and a hard, resilient sort of hope. If there is a whisper of Beckett in the pauses, there is also exuberance in the playfulness – the swagger of performers keeping a fragile world intact, line by stolen line.

The Truth About Trees follows Alfie, a young boy who, thanks to his grandfather, discovers a book written by a tree and is inspired to protect the stories of the trees in the woods surrounding his home. The story is told by three actors, who also make use of some impressive puppetry to enhance the tale – the shadow puppetry in particular is almost enchanting.The show has a solid concept, but sadly does not focus on it as much as it perhaps should. A stronger version would place greater emphasis on the actual stories told by the tree and make more extensive use of the charming shadow puppetry. Instead, the focus is often on Alfie’s life – his school, his mother, his teachers – and in doing so the relatively short runtime becomes clogged with content that does little to enhance the central message.In addition, the production’s conclusion inadvertently suggests that activism will do nothing. Several drawn-out scenes underline the fact that people either ignore or openly mock Alfie’s efforts to save the trees. As a result, despite his grandfather’s claim at the end that the trees were inspired to band together and protect themselves because of Alfie’s actions, the audience is left to doubt this – and, in fact, the implication seems to be that environmental activism is unnecessary because trees can simply save themselves.Nonetheless, the show is fairly well assembled. The actors are engaging and friendly, happily chatting with audience members before the performance begins. While the environmental message is unlikely to be new to any older child who has been in primary school for more than a few years, the narrative’s concept remains an interesting one – and it may yet result in a few parents finding bathtubs clogged with toothpaste and twigs.

It starts with music, song and a scream. Bury The Hatchet is a forensic examination of the details and geography of the house and its inhabitants on the day of the double murder, Lizzie’s life leading up to the event, the police investigation, the autopsy, the trial, the witnesses and the aftermath. But this is not an episode of Silent Witness. Instead, it is a show full of laughs, self-parodying Grand Guignol, and toe-tapping and dramatic songs ranging in genre from bluegrass to contemporary rock.The music from the three performers – Sasha Wilson, David Leopold and Joseph Prowen – singing and playing guitar, violin and mandolin is top-notch. Their acting ranges from funny to dramatic, but is always engaging. The characters in the show include the local police, the judge, the maid, Lizzie’s sister, Lizzie’s friends, her stepmother, her father and, of course, Lizzie herself. The show switches between dramatised dialogue and action to the narration of details and discussion (and disagreement) of various theories.The show, written by Wilson, is incredibly well researched, down to such details as the rooms being too small to swing an axe, meaning the murder weapon had to be a hatchet. Even the most ardent Lizzie Borden investigator is likely to find new facts or perspectives here.If you are intrigued by the Lizzie Borden story, are a fan of true crime, or simply enjoy a damn good show, then the hatchet is waiting for you.

If his audience are as glad to be here as the warmth of their reception suggests, then polymath Paul Sinha is even gladder.The Fringe veteran and television favourite has had a rough couple of years. His health battles – double heart attacks whilst performing in Edinburgh – contribute handsomely to his current set. But this is not a maudlin hour. Far from it. The jokes come thick and fast, frequently at his own expense and underpinned with a warmth and generosity of spirit that make one feel as if the material is being delivered solely to you across a couple of beers.Sinha’s keen eye and acerbic tongue are well-sharpened against those we probably all agree deserve it, and his carefully crafted little ditties at the keyboard are a particular highlight. Rhyming attacks on establishment figures set to some of the most famous tunes of all time is a woefully under-explored comedic microgenre, and one which carries a more weighty heritage than Sinha’s somewhat indifferent delivery might suggest.Whilst his script is as clever and detailed as we might expect from one of TV’s most recognised factualists, Sinha's acknowledgment of his own tendency to pomposity is what stops the piece from ever becoming pompous. Unlike so many other (younger? less skilled?) comics, so much of himself bleeds through his delivery that we feel the personal connection which elevates his show above others that are simply trying too hard. There is no assumed goofiness here, no devotion to ticker-tape one-liners, no over-reliance on expletives – nothing that gets in the way of an honest tale being plainly told.In short, it is clever. It is honest. It is very, very funny. It derives its humour from the daftness of life and the resilience we all need to find at times – and that is something we can all applaud.

As a wellspring of city-grown talent, Edinburgh’s own Captivate Theatre is committed to nurturing young theatrical skill, and in their take on Legally Blonde, we may well see some names bloom bigger in the future. Any preconceptions of the small, half-assembly hall confinements are thoroughly blown away by the cast, whose incandescence immediately whisks us off to the Harvard campus with the powerful opener Omigod You Guys, which lets star Elsie Watson make her presence known as Elle Woods.In its 15-and-a-half-year tenure, Legally Blonde has traversed numerous pop culture phenomena, and this iteration manages to stay relevant with playful potshots at Gloria Steinem and some catty remarks aimed at Sabrina Carpenter’s wardrobe. Sound and lighting are handled expertly, the stage changes are superfluous, and costume changes move at electric pace, with Watson’s lightning-fast mid-show transition from pink to black dress in So Much Better rivaling that of a magic act. A deserved nod to stage props, including stuffed chihuahua Bruiser, is also worth mentioning.With watertight production, director Colum Findlay masterfully uses the talents of his 24-strong cast by playing to each of their strengths, with all given an earned shot to convey vocal prowess. Strong shoutouts in the first half go to the Chicago-esque Blood in the Water with its matching colour palette, which reveals the inner machinations of Callaghan. Big praise goes to Rory Maclean for his portrayal of the cutthroat, sleazy law professor, while Ireland shines a deserved spotlight on Speff Strachan’s Paulette, dreaming of her Irish hunk—by far one of the most endearing performances of the evening. Meanwhile, the post-interval delivers high intensity with the home-workout-inspired Whipped Into Shape, where Emma Clarkson delivers an energetic romp as Brooke Wyndham, barely breaking a sweat (expect high kicks and jumping jacks), as we glide towards the finale with a sublime rendition of Find My Way that sees the audience on their feet in rapturous applause.True to Amanda Brown’s novel, Legally Blonde finds ways of rejecting gender norms and societal expectations of femininity, whilst maintaining its tongue-in-cheek quirks (particularly with UPS delivery boy Kyle offering the female gaze something to drool over with his big package) to present a camp-heavy, thoroughly guilt-free pleasure. The show instils the message that we are all capable of being more than we think we can be, emerging as a strong contender in this year’s Fringe musical roundup.

There are thousands of artists at the Edinburgh Fringe: some are well-known stars, but mostly they are following their dreams. And so we meet the multi-talented Lucia Mallardi.Mallardi delivers the distilled narrative of her life—so far, at least. As a child, she only really wanted to be a performer, but was also a very talented footballer, if ever given the opportunity to demonstrate her skills. However, she knuckled down to a sensible career path, accepting a place at Pescara University to study Economics. Instead, her other great passion took over, and she moved to Rome to play football for Lazio.Women’s football has come a long way recently, with many leagues now boasting professional teams and sometimes attaining very large attendances. Mallardi survived and thrived, always looking to take the next step in her career. However, at the time, Italian women’s football was still mainly amateur. German women’s football was ahead of the curve, and she was offered a professional contract in Berlin.Mallardi eventually began to perform as a footballing street artist, relinquishing her professional football career and returning to her original idea of creative performance. She honed her act and has performed in many countries around the world, including Spain, England, and Thailand.There were challenges. She had to learn German rapidly, her time in Thailand nearly went badly wrong when she stumbled upon a military coup, and gender politics were never far away—she had to battle just to be able to play football as a teenager. However, perhaps the hardest aspect was the suspicion that her family was disappointed with her career choices. The telephone calls home bring some pathos to the proceedings.Mallardi’s autobiographical show is a fusion of comedy, drama, storytelling, dance, impersonations, juggling, and footballing artistry. Her movement and balance are almost balletic. She is a charming performer, engaging with the audience easily. Her juggling—be it with clubs or a football—is essentially allegorical to her life, where she has relentlessly juggled many disciplines and ideas.A word about language: it is never easy to perform in a foreign language, but Mallardi’s performance in English at the Edinburgh Fringe is confident and accomplished.England has just retained its women’s football European Championship, and some of these players have become household names. Stereotypes have been challenged and are being dismantled. The players offer clear inspiration to girls. One of Lucia Mallardi’s stated intentions as a performer and former semi-professional player is to offer similar inspiration to the marginalised; her rhythmic and striking production certainly made an impact on everyone present.

