Latest Reviews

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, and 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.Shepherd 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.

With magic you can do the impossible: that’s the message of this surprisingly personal and reflective show, and I’m ready to believe that in the case of Lin Lu-Chieh, he can do the impossible.This isn’t a show using gothic histrionics, roaring chainsaws, sheets of flame, or sexy women and double-entendres. Instead, Lin uses sleight of hand and memory feats to relate the story of his childhood – from six years old to university. He’s the only boy in the family, and his two older sisters are overachievers in every field – and are happy to let him know his shortcomings.Lin is a rather lonely child, looking for an achievement or skill that will mark him out as an individual. Each ambition (being a Go champion, or a top baseball pitcher, or singing like Taylor Swift, to name a few) is skilfully narrated with humour and understated emotion. These stories are effortlessly illustrated by weaving in an array of impossible tricks. Each autobiographical episode, sadly, ends in failure – due to bad luck, the misbehaviour of others, or running into someone with greater innate talent.The writing is equally skilful, with some parts of the text reaching the level of restrained prose poetry. I must emphasise the Derren Brown level of some of the tricks – especially the impossible memory feats.The finale is a fantasy sequence in which he is able to achieve all the childhood ambitions that were impossible for him. This section is accompanied by a dazzlingly rapid run-through of a version of all the tricks used in the narration. He ends the dream by asking if he could do those things, would he be a magician? Then, of course, there is the story he has not reprised – leading to one final impossible trick.The show is calm, gentle, affecting and amazing. Lin’s an actor, a writer, a comedian and a magician – I trust his sisters are proud of him.

At least in some earlier promotional material, The Cyclops was promoted as a new (even “hilarious”) adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey, which details the ten-year journey home by the Greek king Odysseus and his ships following the conclusion of the Trojan War. Coming upon an island, his desperate crew’s hopes of finding helpful locals and fresh supplies are smashed – literally – by a murderous one-eyed monster (the titular Cyclops) and a band of rakish immortals.At a push, this version, set in a storm-lashed public house on the Isle of Mull, at least retains the spirit of the chaotic Greek pantheon that played with the fate of Odysseus and his crew. But here, we’re talking about six estranged young men in their twenties, coming together to mark the first anniversary of the death of one of their peers. Several switches to the ancient tragedy notwithstanding, the real meat of the show lies in the unspoken secrets and truths between the six men – at least until the alcohol starts loosening tongues.Devised by the cast, it’s arguable that each of the six actors on stage – an increasing rarity in these cash-strapped times – ensures they play to their strengths: Liam McCafferty gives particular value as the emotionally explosive Chris (who also doubles as Odysseus), while no one glowers quite as effectively as Derek Coyle. Yet the rest of the cast – Harrison Burnside, James Forrest, Thomas A Ross and Charles Robertson – have impact too, under the excellent direction of Frankie Regalia.

For those who like their burlesque queer, chaotic and dappled in green lighting, Swamplesque delivers. Unofficial and unapproved it may be, but this Shrek-inspired fever dream is now in its third year at the Fringe – and if the raucous, packed-out Assembly Hall crowd is anything to go by, its cult status is well and truly locked in.Cut-price Shrek is the show’s centrepiece, smeared in green facepaint, gurning and rollicking around the stage in varying degrees of undress, alongside a tattooed Lord Farquaad, vocally talented Fiona and impeccably dressed drag Dragon.Shrek’s graceful solo choreography is often undercut by salacious slut drops and whirling nipple tassels, earning hollered hysteria from the crowd. Taking turns, the cast mimes along to movie soundbites before erupting into semi-relevant pop hits – some mimed, some mic-ed – all featuring a fair amount of strutting, stripping and gyrating from scene to scene.Some transitions are clunky, with recorded soundbites butting awkwardly into Top 40 bangers, but moments of inspired nonsense make for a highly entertaining evening. The Gingerbread Man’s gumdrop tease, backed by the Pussycat Dolls’ Buttons, is a personal highlight, while the Mirror Man’s aerial rope work is a dazzling treat, even if it serves more as shiny filler than theatrical storytelling.The show’s commitment to queer joy, body confidence and all-out expression is where its real heart lies. There is something undeniably powerful about the whole messy package. Still, after being urged by Shrek to fuck Trump and free Palestine, you realise Swamplesque wants to be more than a drag-strip spoof. Whether it earns its political mic drop moment is up for debate.Having upgraded to a venue as massive as Assembly Hall for this year’s Fringe, it’s hard not to wonder whether a smaller, sweatier space might better suit the show’s swampy weirdness. But despite any misgivings, its current popularity cannot be contained.Is Swamplesque getting a little stagnant? Maybe. But trying to critique it feels a bit like protesting nudity at a Magic Mike concert. It’s not exactly deep – but I’m probably the only one taking notes.

At the birthday party of a couple whom the audience will never meet, two strangers are seated together at the far end of the table. Mavis (Izzy Radford) is affronted and stand-offish, insisting she deserves a better seat as a childhood friend of the birthday girl.Her only companion is David (George Airey), a seemingly laid-back and personable young man who grows increasingly frustrated by her antics – especially when he reveals he’s in a relationship, crushing Mavis’s hopes of meeting an eligible bachelor. Mavis is Bridget Jones on steroids: spitting wine, lying about her job, and even faking a collapse to gain attention. David tries to remain polite, but the evening ends in anger.A year later, the roles have reversed. David, now drunk and obnoxious, has lost his job at the Office for National Statistics and is spiralling. Mavis, meanwhile, has matured and vaguely references a new relationship. She's not thrilled to be once again paired with David, who is itching for another argument. There's a noticeable jump in Mavis's characterisation between their first and second meeting, and the causes for this are only partially explained, with some details left to the audience’s imagination.Seating Plan is a romcom of right place, wrong time… and wrong time again, as the two continue to cross paths over the years. This is a charming, engaging show with fantastically charismatic performances from Radford and Airey. It leans into the romcom formula with such sincerity that a few subversions feel almost disheartening. Still, with sharp banter, clever staging and delightful costumes, Seating Plan is a fun and feelgood experience.

The twins are back. Rather than mining for satire like last year, this time six-foot-seven identical twins Patrick and Hugo are on a mission to rid audiences of their fears. In a dark room in the belly of Underbelly Cowgate, a neon pear-shaped sign adorns the back wall of the stage, casting a distinct green light across the room. At centre stage sits a cauldron, along with a pen, paper and a note inviting audiences to write down their fears and place them inside. What happens next? You’ll have to face that fear yourself.Following last year’s Edinburgh Fringe debut success, Pear, which won over audiences and critics alike, Pear: Phobia feels like a long-awaited sequel. The pair burst onto the stage with a musical number before launching into a hilarious hour-long show featuring sketches, stand-up and improvised audience participation – often leading to the unexpected. Sketches are the twins’ forte, with about a dozen scenarios that will have the audience doubled over.The show leans into the unpredictable and the unknown, ensuring each performance is unique. Patrick and Hugo’s quick wit is on full display as they masterfully land each punchline. For fans, some sketches will feel familiar from last year’s Pear, now joined by fresh material – making for a thoroughly entertaining evening.

Little Shop of Horrors is a true classic of musical theatre – making it hard to decide whether to see it or not. This production makes that a harder question to answer. While the wheel does not need to be reinvented every time a theatre stages Little Shop of Horrors, there are some expectations of the show that were – and were not – met.Rhys Crawford as Seymour blew me away from his first appearance on stage. He was certainly a standout performer and one of the best parts of the whole production. From vocal quality to physical performance, he had me from the beginning. While the rest of the cast and ensemble held their own, I did not feel as gripped by their performances as I was by Crawford. Additionally, it’s worth noting that two actors play Seymour across the run – creating a whole new viewing experience depending on which show you attend.Technical theatre is an integral part of any production – especially this one. While the Audrey II puppet had me feeling like I was in the same room as a man-eating plant, little else did. There were several things that stuck out – odd costuming, makeup choices and awkward blackouts. These strange elements, mixed with the power of the puppet, made for a mixed viewing experience.Ultimately, this production has its ups and downs – like any show might. If Little Shop of Horrors is one of your favourite musicals, this is a production worth seeing for Crawford’s performance alone. But if it’s a show you’re not especially drawn to, this one might be one to miss.

Little Seeds Music’s Cinderella Ice Cream Seller is an original musical aimed at children, retelling the fairytale of Cinderella with a distinctly sweet tooth.Two vendors – Talvi and Caldwell – working at one of her ice cream parlours tell the tale, a framing device that allows the whole show to be undertaken with just two cast members, exchanging hats in order to play every role, while also telling their own personal stories between scenes of the main Cinderella-focused narrative. Both characters are surprisingly well-rounded and endearing, played with charm by Lauren Heywood (Talvi) and David Gibb (Caldwell). Their vocals are strong and confident, their harmonies pleasant, and their shared ability to manage all the props in this fast-paced production is remarkable.The moments of audience interaction are funny and engaging, and the humour throughout provoked laughter from both young and older audience members. However, the fact that there are only two cast members means there is no way for the ‘real’ Cinderella to appear in the final scene – and as she is anticipated with so much excitement and praised throughout, it would have made for a more satisfying finale had she actually appeared on stage (though the final scene still delivers a lovely ending to the show).The production is cheerful and bright – from the colourful set to the characters themselves – and the catchy songs (particularly We’re Gonna Make Ice Cream, which has been stuck in my head ever since I first heard it) serve to enhance a simple and heartfelt story. Cinderella Ice Cream Seller is a great way to spend an hour at the Edinburgh Fringe, and with a free ice cream recipe included in the programme, it’s easy to take the fun home at the end of the show.

Eliza Nelso ’s Cabbage the Clown is the underdog hero of Cinemadrome: a wistful, wide-eyed romantic stuck in a dead-end job, dreaming big between bin runs and popcorn refills. Nelso’s debut show reminds us what live art is capable of, in all its silly, sparkling, quietly devastating potential.Before the show even begins, Cabbage is one of us, earning immediate rapport with the audience as they scan our tickets and join us in the auditorium. There’s a deep generosity to Nelso’s performance: they let us in, let us distract them, and bring us along on their work shift, as corporate grind and existential crisis rub shoulders with meme-level absurdity. From the moment they lip-sync through a warped montage of cinema announcements, it’s clear we’re in for something special.Staying true to clown, the structure is satisfyingly loose, with just enough plot that still leaves room for ample play. We’re simply watching Cabbage try to survive the day at Cinemadrome, but in Nelso’s hands, the mundane becomes mythic: bin bags become dance partners; a puppet encounter in a nightclub becomes a tender, wordless romance; a sequence of mind-numbing intercom instructions becomes a brutalist clown ballet about burnout. The show weaves together movement, drag and clowning with impressive clarity, never losing its sense of joy and play.Visually, Cinemadrome is stunning. Nelso’s clown makeup and costuming are exquisite, combining classical references with a contemporary drag twist that feels fresh and unique, topped with jaw-dropping costume reveals. Screen projections are packed with joyful chaos: a rapid-fire collage of cinematic references, absurdist humour and perfectly timed visual gags reward pop culture fluency without excluding those less online.Amid the chaos is a tender undertone. We watch as Cabbage tries, fails and tries again, making peace with the fantasy that keeps them going. It’s a love letter to escapism, yes, but also a quiet cry for kindness, and Nelso calibrates every beat with astonishing control. Their physicality is fluid, magnetic and far from performative. Cabbage doesn’t escape into fantasy to avoid reality – they use it to survive it.In all its whimsy, Cinemadrome is a truly elevated performance. Visually beautiful, wickedly funny and rich with artistry, Cinemadrome is nothing short of a triumph. Eliza Nelso is a visionary. You’ll laugh, you’ll melt, you’ll gasp – and you’ll never look at a bin bag the same way again.

Gaël Le Cornec, fresh from winning the inaugural Guimarães Rosa Institute Award, plants herself amid Summerhall’s former gents' locker-room brickwork and broadcasts her bid for UK citizenship to a virtual crowd while deeply real voices of Brazil’s forgotten past elbow onto the stage. Over seventy minutes she leaps between comic commentary on the disturbingly creepy Europeans who first laid claim to Brazil and searing vignettes of colonisation, slave revolts and environmental pillage, summoning mothers, aunties and half-remembered warriors with little more than shifts in posture and the occasional, slight costume adjustment.The breadth is exhilarating. One moment we’re laughing at the menu choices of a cannibal; the next we’re chilled by the anguished cry of a pregnant former slave’s desperate journey through an untamed forest. Le Cornec’s physical dexterity and impressive linguistic fluidity give these shifts emotional bite, and her motif of “filling the gaps” in silenced histories lands with genuine pathos. Yet the very density that makes Amazons feel urgent also leaves it gasping for cohesion. Story strands pile up – citizenship oaths, climate grief, social-media satire – and the transitions don’t always earn their gear-changes. A late chorus of ancestral names should thunder; instead, it feels wedged in after an earlier, lighter gag about creepy conquistadors.Still, the performer’s sheer charisma steadies the ride. She wields humour like a machete, hacking space for heavier reflections, and the meta-live-stream conceit offers deft commentary on who gets to speak and who is merely buffered. Trim twenty minutes or let a director impose clearer architecture, and Amazons could roar. As it stands, it’s a passionate, idea-rich solo that dazzles in flashes but flickers in focus.

‘Spit spot’ is your safe word in Jessica Barton’s hour of ‘clean’ clown comedy.We encounter Mary Floppins mid-spring clean, finding small moments of joy in the domestic routine: folding pillowcases, sorting laundry and losing herself in the dirty world around her. The more we watch, the cheekier she gets, especially when she is left to her own devices. She has an air of serenity, but what bubbles underneath is an altogether freakier affair.Barton’s clowning leans into this shift: her delivery is full of subtle mischief and physical nuance. She rarely speaks (other than the occasional, brilliantly timed quip), but her expressions do the real work – scolding, teasing, daring the audience to play with her. Throughout, she enlists men from the crowd to help her, guiding them in silent sequences that showcase her Gaulier training. Though audience participation is commonplace at the Fringe, it is rarely navigated as professionally as Barton. There is a magnetic tension in her gaze that flickers between play and provocation, keeping the audience squarely in her grip – the perfect breeding ground for clown comedy.Barton’s physicality is a revelation: she moves with comic precision, unleashing bursts of energetic dancing that inject the piece with punch and pace. She masterfully combines the sweet, charming charisma of ‘the perfect nanny’ with a sharp, quick wit that makes her a joy to watch. It does not take long before we learn the truth behind Floppins’ need to clean, and what unfolds is something far stranger and more layered, underpinning the performance with a chilling, more poignant message.That said, there are moments where momentum dips and the conceit feels stretched a little thin. A touch more variation or escalation would help pack the show more densely with action. Given Barton’s ingenuity, it feels as though this would be an easy fix.A beautifully simple and highly effective concept, Dirty Work is a wonderful hour of play. Confident, relaxed and utterly charming, Jessica Barton is a highly talented performer who is sure to gain a cult following this Fringe.

Los Angeles-based Eagle Rock Theatre Company has brought a distinctively different piece of theatre, billed as musical comedy, to this year’s Fringe in Daughter Daddy at Paradise in the Vault.Daddy Matt Braaten directs and is joined on stage by his 11-year-old daughter and co-writer, Lily Braaten. Together they explore the musical eras of her life so far. He sings and plays guitar; she sings and generally entertains, inviting people to join in various refrains and dances.Lily exudes confidence and speaks eloquently, having starred in over 25 Disney Princess Club episodes. She also features on the official Disney Kids YouTube channel. Matt happily strums away and we sing a jingle each time he needs to check his guitar is in tune.Daughter Daddy is a light-hearted, family-friendly musical entertainment featuring original songs as well as some of Lily’s favourites from Frozen, Matilda and Wicked. Pop tunes from Taylor Swift, Dua Lipa, Coldplay, The Proclaimers and others are included, along with a devised 007 scene featuring the famous James Bond.It’s a very relaxed, informal and delightful diversion for adults with young children aged eight and over.

Dark, deadpan and deranged, Dan Rath’s Tropical Depression isn’t comedy that tries to win you over... it’s comedy that stands there in your kitchen, holding a bag of compost, asking if you believe in fate.Armed with ADHD gags, rogue one-liners and a brain that seems to ping off in five directions at once, Rath jumps laterally from musing about Sardinian goat farmers to his own introversion, using each oddball observation as a tie-in for some surprisingly poignant reflections – on masculinity, mental health and the importance of community – before promptly getting distracted and moving on.Cutting a socially awkward on-stage presence – a self-identified cuck who gives off “beta energy” – Rath’s comedy persona belies a much deeper confidence and self-awareness. His signature Aussie upwards inflection gives even the bleakest punchlines a tinge of optimism, or at least some ruminative open-endedness.Often tapering off mid-thought, and all the funnier for it, each of Rath’s jokes comes punctuated by an obligatory hair ruffle and an unsmiling expression. Rough crowd work kicks in “a quarter of the way through” – whether a calculated gamble on the audience’s tolerance for awkwardness or a form of sick self-punishment is unclear.Despite appearing rattled when his ad-libbed jokes don’t quite land, we get the sense that the anti-punchline is the point. His whole shtick is comedy at his own expense – he’s “not doing well, folks”, after all.Beyond a few Southern Hemisphere-specific references, Rath’s idiosyncratic humour – self-deprecating, imaginative and occasionally profound – mostly translates with ease. He's bound to make you squirm before he’ll make you think.

Have you ever been so frustrated with life that the only way to deal with it is to scream into the void? What if it turned out that the void was listening? This black comedy, from Seattle-based Coconspirator Theatre, showcases the true horror of a modern woman expected to do everything and the existential crisis that follows. It’s a feeling that may be all too relatable to many in the audience.Leah hosts an extravagant Halloween party every year, but it’s all getting a bit much. With no help in sight, particularly from her long-term boyfriend, and work deadlines looming, it would be easier to just cancel the whole thing. But when The Void arrives offering to sponsor the party, Leah might find a way to make it all work. This play is a thoughtful exploration of endings, feminism and what it means to be consumed, or should I say... devoured.Most of the play has a repressed middle-class dinner party comedy style reminiscent of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, God of Carnage or 2:22 A Ghost Story for a more recent example. This sub-genre requires sharp writing and subtle tensions in character relationships. For the most part, writer and director Melanie Godsey does an excellent job of pulling this off. Where the show really comes into its own, though, is the psychosexual element. The unresolved lust hangs potently in the space as Leah seems slowly more and more seduced by the prospect of the void.The acting performances are strong. Jed Mathre plays a boyfriend so convincingly gross and dislikeable the actor was booed when he came back on stage to give the post-show thanks. Bringing an elegant, poised and terrifyingly surly presence to the stage is Jenifer Ewing as The Void. The sort of horror villain that isn’t really a villain at all and makes you think maybe the end won’t be so scary. After all, a woman’s place is in the void.

What is the difference between trauma and experience?Lauren is a journalist working on a domestic violence story. These cases are depressingly commonplace, but this one appears to have an undertone of male entitlement. The antagonist, Andrew, works for a politician. The victim of the assault once worked alongside him but has not had her contract renewed. Andrew, chillingly, has been welcomed back to the inner sanctum.Lauren prods at the story. Andrew’s boss peddles a party line on events. Andrew displays contrition and has sought counselling. His version of events has a hint of revisionism, as he refers to an open-hand slap. This sounds like spin to Lauren, a polished version of the truth. The victim, Brittany, lost two teeth and says she was sexually assaulted in the aftermath. A neighbour, Gladys, was fleetingly interviewed by the police. When Lauren follows up, Gladys’s recollection suggests something more violent and her character reference for Andrew is damning. Lauren manages to speak with the doctor who treated Brittany, who recalls that her injuries made her look like a car crash victim.Brittany’s voice on events becomes undermined. She is labelled an attention seeker, leaning into the idea that she sought violent conflict. Hints are left trailing about childhood trauma and Lauren is told of her tendency to drink too much. Her name even seems to do her few favours. When Lauren speaks with her, she now seems to doubt herself.Lauren is a professional journalist, but traumatic memory muscles kick in. She was sexually assaulted as a 15-year-old, but familial pressures meant she could not speak up. This is mirrored by events two years later, when she visits her older cousin. She goes for a night out with him, illegally drinking alcohol, awaking to find him on top of her. She is haunted by the event, agonising over whether this constituted rape.Red Like Fruit’s staging is somewhat unusual. Lauren (Michelle Monteith) sits on a spotlit chair on a high stage. She asks Luke (David Patrick Flemming) to voice her words, which he delivers next to a lectern below. They occasionally break the narrative, with him checking in on her, or her interrupting to sanity check the events, or at times her asking him for his opinion.Both performances are strong and measured. There is an obvious empathetic relationship between them. Flemming’s narrative style gives gravitas to the events being recounted, yet delivered with soft hands. Monteith’s physicality is the embodiment of emotional recall, at times haunted, uncertain, traumatised. This is a most powerful piece of writing by Hannah Moscovitch, the themes glaringly obvious and current: consent, labelling, domestic abuse, entitlement.

Bim! Bam! Boom! The sheer energy and physicality of the performers is amazing. This is edge-of-the-seat, in-yer-face stuff that leaves you breathless. Both humorous and terrifying, Wee Man, choreographed by Natasha Gilmore of Barrowland Ballet, is both a celebration and a swingeing critique of the ‘rules’ of masculinity. The intergenerational cast, including teenagers and men, moves to the relentless pulse of music composed by Luke Sutherland. Set on a football pitch, the cast wear sports gear, making the parallels clear. Gilmore, as a mother of boys, clearly knows what it’s like to watch the perils your ‘wee man’ (an affectionate Scots term for a small boy) must face to become a man.The ‘rules’ devised by Kevin Gilday appear on screens inside the goalposts, starting with upbeat ones such as ‘wear no colour except in socks’ and ‘walk as if wearing soggy porridge in your sporran’ – but mostly they are negative, carrying darker hints of toxic masculinity and the self-destruction required through the denial of individuality and emotion in order to be accepted. The performers hurl themselves at each other chest to chest, leaping, rolling, punching, twirling almost nonstop, culminating in heart-wrenching scenes of bullying. Sweat glints on bald heads, dreadlocks fly. Testosterone-fuelled and adrenaline-high, it recalls the strength and stamina of Russian and other mid-European dance traditions, or even South American Capoeira and the competitiveness of New York street dance.Gilmore’s work is always intelligent and warm as well as skilfully crafted. Here, the warmth is less evident until a gleam of hope appears at the end. The brilliant script occasionally gets a bit sentimental and squishy, but that’s forgivable as the performers carry each other – even the teenagers lifting the heavier men – suggesting the need to support one another emotionally, even if earlier it amounts to no more than a slap on the back.The cast is made up of members from Gilmore’s intergenerational Wolf Pack, a non-audition company, plus a mixture of professional dancers who have appeared in many of Gilmore’s past shows, including her son Otis (aged 15), and at the end some local community dancers, whom she likes to incorporate at every venue. It was heartening to see an 80-year-old taking her teenage grandson. A must-see show for every male, their mothers and family.

The newly written Thin Walls: Men(tal) Health comes from the theatre class of Wabash College Professor Heidi Winters Vogel, in Crawfordsville, Indiana. The project began in January, and all aspects of its devising and production have consumed her students through to its opening at Greenside @ George Street.The class – Sean Bledsoe, Eamon Colglazier, Alejandro Cruz, Brody Frey, Tyler Horton, Dane Market, Preston Parker, Alex Schmidt, Gabrien Smith and Carson Wirtz – all contributed to the writing, and each has a part in the end product, including stage manager Xavier Cienfuegos. They chose the title to emphasise the work’s central theme: that men are often separated from each other by only a thin veneer of masculinity, which they use to hide the choices they make in their lives.Speaking about the work, Professor Vogel says the themes emerged from the students’ own life experiences. “They are experimenting with what a new masculinity might look like,” she said. “Through devised performances, this show unearths the pressures, contradictions, and vulnerabilities that shape the male experience … asking men if they are willing to be vulnerable and honest, and enter relationships in a less combative way.” And vulnerability is exactly what the students have exposed themselves to – not only in opening up, but in pushing themselves to create and perform, as only a few had experience on stage before this project.The exploration of cultural masculinity is set in the context of the relationship between three brothers immediately after their stereotypically masculine father has died, interwoven with aspects of college life that range over issues of depression, loneliness, peer pressure and violence.Thin Walls: Men(tal) Health is a classic piece of student ensemble theatre, featuring a wide range of performance abilities.

Over the last few years at the Fringe, clowning has grown from a niche artform to award-winning status (see Garry Starr, Elf Lyons and Dr Brown as prime examples) – and this show certainly earns its place alongside these purveyors of the absurd.Los Angeles-based Kym Priess first appears to us in the guise of Dale, an Aussie tour manager struggling to get the show started. Dale is constantly speaking, complaining about technical hitches and struggling with the audio. He encourages us to sit facing each other runway-style (as on a party bus) and get to know each other, while he slinks off to locate the star of the show.After around fifteen minutes of Dale’s delightful muttering and cursing, we are introduced to the fabulously unhinged Loser Lion – a failed Vegas wrestler and very shabby lion, who chain-smokes and has no sense of propriety or personal space. There is a quick aside to arm the less open to interaction with a gesture that lets Priess know not to get too close – a welcome consideration in today’s climate of consent.What follows is Pee-Wee’s Playhouse for the TikTok generation. The party bus gets underway courtesy of a projected trip through the streets of Hollywood, and we are encouraged to join in with some shenanigans that include headbanging to Iron Maiden, Facetiming a famous fictional character, and hearing the story of Dolly the bus driver – Loser Lion’s lover and blow-up doll. However, it all begins to unravel when Loser Lion realises that one of the passengers is, in fact, his old nemesis from his days as a wrestler. At times, looped effects are used to create a cacophony of noise, and a playlist of absolute bangers keeps the energy high.Good clowning should be immersive – and great clowning shouldn’t be afraid to challenge your expectations. Priess has created a character that is confident and yet filled with pathos – furious at the world but just wanting everybody to have a good time. A final reveal from another character late in the show suggests that he, and his blow-up lover Dolly, might just manage a happy ending.

Are you looking after a young baby? Does no one understand what you are going through? Then go and see The Madonna – she understands…The human animal has the disadvantage of a mind. Motherhood is the prime example where the animal’s demands clash with the mind’s needs. In a riotous comedy musical, Marie Hamilton explores this conflict in excruciating detail.Nobody expects to live up to the ideal of the Madonna and Child but the everyday gap between societal expectations and lonely reality is brutal. Hamilton has a double whammy: she is a stay-at-home mother (‘When are you thinking of going back to work?’) and an actor (‘Been in anything recently?’). What makes it worse is that she can’t stand her mother (who, in turn, couldn’t stand her mother).Full of all-too-believable embarrassments and characters, Hamilton acts out a story that eventually becomes how she came to write the show we’re watching.The show is perfect for intimate fringe venues. Hamilton creates a direct, humorous connection with audience members so that, despite the artifice of songs and props, it feels like chatting with a witty friend in a café. For a show that’s essentially forty minutes of complaining, her comedy and self-awareness ensure it never feels like a self-indulgent whinge.The show’s concluding reconciliation with her mother feels artificial and forced – although the ultimate message that fulfillment can be found through mutual help is strong.So, to any partners of mothers reading this – go on, take a shift of babysitting and let her go.

Lanford Wilson was at one point one of America’s preeminent dramatists – he was awarded the Guggenheim Fellowship in Drama & Performance Art in 1972, the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1980, and the PEN/Laura Pels International Foundation for Theater Award in 2004. As co-founder of the Circle Repertory Company, Wilson transitioned in the 1970s from off-off-Broadway to off-Broadway to Broadway, and was instrumental in advancing off-Broadway as a movement – demonstrating that new playwrights could inch closer to West 41st Street in time.Typically, at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, I seek out new writing and tend to dismiss revivals or regurgitations of especially famous productions – but I’m certainly glad I made an exception for this, the first part of a two-part concoction of Lanford Wilson’s one-act plays, none of which I had ever read or heard of before this year’s festival. After watching Who We Become, Pt. 1 – an admittedly corny title that does not quite prepare you for the depth, mystery and pain of The Moonshot Tape, the first of the plays presented – I cannot wait to see the other two in the second part.In The Moonshot Tape, Margaret Curry plays Diane, a successful short story writer who has returned to her hometown in Missouri and sits face-to-face with a journalist from the high school paper she once wrote for. What follows is perhaps one of the best performances you will see at the Fringe this year, as Diane comes to terms with the horrors and traumas of her childhood over the course of the interview. Wilson’s writing veers gracefully across and between topics, supported by a consistently compelling, nuanced and thought-provoking delivery from Curry. The stage is bare-skinned and minimal, as is the direction, allowing Wilson’s distinctly naturalistic dialogue and Curry’s reserved physicality to fully occupy the space.Overall, this version of The Moonshot Tape by Deep Flight Productions is a triumph – bolstered by a devastating and eloquent central performance.

There’s a simple way to judge how good a ventriloquist is: check who the audience is watching when the “puppet” is supposedly talking. If their eyes are on the puppet, everything’s going swimmingly; if it’s the performer, they’ve got a problem.Thankfully, David Salter has absolutely nothing to fear on that score. From the moment she’s introduced, the audience in The Wee Coo venue are totally focused on hearing the lifetime recollections and razor-sharp put-downs from the imperious, self-centred Dame Granny Smith.As she takes command of the stage, Salter is seemingly left floundering as a somewhat inexperienced and uncertain interviewer. It’s clear early on that this particular “grande dame” of stage and screen – whose vaudeville debut at age five (days) eventually led to her being picked to play the poisoned apple in Disney’s original Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs back in 1937 – isn’t one to take prisoners in her anecdotes or let loyalty to Pam (her former personal assistant of 24 years) get in her way.All this despite one obvious and unavoidable fact – Dame Granny Smith is – literally – a real apple, with her blank eyes and mouth flap the work of a few minutes with a peeler. Salter holds her in his hand, operating the mouth flap with his thumb. It’s obvious how it’s done – and yet we can’t help but “buy” the situation and the reality of her character.It helps, of course, that Salter is a naturally funny performer. It helps too that his show is filled with clever one-liners and comedic lines that stretch through the hour, building to a conclusion that takes things in a deliciously unexpected direction, ensuring An Evening with Dame Granny Smith is ultimately much more than a show with a single punchline – great though that punchline undoubtedly is.The twist is done lightly, with surprising subtlety, but gives the show emotional heart and really stays with you. Simply put, the result is a show that has as much to say about the art of ventriloquism as it does about the jaded vanities of an old theatrical star who is (frankly) well beyond her sell-by date. That’s a delicate balance to keep, but Salter makes it feel easy.And he even manages to play – albeit with assistance from an audience member – a ukulele. Brilliant.

Krista Scott gives a gushing performance as the glamorous and legendary Victorian actress and socialite Lillie Langtry in Wilde Women at Greenside @ George Street.Her solo show celebrates Oscar Wilde’s most powerful women. She dramatically enters through the theatre door wearing a stunning deep purple bustle dress. It’s 1900 and we’re in her dressing room at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh, where she is playing the lead in Sydney Grundy’s The Degenerates. The furniture and trinkets are redolent of the period, transporting us to a bygone age.She is awaiting the arrival of a crucial telegram from her dearest friend Oscar Wilde, who has resided in Paris since his release from Reading Gaol, having served his prison sentence for gross indecency. She has in mind a play that presents all his most illustrious female characters – Cecily, Salomé, Mrs Cheveley, Lady Windermere and, of course, Lady Bracknell – but she cannot proceed without his approval and cooperation. She sees it as an opportunity to make amends for, like the rest of society, she had distanced herself from him at the time of his arrest. She believes it will restore his reputation and, equally importantly, revive her own fading stardom.The plays are stacked on an occasional table and for the rest of the show she works her way through them, explaining the importance of the female characters, taking on their roles and performing extracts from their most important monologues. We are also given a good measure of historical context, with references to the famous theatrical names of the day, and we learn of Wilde’s importance in establishing strong, independent women as protagonists, and his influence.The play is rich in content and perhaps overflowing. Scott rattles through the performance repertoire at considerable speed, giving classic interpretations, although there are times when it has the tones of a lecture. Overall, however, it’s a wonderful opportunity to hear the great speeches and revel in the world of Wilde.

This surreal dark comedy is sure to ring true for anyone who has ever questioned what they actually do in the office all day. Almost like a J. G. Ballard novel made into a musical, Jack Parris uncovers the absurdity behind corporate jargon and the blind desire for promotion in this new production, with a few catchy songs thrown into the mix. From presentations about wellbeing to KPIs and corporate jargon, The Unstoppable Rise of Ben Manager satirises the emptiness of office culture with irreverence and sharp wit.Just before he attends an interview for a big company, Ben Weaver sees a dead man outside the building. After taking the man’s lanyard, he transforms into Ben Manager and immediately gets the job. What follows is a dizzyingly Kafkaesque journey as Ben lands increasingly absurd promotions, mentally deteriorating as he progresses up the corporate ladder.The Unstoppable Rise of Ben Manager cleverly literalises the idea of joining a corporate family and the office worker’s helpless vulnerability to the demands of their superiors, as Ben finds himself aggressively infantilised by his cheerfully sadistic CEO. The clinical CEO is played by Teele Uustani, who doubles as the puppetress for Ben’s sinister co-worker Derp. Parris is also supported by musicians Michael Coxhead, who plays guitar and uses a vocoder to voice other characters, and Adam Boothroyd, who creates the show’s vivid electronica soundtrack.Despite a whole song dedicated to the corporate phrase ‘gaining traction’, the piece loses traction itself at times, getting caught up in its own absurdity and losing the keen-eyed satire of the elements more grounded in reality. The Unstoppable Rise of Ben Manager is a clever satire that exposes the emptiness at the heart of the corporate world. However, it lacks the humanity of The Office and you leave the theatre with the sense that this has been done before but better, whether by Kafka or more recent television shows like Severance and Industry.