Jacob Aldcroft’s The Day I Got The Horn is a riotous, surreal odyssey through madness and the slow unraveling of a man named John Binjuice, the last human standing in a world overrun by rhinoceroses. Eugène Ionesco’s Rhinoceros meets Rick and Morty in this clown-meets-character-comedy show at its most unhinged and unexpectedly tender.Aldcroft barrels onto the stage, out of breath and fresh from a shop run to escape the rhino apocalypse, and we’re suddenly dropped into a topsy-turvy world in which he is fully immersed. Whether scaling a mimed rooftop in a three-stage ritual, handing out vodka, or reliving traumatic moments from his past, Aldcroft crafts a performance world ruled by nonsense, anxiety, and incredible comic timing.His clowning prowess lies in the rhythm of his repetition, the care with which he handles the audience, and his earnest sincerity in the face of the utterly absurd. He also strips back the chaos to let us see the inner workings of the madness in a standout moment of meta-theatre. It’s humble and emotionally grounding: a brilliant beat of quiet in the chaos. In the culminating chapter, as the rhinos close in and force John to grow a horn, Aldcroft creates both an emotional and physical crescendo. The resolution, both tender and uplifting, is the perfect whimsical antidote.He deserves a standing ovation for his unwavering dedication and the unbridled joy he brings to the room. Aldcroft not only plays at the highest level but also draws us into his infectious world of mischief, leaving us grinning from ear to ear. This is the true heart of clowning, and he embodies it completely.The Day I Got The Horn is as ridiculous as it is clever, and Aldcroft proves himself a magnetic, generous, and deeply original performer. This show is what the Fringe is all about. Your face will hurt from laughing. Your heart might ache a little, too. Hysterically funny, feral, and full of feeling. Beautifully bizarre.

A women’s toilet in a nightclub – otherwise known as a sacred gathering spot for universal sisterhood. Flush takes us behind closed (cubicle) doors rarely seen with sober eyes, to a space where women can build each other up just as much as they can tear each other down. It showcases a coming together to show the power of womanhood and the importance of community – just like women’s loos up and down the country.The first half of this performance is a straightforward, character-driven comedy. Groups of different women – a hen do, a work night out and teens who have snuck in – come and go from the bathrooms, talking about their lives and the night they are having. The humour is excellent and the characters strike the perfect balance between archetypal parodies and gals you could imagine finding down your local on any given Saturday. Conversation touches on many feminist hot topics such as plastic surgery, sexting and body image, providing relevant and well-placed commentary. Each of the groups reappears throughout the night as their stories unfold and the tone grows darker. Well every group other than the trans woman and her bisexual bestie, who appear only once and quite briefly. I can understand, with the significant transphobic rhetoric going on around trans women in bathrooms, wanting to touch on this to show its support. However, having it as such a brief tag-on felt like a missed opportunity. That said, there are only so many issues that can be explored within a one-hour fringe slot.One in four women over the age of 16 have been sexually assaulted, according to Rape Crisis. Flush puts the culture surrounding the sexual coercion of women and girls under an unflinching, uncomfortable microscope. When the performance was done and the tears were wiped from the eyes of both audience and cast, the pack-up began. I looked at the graffiti on the set pieces of the cubicle toilets, mainly feminist slogans mixed with sexualised insults. As I was taking it in, a member of the audience stopped one of the actors in her tracks: “Why didn’t she go to the police?” A question asked so many times of so many women. In that moment, it struck me how vital it is that plays like this are still being made and watched. Completely horrifying to witness – but vital in its existence.

Ploughing a furrow straight through the Lyceum stage, FC Bergman’s Works and Days resurrects Hesiod’s agrarian hymn in a startling display of stagecraft that proves – to paraphrase Bananarama and the Fun Boy Three – it really ain’t what you say, it’s the way that you say it.While the central thesis and themes of this spectacular show may not surprise anyone, the way the Belgian company presents them remains breathtaking. A wooden floor is ripped up, animals are slaughtered, a ramshackle barn is erected from torn boards and beams; there is sex, birth, death, struggle, blood, industrial machinery and flying pineapples. It is a breathless journey played out in striking sequences in which ritual gestures land with visceral heft – you can almost smell the overturned earth. Joachim Badenhorst and Sean Carpio’s live score is equally sumptuous: baritone sax drones melt into metallic percussion, steering us from bucolic calm toward machine-age menace.Throughout it all, visual bravura remains the production’s richest crop. Rain lashes from the flies; open flame licks the palms of the performers; blood splatters the front row (wearing that white T-shirt was a mistake). The final avalanche of chaos and the introduction of cutting-edge technology into the ruins of the set offer provocation rather than release. Some spectators may crave firmer anchorage amid the swirling symbolism, but that elusiveness feels oddly faithful to Hesiod’s lament that toil and advancement are forever entwined – and it keeps the thematic soil fertile for post-show debate.The piece may dig no new furrows thematically, yet its sensory force is undeniable. By the curtain call, spectators are left feeling as though history, industry and myth have all marched across their shoes, leaving muddy footprints that refuse to fade. It convinces you that even when treading ancient earth, good theatre can still startle.

Jack Docherty has found a character that works for him, and he is sticking with it. After success on Scot Squad, he reprises the role of the Chief of Scotland’s Police Force in an often bumbling caricature of public service. This works reasonably well, though it does feel a little middle of the road. On the one hand, he can touch on Scottish areas that feel familiar, but he has to go so broad that it becomes the sort of comedy that would do well on a Christmas afternoon when you put the TV on for the in-laws.Everyone will get it – and that means that very few will be truly satisfied.With a performance that feels very by the numbers, Docherty does not disappoint. He knows what works and is able to get through the hour well enough. Unfortunately, he leans into jokes from Scot Squad that we have all seen before. There is little fresh about the performance, and at times it comes perilously close to dog-whistling on subjects like gender. That said, there is no sense of malice – rather, it feels like a way to please his older crowd about “wokeness gone mad” without actually saying anything unkind. Particularly about police dogs.It was an hour well enough spent, and worth seeing if you are a local with family in town.

We all have things passed down to us. Some are inherited genetically, and others are items bequeathed. A piano often falls into the category of a burdensome gift, one that can carry a great deal of emotional baggage and necessitates finding a home for it when you’d much rather smash it up. But, oh, the guilt!Piano Smashers, at theSpace at Surgeons Hall, is a solo play featuring Rob Thompson, co-written with Rupert Page, that has moments both amusing and moving. A mother hands down her piano to her children in her will, but they really want neither the instrument nor the memories it contains. Reluctantly, they accept their fate and take what they’re given. Inspired by the plays of Tim Crouch and the theories of Peter Brook and Bertolt Brecht, this is intended as a metaphor responding to what one generation passes on to another in terms of the environment, global economics and political culture.The piece opens with Thompson delivering a couple of poor gags as a warm-up in a flamboyant, multi-coloured striped jacket. With that cast off, he begins in a softly relaxed manner to describe the set, which is an imaginary country home with three pictures in the hallway. The equally imaginary piano has to be brought in from outside, requiring the help of three members of the audience to mime its entrance.Audience participation is a key element of the show, as Thompson takes time to issue scripts to volunteers to read sections of dialogue discussing various issues. Interspersed through narrative passages, we hear the sound of pianos being smashed, far in excess of the one that was inherited. The passages relate around the central theme but never quite achieve a sense of coherence.Then, when we think it might all be over, there is a rather charming epilogue in which we are invited to reflect, in a period of silence, on an object, characteristic or quality we have inherited. Those who wish may then share their feelings with the rest of us.It’s just one more section in a rather disjointed work that nevertheless has a certain charm.