The Tale of the Loneliest Whale is a magical dive beneath the sea, as one whale searches for someone who will complement his song. The audience is taken from the surface of the sea to the deep and back again, all by Gemma Curry, who – along with a few willing audience members – tells the story using a number of very impressive puppets.Curry’s capable puppetry is commendable, with a great deal of life and personality injected into each character. She herself is very engaging, keeping the audience’s focus on her and guiding them through the narrative she weaves. She has a strong and clear voice – important in a production that centres on a character’s inner song – and no small amount of charisma.The production is both fun and enchanting – there were moments when the children in the audience got up to dance to the turtle’s music, and gasps of wonder when the jellyfish bloom began. The jellyfish, in particular, were a standout moment according to the children I interviewed afterwards, as Curry skilfully conducted the audience as a melodious choir of singing jellyfish. The sound design overall was very effective – neither too loud nor too quiet, and always on cue – creating just the right atmosphere to enhance the storytelling taking place.The narrative is both simple and sweet, providing an important lesson: no matter who you are, or how different you seem, there will always be someone out there who will accept you as you are. I couldn’t help but interpret the show as a nod to neurodivergence, with the main character feeling alone and out of place, unable to be proud of his difference – the other whales seeing him as too strange to befriend. This adds an additional layer to the narrative, whether intentional or not, and only increases its importance as a story that encourages self-acceptance and finding those who will understand you. It is charming and impactful – one mother commented to me afterwards that she was “welling up” as the story drew to a close.The Tale of the Loneliest Whale is a fantastic piece of children’s theatre. Many of the children present recommended I assign it five stars – and I have done so, as I believe it deserves recognition for the effort put in and the captivating results those efforts have produced. I strongly recommend this show – whether you are a child, have children, or simply need a reminder that there will always be someone out there ready and able to harmonise with you.

Pretty much the DNA of the Fringe, sketch comedy is one fiendish performance genre to tame. Successfully controlled it can generate an entire subculture of characters and catchphrases. But as an unweeded garden, it can also grow to seed; becoming indulgent, niche, exclusive and (whisper it softly) that most egregious thing of all… unfunny.Happily though, the Manchester Revue – in its fifth year at the Fringe – is none of these things, and delivers laughs aplenty in a vibrant and engaging set. Our five performers bounce off each other with energy and enthusiasm, and a clear determination to engage the audience rather than feed their own egos.With material inspired by the graffiti in Manchester’s public toilets, the troupe make their way through a range of observational humour and more surreal elements. Naturally, each conceit will land differently for everyone; but the deliciousness of the sketch format is that there will always be another scene along in a moment. Standout moments include the heckled hubby just trying to watch the telly; shower thoughts; the unconventional birthday presents; and Noah’s Ark – but there is plenty to choose from on this comedic smorgasbord.The individual performances are strong and involving, although a slightly slower pace at times might offset the occasional acoustical disadvantage at the back of the space. But there is no doubting the intelligence and insight of this work, and the individuality of the collective ‘voice’ which is emerging.

It’s the late 90s and in a fictitious small town in Ohio, the sales team at Terry’s are trying to sell cars. It’s Memorial Weekend, the equivalent of a bank holiday weekend in the UK, with implicitly heightened sales opportunities.The team are playing heavily on the Memorial theme: stars and stripes adorn the lot and they draw ever-more spurious patriotic links with their deals on vehicles. The lead salesman Tom refers to himself as ‘Major Tom’. They shoot in-house television adverts, featuring superheroes and injecting razzmatazz at each turn, all with the purpose of creating sales leads.They are under pressure though. The eponymous business owner has set sales targets; if these are not hit, the team will not secure essential financial bonuses. The pressure is layered, however. While Terry may be unseen, he looms ominously over proceedings akin to Wilson in The Dumb Waiter. It will be more than missed bonuses if targets are not hit, job security being fragile. Sheila has a teenage son demanding attention. Henri needs time to study for his citizenship test, not to mention money to pay for legal fees. Kelly is new to the team and is, initially at least, clearly not the aggressive salesperson that will thrive in this high-octane environment. Leads need to be converted to sales, of course.As the weekend dissipates, the number of cars needing to be sold per day inexorably rises. The stakes are higher for everyone now and the team seek to deploy increasingly more desperate measures. Arthur Miller, while writing Death Of A Salesman, noted the “hopeless hope of the day's business”.David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross depicted underhand sales techniques and there are some parallels in Terry’s: An American Tragedy About Cars, Customers, and Selling Cars to Customers. Tom drums into his team the “ABC: Always Be Closing” mantra. Yet, while some themes such as patriotism and consumerism are touched upon, this production centres on an examination of the American Dream.All of the performances are consistently strong in this fine production. The BRILLIG company’s Lecoq training is evident, as the show is a fusion of comedy, drama, music, song and physical theatre. The pace is relentless, being a metaphor for the pressures the team face.

There’s a genuinely rough “work in progress” feel to Steve Whiteley’s A Mind Full, not least when he’s bantering with his tech guy over missed cues or missing picture files.Given Whiteley’s relatively recent diagnosis of ADHD, this doesn’t necessarily come as either a surprise or an issue; in fact, it feels appropriate, given his relatively early “morning after the night before” time slot and his location in what feels like the attic of one of the Old Town’s most atmospheric venues.A Mind Full is part stand-up, part confessional. Time and again Whiteley holds onto his microphone with both hands – like a singer emoting a ballad – as he explains how he’s tried down the years to fill the void he’s long felt inside.Coping mechanisms over the years have included drugs, money, music and film production, therapy, meditation and even (believe it or not) performing stand-up in order to find some validation and emotional stability. Some of these worked for a time, others were less successful – a few were frankly just embarrassing. (Comedy is not one of those: if you don’t laugh in Whiteley’s company, there’s little hope for you.)In terms of the show’s narrative arc, Whiteley is now much more self-aware than he used to be: understanding his intimacy problems and their root cause. He’s now more often in “rest and digest” mode than “fight or flight”, which may be odd for a stand-up, but is a valuable lesson nonetheless – not all laughs have to come from a stressed place.

There are times when, for whatever reason, it’s just too… “neat”.The “it” in question is Sauna Boy, a one-man show based on writer-performer Dan Ireland-Reeves’s experiences of working in a gay sauna. It comes to the 2025 Edinburgh Fringe on the back of a successful international tour, including a sell-out run at Melbourne’s LGBTQ+ Midsumma Festival. Closer to home, it earned Ireland-Reeves an Oscar Wilde Award for Best Writing at the 2024 International Dublin Gay Theatre Festival.Which, is absolutely fair: Ireland-Reeves’s script is sharp, insightful and surprisingly tender on occasions; it’s as strongly paced as the show’s pulsing soundtrack, and even dares to be educational – not least during a brief section where, in rapid succession, Ireland-Reeves succinctly answers “Eight Frequently Asked Questions About Working in a Gay Sauna”. Nor does he hold back in his performance; he imbues his various characters – primarily the small core staff at the sauna, as well as a few of the regular clients – with slightly more depth than you’d expect from their initially superficial “gay scene” personas.And yet, on occasions, the show feels just a little too honed; for example, there’s something just too “neat” in Ireland-Reeves’s time at the West End Sauna lasting one week shy of a full year. Not that I’m saying this isn’t true: it just has the feel of a writerly contrivance to give more impact to his narrative.Nicknamed “Danny Boy” by the staff, Ireland-Reeves quickly rose up the ranks to sauna manager and certainly appears to have taken the job seriously; if there’s one thing we don’t get distracted by in Sauna Boy, it’s any sense of the rest of his life outside the West End Sauna’s doors. (Given the mentions of 12+ hour shifts, this is hardly surprising. Nevertheless, at one point, it’s genuinely startling when Ireland-Reeves mentions choosing to leave his car in the car park and walk home to “cool down” after a particularly stressful day. He owned a car?)Ireland-Reeves has, undoubtedly, created a very enjoyable show; it provides a fascinating glimpse of a unique and self-contained world built on secrecy, desire and – at least for the sauna’s “regulars” – a genuine sense of shared history and community. Thanks to his skill as both writer and performer, we genuinely grow to care about the coterie of characters he describes, in no small way supported by finely tuned stage lighting and sound cues.I just wish everything wasn’t quite so… “neat”.

‘Domestic abuse isn’t funny, but this show is’ is a wild tagline for any comedy show – but it feels fitting for James Barr’s Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex to My Mum). Back for its second run at the Fringe, the show has been substantially reworked – from the material and timing to the lighting – although the core story remains the same.As soon as the audience steps into Buttercup at Underbelly, things feel different from last year’s show. From the upbeat entrance music to the remixed trigger warning at the start, it’s clear that Barr is changing up the vibe. He even goes so far as to bring out balloons, which he throws into the audience. As Barr states early in the hour: “If I’m laughing, I’m surviving.” This is not a show of tragedy, but of strength and joy.Barr now wears a headset microphone – giving either TED Talk or Britney, depending on who you ask. It may seem like a small change, but it speaks volumes. With no handheld mic to restrict him, Barr can move freely across the stage, using his whole body to tell the story. It’s a simple but smart shift that reflects not just a growth in performance style, but a deeper confidence in owning his narrative.Barr recalls some surprisingly tender moments with his ex: moving in together, introducing him to Barr’s mum (the formidable Colleen). That is, until one little dick changes everything. The stories that follow are distressing and uncomfortable, yet delivered with great care – never gratuitous, always honest.Later in the hour, a few of the more disturbing moments hit audience members right in the gut, and they audibly react. What began as a romantic recollection becomes something far more sinister. But Barr doesn’t flinch. He holds the space carefully, never letting discomfort become alienation. That’s the strength of this hour: we’re not just witnessing a story – we’re part of the healing process. Barr earns our trust and, with it, our full attention.What makes a five-star show isn’t just the strength of the hour, but the evolution behind it. James Barr hasn’t just refined his material – he’s reclaimed it. What was once raw is now razor-sharp: braver, funnier and more gloriously empowering. By the end, there’s a shift you can feel in the room – a quiet, defiant release that lingers long after the lights go down. This is more than catharsis. It’s a comeback.

Let Edinburgh come alive in front of your eyes in a very different way. Instead of seeing the world through the sights, see it through words. Edinburgh becomes a whole new world when walking around places that might easily be missed when you are able to see it through the lens of the poetic word.Local Edinburgh poet Ken Cockburn hosts the literary walking tour of Edinburgh – Embro, and through this, he showed me an Edinburgh alive with literature. Using poetry, Cockburn brings to light the history of Edinburgh through the eyes of poets like Victor Hugo, Edwin Morgan, and even prose from Dorothy Wordsworth. This tour has it all. I was able to see an Edinburgh I had not imagined I would see and was enraptured from the beginning.Throughout the tour the poems become an integral part of understanding Edinburgh. Each stop has history and someone to tell that story, moving through time with every poet. Cockburn made a tour that revealed it is one thing to see Edinburgh and another thing to feel Edinburgh. Each poem or literary piece provided a new perspective to have on some of Edinburgh’s most famous spots, such as Holyrood Palace, Arthur’s Seat, and more. Cockburn himself presents a deep passion for the information he is presenting, always allowing time for questions, comments, and pictures of the sights.This tour allows for seeing Edinburgh through the eyes of others – both through their real eyes and imagined ones. Though it may be a niche not everyone will fill it is certainly worth checking out if the idea of viewing Edinburgh through the words of someone else piques your interest this is certainly for you. It also allows for those deeply fascinated in poetry to find another great Edinburgh spot – the Scottish Poetry Library. So, if poetry, history, and a little bit of Scottish architecture is something you love then think about taking a walk through Edinburgh along with the famous poets Ken Cockburn brings along from history.

360 ALLSTARS offers an energetic celebration of rotation in all its forms, blending American street culture with circus artistry. The show brings together BMX, basketball freestyle, breakdance and Cyr wheel in a line-up that showcases skill without losing its sense of fun.This is an energetic, family-friendly production with audience participation woven in at just the right moments to keep everyone engaged. For older viewers, the visual language and music tap into a familiar cultural memory of 90s hip-hop, while younger audiences respond to the energy, tricks and fast delivery.Director, producer, percussionist and MC Gene Peterson anchors the performance, his live drumming and rap lyrics keeping the show on track. Sharing hosting duties, MC Mirrah loops vocals with a soulful edge to her singing, adding a positive message of connection, self-expression and inclusion. Her presence builds a bridge between the high-octane acts and the audience.The acts are as varied as they are skilled, all paying homage to American street culture. Hungarian two-time BMX world champion Peter Söre balances and spins his bike with astonishing control, blending technical mastery with understated showmanship. Guinness world record holder Bavo Freestyles juggles four basketballs at once, his ease with the audience making the act as much about personality as precision.Josh Curtis, with a background in urban dance and circus training, offers a smooth, fluid performance in the Cyr wheel, bringing grace to the show’s more kinetic moments. B-boys Chriss Arias and Links bring bursts of raw energy to the floor, their breakdance battles echoing the street culture roots that inform the whole production. In the grand finale, all acts combine their skills in a whirlwind of talent and pure joy of performing.The compact stage works to the show’s advantage. Its size keeps the tricks close to the audience, amplifying the sense of precision and risk. While the variety of acts means the performance sometimes feels like a sequence of highlights rather than a single narrative, the energy never drops, and the shared enthusiasm of the cast keeps the audience engaged throughout.Part circus, part street jam, 360 ALLSTARS is a show where nostalgia meets momentum and everybody gets swept along for the ride.

Blaze FM explores life on a Hackney council estate from the early 2000s to the mid-2010s through the lens of a pirate radio station founded by local resident Hughbert (performed by an excellent Andrew Brown), and later sustained by his two children and the wider community.The show features fantastic live performances and charts the evolution from grime to drill in response to the complex social changes of the era. The community’s resilience is depicted in their responses to events such as the 2005 London bombings, a dubious reinvestigation of the Broadwater Farm riot, and a surge in youth violence.The production is smart, lively and highly engaging. It provides a compelling exploration of the UK’s social evolution, with particular focus on the effects of gentrification in London and the strained relationship between Black communities and law enforcement, especially the Metropolitan police.Original music broadcast through the station becomes a powerful outlet for characters to express defiance, joy, rage and love, with the community calling in and responding at the other end of the line.At the heart of the story are Hughbert, his family and the community united through the radio waves. Through years of professional success, unimaginable grief and everything in between, each character becomes shaped by the world around them.

Sam Blythe is directed by Guy Masterson in this superb one-man adaptation of George Orwell’s seminal novella. The structure and characters of the original render it problematic to stage successfully, making this outstanding piece of theatre an especial treat for those keen to revisit this allegory of the Russian Revolution and commentary on totalitarianism.That the history books are replete with tales of the good-natured, the simple and the trusting being manipulated by slick oracy, hollow promises and plain thuggery is no secret. But admission that our own times are – irrefutably – beset with such manipulative practices still carries the risk of an eyebrow raised in askance (at best), or a short trip to the nearest high window (at worst).Blythe’s occasional nods to apposite moments in our own world drive home Orwell’s universal themes of impotence and outrage. And there is a delicious feeling, together in this darkened space, that we are complicit in this revolutionary act – in this telling of truths.Blythe creates both humans and animals with an extraordinary physical capacity, conjuring the tragic and the risible in equal measure. A boorish Napoleon, the silliness of the sheep, coquettish Molly, obsequious Squealer, and an array of personalities are bounced between at impressive speed. But the stars of the show are Clover and Boxer, created with such tenderness and humanity that their sufferings force an almost physical weight on the audience, who must bear witness to their journeys.Blythe's towering performance remains respectful to the source at all times, while breathing innovative new life into phrases that have become ingrained in our collective lexicon. This insistent, breathless piece should be on the Fringe shortlist for anyone interested in quality theatre – and an imperative for anyone interested in quality of life.