Dance People, devised by Omar Rajeh and Mia Habis and performed with the Lebanese-French dance company Maqamat, is essentially a meditation on power relationships between people, especially as they relate to physical space. This sounds abstract and dry, but the show is fun and joyous, with plenty of headspace for thought and reflection.Situated in Edinburgh University’s Old College Quad, the performers constantly redraw the courtyard spaces with floor markings and moving platforms. The audience surrounds the dancers but is restricted by red markings – sometimes encouraged to invade the spaces, sometimes hushed outside them. The boundaries between dancers and spectators are fluid. At the opening, the dancers mingle with the audience, introducing themselves by name, and later bring audience members into the dance, concluding with almost the whole crowd joining in joyous dancing.The text projected on the courtyard walls points out that the crowd has now claimed both the space and the performance.I have attended many shows where audiences are encouraged to dance, but never one where the participation of the whole crowd felt so joyful. This stems from the performers’ infectiously exuberant dancing that breaks down barriers and inhibitions.The performers blend choreographed sequences with solo improvisations, and the show uses digital displays, projected text, live video, spatial microphone effects, a DJ/musician, and recorded and live music and singing.Moments of frantic activity contrast with opportunities for meditation. Once the connection between physical space, ownership and power is established, there is time to reconsider the Old Quad anew: its complex relationship to authority, institutional ownership, and segregated uses by separate public groups.As the show progresses, emphasis shifts from the wider public to the individual. Red letters distributed to each audience member contain individual accounts of mankind’s abuse – for example, persecution in Rwanda, a witness to a murder, or environmental degradation.Single names and dates are projected (presumably victims of abuse), while the dancers improvise superbly as individuals rather than as a choreographed group.Another pause for contemplation features interviews with audience members about their working day, concluding with the finale’s roll-call of ‘dear citizens’ playing their different societal parts – connecting individuals to wider society while showing society as composed of separate people.Although the show creates a coherent whole from an intellectual point of view, for me, the various parts lacked a coherent emotional unity and journey.

“Good luck explaining what this is,” Jody Kamali – creator and performer of Ironing Board Man – says at the end of the show. To be fair, he has a point: it’s just not one you’d expect a sweating, exhausted performer – who has genuinely put his all into entertaining us and is now desperate for a positive reaction and some great “word of mouth” endorsements – to make.But it’s fair to say that Kamali has a point. In one sense, this is an easy show to describe — a slam-dunk mash-up of cinematic superhero and romance tropes, performed with great energy and enthusiasm by one man and 10 ironing boards dressed in various outfits, overlaid with a montage of snatches of film dialogue, pop songs and specially recorded dialogue. But that description genuinely fails to do the absurdity and wonder of the show justice.Ironing Board Man is precisely the kind of wonderfully “fringe-y” Fringe show that appears increasingly rare in these cost-conscious days; a production based on the kind of idle thought any sensible but imaginative person might have towards the end of a busy, tiring day, and then dismiss with a head-shaking: “Naah!”But not only did Kamali have the thought – thanks to his wife hanging a blouse on an ironing board after she’d ironed it, apparently – he went on to create a profoundly absurd piece of theatre based on it, a work that blatantly riffs on (or rips off – “puh-TAY-toh, puh-TAH-toh”) plot points from Batman, Superman and Dirty Dancing. Plus Cocktail, Karate Kid, Top Gun, Titanic, Gladiator, The Matrix, The Lion King… You get the idea.In some respects it feels a bit of a mess; in others, it’s clearly a very carefully choreographed production that delivers surprisingly impactful moments of humour and pathos through the simplest of means. For example, Kamali uses sampled dialogue and song lyrics to get across significant narrative points and character story arcs. And yet, all we see before us are a few ironing boards decked out in dresses and wigs. It really shouldn’t work. But it does. Brilliantly.Kamali himself doesn’t have too much dialogue during the show: perhaps just as well, as he is physically always on the move, throwing himself around with little apparent fear of hurting himself.“Good luck explaining what this is,” he said. Well, it’s funny, it’s exciting, it’s ridiculous. I’d say that’s precisely what you should want from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

Created by Jack Sears and Hannah Grennell, with choreography by Grennell in collaboration with the dance troupe cast, Giselle: Remix rips up the ballet rulebook and presents a brilliant genre-defying, queer reimagining of a classic. Ballet collides with lip-sync cabaret and queer performance art to chart a young person’s headlong plunge from love to betrayal, from heartbreak to rebirth. The result is beautiful.Giselle’s wedding-day bliss is all blush-pink satin and adoration from their entourage, a fairytale frosted with camp, an ode to the founding tale. Much like the original, their world comes crashing down when they discover their lover being unfaithful; betrayal hits like a sledgehammer. The tulle evaporates and dancers emerge in black and latex, evoking something akin to the Berghain dancefloor. Choreography shifts from soft, lyrical intimacy to pelvic-thrusting and writhing, and all inhibitions are thrown off. Baselines throb through the floorboards, and the heartbreak becomes a purge.The detail work here is delicious: pulsing sequences evoking the underground ballroom scene; a punk-horror metamorphosis with Giselle returning as a latex Mother Mary in an eyeless gimp mask; a chorus that moves with precision and a beautiful, reckless abandon. Beneath the spectacle, the show takes aim at toxic beauty standards and the self-destructive edges of queer nightlife while also celebrating the joy and liberation those spaces can bring. Some sections overstay their welcome and laments eventually lose their sting, but the emotional intelligence and theatrical daring are undeniable.Giselle: Remix is painterly, messy, sexy, angry and utterly unapologetic. Sears reminds us that sexuality is more than just sex; it is a living inheritance, shaped by generations of queer history. They highlight the importance of gay role models in two beautiful moments that bookend the show, featuring queer icons such as Jonny Woo that call for connection, acceptance and healing. By the final moments, the message is clear: to come as one, but stand as ten thousand.

Toussaint Douglass arrives on stage like a man obsessed – with pigeons, mostly. Binocular-wearing and twitching with anticipation, he guides us fellow birdwatchers to our seats, as we enter into his natural habitat. His winsome energy soon infects us all and, within minutes, we’re throwing bread rolls at the stage with abandon, willing the show to start.He wasn’t lying about the pigeon material. There’s a lot of it. But there’s also so much else: Nan’s immigrant origin story, an emotionally elusive dad, and a psychiatrist girlfriend who makes all the diagnoses. From family dynamics to love languages, Douglass pecks through it all with the confidence of a South East London pigeon – bold, unruffled, and weirdly magnetic.Cawing, clowning and occasionally hollering, Douglass couldn’t be more amped up on his ornithological subject matter. We follow his moves keenly, hanging on each gag. When audience interaction slows the pace, Douglass’s confidence keeps things flying.From pigeon to robin to the Caribbean’s Plumbeous Warbler (!), birds are more than a punchline for Douglass – they’re thematic scaffolding for comedic reflections on love, modern masculinity, and the things men rarely get to say out loud.This is a generous, original and properly funny show, from a performer who gives a lot – not just in movement, but in food for thought. Accessible pigeon material? Absolutely. But also: universal joy, laughter, and a weirdly moving tribute to both birds and the people who make us who we are.