Ali Woods returns to the Edinburgh Fringe this year with a confident, crowd-pleasing set. Best known for social media skits across TikTok and Instagram Reels, Woods proves equally at home on stage, effortlessly filling the 60-minute slot with a wide range of observations, anecdotes and asides that keep the audience engaged throughout.A self-proclaimed millennial, much of the material explores the evolving digital world – from growing up sharing a family desktop (now unthinkable) to the inexplicable pride only a millennial can feel from posting successful Instagram content. Likewise, the topic of weddings makes an expected but not unwelcome appearance.One standout section covers the classic boys' night out, including a surprise shout-out to Watford Oceana (a true millennial tell – Gen Z would know it as Pryzm), which had the room in stitches. Woods is firmly in his element unpacking the inevitable cringe and tragic lack of self-awareness that comes with being a teenage boy. Equally sharp are the jokes targeting men’s attitudes towards mental health, which had many in the audience nodding and laughing along.Using an “immigrant” Scottish mother as a narrative springboard, Woods smoothly incorporates local themes, including a witty breakdown of Edinburgh’s unapologetic Harry Potter tourism industry.A confident and seasoned performer, Woods exudes stage presence and immediate likability. While the meaning behind the show’s title, Basher, wasn’t made clear in the reviewed performance, this remains a strong, tightly crafted hour that had the audience laughing from start to finish.The outro is a particularly charming touch, with Woods breezily weaving in callbacks to earlier jokes before landing on a surprisingly tender, thoughtful note that left the room on a high.

Jordan Gray bursts on stage to thunderous applause. In a cowboy hat, boots, white shirt and western-inspired belt, all that’s left to say is: welcome to the rodeo.Following Gray’s spectacular rise to fame after her first Edinburgh Fringe show, Is It a Bird?, in 2022 comes the long-awaited second round. Her latest show is keenly aware of the pressure a sequel faces and leans into the challenge of matching her earlier success.Born in Essex, Gray is one of the Fringe’s breakout stars. Is It a Bird? secured a Channel 4 special and multiple awards, including a Bafta. She has also appeared on Friday Night Live, ITV’s sitcom Transaction and The Voice. But her rise has been met with controversy after she became the first transgender woman to strip naked live on Channel 4. The moment sparked both praise and backlash – including death threats.Jordan Gray: Is That a C*ck in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Here to Kill Me? is not just the sequel to her hit show but a response to the media, political and social frenzy that followed the disrobing.In an hour full of music and standup, Gray fires back at her critics. In the process, her second instalment becomes a reflective, introspective show that at times questions who Jordan Gray is – while doubling as a love letter to the LGBTQ+ community. A funny yet emotional exploration of what it means to be a transgender woman, and particularly a public-facing one.Gray’s comedy, lyric writing and singing are hilariously quick-witted, while also feeling raw and intimate. Though the show may have its genesis in a difficult place, she turns life’s ups and downs into new material, in true comedian fashion.Without giving too much away, the show promises an ending to remember.

Award-winning theatre-maker Victoria Melody returns to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe with her latest show, Trouble, Struggle, Bubble and Squeak, collaborating for the first time with acclaimed political comedian and director Mark Thomas.Melody has a way of dealing with the things life throws at her – usually by taking on a completely diversionary hobby or job. Dealing with her divorce led her to the English Civil War Society, where she was assigned to the politically wrong side for her liking in historical re-enactments – but found a revolutionary outlet in the Diggers, who, faced with poverty and starvation, occupied common land to farm it.It soon dawned on her that the dissatisfaction felt by these 17th-century radicals towards those in power – who had failed their communities – is still rife in today’s society. With that historical background covered, she goes on to tell the tale of how she embraced a deprived area of her own city and ultimately galvanised people to bring about change that would benefit the entire community.Her show is filled with stories of eccentric but real people who became emboldened to challenge the status quo, confront the powers that be, and take on the local council to improve their lives. Couch potatoes soon became activists, helping hands and campaigning citizens who, with every success, became more committed to furthering their cause. With the aid of a colourful, child-like drawing of the area and cardboard cut-outs of people, she playfully rattles off the interactions, confrontations and remarkable contributions that transformed a region, changed lives and enabled a community to reshape its home – making it a place of which they could be proud.Entertainingly told with great clarity and precise delivery, Melody’s show is an inspiring tale that brings history to life in modern times – and demonstrates how people can be empowered to change their own lives and communities for the better.

Welcome aboard this Shakespearean play/musical/physical comedy/theatre mashup. Performed by multiple National School Theatre Award winners, this inventive production comes with a pirate twist.Opening with an energetic mise-en-scène and set in the Victorian era, Much Ado About Pirates follows Jonathan, a pirate going through a career change as he leaves the Pirate King in pursuit of becoming an actor. Just to his luck, he is cast as Benedick in the navy’s adaptation of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. Soon, he’ll be launched into the spotlight through his talent and passion for the art form.Hosted at theSpace at Niddry Street, the theatre-in-the-round approach – with audiences surrounding the stage – allows an immersive view of all 360 degrees. Performers move dynamically in and out of scenes, on and off the stage. The set-up is lively and creative, filled with fun props, wigs and a revolving door of costume changes.In true Shakespearean fashion, Much Ado About Pirates holds all the trademarks of a great Shakespearean comedy: cross-dressing, plotting, quick wit – and even a play within a play. In many ways, this meta approach condenses the multi-hour classic into a smart, music-filled, hour-long show brimming with dance routines.While the performance is in conversation with Shakespeare's play, it also makes fun of itself unapologetically. Ingeniously, the piracy storyline leans into its own chaos, becoming a sort of good-natured piracy of Shakespeare’s work – and it works brilliantly, with much self-awareness.Much Ado About Pirates is as much about a clever interpretation of Shakespeare as it is about its young and charming performance. It’s worth highlighting the impressive and invigorating delivery of the young ensemble, who perform Shakespeare’s dialogue with great lusciousness and understanding of the plot. A truly delightful viewing of emerging talent that will undoubtedly continue to dazzle audiences in the years to come.

It was Joseph Stalin who is supposed to have said, “One death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” It is a sentiment that haunts the ether around our comfortable television sets in our comfortable living rooms. For whether we choose to neglect, ignore, feel or demonstrate against the horrors of war and the highly discriminate loss of life, it is hard – faced with so much evidence of man’s inhumanity to man – to comprehend the full devastation being wrought in all too many corners of the world. Harder still is the task of giving each obliterated life the full and idiosyncratic weight it deserves in death.In Katia Haddad’s MARIUPOL, two of the beating hearts behind the statistics are imagined through the eyes of Galina (a Moscow student) and Steve (a Ukrainian naval officer). Initially brought together by a chance meeting in the 1990s, the intertwining of their lives – and their unbreakable regard for each other – belies the aggression of Galina’s homeland and the vulnerability of Steve’s.The performances are exceptionally strong: Nathalie Barclay is heartbreaking as a woman ripped apart by happenstance. Oliver Gomm allows his character of Steve to mature across the hour – much as Steve’s blokey demeanour planes into something smoother with pain and time.Mariupol has known such Russian hostility in recent years that its name has joined an unwelcome club of locations known as immediate and horrific bywords for human suffering. Yet this is not a piece full of declamatory political statements – and what it achieves is, in fact, far more powerful. It is a simple, messy love story of two simple, messy people, played out against the brutal horrors of a megalomaniac’s imagination. Eking out their days as best they can. Trying to make logical decisions in illogical times. And finally, reminding us that such people are not statistics – but that they are us.

I first saw Garry Starr in 2018, the first time I seriously came to the Fringe. It was my final night and I was resolved to cram as much in as I could. Damian Warren-Smith played the titular Garry Starr as he did everything in an effort to save theatre. It was the best show I saw all Fringe, and I had high expectations going into this one. This time, literature needs saving – so Garry riffs through Penguin Classic novels.With the help of a camera displaying book covers and a vast array of props, the show features wild interpretations of titles, plots and themes in a series of skits that keep the crowd howling. I’ll try to avoid spoiling too many titles, but he masterfully subverts Great Expectations and we all swooned through Holding the Man.It’s been seven years since his first show, and the Gaulier clown has developed his craft into a beautifully chaotic farce – 70 minutes of side-splitting subversion and spectacular silliness. In 2018, the big reveal and twist was that when Garry’s cock came out, it felt like a bold step – as if the character had overcome something in himself. That’s gone for Penguin Classics, which sees full-frontal nudity from the outset… but cut with the silliest of walks and flamboyant flounces in his iconic Elizabethan ruff. It remained funny, but it did leave me wondering whether he needed to be naked for the entire show.Many of his skits involve audience participation, and this could have delved into dubious territory considering the nudity. However, Damian navigates this admirably, making sure everyone is consenting and seemingly self-vets to get the right sort of people involved. Nobody is left embarrassed or humiliated – usually, they’re the heroes. Chaos reigns through everything from food fights to a moorland hunt of a naughty Kate Bush. It is hands down the best crowd work I’ve seen all Fringe.He even manages to surf the audience – in the buff – with an enthusiastic crowd, and it doesn’t get weird.I think where Garry Starr: Penguin Classics falls down is that it follows Damian’s previous work. It retains its absurd and ridiculous spark, but some of the vulnerability of his first show has gone. It is no longer quite so ground-breaking – but it does leave crowds grinning. By the end, the stage is strewn with errant penguins, and you’ll have found yourself squawking with joy by the time the clown is done.

God can be found in the unlikeliest of places for Cecilia Gentili. This wild, (semi-)autobiographical romp charts the coming of age of a young trans girl in 1970s Argentina through the unexpected lens of her personal relationship with God. Cecilia Gentili’s Red Ink is divided into a dozen unapologetic, hilarious short stories recounting Gentili’s early life and the community that helped shape her. However, this celebratory depiction of growing up as a trans woman in America is ultimately outdone by its strong source material.Originally premiering in New York in 2023 as Red Ink, the autobiographical show was loosely based on Gentili’s book Faltas: Letters to Everyone in My Hometown Who Isn't My Rapist. After Gentili tragically passed away in 2024, Breaking the Binary Theatre’s founder, George Strus, decided to keep her memory alive by bringing the show to an international audience. Red Ink was condensed from 90 to 60 minutes for the Fringe, and Chiquita – a Brooklyn nightlife performer and drag artist – was cast as Gentili.A retelling of a retelling of a retelling, the authenticity of the original story can sometimes feel lost in this new version of the show, which lacks the narrative flow you can imagine the original might have had. Chiquita brings an undeniable dynamism and charismatic energy to the role of Gentili. However, while she is evidently a proficient performer, Chiquita lacks the theatrical experience to bring the myriad community of Gentili’s childhood convincingly to life.Brought to the Fringe in honour of Cecilia Gentili, this refreshingly joyful story of generations of women supporting each other is a reclamation of faith for trans women. Although this new performance loses some of the authenticity and frankness of its original, it is still a gloriously camp and celebratory show – a fitting testament to the memory of the activist, actor and all-round queer icon Cecilia Gentili.

The year is 1941. France is occupied by the Nazis, who wield significant influence in North African Casablanca. A stream of desperate refugees clamour to leave for America, but only the rich or powerful can hope to make it. European flotsam and jetsam gravitate to Morocco – but once there, they wait. And while they wait, everybody comes to Rick’s…There is an art deco-style set at the lovely Ghillie Dhu venue that evokes memories for anyone who has seen the film – and it’s utterly charming.A chanteuse takes to the stage and performs three songs from the era, including the iconic As Time Goes By.But then the action really begins. What follows is, in essence, a series of key moments from the film: the hustler Ugarte has letters of transit for sale, which more or less guarantee safe passage to America. These are subsequently acquired by club owner Rick Blaine. Freedom fighter Victor Laszlo and his partner, Ilsa Lund, seek to buy them – however, Blaine and Lund have a romantic history, and it’s far from certain he will play ball. All this plays out against the backdrop of the Nazis’ attempts to prevent Laszlo’s departure.The film's central themes of love, sacrifice and moral dilemma are timeless, and it remains a much-loved classic. Yet do not expect a faithful reproduction of the film here. Casablanca: The Gin Joint Cut is a distillation of the action, paying homage to the original, and is interspersed with little-known snippets about the film’s creation. The cast multitask, switching characters and settings in a heartbeat. It is a fusion of drama, comedy, slapstick, song and music – and it works quite beautifully.There is a joy to hearing some of the classic quotes: “The Germans wore grey, you wore blue,” and “Here’s looking at you, kid.” There is also a storming and uplifting rendition of La Marseillaise, complete with audience participation.The pace of the show is relentless, and the quality of performances very strong. Catch it if you can…

Three Can Keep A Secret is piece of comedy drama with a twist: there is frequent audience interaction to influence the plot, making it a cross between drama and the ‘choose your own adventure’ genre. A boys’ poker night is the setting. The host, Mason, is expecting various party guests and with his wife, Denise, safely out of town, it promises to be raucous. Sonny and Moose arrive, yet…they don’t especially seem to be cordial with one another – are they in fact friends at all? While Moose distracts Mason, Sonny murders him, the first of many plot twists. It transpires that Mason owed an unpleasant organisation a large sum of money and the others were here to collect, under cover of a poker game. However, rather unexpectedly Mason’s wife and inebriated friend Julia return, having missed their flight to Vegas, Julia eventually being bundled into an Uber. None of the five characters emerge with any great ethical credit. Mason inferentially has a gambling addiction and has brought his household to the verge of bankruptcy. Sonny is self-absorbed and unpleasant, even for a hitman. Moose, also a hitman, is having an affair with a married woman. Denise takes a string of lovers, while Julia tries to seduce a married pilot, causing them to miss their flight. The plot now ebbs and flows, as the characters seek to achieve various goals. Will they get away with murder? Who will get the money? Will the women prove to be collateral damage? A constituent component of this ebb and flow are various action freezes, with Mason asking the audience to influence the plot with votes. Yet, this is where the premise somewhat fell down on the production today, as the choices turned out to be temporary with the plot resuming a seemingly predetermined course. This may in fairness have been an exception, as there a plethora of plot decisions and shows will rarely be repeated. While the performances are also a little uneven and unlayered, the standouts being Denise and Mason, this is nonetheless an entertaining and amusing Fringe hour.

Was it really 13 years ago that we last saw Rhys Darby perform live? You wouldn’t know it by looking at him – careening across the stage in skinny jeans, a tight black tee, and a much fuller, blonder hairstyle than before – this Kiwi comedy icon remains gloriously ageless.Best known for his roles as band manager Murray in Flight of the Conchords and the gentleman pirate in Our Flag Means Death, Darby now turns his talents to single-handedly thwarting AI-led dystopia, in his first stand-up show in over a decade: The Legend Returns.Darby himself is keenly aware that time is creeping on, opening with observational musings about his place in the modern world as an ageing tech-obsessed dad, using absurd metaphor and loop-station hijinks to get us on side.Despite smoke machines to hint at his professional success, Darby relies chiefly on simple, self-made charm. In a masterclass of sound-effect-laden storytelling, he 'skrrrts' around the stage, weaving apparently disparate anecdotes into a tightly structured story of his own future heroism, with crowd-pleasing callbacks and drone impressions connected by absurd run-on metaphors. It’s silly, yes – but also sharp as a Tesla Cybertruck.When the occasional joke falls flat, Darby gives a knowing goofball grin to earn instant forgiveness from his audience. Groan-worthy Roomba puns aside, Darby is as good as he always was – with an untamable physicality that is both endearing and attention-grabbing.Darby’s latest offering may be nothing more than an hour of escapism from reality – but, armed with the intensely human, low-tech charm of someone making chopper noises into the mic, he proves it’s duly needed.Rhys Darby might not save us from the robots – but, for a bit, he’ll at least make you forget they’re coming.

If the phrase “Cornelia est laeta quod iam est in villa” is as engraved upon your scholastic heart as it is on mine – then this is the show for you. Even if it’s just a dim and distant memory which simultaneously conjures the heady days of stapling your index finger just for something to do, blu-tacking your fingernails, and layering Copydex on yourself just so you could peel it off – then this charming little piece is sure to tickle your humerus.For the uninitiated, Cornelia’s unbridled joy in pottering around her summer villa is a phrase from the Latin textbook Ecce Romani. This 1971 blockbuster is the rollicking read of the Cornelii family and their adventures with wolves, carriages, unruly children and senators in Ancient Rome. A reading programme designed to familiarise students with the linguistic and cultural principles of the Roman age, Ecce Romani was as much a staple of the groaning 1980s satchel as a dog-eared copy of Tricolore and a packet of Smoky Bacon. I’ve no idea whether it is still deployed as a teaching aid. All I know is that if it isn’t, today’s Latin scholars are missing out on a full appreciation of how to learn through sheer, ungilded slog. “Is that it?” one of the chirpy cast continually asks. Yes love, it is. (Was). It really was.Nostalgia, as my dad never tires of telling me, is not what it used to be. But in this affectionate and witty homage, there is much to evoke those long-lost times when our biggest worry was who we would sit by at lunch.Shoestring Theatre bring their unique brand of storytelling magic to the book – and it is a funny, well-drilled jaunt through all twenty-seven chapters. There is some innovative physical theatre, modern questioning of certain material, and clever nods to the repetitious structure of the book. The cast are bright and breezy, working extremely hard to involve and engage their audience in a performance which is aptly brought to life by the very teens that Ecce Romani was designed for.The premise is perhaps a little niche – but the execution will prove delightful even for those unaware of the original source material. The eager and enthusiastic cast are definitely worth a look and deserve a solid audience.