There’s something oddly nostalgic about The Dark Room, John Robertson’s interactive live-action video game slash cyberpunk dystopian nightmare.Like a battered VHS tape, it feels both like a relic and a collector’s item. A Fringe fixture for over a decade and touring globally, The Dark Room has gained a cult following of Twitch streamers, bearded men in band tees, and young students with a masochistic streak.What happens in The Dark Room? You play. You die. You try again. Or someone else does, shouting commands to navigate the hellish, low-res world of an 1980s text-based adventure game, hoping to escape the room and win the £1,000 prize, or, more likely, a consolatory baguette.Audience participation is the blood in this machine. “Use door.” “Go north.” “Punch wall.” are our commands and – in all but a few exceptions – lead to our inevitable death. Don’t fret though, pretty soon, you’ll be gleefully chanting “YOU DIE. YOU DIE. YOU DIE.” at the next person.Lit by atmospheric torchlight, Robertson’s stage presence is half stand-up, half Viking warlord, his iconic silhouette the result of a set of spiked shoulder guards and a head of greasy blond locks. His ability to hold the room in an intimidating death stare is what keeps the whole thing from collapsing under its own weirdness.That, and the voice – so hoarse, so guttural. I wonder how his vocal cords can withstand one whole month of this. Then again, this is nothing new for Robertson. He’s been roaring at Fringe-goers for a decade, and he’ll probably outlive us all.A masterclass in crowd work, Robertson commands the room expertly, riffing on generational divides and gaming nostalgia, from Zelda to Sonic. It’s a bonding exercise disguised as carnage. You enter as individuals and leave as cult followers.Chaotic and completely unhinged, The Dark Room isn’t for everyone – but for those it is for, it’s a rite of passage.Long may it scream.

Doktor Kaboom – AKA German-American science communicator David Epley – is everything you want for a family show: bright, bold, and educational in that most subtle of ways – by exciting kids’ imaginations and holding their attention for the best part of an hour. That he’s able to include one or two more risqué jokes “for the grown-ups” – nothing sexual, though; this is a clean, if rubbish-strewn, show – is a bonus.With his cool dyed hair, bright orange jacket, and a kilt made out of a German flag, “Doktor Kaboom – Man of Science” considers himself an excellent specimen of humanity who just happens to “speak funny”. That said, within minutes he has his whole audience enthusiastically shouting out either “Ya!” or “Kaboom!” in response to a promised or delivered explosion.That old BBC mantra – nearly 100 years ago, founding Director General John Reith defined the broadcaster’s role as being “to inform, educate, and entertain” – is undoubtedly appropriate here, but Doktor Kaboom adds a significant amount of fun and excitement to the whole endeavour. Most of the kids in the audience – and who knows, perhaps some of their parents too – are likely to have left the venue knowing much more about pressure – the titular subject of this particular show – than they did going in, and they had a great time doing so. Though doubtless they would also be a little bit jealous of the three kids – on the day of this review, Tom, Alex and Sienna – who were brought up on stage to help with some of the more impressive experiments. (Note to our younger readers: if you want to increase your chances of selection, persuade your grown-ups to sit you in the front rows.)In Doktor Kaboom’s world, science may be dangerous – but it’s also exciting. His experiments include crushing steel with nothing more than the pressure of the surrounding air, firing ping-pong balls out of a vacuum-filled cannon, and showing the full potential force of sublimation – that’s when a substance like “dry ice” (frozen carbon dioxide) turns from solid to gas without going through that boring liquid stage. Kaboom!Yes, there are some blatant morals “in the room” too: that it’s alright to be wrong in science, and that experiments may not always work on the first attempt, but the important thing is to work out what’s wrong and to keep going until they do – and when you succeed, the previous problems help build the audience’s anticipation. At one point Doktor Kaboom also reminds us that pressure isn’t just a physical force; that the stresses of life can bear down on any of us to the point we risk “bursting”. But, as one particular experiment proves, there is always strength in numbers; that opening up to others and sharing the load can make all the difference. You cannot be brave without being afraid.Certainly, you don’t have to be afraid in the company of Doktor Kaboom. An informative, educational and entertaining hour is guaranteed.Kaboom!

Glasgow’s Darren McGarvey has long been a sharp-tongued commentator on class politics and economic inequality. In his latest book and accompanying talk, Trauma Industrial Complex, he turns the scalpel on pain, dissecting his own experiences of poverty, addiction and homelessness, and how society rewards the inauthentic performance of it.Part spoken-word takedown, part academic lecture, the show is a compelling and well-written insight into how trauma gets commodified – traded in for cultural capital, manipulated for applause, and often simplified into a neat, three-act story. But McGarvey isn’t interested in the bow-tied finale. He’s more concerned with the messy, non-linear and often unsatisfying truth of trauma recovery.If he cuts too deep in places, McGarvey makes up for it with the arresting cadence of his rap persona, Loki the Rapper – using lyricism to confront his fury, not just at his own past, but at the systems that continue to exploit it. These moments throb with energy, but within the show’s broader thesis, they become more complicated. We are forced to ask: is he simply feeding a crowd hungry for pain narratives? Is this catharsis, or just another transaction?He knowingly plays on our discomfort here, wanting us to squirm in our new self-awareness. In slyly turning the mirror – on himself and us – the show gets its edge.Elsewhere, he offers fragments of his present life – his struggle to feel joy, to regulate his emotions – as part of the recovery process. Despite saying he won’t, eventually he does: he delivers an indulgent tale of past traumas, set to tense music. The room shifts, uneasy. Our reaction is precisely the point: McGarvey gives us what we want, to show us what it costs.Smart, clear and keenly argued, this is not an anti-woke polemic. McGarvey is suspicious, not cynical – wary of how trauma narratives get hijacked, but empathetic towards those genuinely trying to heal.As Akala does with racial politics, McGarvey does with poverty, addiction, class and inequality. His delivery style – channelling a winning combination of Scroobius Pip and an affable sociology professor – is rewarding. He challenges us not just to listen, but to ask why we’re listening. And what, exactly, we’re expecting to get out of it.

Imagine if the pages of your favourite cowboy cartoon comic were to come to life and become the script for an action-packed, high-energy drama in your bedroom. There’s one sure way to make it happen: perform it yourselves and call it Cody and Beau: A Wild West Story, then put it on at theSpace@Niddry Street.In two captivating performances, the well-costumed dynamic duo of Dylan Kaueper (Cody) and Will Grice (Beau) blur the lines between fantasy and reality, leading us to forget that this is just a make-believe world of imagination and invention. Transported to 1889, we become immersed in a dramatic tale of cowboys and Indians packed with daring escapes, dastardly encounters, threatening gunfights and a plentiful supply of tacos. The boys set out on a bold journey, forsaking their box of miniature toy cowboys for the lonesome trail across the arid desert from Texas to New Mexico in the hope that their hero, Billy the Kid, is not really dead and that they might actually meet him. In a movingly staged and evocatively lit dream sequence, Cody even has a vision of the man as Beau doubles up in statuesque form.Beneath the gripping action and intense physicality, this heart-pounding adventure presents an intimate portrayal of boyhood friendship and an emotional exploration of masculinity that highlights the fine line between our true selves and who we pretend to be. We start with two pals who enjoy innocently playing together but then experience the intensities of bonding and survival as their characters deal with challenges on the journey and come to rely on each other for survival. They have to face the harsh realities of life and realise that growing up is a demanding process, full of big questions about existence and the nature of relationships. But among all the soul-searching, their tale is littered with comic moments and playfulness, though they don’t shy away from a bravely dark ending.Kaueper and Grice say they have “grown up performing and dreaming up worlds together since childhood”, at school where they began their creative partnership, and now at Edinburgh University, where they have formed their own company, Dylan and Will Theatre, with a “mission to make inventive, actor-led theatre that surprises, provokes and, most importantly, entertains.” This debut show fulfils all of those aspirations, is hugely impressive and great fun. These are two to look out for, with the potential to be enormously successful.

Dressed in shirt, tie and shorts – somewhat ironically looking like a schoolboy coming home after sports – Will Owen is really difficult to dislike. In fact, the only real criticism that can be levelled against him after nearly an hour’s worth of engaging comic banter is that his set actually has very little to do with the titular “Looking Fab at Fifty”.Mind you, he’s only 26. Most of Owen’s material focuses on how he’s never quite fitted in with the so-called gay scene, once he discovered it, and how, even though Grindr can help him find the man of his dreams, he’ll likely take a dive after the first date.The unexpected strength of Owen’s set is his audience interaction, despite him seemingly being terrified. On the night of this review, the audience happened to include half a dozen gay men, some of whom were in long-term relationships. Owen seemed genuinely pleased by this turn of fate and ticketing, asking about how they met and how they knew they’d met “the one”. All of which he then went on to use as an effective distorted reflection of his own experiences of dating and relationship building.Owen isn’t an in-your-face comedian: frankly, the voice and personality which ensured he never had to “come out” to family and friends certainly goes against that. Much of his material is sharply observed and delivered, but equally there’s a sense that he’s still holding back on us. A fault, but one that makes him all the more endearing.

Tess Letham has genius-level comic timing and a dazzling ability for the ‘just so slightly off reality’ school of clowning. She can make adjusting a prop into a comic opera in itself.The show includes the destruction of the dance styles of all contemporary female pop stars, with video clips that should make Instagram stars give up – their jobs have been demolished.The show examines the fall from grace of media star Harmony Banks. We watch her in interviews, nights out, and celebrity appearances, and are treated to a spectacularly incoherent chat-show sequence, with references to one actor’s famously unhinged interview acrobatics.We get the inevitable early 2000s ‘celebrity apology’ and Letham’s own surreally off-kilter pop songs mixed in with familiar chart hits. The lighting design is extremely well thought-out and gives a cinematic quality to the live show.The show concludes with what would be the ‘dark night of the soul’ – if Harmony Banks has a soul – as she breaks down into a final confession of emptiness.The material is extremely well executed, but there is tension between the show’s two styles of physical and narrative theatre. The parodic videos, dramatic structure, and searching monologues set expectations that aren’t met. We don’t find out what caused her fall; and ultimately, the character is a bit of a straw woman. Are media stars really so empty of thoughts and opinions they can only exist through seeing themselves on screen? If Harmony is so empty, why should I care?Harmony has great potential, and I hope she goes to a fancy wellness retreat to return as a slightly more rounded character.

They say history is written by the winners. True to that saying, How To Win Against History is a musical following Henry, an unconventional aristocrat determined to be remembered and to withstand the test of time.Henry steps on stage in an elaborate headpiece of lush feathers and a shimmering gown. Soft-spoken, charming and naturally humorous, he takes us through his life from childhood to adulthood. Set in the Victorian era, it’s immediately clear he is unlike other aristocrats – not only because of his attire, but also because of his attitude and artistic spirit.The show features two lead actors: Henry and one other performer who masterfully shifts between multiple characters with precision and wit. They are accompanied by a live band on stage, seamlessly integrated into the storytelling. Vaudeville-style patter songs deliver clever, energetic narratives that evoke the golden age of musical theatre and the sparkle of British music halls.How To Win Against History examines class, privilege, wealth, love, social pressures, not fitting in, and the longing to be oneself. But the question remains: will history remember Henry, and does he want to? Though set in a time of different social norms, it resonates powerfully with modern audiences, proving that while eras change, human nature – and the desire to be seen and heard – remains timeless.

This is a company of superb dancers, with incredible energy, strength and seemingly supernatural powers of synchronisation.Both dances in this double bill were composed by Brazilian choreographer Lili de Grammont, yet they are very different in their tone and methods of dance storytelling.The first piece, Voyeur, is not so much about the watcher but explores the impact of being watched. There are intricately synchronised group dances, and also duets – usually with the other dancers sitting on chairs, coldly observing. Accompanied by aggressive electronic music, the dancing is fierce and thrilling, sometimes with hints of violence.There are implications of surveillance as peer pressure or government control. The observers use torches like spotlights to dazzle the eyes of a couple dancing, to emphasise certain features, and to throw distorting shadows. Being watched inevitably turns the life of the person under observation into a performance. This brings to mind the distortions of life when living under a totalitarian regime or – if I’m not stretching it too far – presenting one's life for public consumption on social media.The dancing in Voyeur may be intricate and joyous in its skill, but the show hits greater heights in the second piece of the double bill – Samba and Love.During the costume change, Grammont explains that during the censorship of the military dictatorship, the 1960s song Samba and Amor, with lyrics by Chico Buarque, was renowned for its critique of the regime, which was hidden within the words to avoid censorship.Unlike the rather abstract Voyeur, the piece that follows is more concrete in its storytelling, yet more subtle in its impact. The choreography is more varied and allows the dancers to display additional skills of comedy and dance storytelling. A superb soundtrack of driving electronic music incorporates vacuous speeches, TV shows, and the blare of street life. Domestic scenes of normal life are shown, but public discourse is trivialised. Important questions may be asked by the TV interviewer, but there is never a coherent answer.Life is normal, but there is something hidden underneath: only the very last scene hints at the underlying menace as one person decides to stand out from the crowd.This is a superb piece of wit and intelligence, with dancing of energy, excitement, and great skill.

Who is the teacher who really made a difference to your life? The cast of An Idiot’s Guide To Breaking Your Own Heart at Greenside@Riddles Court all say Mr Perez. Paul Andrew Perez, head of theatre at St John’s Country Day School, Jacksonville, had only just begun writing a new Fringe show for his teenage students when he died a few months ago.So what was to happen to the fragment of the pop rock musical? At first, cancellation seemed the only option, but the flights, accommodation and Fringe venue were already booked, and more importantly, Paul Perez adored the Edinburgh Fringe and giving young people the chance to appear at the world’s biggest performing arts festival.Thus his students, families, friends and staff at the school decided the show must go on. Fellow teacher and friend Todd Twining took over the director’s role and co-ordinated getting the musical stage ready. He introduced the show to Fringe audiences, explaining its staging was their way of ‘healing and of honouring’ the show’s creator.The show looks at what it is like to be a teenager these days, focusing on 16-year-old Simon Walker (played with truly recognisable angst by Nikhil Gupta). He is surrounded by a clutch of female classmates who display varying degrees of empathy. There’s the ever-present Q (Alyssa Walker), somewhat robustly trying to bring him out of his shell; lovely Sandy (Ishta Ramroop), kind and available; and Simon’s crush, the unattainable and self-absorbed Chloe (Amelia Munley). Outside school, we meet Simon’s Cuban mother, a spirited performance from Samantha Richter.The framework of the story is the class being assigned a project on How to Be You by teacher Mrs Hannan (an assured Michelle Nugent Munley). Simon struggles his way through each chapter feeling more and more of a nonentity. A couple of the final headings are What Do You Contribute To Society? and Does Your Life Have Meaning? A couple of facers for any age group, let alone a struggling adolescent! Simon tries to get some answers with his peers.These young people are great singers, with some lovely Todd Twining songs underpinning their emotional struggles. This is the sort of show that the Fringe should encompass: a tribute to a beloved teacher and friend by a highly motivated group of youngsters treading the boards with relish.

Nancy Medina’s slick direction and the cast’s poised energy give The Beautiful Future Is Coming a sumptuous sheen as we glide between Flora Wilson Brown’s three timelines: Eunice Foote’s 1850s laboratory, a sweltering summer in 2027 London, and a storm-lashed agricultural research hub on Svalbard in 2100. Scene changes are deft, performances are assured, and the script’s hopscotch structure clicks smoothly together – it’s an altogether polished production.Yet polish can’t entirely mask an undernourished core. While each of the three narratives promises a distinct slant on climate chaos, none really digs very deep. Eunice’s pioneering CO₂ experiments spark interest, only to stall in exposition about male gatekeepers. Claire’s office-romance thread circles a predictable workplace meltdown, the unlikely climax leaving both romance and rhetoric lukewarm. Future scientist Ana’s quest for flood-proof crops certainly carries high stakes, yet her scenes drown in didactic monologues while the world’s storms rage conveniently offstage. The men who orbit these women – from the mildly irksome Dan to the spectacularly grating Malcolm – feel like walking symbols rather than catalysts, so conflicts resolve more by authorial decree than dramatic combustion.Each era highlights a different flavour of institutional inertia: Victorian dismissal of “lady scientists,” 2020s corporate greenwashing that drapes crisis in PR spin, and a later-century scramble where mitigation arrives decades too late. The thematic through-line is sound – action deferred becomes disaster compounded – but the play rarely lets these pressures collide with real urgency. Instead of hard choices and systemic pushback we get thumbnail sketches of complacency; the stakes feel discussed rather than lived.There is genuine craft here: crisp pacing, a visually smart production, and actors squeezing every drop of nuance from lean dialogue. Alas, without richer stakes or sharper insight, the show’s promises evaporate like puddles in a heatwave.