Cirque Kalabanté: WOW (World of Words) is a great show that features a vivid African soundscape and an ensemble cast which will delight families – especially those with younger children.The titular World of Words features relatively few words, but makes up for it with traditional music that resonates strongly throughout the performance. If anything, this feels more like a dance show than a series of circus acts.Yamoussa Bangoura takes centre stage as the presenter-come-storyteller, and he plays well to the crowd with his personable delivery of call and response, as well as the few lines of dialogue or introduction. I found the call and response became a little repetitive, but families will love this element – the entire crowd was happily clapping along and getting involved to the rich beats of the drum.Personally, I found there wasn’t quite enough variety for a show billed as a cirque. The cast leans heavily towards acrobatics – impressive, yes – but there are fewer circus skills on display than I would have liked. That said, children will be wowed and families pleased with what they receive here. It reminds me heavily of Black Blues Brothers – another show at Assembly – but geared towards a less niche audience.The highlight of Cirque Kalabanté was Mohamed Ben Sylla, who blended contortionism with his acrobatics, especially in a memorable rope act. He brought humour and dazzling feats that truly set him apart from the rest of the cast.

In white club-kid clown makeup and rhinestoned lederhosen, Goody Prostate is ready to debut a new performance – only to be suddenly called upon to headline a local library’s reading hour for children and their parents. This sends them spiralling, prompting a philosophical unraveling about childhood, the politics of parenting and societal expectations.The premise is rich, and the performance begins with promise, especially when combined with a lip-sync to Lady Gaga’s Scheiße. However, once it’s revealed that the character will be performing for children, their existential exposition stretches a little long, dragging down the pace and undoing the initial bang of the opening.The reflective moments on growing up are tender and sincere, and the underlying commentary about delayed adult realities and the claustrophobia of social norms resonates. However, some choices verge on the predictable: when a traumatic memory surfaces, it’s met with a swell of poignant music. While the philosophical musings are timely and often thought-provoking, they sometimes arrive without clear dramatic provocation. The work would benefit from more stage action and plot points to ground these emotional and intellectual outbursts.There is, however, something undeniably compelling in Stewart’s performance. At times echoing Cabaret’s MC, their physicality and stylised delivery are mesmeric, and feel most alive when the piece leans into vaudeville and drag-inflected theatricality – especially in contrast with their Germanic roots and references to the far right. More lip-syncing, clowning and performative play might allow Stewart’s exaggerated style to land more impactfully than the current swings towards naturalistic monologue.The highlight comes in a fascinating sequence exploring the legacy of Magnus Hirschfeld, LGBTQ+ rights pioneer and defender of queer literature, which cleverly ties back to the show’s premise. It’s moments like these where the thematic and narrative threads feel most aligned.Culminating in an alphabetical lip-sync and a revamped, child-friendly clown costume that is endearing, camp and visually satisfying, Goody Prostate showcases Stewart’s clear talent and potential. With further dramaturgical development, this could evolve into something truly compelling. As it stands, it’s a thoughtful and earnest piece that doesn’t quite hit the sweet spot – but still lingers in the mind.

Oxford’s Out of the Blue have been a Fringe favourite for years, and it’s easy to see why. This all-male a cappella group deliver an eclectic mix of modern rock and pop hits, transforming them into something uniquely their own through tight harmonies, inventive arrangements and irresistible stage presence. The result is a show that feels as fresh as it is polished.Founded in 2000 at the University of Oxford, the award-winning group refreshes its line-up each year as students move on from Oxford and Oxford Brookes universities. Over the years, they’ve performed around the globe, appeared on Britain’s Got Talent and raised a considerable amount of money for their chosen charity, Helen & Douglas House hospice.This year’s setlist is a joyous journey through eras and genres, with everything from Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer and Jamiroquai’s Virtual Insanity to Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy and Beyonce’s Crazy in Love mash-up getting the distinctive Out of the Blue treatment. The group’s ability to reinvent familiar songs is dazzling – expect unexpected key changes, bold mash-ups and sudden harmonic swells that create spine-tingling moments.High-energy bangers are balanced beautifully with softer ballads, like Just the Two of Us, complete with cheeky, gender-bending choreography, or a heart-wrenching take on Billie Eilish’s When the Party’s Over. Every number is arranged specifically for the group, ensuring the harmonies remain exquisitely polished.Speaking of harmony, the basses provide a warm, resonant foundation, while the baritones add depth and drive. Tenors soar effortlessly in solos, switching between silky ballad lines and thrilling falsetto riffs. Then there’s the beatboxer – the perennial crowd favourite – whose percussive precision adds a rhythmic punch that makes you forget there’s no band on stage.Visually, the show is every bit as dynamic as the music. Choreography is crisp without feeling over-rehearsed: playful winks, synchronised moves and just enough camp keep the mood buoyant. The camaraderie between members is genuine and infectious – the sort of easy, youthful humour that draws the audience in and makes you feel part of the fun.With flawless vocals, inventive arrangements and boundless energy, Out of the Blue don’t just raise the roof – they raise the bar for a cappella at the Fringe. Brains, blazers and brilliant harmonies: it’s Oxford’s finest export since the dictionary.

Scotland needs – is owed – a significant play about the fall of RBS. Seventeen years later, has James Graham written it?It’s a brilliant script with terrific design, endless great jokes, and the cast is acting at the top level (Sandy Grierson as Fred Goodwin is astonishingly good in a difficult, wide-ranging role). Graham hasn't held back on ambition – Greek tragedy is referenced, and hubris and the Furies are recurring motifs. He brings research to life on stage, capturing Edinburgh's obsession with dualism: two cities, one chaotic and hidden underground, the other elegantly ordered in the light of the Enlightenment. Recurring motifs include ‘Edinburgh’s Disgrace’ on Calton Hill and the vital importance of John Lewis. Even Fingers Piano Bar gets a mention. Brian Cox, in a role as a balloon-puncturing National Treasure, gives an interesting additional perspective.The vox pop has mixed views on the first half. While undoubtedly entertaining, there are accusations of meandering and irrelevant characters. I would defend this section: it captures historic ‘steady as she goes’ attitudes under attack by ‘move fast and break things’ businessmen. The first half introduces cast members breaking into period pop songs, used throughout. This cheerful Hollywood musical tone illustrates the spell of short-sighted optimism that whole companies fall under – while the audience knows what happens next.Graham is meticulously fair. As success builds, Goodwin moves from unpleasant to gangsterish bully, yet he’s not the sole villain: his managers follow his lead, shareholders allow unrestrained power, and Graham shows all banks were equally bad – they just weren’t as big.The politicians fare well: Darling is eminently sensible; Brown appears as a thinking heir to the Enlightenment, unlucky to be PM at Labour's fag-end but fulfilling his destiny in coordinating the European response to the crisis.The play highlights the discrepancy between the Enlightenment's broad, deep thinkers and business leaders' shallowness. We get the usual witless justifications. Goodwin calls NatWest’s art collection degenerate, while his private jet ‘inspires confidence.’ A key exchange: Brown says, “You were given freedom – look what you have done with it.” Goodwin’s defence: “If not me, it would have been somebody else.” True – but muggers might say that too. And we put muggers in jail.The conclusion of the banking crisis movie The Big Short takes a historical perspective, challenging audiences on allowing systems to continue unchanged. In contrast, Graham’s play is an entertaining documentary on a limited historical period that doesn’t explore the wider implications. We learn nothing new. We aren't challenged to examine our own role, as Big Tech ushers in the next revolution.So, no – we still don’t have the play on the fall of RBS that we are owed.

The legend of Sweeney Todd – the infamous ‘Demon Barber of Fleet Street’ – has been a staple of Gothic literature for nearly two centuries. First appearing in the Penny Dreadfuls of the early Victorian era, the bloodthirsty Todd and the epicurean entrepreneur Nellie Lovett are said to have terrorised and nourished London society in equal measure through their dastardly double act.In this origin piece, Lucy Roslyn imagines what might bring someone to Nellie’s eventual status as butcher to the establishment and feeder to the masses. Using the notorious story as a scaffold for wider social commentary, Roslyn conjures a world so simultaneously colourful and bleak that it is not hard to sympathise with the newly widowed Mrs Lovett as she searches for a way – any way – to survive.It is an extraordinarily powerful hour. Roslyn is nothing short of hypnotic, infusing every syllable with a powerful longing for something more than the crappy hand life has dealt both her and pretty much every other 19th-century woman of limited means. Without sentiment or saccharine, we explore the choices (few) doled out to impoverished women of the day (many), and recalibrate our lofty, privileged understanding of lives lived so very far from the hedonistic, earnest, liberated echoes of the Pleasance Courtyard at play.Roslyn conjures a world redolent with the whips and unforgiving scorns of Victorian London – and while perhaps less of a treat for the faint-hearted, the piece never strays into sensationalist or gratuitous territory. There is a delicacy in the gore, and a tenderness beneath the filth and grime smeared into Nellie – sorry, Eleanor’s – soul.Roslyn is a spectacular physical performer, able to breathe life into a range of additional characters with that seemingly minimal effort which takes hours and hours to achieve. As an expert in her trade, Mrs Lovett rejoices in the beauty of precision and artistry. And Lucy Roslyn, in one of the most relentless, compelling pieces of work at the Fringe, is certainly no stranger to such mastery of her own commanding craft.

In a masterclass delivery of Beckett’s most autobiographical work, critically acclaimed former Royal National Theatre actor and award-winning Fringe veteran Kevin Short takes to the stage at Greenside @ George Street to give a mesmerising performance of Krapp’s Last Tape.If you’ve seen the play before, you know what to expect and the details to look out for. First, the man himself. As we enter the auditorium, Short does not disappoint with his presence, and the set is perfect in its stark simplicity. There he is, seated behind a black desk with white drawers that match his eccentric shoes. The tape recorder is in place, and the now-tattered files and boxes are scattered around. Short sits in silence with a wild mass of grey and white hair – fuller than Einstein’s – cascading from his head. The black and white palette extends to his shirt, waistcoat and trousers.The silence is all-consuming. He sits and stares into the void. And sits and stares. And sits and stares. And sits and stares – until the first fumbling for keys. He tentatively rises, shuffles around the table and, after some bungling, unlocks the drawer. He has a good rummage around and finally produces the first banana, and the absurd humour we've been waiting for begins to flow.What follows reveals the loneliness and isolation of an old man who has only his memories to fall back on, but who can at least listen to the recordings of events he made each year on his birthday. This birthday, he is reliving the past with a tape in box five. It’s spool number three and, after more rummaging, it is carefully fitted onto the tape recorder.It’s mundane stuff but gives an insight into a life that has known intimate relationships and loves that were found and lost. Short conveys the melancholy mood, the reflective meanderings of the mind as the spools turn, and the fun that can be had with stretching out the vowels when pronouncing “spool”. “Spoooool,” he says several times, and interrupts the tape with the occasional chuckle or rant. And so it goes on, becoming more captivating by the minute, until we are transfixed by the man.His measured delivery, attention to pauses, the careful timing and leisurely pace are textbook Beckett, and Short’s impeccable performance will leave all admirers of the great author’s work richly rewarded.

After several years working within the National Health Service, Dr Jeannie Jones was startled to discover a shocking find from a 2019 British Medical Journal study: British people were having less sex. Could the solution be found in expensive surgeries? Perhaps more consumption of chocolate and avocados? Nope, says Jones – an unbiased education blended with unabashed sex jokes is what she will prescribe. With her own therapeutic brand of comedy, Jones comes in with a fresh perspective about the oft-feared killer of long-term relationships and stagnation within the bedroom, attending to the need for sexual intimacy and desires on separate wavelengths against a backdrop of incessant puns and body positivity.To enter Jones’ headspace, we need remind ourselves that we are all on very different respective sexual journeys, as one may on a throwaway glance feel like Aphrodisiac appeals only to a repressed middle-aged crowd. The lack of men able to find the clitoris; the elderly mother’s stern warnings that boys are only interested in one thing. It’s a familiar story, but a convincing one that is remodelled with crisper insight into the human body and its needs – bridging the gap between improved sex education and the embarrassment of messy sexual encounters. With fun anecdotes that include Anusol mishaps, painful mix-ups on the meaning of CBT, and debating whether sperm is gluten-free, Jones casts a far-reaching net that also considers the importance of self-love and care. Puns are an abundant source that Jones mines in high quantities: some she melds well into her comedic crucible whilst others end up on the slag heap (pun unintended), but her inclusion of props – with real suction-action penis pump – are a firm pleaser (also unintended) and serve her well in setting up the lengthier, almost at-times long-winded, jokes.The interactive side of the show, which instructs the audience to draw the female genitalia, is clever but not executed as smoothly as one would hope. Certainly, having the pens and paper on tables beforehand would eliminate the need to hand them out mid-show – which dents the momentum and leaves Jones to fill the awkward silence left in the wake of audience members struggling to visualise what a clitoris looks like as she cheerily reads out slang vaginal phrases as though she’s discovered Urban Dictionary. Still, the payoff is worth it in the end, with the winning entry forgoing anatomy to present a caricature of the US president that allows Jones to show off her formidable improv with a mic drop moment on pussy-grabbing.In many respects, Jones’ appreciation and impromptu communication with her audience is by far the highlight of the act – a consequence stemming from her years of helping a broad array of clients as a GP – and eclipses some of the clunkier set pieces. Double entendres are the act’s cornerstone, but sometimes reveal an uneven surface to work from, where the show’s tempo can be dislodged by the odd misfired pun. She shoots her shot on the likes of her stark criticisms of medical misogyny and porn addiction, but is she packing high calibre? Perhaps not with the blanks fired on the cringey sexual sat nav gag that almost drives the show off the road.Is Aphrodisiac a wonderfully silly piece? Oh yes indeed, as much as one would hope for in handling the delicate and oft-misunderstood realms of carnal desire, and it does this without prejudicing its larger message: that laughter in the face of our most shame-ridden subjects is truly the best medicine.

Following a decade of sell-out tours and international acclaim, the multi-award-winning Brazilian adaptation of Michel Marc Bouchard's Tom at the Farm is now making its UK premiere at the EICC in a spectacular surtitled production featuring Armando Babaioff, Denise Del Vecchio, Iano Salomão and Camila Nhary. Under the striking direction of Rodrigo Portella, the quartet of impassioned actors somehow manage to fill the vast stage for two hours.The multi-faceted plot revolves around Tom, a sophisticated advertising executive who travels to a remote farm to attend the funeral of his lover, who was killed in an unspecified accident. However, he is shocked to discover that his partner had hidden his sexuality from his mother – she has never even heard of Tom. In contrast, her other son, a brutal beast of a man, knows everything and will do anything to keep the truth from emerging. He sets the mood of unrelenting toxic masculinity, homophobia, psychological torment and physical violence, heightened by vivid lighting and a dramatic soundscape.Bouchard has said that this is “one of the most beautiful and powerful productions” of his work. The stage is covered in plastic sheeting and slick with mud, in which the men roll during the play’s intense fight scenes – Tom is even drenched with buckets of water as part of the abuse he suffers. Movement across the open space reinforces the sense that this is not merely a conflict between two men, but a malicious predator in relentless pursuit of weakened prey.Meanwhile, the mother mourns her lost son and, despite Tom’s arrival, suppresses any suspicions she might have about his sexuality, consoling herself with the belief that her son had a girlfriend. While she goes along with this at first, she increasingly challenges the brother’s deception and his grip on the household. Further power dynamics unfold as the characters clash, each played with conviction by an outstandingly accomplished cast.The production is supported by Brazil’s Ministry of Culture, not only as a theatrical triumph but as a powerful political statement. It stands in defiance of the country’s previous right-wing government, whose time in office saw a surge in violence towards the LGBTQ+ community.