As Michael DeBartolo glides on to the stage to Over the Rainbow in a Dorothy dress and red ruby trainers, the room lights up. It is a natural charisma that instantly puts a smile on everyone’s face. You might say he had us at “hello”.His coming-of-age story is spilled all over the stage as he recounts tale after tale. From a very unkosher incident with a Kevin Bacon VHS to making love over the phone with straight crushes, this show delves into the messy, explicit and camp personal journey of DeBartolo.After witnessing this powerhouse performance, the titular question has an easy answer for Michael DeBartolo: his home is on the stage. An emotional third act leads to an absolute corker of a finale that had several jaws on the floor. Let us hope this plays to bigger, fuller rooms because this show is an absolute triumph.

This show is deliciously dumb – in the smartest way possible.Parker Callahan arrives on stage in nothing but a pair of red, white and blue Speedos – his outfit for the entire show – and immediately calls the cops on the gays. What have we done? I honestly still do not know. What follows is a gloriously unfiltered hour of gay brain static. Callahan’s 365 party girl/homophobic Republican/multimedia presenter persona never lets up as he delivers, genuinely, one of the most chaotic hours you will see this year.There is no point in analysing the show too much, as it spoils the experience. However, if there is a queer performance spectrum, Soda Pop breaks it, sets it on fire and inhales a bottle of poppers through the glittery smoke.

Midnight at the Palace is an extroverted, unapologetic musical comedy by Brandon James Gwinnett and Rae Binstock based on true events. The Cockettes were an avant garde ensemble of hippie drag artists who became known for their psychedelic theatrics and countercultural politics from 1969 to 1972. Founded by Hibiscus in San Francisco, the short-lived collective began by parodying musicals but soon transitioned to performing their own material, garnering a cult following in the process. They created 20 shows over the course of their two-and-a-half-year existence and performed a series of midnight drag shows at the Palace Theatre in New York City. This is the backdrop of Gwinnett and Binstock’s Midnight at the Palace, which makes its world premiere at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe 2025.I was instantly impressed by the production’s beautifully idiosyncratic scenic design, which feels fundamentally makeshift and DIY, as the Cockettes and their lifestyle inevitably were. Signs with location names (“San Francisco”, “New York”) are scrawled like finger paintings and presented – often comically – to audiences in what amounts to vaudeville-esque and amusing feats of storytelling, which the audience appreciated. In fact, it is in this very facet – the production’s self-conscious celebration of its own fakeness – that Midnight at the Palace really shines. The musical score is sometimes rather original, crossing the familiar rhythms and progressions of classical show tunes with something more rollicking that resembles the rock’n’roll of the Woodstock and post-Woodstock period. In many ways, the score is the most impressive part of the production, which its ensemble of actors handle with eloquence and style, all in spite of the occasional mic malfunction.That said, the often clunky dialogue, cheap jokes and lack of effective characterisation to distinguish each unique personality in the Cockettes – including any compelling character development – leave the show feeling flat. What the script amounts to is a cacophony of character introductions, recitations of historical facts and figures, and very little action or engagingly dramatic events. What could have been a very strong show, with impressive production value and much to be praised, is ultimately let down by a limp script that lacks the sharpness and immediacy to make this story as compelling as it should be.

New York-based Mario Marchese has been travelling the world bringing his delightful mix of magic, robots and physical comedy to children of all ages and has developed a heck of a reputation, making TV appearances from The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon to Sesame Street, and being called “the best kids’ magician in the world” by David Blaine.Our first sight of Mario is as he bursts on to the stage, declares that he’ll be back soon, and Naruto-runs offstage again. It immediately flags that this is going to be a high-energy hour of magic and mayhem. We spend a few more moments listening to some absolutely banging punk-rock covers of Disney songs before Mario returns to the stage and opens the show by having everyone clap, cheer, call back and get frantically excited as he introduces us to his madcap magic show.The trick of reviewing a magic show is to never give away the secrets, so I’ll just say that the actual sleight of hand, illusions, tricks and spectacle are performed with aplomb by a master of his craft. There’s a lot of slapstick, screaming, falling over and chaos – and that’s just Mario on his own. Children and adults get the chance to get involved in the antics and each volunteer is treated like a unique star. Mario fills the space with enthusiasm, love and encouragement, constantly reminding us that we are capable of anything and that there’s nothing better than imagination and following our dreams. It’s a simple but welcome message in these dark days and a delight to watch the children respond so positively to Mario’s very earnest affirmations.At times it seems like it’s all going wrong, but the anarchy is masking a very tight show where every dropped prop, every broken device, and even the set falling apart is just setting up a fantastic finale that left many a child – and this reviewer – open-mouthed in amazement.

Fans of the 2002 hit TV series Footballers’ Wives will not be disappointed. With enough sequins to be seen from space and a tightly packed plot full of telenovela-worthy twists and turns, this production is a perfect extension of the much-loved British show.Following the lives of four footballers’ wives as they navigate infidelity, fame and friendship, this musical tackles a whole host of events into just 80 minutes. Though the story centres on the misfortunes of the iconic Tanya Turner, it brings together a range of ensemble plots that provide balance and a welcome break from the exaggerated drama.A camp, Swarovski crystal-covered gem of a show, this cast of 12 shines with beautifully blended harmonies and punchy choreography. Whilst all cast members were pitch perfect, notable performances included India Chadwick and Tom Bowen as the comic couple Chardonnay and Kyle. Both had a physicality and presence on stage that was hard to look away from. Leading lady Ceili O’Connor, as the eponymous Tanya, also impressed with powerhouse vocals and relentless energy throughout.It is an unserious show, full of drama, but there is no shortage of talent, catchy songs and physical comedy. If you love a flirty, fun musical, this production delivers in spades.

DUSK/NIGHT/DAWN is a beautiful aerial work launched into the stratosphere on wings of visual storytelling, technical brilliance and raw emotion.Donna Carnow and Gina Alm are the only members of the aerial collective Verticle Dreamscape, and this is their debut at the Fringe. Their work earns the elusive moniker “experimental” – I say this because I did not know you could do what they pulled off with an aerial performance. Their chemistry and talent are the beating heart of the show, and they treat it with the seriousness it deserves. This is highly adept, physical polework sustained for the entire runtime.The beauty is mostly down to the two on-stage performers, but the piece is truly the whole package. The music complements and underscores; the lighting work alone is world class. From a mist-filled faescape conveyed only with soft lighting to industrial hotness simmering in the night, the lighting elevates every moment. Much of the audio is bespoke but feels familiar, with homages to ethereal indie bands such as Cigarettes After Sex. More than once, I felt like I was in an art-pop music video.As the title suggests, DUSK/NIGHT/DAWN has clear and defined acts charting the stages of the sun setting before rising again. Each has its own distinct flavour and is delicious in its own right. While there are obvious scenes, they convey emotion and ideas as much as story, moment to moment – from a broken-heel messy break-up to dazzlingly hot sex, whimsical dalliance, and fighting to stay asleep and keep dreaming. It feels as though each segment grabs something vivid and unspoken within you, rips it from your chest and shows it to all of us so we can recognise: “That’s me, I’ve been there.” Each feels like something just beneath conscious thought – immediately evocative and intuitive – but that we had not taken the time to examine ourselves.DUSK has a dreamy haziness that feels loose and easy to grasp, full of childlike wonder even though the piece is mature and confident in its delivery. Balloons and fantasy are the name of the game. At this stage you don’t quite know what you’re going to receive, but you’re hopeful. You wonder what dreams might come.NIGHT cusps into being with stark lighting and industrial themes. It is messy, hot, powerful and full of bold emotion. This is no longer soft around the edges – I could taste the heartbreak as if they had pulled a tooth and my mouth was still full of blood. Rage and passion brim through striking visuals that leave little room for doubt.DAWN takes us briefly to a space of disorientation before transforming into something hopeful and uplifting. The duo bring it home joyfully and outstandingly – a triumphal return to where the show began.And all of this happens on aerial pole, without a syllable of dialogue. You owe it to yourself to see this performance; it is a genuine work of art, and you can thank me later.