Dear flamenco lovers – this one’s for you. LOLA: A Flamenco Love Story tells the story of Lola, a woman who moves to London, fleeing a traumatic past in 1960s Spain and leaving her young child in the care of family. We meet her as she arrives at the train station and follow her journey of discovering life in London.Through contemporary flamenco – blended with touches of Latin pop and jazz – Lola’s story is told through dance, movement, music and pre-recorded voiceovers rather than through dialogue. English translations of the lyrics are displayed on screen for most of the show to help audiences follow along.At its core, Lola’s story is one of the hardships of moving to a new country while still reckoning with the ghosts of a past she wishes to forget but cannot. Luckily, she finds a welcoming community of expats in London who take her in and provide a safe space for healing. It is as much a story about friendship, community and love as it is about finding inner courage – though its slow build resolves quickly, leaving the audience wishing for more.The dancing and live music are the showstoppers here. Featuring a mix of contemporary flamenco with the rousing rhythms of Latin pop and jazz, this performance will have audiences dancing in their seats. In particular, the male solo is a standout highlight. One of the defining features of flamenco is the multilayered voices at play – from the guitar to the heartfelt singing with its beautifully melodic, nostalgic and melancholic sound, accompanied by percussion, all matched by the dancers’ resounding footwork and interpretative movement.Among the show’s many highlights, the costumes stand out, with luscious embroidery, flowing fabrics, tassels and ruffles. LOLA: A Flamenco Love Story is a feast for the eyes and a delight for dance lovers.

It’s always a pleasure to see what bonkers piece of theatre Offie-nominated Square Pegs – Macready Theatre Young Actors’ Company – will come up with next. They’re at C Arts Aquila again, this time with 8-bit Dream, directed by Tim Coker and written by Ben Grant, a co-artistic director at Electrick Village Theatre Company, who also directs at the Identity School of Acting.This year’s show takes a sideways look at modern culture in an absurd and quirky comedy packed with physicality, movement sequences and a good measure of sound and music. It takes us back to an analogue age when telephones had wires and handsets, and television had only a few channels. In a modern world where so much is fake, their fast-paced, fun-filled storytelling plies us with time-travelling tales of nostalgia and a search for meaning. The cast look spectacular in their uniforms of brilliant white dungarees and vivid plain T-shirts in three colours – orange, blue and yellow – divided between the troupe.This year’s company comprises: Amelia Barton; Toby Davies; Daisy Donne; Celia Duffy; Elsa Melia; Maggie Poszewiecka; Lily-Rose Pitcher; Albie Tuckwell; and Billy Wright-Evans, with movement by Ellen Finlay. The ensemble includes artists from Poland, the Netherlands, Ireland and the UK. Regulars from previous years have now moved on, but this new group continues the tradition of providing sparkling entertainment, although this year’s offering is less crazy than usual.It still makes for a fun-filled 45 minutes, and it’s always great to see such an enthusiastic and well-rehearsed group of young people making energetic theatre – and clearly enjoying every minute of it.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of the publication of the Ferns Report, an official Irish government inquiry into allegations of clerical sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic Diocese of Ferns in County Wexford. Our Brothers in Cloth, by Ronan Colfer at Assembly Rooms, George Square, reflects on the impact the actions of some priests had on individuals, families and communities in an emotionally challenging drama, sensitively directed by Ryan McVeigh.The play is rooted in harsh reality, rigorous research and much soul-searching. Colfer was deeply affected by clerical child sexual abuse that resulted in the tragic suicide of a close family member and left others traumatised. Rather than tell the story of the victim, however, the play addresses the intergenerational impact of abuse on a family and community in sleepy rural Ireland. Hence, we are given a wide perspective that embraces the personal torment of coming to terms with Chris’s suicide, the revelations about the former parish priest, the cover-ups, and most dramatically, the silence and level of denial within the community and the divisions caused within families.Jake Douglas gives a powerfully impassioned performance as Alan, who carries the burden of knowing what happened to his brother Chris after he receives testimony from an eyewitness friend, Mark Doyle. Michael Lavin gravely delivers the information and shows how difficult it is to open up such a can of worms. Then, armed with the story, Alan’s work really begins. He has to convince the indoctrinated and devout to believe him – parishioners whose families have for centuries looked up to the Church and its priests, and against whom they will have nothing said – most particularly his mother, Martina. Rosalind Stockwell fills her with fervour and blind allegiance in support of the accused priest and the Church, while bitterly turning on her son.Meanwhile, Kevin Glyn hovers around in an understated performance as the disgraced cleric's successor, Fr O’Donovan, reminding us of the ever-present involvement of the clergy in people’s lives. A subplot involving the relationship between Alan and his girlfriend, Siobhan, allows Oli Fyne to demonstrate the anguish caused by having to decide whose side she is going to take, while Gráinne Kelly adds her two penn’orth as a parishioner and friend of the family.Colfer says: “This play was born from the stories passed between generations – what was said and what was kept silent. It’s about the cost of complicity and the fight to reclaim truth in the face of institutional silence.”He has transformed that material into a remarkable social commentary and a gripping piece of theatre.

Kofi is on stage, attired (if that’s the word) in an orange jumpsuit. A Black man is in prison – cue the pearl-clutching – and he has a life sentence. But it’s not what you think.Kofi (Quaz Degraft) is a numerical marvel, entertaining his fellow inmates by solving mathematical puzzles, and is clearly articulate. So, how did he come to be incarcerated?He is first-generation Ghanaian, raised in New York. His family has imbued him with a strong work ethic, and he has, albeit narrowly, avoided the pitfalls of the inner-city underworld. Kofi graduates with honours in accountancy and lands a big break: he is employed by a large financial institution on Wall Street, managing funds in excess of $1 trillion.He embarks on a relationship with a colleague, works hard, and the financial and lifestyle rewards follow. A dark cloud, however, is looming. His father has contracted cancer, and his medical insurance will not cover the treatment. Kofi is expecting a six-figure bonus and promises to cover the cost.A pivotal moment follows, where he must choose between supporting his girlfriend or his father. Under pressure, he makes what transpires to be the wrong decision, perjuring himself in the process. He subsequently regrets his actions, recants his testimony, and is imprisoned. The life sentence, of course, is the damage to his relationship.The American dream is out of reach for many people, especially those of colour. The systemic and institutional conflicts confronting Kofi are articulately depicted by Degraft. Furthermore, the pressures that ordinary citizens face regarding medical insurance cannot easily be understood on this side of the Atlantic. All of which give rise to Kofi’s initial overreach, signposting the juxtaposition between ambition and morality. A word here for Degraft’s adept and sharp writing, introducing layers of conflict and turmoil, truly giving the performer a barrier against which to push.Quaz Degraft is an extremely talented and charismatic performer. His stage is more or less bare, save for an accountant’s suit, yet his consummate storytelling holds sway. He embodies myriad emotions: dignity, ambition, shame, guilt. It’s all very impressive. He sings beautifully and turns his hand to guitar for good measure, but it is his understated yet powerful performance that is truly gripping. It is a fine piece of solo theatre and Degraft is marked as a star of the future.

A heartfelt exploration of Taiwan’s 500-year history, the intentions of Formosa Viva are deftly articulated by the exceptional dancers who bring this production to life. ‘Formosa’, meaning ‘beautiful island’, was a name first coined for the verdant island by Portuguese sailors who marvelled at the lush landscape. The name stuck and was commonly used in Western literature until the 20th century. In the context of this production, ‘Formosa’ references the complex history of Taiwan as it passes through time as a land of strategic geopolitical importance and colonial pursuit.The performance opens with the soundscape of crashing waves, and dim blue lights beam down on the ensemble dancers, who flow gently, arms wrapped around one another, mimicking the push and pull of the ocean that surrounds Taiwan. While delicate and thoughtfully rendered, it is a slow and methodical start that drags on slightly too long. From here, the piece quickly grows in pace and complexity. Split into a careful curation of energetic ensemble numbers and slower-paced solos, there has been obvious thought surrounding intention and narration through movement.Unfortunately, the performance loses some of its merit through the overuse of a distracting visual display that detracts from the talent and effectiveness of the dancers. The stage features two large projection screens at the back. While I understood the motivation for adding visual cues for audience members unfamiliar with Taiwanese history, these were relied upon too heavily and lacked imaginative flair. The decision to present a moving written body of text to explain elements of Taiwan’s historical timeline was useful, but needed to be executed differently. I found myself spending a lot of time watching the screen above my head rather than the dancers, who should have been the focal point of my attention.Formosa Viva has the potential to be an exceptional piece of performance art, and I applaud the ambitious nature of the cast and crew. While the piece does need some polishing, it is still worth seeing for the aptitude and commitment of the dancers. Likewise, it importantly gives voice to a nation failing to be recognised to the extent it deserves on the global stage.

Ever since Six made its Fringe debut in 2017, the race has been on to find the festival's next breakout pop musical. Throwing their hat into the ring are Birmingham Hippodrome with a climate crisis-themed contender called Hot Mess. It has some impressive credentials to back it up: the two-hander features Tobias Turley (playing Humanity), winner of ITV's Mamma Mia! I Have a Dream, and Danielle Steers (as Earth), a member of the original West End cast of Six.It’s not just the climate that’s heating up in this show – even planets get lonely, and Earth is looking for her next hot date. Enter: wheat-obsessed, frontal cortex-bragging primates – Humanity. We already know how this story ends; we haven’t exactly treated Earth fairly. But for a time, the relationship was beautiful – maybe it could work out again?Despite the steamy premise, the onstage chemistry between the leads feels flat, which weakens the emotional dynamic. This is more than compensated for, however, by some outstanding vocal performances. Steers, in particular, delivers a world-class pop performance – soulful, dynamic and bringing fire to all the right places.The music throughout is catchy and exciting. Composer Jack Godfrey has done a phenomenal job, striking a perfect balance between contemporary pop and musical theatre. With cheeky one-liners reminiscent of Sabrina Carpenter or Chappell Roan laced into the lyrics, and a score tinged with rock and dance elements, it feels distinctive yet familiar. Standout tracks include Better in Time and Tomorrow Tomorrow Tomorrow. The show’s EP drops next week and will be well worth a listen.The concept of Earth and Humanity dating – each represented by a single performer – may sound abstract and could give some pause. But don’t be put off. The quality of the songs and performances quickly pulls you into the idea. By the end of the show, the audience was on its feet for a full standing ovation.

Towards the end of her emotional clown show about the struggles of being a world-renowned classical cellist, Karen Hall says she was once advised by a university lecturer to go into every performance 110% prepared. I fear that’s what went wrong here.Although her cello playing was fantastic, Hall delivered her lines with an over-rehearsed pacing and intonation that left no space for authentic vulnerability and sincerity – two key elements of clowning and emotional theatre. The few moments where she briefly engaged in crowd work and dropped the script were (aside from the musical interludes) the best parts of the show, with the biggest laughs and emotional reactions all coming from these short segments. The bulk of her performance fell flat, however, with Hall’s long emotional silences feeling more awkward than profound.

The Legend of Shanhai is based on ancient Chinese mythology and follows Beiming, a young boy who dreams of escaping the island he calls home. He embarks on an adventure with Kun – a fish who wants to be a bird (played by two actors). Together, they brave the ocean, and Beiming learns that growing up does not mean escaping his parents and home, but rather growing in wisdom and understanding of the lessons his parents have taught him and who he wants to be – a charming moral to a simple story.All the young actors are very focused and almost professional, handling any mishaps or costume malfunctions well. The show is well rehearsed, the performers’ movements are evidently practised, and their lines are learned. There are some strong voices within the cast, particularly the two actors playing Kun. The costumes also deserve mention, as the majority are striking and sparkle beneath the stage lights. However, at times it is hard to make out what the actors are saying. The theatre at C-Arts Aurora is rather large, and the actors’ lungs are small, so something in the way of a microphone would have been useful.Like many adults now working around theatre, I was once part of an amateur troupe as a child, so I can easily imagine how exciting – and perhaps intimidating – it must be to perform in front of so many. I wish these young performers all the best and hope they enjoy the rest of their time at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

Why did a young boy, born in the Philippines and subsequently brought up in Hawaii, fall in love with music composed by long-dead European white men? The answer – and indeed the consequences – are at the heart of Jeremy Rafal’s sparkling solo show, The Boy from Bantay. That said, for those in a hurry, he essentially answers the question in the first 10 minutes – because he first heard – and fell in love with – some of the most beautiful works of western culture thanks to their somewhat unexpected inclusion in, of all things, 1950s Warner Brothers cartoons.However, it’s definitely worth staying for the rest of the show. In some respects, Rafal’s subsequent musical biography isn’t particularly surprising. Through a mixture of sharply defined characterisations – of family members, friends and music teachers – plus extracts of the music he’s come to love, he succinctly summarises his school days, his continuing piano lessons in Hawaii, and his growing determination to become a classical pianist.Under the direction of Josh Boerman, Rafal successfully carries us along, but the fact remains that the potentially big emotional hit – that this plan didn’t ultimately work out – hardly comes as a surprise. After all, Rafal is not some globally famous soloist performing with an internationally acclaimed orchestra at this year’s Edinburgh International Festival; instead, he’s performing a self-penned one-man show in a relatively small, very hot room on the Fringe. Though it’s almost overlooked that he eventually did earn his doctorate in piano performance.A central on-stage metaphor throughout the show is the continuing tick of a metronome, used most frequently during the unending practice sessions that form the foundations of his art; a constant reminder, as he puts it, that time moves on with or without you. This line is potentially pushed a little too far on occasions, but equally we see Rafal’s character arc as he learns to not just live with this imposition, but to face it full on – along with the grief he had previously preferred to push away.Rafal is an engaging, full-hearted performer, and his story is one of incident and colour, told with passion, humour and skill. As a theatrical package, he and the show are pretty irresistible.

With only five years to save the planet from complete environmental catastrophe, what is the only solution? To send a hippo into space to block the sun, of course! This absurdist political resolution to a very real crisis is played out through a bilingual shadow puppet show that turns into a sort of intergalactic buddy road trip story. Sounds like there is a lot going on! Yet despite all this action, the storytelling often ends up feeling repetitive and slow.While the shadow puppets are undoubtedly beautiful and it clearly took a great deal of skill to create the piece, it falls flat. What at the beginning feels as though there may be a powerful political allegory coming, ends up amounting to little. The musical backing is a real highlight – reminiscent of the silent movie era – and there are some fun characters we meet along the way. However, despite the glimmers of stardust that can be found, this Space Hippo is lacking gravity.

The sound of jackboots outside. A ruined theatre. An actor staggers into the gloom, clearly shocked and horrified by the sight of his fellow performers’ costumes and props, strewn across the stage like detritus. Then he notices us, an unexpected audience lurking in the literal dark, waiting for a performance. While, in truth, he is more the impresario and Master of Ceremonies than a performer, he feels obliged to give us one, defiantly recreating his missing friends’ acts while ever waiting for the return of those jackboots on the steps outside.That is the opening scenario of Singing into the Dark, a show loosely based on the fate of the Eldorado Club in 1920s Berlin – home to a “Kabarett” (cabaret) which had featured a pre-Hollywood Marlene Dietrich, singers such as Claire Waldoff, and the Weintraub Syncopators jazz band. With the rise to power of the Nazi party in 1933, however, the venue’s avant-garde proclivities became the outrageous talk of the town – until, that is, theatres and cabaret venues were shut down and their performers persecuted, forced to flee or simply “vanished” into what eventually became the prototypes for the concentration camps.This solo show, written and performed by Bremner Fletcher Duthie with great skill and dexterity, comes to Edinburgh with a certain reputation for greatness – and it is a reputation that is extremely well deserved. Duthie’s performance is a powerhouse, full of raw emotional power and heart; he possesses a remarkably strong baritone voice which seldom actually needs any artificial amplification. Arguably, he does not just sing the songs, he performs them – fiercely, boldly, sometimes almost attacking us with lyrics you do not always necessarily understand if your German or Russian is not up to scratch. Yet the sense of those lyrics remains clear and undeniable.As Duthie points out in his show notes, at one point the “actor” talks of the Nazi goal of security for Aryan German culture and the importance of the purity of the family – both biological and social. It is a collage of a speech made by Adolf Hitler on freedom and culture, along with one on the same subject made by an American MAGA activist. This may be a story set some 90 years ago, in a chaos that we might hope is safely “in the past”, but Singing into the Dark remains a worryingly relevant warning. As Duthie points out, those two speeches “fit together frighteningly easily”.There are certainly other current echoes: for example, when resurrecting the cabaret’s “disappeared” comedian – well known for his dangerous habit of forming his own opinions and crossing the line when speaking truth to power – Duthie’s character describes him as “a weapon of mass destruction”. These are no mere anachronisms; rather, they help underscore the timeless issues of individual freedom and the challenges of continuing to speak out and be true to ourselves.This is an extraordinary solo show, and a performance that deserves to be seen – a prime example of what the Fringe can bring to Edinburgh.

What do you get when you mix a Tony Award-winning actress with an hour of confessional comedy and original songs? The answer is perfection. Laura Benanti’s electric new show is as touching as it is dazzling.Benanti exudes leading-lady energy from the moment she hits her opening mark. Although this show pays homage (and good riddance) to the unwitting ingénue in life and on stage, Benanti is far from a wide-eyed protagonist. She is a razor-sharp performer, commanding the stage but with unending warmth and sincerity.The songs, co-written by Benanti and long-time friend Todd Almond, nod to musical theatre without being heavy-handed. We got a little of the golden age, a slice of contemporary and a few tributes to some theatre greats, all in just a few numbers. Almond and Benanti’s back-and-forth interaction only added to the feeling of familiarity and joy threaded through the hour.While Benanti may be a recovering people-pleaser, this show left every audience member not just pleased but ecstatic, as we were treated to a rollercoaster of highs and lows covering everything from break-up turmoil to perimenopause. With deft movement, gestures and smiles, Benanti showed off her impeccable comic timing, never wasting an opportunity to make the crowd laugh.It was a delight to watch a Broadway legend perform, but this wasn’t a far-removed performance in some expansive room. This was emotional, intimate and heartwarming as Benanti brought everyone in the room along with her through the trials of bad boyfriends, motherhood and being misunderstood.With so many wonderful credits under her belt, it was hard to imagine a performance that tops them but this work is undoubtedly her best. In an hour, you get a snapshot of a flawed, funny but undeniably talented performer who will stay with you long after the show is over.From standing ovations in its first week, it’s clear that this show is set for a sell-out run and yet more, very well-deserved accolades for Benanti. This show is already on its way to London and, with a reception like that, perhaps Benanti will be back on Broadway with this gem of a production in years to come.

Josh Cake’s Dancefloor Piano Bar bears little resemblance to its blurb. There is no sign of “Fringe’s wildest free late-night party where the dancefloor is always packed”. In fact, there is no dancefloor – let alone any wildness. The crowd at Brewhemia’s Beer Palace is quietly enjoying post-show drinks and meals.Josh Cake plays pop bangers on the piano, but his attention remains fixed on his sheet music rather than the audience. Interaction is non-existent, and the musical delivery is unremarkable. While Cake has had success as a poet and performer, describing him as an international cabaret icon feels like an overstatement.If you visit Brewhemia on a Sunday night, don’t expect a wild dance party – this is more background music than a late-night Fringe event.

As soon as I saw the poster for Hamlet by New York Circus Project – an acrobatic and visceral twist on the Shakespearean classic – I had a feeling it was going to be good, and I am pleased to report that my gut feeling was correct. An intricate and carefully woven tapestry of dance, poignant theatrics and sheer athleticism, if this is only New York Circus Project’s debut show, I am beyond excited to see what they do next.As one of Shakespeare’s best-known works, I was curious to see what fresh perspective the company would bring. I wondered whether the promise of “acrobatics” might just be a gimmick to compensate for a lack of serious acting and stagecraft, but what I quickly realised when the lights went down was that thoughtful attention to narrative lay at the heart of this production – and the gymnastic display of the cast only enhanced it.Audio played a prominent role in creating an emotive atmosphere, and I applaud the sound designer(s) for their work in producing an engaging and stimulating auditory experience. Stage design was also excellent. I especially liked the triangular prism-shaped trapeze that the ghost of Hamlet’s father contorted himself through at the start of the performance – beautifully choreographed and visually arresting. Likewise, the transparent box in which Ophelia performs her final scene was an interesting and unusual portrayal of that moment, further demonstrating the director's successful experimentation with the script.For all its seriousness, and the nail-biting tension evoked from watching the cast throw themselves through the air, there was a clear desire to bring comedic moments of relief. These were handled well and added a light-hearted dimension that was welcome. I won’t spoil them here – this show deserves to surprise you.The actors taking on leading roles were convincing and performed with passion, but it was the ensemble cast – especially when they performed with Hamlet – that made my breath catch in my throat. I was blown away by their strength and fearlessness.A daring and accomplished Fringe debut that made me excited about seeing Shakespeare again – which is a feat in itself – Hamlet by New York Circus Project is an excellent demonstration that there is still something new to be extracted from the classics if we look hard enough and think outside the box.

Fleetwood Mac are a band that will not go away. After 50 years, their songs still haunt the charts, TikTok and the minds of millions. A key reason for this enduring success is that their music documents personal upheavals between band members – most famously the tempestuous relationship between Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham.This play is their origin story, leading up to their recruitment to the band. Written and performed by Georgie Banks and Jake Byrom, and using material from published interviews with Nicks and Buckingham, it’s an inspired idea. The period it covers includes the recording of their commercially unsuccessful album Buckingham Nicks, which, in the great tradition of Fleetwood Mac, documents their mutual love and loathing.The talent of Banks and Byrom shines throughout. The musical virtuosity of Nicks and Buckingham is a tough yardstick, but the performers’ singing and guitar playing is excellent.The play is constructed with real flair. Unlike many musician biopics, where incidents feel clumsily created to insert songs, here the songs and action fit together naturally – even inevitably.Most impressive is how the play shows the couple’s ambition as both a superpower and a curse. It drives them apart yet chains them together. Buckingham’s ambition – and related selfishness – is intolerable, yet gets things done. Nicks holds down three jobs while still finding time to record. Whenever she is broken and defeated, her first response is to sit down and write a song.They must split up, but need each other for their music. At the finale, Buckingham risks his own ambitions to help Nicks – but is this selflessness, or just another kind of selfishness?Despite some wavering accents and underdeveloped dramatic impact in a few scenes, this is a strong recommendation for fans of Fleetwood Mac – or of cursed relationships.

Faustine: A Dissertation, A Breakdown, A Confession, A Mental Breakdown reminds you that sometimes the most horrifying things are what people are capable of. Written, composed and performed by Lydia Brinkman and Sarah Norcross, the show drew me in immediately with an eerie atmosphere and music that made Hell feel very real – and I was going to be part of it for the next 50 minutes.The story follows Faustine, who sells her soul to the Devil for the sake of her dissertation and a good grade. It’s equal parts smart and scary, as Faustine – and the musical itself – question how far she’ll go to get ahead. The answer? A lot.Brinkman and Norcross also offer the possibility of seeing a different show each time. Faustine is already worth seeing once, but it might be worth seeing twice, as the two performers alternate playing the titular role in this one-woman show. I saw Norcross embody the wickedness that slowly takes over Faustine, with a creepy smile that sent shivers down my spine every time she looked at me – and in such a small space, she’ll be looking at everyone. Her transitions between Faustine and the other characters were clear and often deeply unsettling.This show didn’t have me shaking in my boots every minute, but I was frequently shocked by its twists. The actual jump scares are limited, which benefits the tale rather than detracts from it. Be ready to question the morality of higher education, not to be jumped at in the dark.The technical elements are strong and well used, with ominous red lighting and soft blue tones showing Faustine’s initial innocence. The one downside was the volume, which was quite loud at times – occasionally making words hard to make out or creating a discomfort that didn’t feel deliberate. Still, Faustine is a show I’d see again, though it’s worth letting audiences know what to expect.This musical’s strongest moments lie in its ability to leave your skin crawling – knowing evil exists, and that it doesn’t always look the way you expect.

Dan Boerman has one of the most Fringe entrances to his tiny venue that I’ve ever seen: he kicks the doorstop out, walks to the back of the room, announces himself, and walks to the front. A strong start that sets the tenor for the show.Boerman has rocketed to Fringe-wide recognition (hopefully) thanks to pre-Festival flyers promising he would fold a fitted sheet by himself on Calton Hill, for free. More than a thousand people turned up, and it’s to be hoped the exposure is paying off. Tonight, the smaller space in Hoots on the Grassmarket was pretty packed.Great stand-up thrives on audience input, and Boerman was absolutely rolling. He absorbed a DEFCON-5 alarm from the front row, worked it into his set, and was able to callback just enough while playing into his other material.“Do not worry, it will be about a fitted sheet eventually,” is the line he used to keep the crowd as he wove through hilarious stories of coming out of a long-term relationship, the class struggles inherent in John Lewis (who, he hopes, won’t cancel him), and the existential philosophy of four-year-olds.Boerman manages to be supremely confident and just a little bashful – vulnerable even as he laughs at himself. He’s a charismatic and chaotic comedian who keeps the crowd howling and hyperventilating, even as he loses the thread of his performance. Whether it was deliberate or not is beside the point – if he’s able to navigate forgetting an early through-line that handily, then it doesn’t matter. The essence of truly excellent stand-up is the ability to roll with the punches, improvise, and keep your feet. Dan Boerman and his fitted sheet have that in spades.He’s now moved to the UK after his first Fringe appearance last year, and by his third, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taking home awards. I can’t bloody wait.

It’s Eileen’s 90th birthday party in Northern Ireland. Her daughter Gilly has gone to some trouble to make it a special occasion, including the arrival of her own daughter Jenny and granddaughter Muireann – meaning there will be four generations of women under the same roof. There are party hats, balloons and the promise of a cake. It should all pass off rather smoothly – right?Eileen (Julia Dearden) is prickly, demanding and frankly more than a little truculent. She relentlessly browbeats Gilly. She has uncompromising views about the Ulster political landscape, scornfully using a slur to describe the Catholic population.Gilly (Andrea Irvine) is the product of her upbringing. She feels huge societal pressure to present a good impression to neighbours, obsessing over trivial detail while a storm rages.Jenny (Caoimhe Farren) breezes in from England, with generational and cultural schisms immediately obvious.Muireann (Muireann Ní Fhaogáin) is an idealistic and progressive teenager, an environmental and ethical standard-bearer for her generation.The scene unfolds with stilted familial exchanges, but multiple cracks are evident at every turn. This is an unhappy and dysfunctional family. A nagging series of questions remain unanswered. Where is Gilly’s husband? Why does Gilly retreat whenever the phone rings? Why has Jenny’s husband not made the journey? And, most troublingly, is there an undertone to Eileen’s acerbic barbs?Gilly’s repressed emotions are central to the scenes, empowering Eileen’s dominance, fuelling Jenny’s frustration and, in turn, Muireann’s sense of injustice. Inevitably, however, the dam breaks and a series of hitherto unstated truths are revealed.Muireann has developed an interest in epigenetics – the idea that behaviour and environment can affect which genes are prominent. In other words, trauma can be inherited through the generations without being experienced first-hand. She is seeking a cultural identity but is aware that it may come with baggage.Tensions have simmered in Ulster for generations; the Good Friday Agreement perhaps serving merely to suppress feelings – a recurring theme. This is, of course, the backdrop to Consumed, where culturally it became ingrained to look away. The sound of silence reverberates.This is a fine, albeit at times slightly strained, Paines Plough production. It is frequently blisteringly funny, the sharp one-liners delivered to perfection, especially by Dearden. Farren’s good intentions visibly falter, and Ní Fhaogáin’s arching search for identity is splendidly conveyed. Yet your attention constantly reverts to Irvine’s simmering repression.Karis Kelly’s writing is sharp, layered and asks a lot of questions about violence, culture, misogyny, repression and trauma. Katie Posner’s direction is assured and gives space for the storytelling to unfold – albeit with a minor niggle around the rapidly heightened scenes as the denouement approaches.The façade of happy families, cake and hats is breached, usually by what is not being said. Some things, though, cannot be swept under the carpet and inevitably will need to be confronted.

“Never walk through the Meadows alone at night” – this is a common piece of advice that likely every Edinburgh resident has received at some point. Probably more times than they can count, especially if they happen to be a woman or a girl. As many times as we have heard this warning, most could also pair it with a happy memory: a sunny day, a part of everyday life. The Meadows can represent both the beating heart of the city and the other bloody organs we try to hide. Alright Sunshine tells the story of the Meadows on a day that's too hot, too heated and primed for trouble. Through the eyes of a young female police officer, we are taken on a journey that feels like a love letter to the city at the start, but ends with a thunderous roar of pain.Wonderfools have been a growing force in Scottish theatre since their inception, and now, in their eighth year, they have become an unmissable presence. Based in Glasgow but with bold projects throughout the country, they have been at the forefront of connecting communities to the arts. What better company to deliver such a powerful piece about Edinburgh, by an Edinburgh playwright, to the biggest festival in the world, hosted by a city that can easily get lost in the noise.Isla Cowan’s writing is a first-class demonstration of pacing, storytelling and complex character voice. She balances the poetic with the mundane, successfully incorporating local Edinburgh references and slang while not alienating an international audience. Nothing “shan” about that. The power of this writing has already earned her deserved recognition in Scotland, and this may be the moment her talent is shared even further. Words, of course, mean nothing in theatre without someone to say them, and delivering an absolute powerhouse of a performance is rising local talent Molly Geddes. With a masterful command of the stage, she perfectly moves between relaxed banter and complete devastation – honouring the importance of the subject matter at every step. Debbie Hannon also deserves her due as director. She does so much with no set, one actor and a play that requires both lightness and tension.Together, Hannon, Geddes and Cowan form a real triple threat, representing Scotland’s bright, bold new generation of theatre-makers. Maybe one day stories like these will be less vital to tell, but for now, it is heartening to see companies like Wonderfools taking on the crisis of misogyny and violence against women with such empathy and urgency. This is your chance to see some truly excellent new writing that is part of a bigger story.

Audiences coming for the “immersive experience” of A.I. Campfire are given a free marshmallow on a stick; alas, the flames projected onto the wall of the Harry Younger Hall (just off the Canongate) naturally lack the heat to toast them. Which is either a fundamental drawback or an ironic take on the potential limits of so-called artificial intelligence.Modestly self-described as “one of the Fringe’s first official A.I.-based shows”, A.I. Campfire is a return to humanity’s oral storytelling traditions – albeit now with an A.I. database as narrator, “born from the lost Green Men who conjure memories of Scotland’s spirits, like Selkies and Kelpies, while using a mix of software, animated classical art and film”.How varied the stories and their telling are from one performance to the next will only be clear to those attending more than once. From this individual experience, the narrator “Symbiolene” comes across as a rather crass storyteller, all too ready to underscore the moral of “her” tale at the end. Do we really need to be told that the traditional story of a Selkie, trapped in her human form by a selfish fisherman, is an environmental allegory about the dangers of taking from the sea without giving anything back? (And there was I thinking it was "about" social captivity, independence and the resilience of women.)That said, relaxing on beanbags in semi-darkness, surrounded by soothing music and narration, this is undoubtedly a gentle way to "come wind down" after a busy day on the Fringe.

AI is, of course, something of a theme at this year’s Fringe – though for Martin Brock, a welcoming and astounding magician from Denmark, it’s all about being Almost Impossible.Which pretty much describes his show: smoothly performed card tricks (for the most part) that leave his audience numb, prompting successive thoughts of “How did he do that?” To be fair, the audience’s eardrums are also somewhat numbed by a near-constant musical background that’s perhaps mixed a little too high, particularly when Brock is explaining the difference between old Western card sharks – travelling from town to town and using tricks to cheat players out of their money – and a magician who necessarily uses some of the same sleight-of-hand techniques, but with the full awareness (if not understanding) of their audience.Although his poster shows Brock with playing cards just visible up his jacket sleeve, this isn’t actually the case during the show – for the very simple reason that he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Nevertheless, he is still able to magically produce cards seemingly from thin air and – via a giant screen – perform some mind-blowing close-up magic that verges on showing off.He’s not one to shy away from the typical Fringe peculiarities of performing in what is, for the rest of the year, a university lecture room, but Brock has a genuine way with people – especially those he pulls from the audience to assist and observe specific tricks. It helps, of course, that he’s handsome, stylish and definitely sexy. Yet ultimately, it’s all about the “tricks” – a word that underplays the ingenuity and originality involved in both their development and performance.Like most magic shows, there’s an element of “just one trick following another”, although Brock breaks the mould slightly with a brief theme-setting video for a trick involving Himalayan singing bowls. That said, he undoubtedly saves the best for last, transforming a pack of entirely blank cards into a simple accompanying illustration of Frank Sinatra’s It Was a Very Good Year.As with all great magic shows, there’s a slight reluctance from the audience to applaud – partly to avoid disturbing “the magic”, but mostly because they’re simply dumbfounded by what they’ve seen. But without a doubt, Brock deserves all the applause he receives – and more.