Chase Brantley’s Don Toberman: Ping Pong Champ is a gloriously silly, testosterone-soaked spectacle of clowning bravado. Draped in swagger and sweat, Brantley embodies Don Toberman, the bad boy of ping pong, with a knowing wink.Framed as a retro TV broadcast capturing the ping pong match of the century, Don Toberman bristles with parodic ego and double entendres, autographing audience members like a priest at communion and shamelessly flirting as he goes. At the heart of the crowd is his world-renowned “ball boy”, plucked from among the punters and tasked with providing Don his ping pong balls throughout the show. It’s the audience versus Don in an epic showdown, and everyone is raring to go at Brantley’s command, invisible paddles in hand. This instantly builds the camaraderie essential to a clown show, and Brantley does a marvellous job of keeping us firmly on his team despite Don’s relentless showboating. He becomes a lovable rogue we can’t help but want to see win.Brantley is a master of physical comedy, with full-throttle commitment and impressive creativity. The costume changes – from smug commentator to “sexy” half-time entertainment drag (leaf blower and money-stuffed bra in tow) – are ridiculous in the best way. Fellow clowns interlude as referee, golf competitor and ping pong ball, creating dynamic contrast with Brantley’s Toberman. On this occasion Joylyn Secunda takes the stage with aplomb, a virtuoso of movement and physical theatre. The second half dials the nonsense up to 11, abandoning all pretence of sport for cowboy shootouts, awkward dinner dates and ever-heightening absurdity.If there’s a fault in Brantley’s vibrant world, it’s that the ending doesn’t quite stick the landing. The final clown death, though creating comedic bathos, could have been stronger, and the denouement feels a touch rushed after a carefully plotted build-up.Still, Don Toberman: Ping Pong Champ is a riot: a sweaty, seductive and very silly joyride. Brantley’s control over chaos is as impressive as his ability to make us root for such a shameless dose of machismo.

Imagine walking into a classic rock concert hosted in the hottest industrial sex club in modern-day Berlin, with all the flair of Weimar’s Golden Age. That’s what it felt like to arrive at Bernie Dieter’s Club Kabarett – and the acts more than lived up to the space.The venue is perpetually lit by a harsh neon red BERLIN sign, but the judicious use of spotlighting creates a theatrical yet often intimate feel. As the simmering guitar riffs of the live rock band fill the air, the cast begins setting up – it feels as much like kittens playing as it does a troupe getting into position. But it’s when Bernie Dieter takes the stage that the performance truly begins.The leading lady’s husky, sultry tones welcome the audience with a call for connection, while making it clear this is her domain. The opening number feels hot and dangerous, mingling seamlessly into crowd work that comes off as both authentic and delightfully debauched. As Bernie puts it, “I could stay here gazing into your beautiful, slightly petrified, eyes all night... but the show must go on.”This cabaret knows exactly what it is and stays true to itself from start to finish. It is queer, hot, industrial, and absolutely full of character. It mingles silliness with sexiness to create the kind of experience you want to do shots of until the sun comes up. Circus tropes meet cabaret staples seamlessly, like so much velvet and leather in the cast’s varied costumes. I’ll also admit to being charmed by the masc-presenting performers with their nipples taped while the femme folk displayed theirs with utter nonchalance.Be careful – you might unexpectedly pick up a kink (or three) along the way.The pace isn’t breakneck. It’s grab-you-by-the-collar and drag-you-down-an-alleyway to adventure. Keep up, or else. We transition through acts and songs so swiftly and cleanly that there isn’t a moment of slack in the 70-minute runtime.Danik Abishev leads with an impressively physical hand-balancing act that had the crowd heart-thumpingly invested, before we coil into Soliana Ersie’s contortionist routine – both performers polished more like diamonds than glass. I caught both grinning as they heard the front row gasp, “Oh my god!” Iva Rosebud injects silliness into the evening’s throbbing veins with whimsical drag acts that felt refreshing, rather than the sometimes tired tropes of the scene. Each performer brought creativity alongside the salaciousness and indulgence. Jacqueline Furey delivered an innovative and genuinely risky fire performance that was unforgettable in scope. Jared Dewey may have been the most impressive, with aerial acts that challenged masculine norms while feeling soulful and self-aware.This cabaret is drenched in spit, sex, and feminist framing. It delivers an empowering message that felt poignant – even while being the very best kind of filth.

Sophie’s Surprise 29th returns for its final year at the Fringe – and if you haven’t seen it, you owe it to yourself to go. This is some of the best that British circus has to offer: hilarious, self-aware, and packed with dazzling tricks that will leave you amazed as well as amused.If you’ve ever been to a UK house party, you’ll recognise the cast: the jock, the goth, the geek, the popular girl, and the dealer. Except this one is slinging custard creams and hiding serious skills. Sam Goodburn’s comedic unicycle routine had the whole crowd on the edge of their seats and holding their sides, even as clothes flew in unexpected directions.The glue holding it all together is whoever's birthday it is – the titular Sophie, plucked from the audience each night. Ours got right into it, dancing up a storm and blushing appropriately at the more risqué moments.Speaking of risqué, the show has had a few updates since last year. Kyran Lee Walton appears as the strip act in a suitably crumby fireman costume. But he sticks around for a technically demanding and frankly beautiful hand-balancing routine. Injecting an American performer into an established British show always carries some risk – humour can land differently – but the setup is managed with enough self-awareness to undercut any notion that Three Legged Race Productions are getting too pleased with themselves after two sell-out Fringe runs. That said, if there’s any slack in the show, it occurs here – a shame for something so close to perfect.This show knows exactly what it is, and it’s for anyone over 18 who wants to be wowed one moment and giggling the next. It speaks especially to a British audience, but there’s plenty of common ground for anyone who’s been to a party, regardless of generation. It’s packed with in-jokes and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments.Nathan Price and Emily McCarthy deliver a tight skating routine that had the front row flinching – but never in danger – before diving into satirical social commentary. Cornelius Atkinson’s straps display is jaw-dropping. Katharine Arnold’s geek-to-goddess transformation gives way to world-class aerial work that will have you gasping.The pace makes you feel like you’ve been up all night dancing. The drama is as riveting as a choreographed aerial routine. And you’ll be telling stories about this house party for years to come. A must-see – this one feels likely to sweep awards and go home laughing.

A strong performance from a dynamic and skilled cast, Loose Threads is a homage to the nightclub cloakroom assistant – a faceless figure many people will admit they’ve never given a second thought to, perhaps other than being slightly annoyed when asked to pay £2 to hand over their coat.Framing the cloakroom assistant as the protagonist creates an intriguing perspective from the start, offering a fresh outlook on the subsequent interactions between the attendant and the myriad of characters that darken his door throughout the performance. With only a four-person cast and a significant amount of quick changes and multi-roling, I initially worried there might not be enough distinction between characters. However, credit is due to the three actors who managed their transitions deftly and delivered each character with conviction.While the interactions with nightclub staff and customers take centre stage, a sombre subplot involving a recent trauma in the cloakroom assistant’s life underpins the piece. This layering of narrative adds a welcome sense of purpose and kept me guessing right to the end. In plays under an hour, there’s always a risk that emotive subplots can feel underdeveloped, but I wouldn’t say there was any need for more interrogation here – especially within a Fringe context.The staging is simple but effective, sensibly leaving little to distract from the actors. Likewise, the space is small but intimate, an ideal atmosphere to immerse yourself in the mind of the cloakroom assistant, lurking in the almost surreal, liminal space between the outside world and the frivolity of the nightclub proper. Loose Threads is an example of good, comedic writing and well-paced amateur theatre – exactly the kind of show to indulge in at the Fringe.

One of the purposes of science fiction writing is to issue a warning to humanity about a possible future. In 1949, when George Orwell wrote his now classic novel 1984, never had that idea been more urgent, with the Nazis only just overrun and Stalinist forces now controlling eastern Europe and parts of Asia.Britain has been subsumed into a trans-Atlantic authoritarian superstate, ruled by Big Brother. Winston Smith works for a historical revisionism department, responsible for retrofitting historical archives with the party line du jour. This manipulation of history and memory is a critical component of state power: “Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.” Smith secretly despises Big Brother, however, making him a thought criminal.Smith embarks upon an illicit affair with Julia; but the room they take is provided by a state agent. The member of the resistance they had trusted also transpires to be a double agent, smoking out prospective dissidents. They have been set up, rendering their capture inevitable. They are taken to the Ministry of Love, a deliberately chilling misnomer, where victims are terrorised, tortured and brainwashed. The culmination of this process is to send the protagonists to Room 101 – the embodiment of the individual’s greatest fear. Those who survive the process are returned to the state as now useful citizens, embracing and amplifying Big Brother’s propaganda.Box Tale Soup are no strangers to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, staging many fine productions over the years, and 1984 is their latest triumph. One of the hallmarks of the company’s production ethos is the use of reclaimed materials to manufacture their set, which not only drives their narrative but also supports their eye-catching, fluid, precise movement, directed adeptly by Adam Lenson. The set shifts and evolves throughout, with the backdrop accentuating the chilling denouement to Smith’s torture.Smith (Mark Collier) has a nervous energy – quite understandable given his inevitable demise. He conveys the human condition against the backdrop of a ruthless machine: hope, fear, neuroses, love. Antonia Christophers plays Julia and other characters. As Julia, we see the brazen façade, but also moments of tenderness when believing she is undetected. It is beautifully and convincingly performed. Noel Byrne plays O’Brien, Charrington and others. Byrne’s performance is layered and nuanced, with unnerving stillness and composure as Smith is being tortured. There is a fourth member of the on-stage cast – the puppets. Byrne and Christophers weave their movement into the narrative so eloquently that we believe them to be real. A mention also to the unseen voices of Joanna Lumley, Simon Russell Beale and Sophie Aldred; truly a star-studded ensemble.The global slide towards totalitarianism continues to gather pace. The lessons of history and the warnings starkly conveyed in Orwell’s dystopian masterpiece are wilfully disregarded by politicians more interested in power than progress. Much of Orwell’s writing has already come to pass, yet mankind continues to ignore his cautionary tale. Box Tale Soup’s superb production is alarmingly prescient.

Like many Scottish working-class kids, my first brush with theatre was the yearly panto. We’d be packed into a bus from the Borders, courtesy of the factory my dad worked at, and shipped up to the King’s Theatre for their annual slice of festive mayhem. Looking back, it almost certainly sowed the seeds of my love of drama. She’s Behind You, Johnny McKnight’s solo turn at the Traverse, reconnects with that wide-eyed wonder – yet refuses to leave its politics at the stage door.Conceived for the Cameron Lectures in association with the University of Glasgow and the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, it glides through seventy-five brisk minutes of autobiography, song and sly scholarship, mapping a life spent inside Scotland’s most raucous art form and highlighting the knots he’s determined to untie: cheap homophobic gags, lazy racial caricatures, tired body jokes.John Tiffany's direction keeps the onstage action agile – simple props, sharp lighting cues, a tempo that privileges momentum over pageant. The delight lies in McKnight’s gear shifts: one beat he’s mining pop culture for belly laughs, the next he’s pinpointing exactly where a punchline should land so it “punches up”. His physical clowning and dance feel unforced, the patter honed but loose enough for unexpected sparks.If the piece betrays its lecture-hall origins in places – an occasional explanatory cul-de-sac slows the sprint – it never stays scholarly for long. McKnight’s instinct for carnival wins out, leaving the audience buzzing with both nostalgia and a sharpened social compass. By the curtain call, he’s proved that panto’s broad canvas can still carry sophisticated arguments without losing its anarchic heart.With material that feels both familiar and fresh, She’s Behind You is a fierce reminder that tradition only endures when it evolves – and that nothing cuts through theory like a well-timed quip about getting lucky with an audience member.

Written, performed and composed by Jason Woods, Bing! is classified in the Fringe programme under “Theatre”, “Solo Show” and “New Writing” – all of which are entirely appropriate. This is undoubtedly a new-to-Edinburgh, one-man work of theatre. But it’s arguable that he’s potentially missing out in terms of audience by not also including “Children’s Shows”, because I’m sure there’ll be many children out there who would be captivated by this particular magical fantasy tale – although some under-fives might find parts of it genuinely too scary.Woods, in neat suit and long dark coat, initially stands erect before us like some noble theatrical impresario but, as his narrative progresses, he increasingly roams the stage, never failing to hit his mark for a character-styled lighting effect or sound cue. Additional effects and a John Williams-esque orchestral score – also Woods’ work – add up to a remarkably cinematic experience for a one-man work of theatre.Woods’ “mostly true” story – only some of the dates, such as the 34th of October, make you question the scenario – is pure fairy-tale. Our central character, Jasper, is looking for “his true family”, if only to “see his face” in actual relatives. In the course of his quest, he runs into: a blunt witch (herself searching for the Chamber of Priceless Objects) whose favourite magic word is “Bing!”; a mysterious, incredibly intimidating dragon; a vicious boo-hiss queen; and a destiny which he neither expected nor wanted, but reluctantly – heartbreakingly – comes to accept. “You didn’t ask for it, but it was given to you anyway,” he’s told at one point. Joseph Campbell, to be clear, would be proud.Yet while Woods risks cultural cliché in his plot, the details are fresh, the wordplay divine, and the telling often self-mocking – overall, this is a lot of fun. The gratuitously American (and Scottish) accents help – although I can’t help but think that Sir Ian McKellen’s lawyers might want to take note of Jasper’s adopted brother, the self-obsessed, aspiring actor Casper, never one to avoid mis-speaking a long word when a short one would’ve done.Overall, this is a surprisingly uplifting, feel-good work, and a prime example of what a single performer – albeit supported with great material and finely tuned theatrical effects – can do on an otherwise empty stage. Woods leads us on a magical journey – which even younger people deserve to experience. Just beware the “pasture of the deadly coos”.

In The Anti “Yogi”, Mayuri Bhandari takes a graceful but firm swing at the yoga-industrial complex – and lands it.This solo theatrical show weaves together dance, drama, multimedia and a transcendent live percussion score from Neel Agrawal to unpack the contradictions of Westernised yoga culture through the lens of Bhandari’s Indian-American Jainist identity.With lithe physicality, Bhandari plays a younger version of herself – dancer and yoga practitioner – navigating the spiritual emptiness that often fills Western yoga spaces: all figure-hugging aesthetic, no awareness.Effortlessly transitioning through yoga poses and varied character work, Bhandari dramatises the absurdity of practising yoga with classmates who treat it as little more than a way to burn off their kale smoothies.In reflective moments, she calls on the wisdom of Hindu deities, instigating a conversation between Buddha and an LA-accented Krishna to explore what happens when a spiritual practice rooted in compassion, discipline and devotion becomes a commodified lifestyle.In her fiercely choreographed portrayal of the goddess Kali – a figure of both destruction and renewal – she strikes a powerful symbol of cultural reclamation, set to Doja Cat’s provocative Paint the Town Red.Reminding me of a dramatic Hollywood version of Nadia Gilani’s book The Yoga Dissident, Bhandari’s takedown of whitewashed yoga is equally biting in its critique. Though intended to awaken ‘wogis’ (white yogis) to the error of their ways, the show isn’t patronising; it’s immersive and emotionally alive, drawing us into the struggle to decolonise and re-centre a practice that’s been stripped of its soul.If at times the show over-explains, its impassioned, richly layered story asks no forgiveness. Instead, Bhandari is resolute in her message: yoga is not a £100 pair of leggings set to a playlist of lo-fi mantras in a sage-filled studio. It is a spiritual discipline. A radical act of mindfulness. A practice of compassion and non-violence towards all beings. Exactly what we need most.