In Aether, TheatreGoose turn Summerhall’s Anatomy Lecture Theatre into a whirling dramatic accelerator where séance tables brush against particle detectors and ideas collide, leaving behind lasting impressions. Emma Howlett’s script darts between a present-day dark matter PhD candidate, a Victorian medium eager for credibility, an embattled illusionist, and the powerful echo of a silenced teacher from ancient times. The threads orbit each other with scientific precision, proving that big ideas needn’t eclipse character.Sophie Kean, Abby McCann, Anna Marks Pryce and Gemma Barnett swap roles at almost quark speed, mining both exuberant humour and bruised pathos from women’s sidelined contributions to science. Ellie Wintour’s clean, chalk-white set morphs with a swivel, while Ed Saunders bathes each timeline in spectral pools of light; together with Sarah Spencer’s supple score, the production acquires an atmosphere that flits between lecture hall and liminal haunt.There is a brief density spike during a particularly esoteric start. The opening section piles on the scientific references with abandon, so newcomers to physics may feel they’ve stumbled into a particularly cryptic piece of theatre. However, once Howlett shifts from exposition to propulsion, the play attains the clarity of a good lab result, making dark matter metaphors land with both intellectual heft and emotional zing.By the rousing finale, the audience is left contemplating Vera Rubin’s quiet revolution – and how many other invisible pioneers may yet tilt the cosmos. Aether doesn’t pretend to pinpoint the universe’s missing mass; it invites us to relish the chase for its discovery, and to honour those whose curiosity outran convention. That invitation rings out long after the house lights flare – proof that good theatre, like physics, thrives on the spaces between the known and the possible.

5 Mistakes Which Changed World History is a nerd's love letter to history and its many mishaps. Paul Coulter is the self-described nerd, and he’s known it from an early age. The show opens with some touching photos of a ten-year-old or so Paul in Parliamentarian costume, taken when he was asked to dress up as one of his heroes. It's a fitting start, as this show is a hoot for the entire family.Paul weaves together stories of mistakes, often with a ring of irony and an eye-roll at the folly of mankind, while tipping his hat to modern happenings to draw out the punchline. The premise is sound, even if the quips are fairly middle-of-the-road. In fact, I’d describe this as an incredibly middle-of-the-road performance – and I don’t mean that as a negative. You can take anyone to this show comfortably, from six-year-olds to your nan.It’s family-friendly fun that uses history as a roadmap to laughter, and the crowd was very generous with their approval. As I left, I heard one father commenting to his son, “He was like a really fun teacher who you want to learn more from.” I couldn’t agree more.Go to 5 Mistakes Which Changed World History if you want some easy laughter for a broad audience. Don’t go if you’re looking for anything risqué or too off-the-wall.

C Theatre’s breakfast institution – now pleasing crowds since the early ’90s – returns with the Sittingbourne All Stars, a panto-honed posse determined to squeeze every last giggle from Macbeth before most of us have finished our first latte. The recipe is familiar but undeniably appetising: a free croissant and choice of tea, coffee, or fruit juice as you go in, followed by a 50-minute gallop through one of Shakespeare’s gloomier tragedies before you go out.Performance-first values are on bold display as the troupe workshop their way through The Scottish Play. The cast attacks the material with gusto, ricocheting between light-hearted banter, jaunty song-and-dance breaks, and a witch-fronted cooking show that would make Nigella reach for the broomstick. A noir-tinged détour en français, complete with berets and smoky voiceovers, adds some madcap bravado, and it's all frightfully nice and usually a lot of fun.Yet for every inspired flourish, another gag lands with a politely baffled thud. The sanitised approach to Macbeth’s darker beats keeps things croissant-friendly, but a lot of it is fun rather than funny. It's absolutely fine, but without treachery’s grit, the comedy occasionally feels bubble-wrapped.Still, credit where it’s due: this is an ensemble that radiates early-morning warmth, and their knockabout camaraderie papers over any structural cracks. Families, school groups, and hung-over festivalgoers will leave caffeinated, sugared, and gently entertained – if not profoundly moved. Solid, slightly uneven, but delivered with verve, Shakespeare for Breakfast offers a cheerful start to the Fringe day that proves even a blood-lite Macbeth can raise a smile before noon.

Iain Dale’s All Talk has become something of a staple in the Fringe calendar, offering a chance to engage with an impressive array of the most controversial and adored figures in Britain’s political establishment.The latest interviewee is Michael (now Lord) Heseltine: he of the hair, the mace, and the fractious relationship with Mrs Thatcher. There is, of course, far more to the colourful career of this revered elder statesman: not least his most recent role as one of the few big beasts prepared to speak out against the odious march of the far-right in a country that, when he was growing up, prided itself on fighting fascism rather than giving it screen time.We move through Heseltine’s time in parliament and his trajectory through government. He is funny, twinkly, sometimes circumspect, often loyal, and unflinchingly honest in his responses. But more than anything, he remains unafraid of speaking the truth to power that so many baulk at. Now ninety-two, he has spoken out repeatedly about the mistakes being made at the highest point of government, and behind the soft, thoughtful voice lies an intellect as sharp and far-sighted as ever.The piece is characterised by memories which demonstrate a fusion of business savvy and compassion. In one particularly touching moment, Heseltine states his proudest moment was being awarded the Freedom of the City of Liverpool in recognition of his lauded regeneration work in the 1980s.Iain Dale must have interviewed almost anyone who is anyone in the current political arena. But when I catch him helping Heseltine into his car at the end of the programme, he is visibly moved by the quiet dignity of the last seventy minutes. “What a privilege,” he sighs to one of the punters who stops to thank him.What a privilege.

How do you smuggle a spark of revolution into a place designed to stamp it out? Mark Thomas answers with swagger and pathos in Ordinary Decent Criminal, a visceral, single-handed tour of the life of Frankie, a campus idealist turned recovering junkie and finally a Strangeways inmate. Thomas shape-shifts through a madcap rogues’ gallery – damaged ex-Para Bron, irreverent IRA sympathiser Belfast Tony, and jittery jailbirds who wouldn’t look out of place in the toughest prison wing – while keeping Frankie’s bruised humanity centre stage.Under Charlotte Bennett’s taut direction, the staging is as spare as Frankie’s cell: a grid of steel-grey flats, a single unforgiving toilet for a seat, and a wash of angled light that suggests both interrogation rooms and midnight lock-ups. Lydia Denno’s judicious design choices leave acres of negative space, letting Thomas’s physical storytelling punch through while hinting at the emptiness around him. Elena Peña underscores each segue with low industrial hums and the occasional door-slam reverb, keeping our nerves on alert without ever drowning the narrative. Against this backdrop, we are given a powerful central performance and, if Thomas did trip over a line or two on the afternoon of this review, it barely registered against the overall swagger.Ed Edwards’s text balances bruising political critique with gut-level storytelling. Frankie’s slide from righteous anger to drug-numbed despair feels authentic, yet the play never wallows. Instead, it trumpets resilience: in a newly rebuilt Strangeways, hope is the contraband passed from bunk to bunk, and Thomas gives us a taste of its bittersweet thrill.If the polemics occasionally shout a shade too loud, the production’s heart remains generous – more call-to-arms than lecture. By the time Frankie finds a shaky sense of purpose among society’s forgotten, the audience gets behind every beat. Ordinary Decent Criminal may be staged behind metaphoric bars, but it leaves you fired up to pick the lock.

Michelle Collins seems nervous. She pops out from the auditorium a few minutes before curtain up: she gurns gauchely at those at the front of the queue. They offer a cheery "good luck." "I’m gonna need it!" she replies, without a hint of false modesty, before popping back in again. It reminds me of a charmingly honest television interview with her a few days ago, in which, unstarry and wide-eyed, she seemed more than a little overwhelmed by the Edinburgh behemoth she had created for herself.But if she is more anxious than the average performer kicking off this crazy month of endurance, she really needn’t be. The show is a sell-out. Her fans, warm and supportive, are out in force. They don’t know it’s terribly bad form to applaud an actor before they so much as open their mouth, but on this occasion, we’ll forgive them. They are just so delighted to be breathing the same air. An air which is generously loaded with the years of shared memories of Ms Collins pouting, scheming, suffering, and surviving from the magic box in the corner of the room.As it happens, these pouting, scheming, suffering, survival attributes have served her well in the creation of Denise: the ‘Motorhome Marilyn’ of the title. Based on an original idea of her own, the story follows sixty-something Denise as her paltry world as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator crumbles around her ears. Now living in Las Vegas but raised in Southend, Denise has been through it. Her only true companion is a python named Bobby. She exists in a caravan stuffed with Monroe tat. She hasn’t got much. But the one thing she does have in spades is grit. You can take the girl from Southend, but...Written by Ben Weatherill, the script serves up a good number of genuinely hilarious lines; and some of the initially extraneous-seeming exposition ends up neatly dovetailing into the final few moments. There is plenty here to tickle die-hard Monroe fans, and just as much to educate those who are less familiar with her story.Collins herself certainly looks the part and is as perfect a fit for Denise as you would expect from a part written especially for her. Rather more unfortunately, Denise is not a perfect fit for Marilyn. And therein lies much of the sadness of the piece. Denise will never realise much more of the dream than standing over a grate on the Strip, her white skirt whirling in the wind, and worrying whether she’s likely to develop a yeast infection from all that hot air scooting up her nether regions. Even when in character, there is little accent, no breathy register, none of the softness of her idol. She is quite clearly doomed to failure. Deluded even within her delusions. But, ever-optimistic, she clings on. Well, they do say it’s the hope that kills you.Ms Collins bravely creates a character who is difficult to love and is unafraid of demonstrating the hardness of a woman whose eternal reliance on her own mettle has rendered even a scintilla of vulnerability tantamount to betrayal. This brittle emotional tone allows the darker elements of the piece to bowl merrily on by, and we find ourselves almost complicit in some of her darker doings. This is a much more tangible take on a character who could so easily become cartoonish and infantile, and one that leaves us with a satisfyingly awkward feeling of irresolution as the lights fade down.Because this is not really a show about Marilyn Monroe. This is a show about lost dreams, wasted lives, resilience… and just a little touch of psychopathy. It is an insightful glimpse into the story that might lie behind a tin front door, of how a little life, of scant account to anyone very much, might be eked out. Ably directed by the always reliable Alexandra Spencer-Jones, there is a good deal of pain that is evocatively intimated rather than explicitly splashed about. And much like the legendary Marilyn herself, not all of the scars are visible.

He’s the baddest man in Texas. With spoons for spurs, armed with handguns and a dangerously gravelly voice, Lil Wenker slingshots us straight into the dusty heart of the Wild West, where we land squarely in clown chaos.From the outset, you are immersed. Directed by Bangtail himself, the audience creates the ambience of the desert and infamous saloon bar, complete with bar fights and the clinking of tumblers — we are complicit, and delightedly so. Wenker’s finely tuned instincts guide the show’s rhythm, sparking laughter with the flick of her wrist. She repeats just enough, pushes just far enough, and leaves space for the unexpected to bloom. You guffaw with laughter when you least expect it and are delighted at every turn. Wenker's world is playful and rich in spontaneous invention.All the hallmarks of good clowning are here: relentless play, audience complicity, emotional agility, and fearless commitment. Wenker is finely tuned to the energy in the room and rides the waves of audience attention with ease. There are occasional moments when the narrative thread frays slightly or a repeated gag doesn’t quite land on its second outing, but the momentum never stays down for long.A recurring character throughout is Mr Nemesis — a hapless, hilariously innocent audience member who unwittingly becomes the show’s antagonist. Their relationship is a goldmine for absurdity and callbacks, culminating in a surprisingly tender moment of reconciliation that exposes Bangtail’s tender vulnerability, one of the show’s standout highlights.Beneath the cowboy kitsch and clowning chaos lies something quietly profound — a tale of self-discovery. Bangtail is bold, silly, and wonderfully off-kilter: a rootin’-tootin’ romp where the fun doesn’t stop... even when you’re knee-deep in metaphorical horse sh*t.

How do you balance motherhood with being in space? This question is handled with surprising depth and empathy in Lesbian Space Crime, an otherwise zany and raucous three-person musical from Airlock Theatre and Soho Theatre. It also explores issues surrounding the US military's ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy, queer representation, and capitalist PR management. But, more than that, it’s just a really, really fun time.This is the mostly fictional story of the first-ever lesbian space crime: a woman who uses a space laser against her ex-wife in the midst of a fierce custody battle. It is told through fast-paced multi-rolling, camp musical numbers, and shiny space-age costumes.All of the performers are utterly captivating, delivering bucketloads of charisma from the very start of the show until its final moments. In particular, Eleanor Colville’s portrayals of Gaia, the hippy, astrology-infused lesbian cliché, as well as a German sex-obsessed astronaut, were absolute gold and completely ridiculous. Rossanna Suppa also delivers precise comic timing as the deeply relatable potential space criminal Susan Albright, struggling to decide between going to her son’s music recital and going on the first-ever all-female spacewalk — all while battling her mixed feelings towards her ex-wife. Robbie Taylor Hunt is the final player in this space crew, perhaps serving the biggest whiplash as he deftly switches between sexy-but-dumb astronaut hunk Brett, the cold and cruel NASA boss Jimmy, the sweet innocent young son, and TWINK, the ship’s flamboyant AI interface. However, they all gain big laughs from the audience through their over-the-top characterisation, witty puns, and queer culture references. It is completely hilarious and unrelenting in its pacing.The musical numbers add to the piece well, maintaining the quirky, tongue-in-cheek production of this very fringe-feeling fringe show. The upbeat, catchy numbers keep the show moving while providing even more laughs, both through the cheeky boy-band-style choreography and the clever lyrics.For fans of space, lesbians, or crime, this could be the show for you. Even if you are interested in none of these things, the show feels fresh, energetic, and is guaranteed to bring you more than a few laughs.

With K Mak at the Planetarium, Brisbane musician Kathryn McKee (K Mak herself) sweeps into Summerhall’s Demonstration Room alongside a cellist, violinist, drummer, and a small battalion of synths and other sound-processing gizmos. Together, they perform a range of songs against a backdrop of projected visuals, which range from biological and botanical to intergalactic psychedelia.When it clicks, the effect is gloriously transportive: for a few minutes, you’re cocooned in a pocket galaxy where Björk-ish vocal shards dance with Reich-like ostinatos, and the peeling paint overhead feels less like neglect than industrial chic. When it doesn't, the performance falls a little flatter, and the relationship between sound and visuals feels decorative rather than symbiotic. It’s striking to look at, just not always meaningful.However, throughout it all, McKee’s performance craft remains admirable, and her assembled musicians all give powerful performances. She has a stage presence that feels both precise and warmly informal, and her vocal processing (pitch-shifts, granular frays) adds welcome unpredictability. Still, one occasionally longs for deeper narrative threads.There’s undeniable pleasure in surrendering to K Mak’s lush sonic waveforms, and on a purely sensory level, the hour rarely bores. But ambition alone can’t bridge every gap between sight and sound: the stars glitter, the room reverberates, and somewhere in the middle, a good idea hovers, half-resolved.

Imagine scrolling through the internet – past memes, videos of shocking brutality, porn and animals doing stupid things – but put it on 10x speed and then feed it amphetamines. That’s a bit like what watching Pigs Fly Easy Ryan feels like. Strap in and brace yourselves for one hour of absolute insanity.Pigs Fly Easy Ryan, a recipient of the 2025 Untapped Award, was dreamt up and brought to life by transatlantic theatre company NONSTOP. On paper, it’s a story about two pigs trying to fulfil a lifelong fantasy of impersonating air hostesses to secretly fly a plane to the land of Freedom. Watching as all the rituals of air travel are subverted into sexually deviant routines, it’s not surprising to learn that the first kernel of inspiration for this play came from a fever dream. From checking in your bag to airline safety demonstrations, every ritual of air travel is fair game for these little piggies and their voraciously violent sex drives. Be warned: you will probably never experience air travel the same way again.Lou Doyle and Trevor White inhabit their roles with a surprising amount of empathy. They get creative with some pieces of fluff and a shower curtain, and the audience could almost forget they weren’t really flying if it weren’t for the constant reminders that this is, in fact, a play. “The plane is actually a planet,” one of the pigs informs us. You leave feeling like you’ve just woken up from a feral night out, but also somehow more aware of the fact that we are on a burning plane ourselves as the Earth crashes towards climate catastrophe.Jumping from high to low culture at a speed almost invisible to the human eye, there is a moment where one of the pigs takes too much melatonin and delivers a deliriously bimbofied Shakespearean soliloquy. But is there meaning behind the madness, or is this just another hour of spectacular, raunchy fun? Pigs Fly Easy Ryan may not offer up any easy answers, but between a lot of aggressive humping, fluorescent garters and baby oil, the show poses serious, real-world questions about climate disaster, the rise of global fascism and the fetishisation of freedom.This unhinged, chaotic and strangely heartfelt piece of physical theatre forces us to check in to the world right now – if you have the stomach for it.

The sister of a famous pop star, Standing in the Shadows of Giants is Lucie Barât’s personal story – and it’s not quite what you might expect.Barât recounts her adult journey through drama school, auditions, fending off predatory industry suits, an unfulfilled career and part-time jobs. Her brother Carl has formed an indie band, The Libertines. History recalls how they find fame and an endless stream of parties, launches and media hype ensues. Frontman Pete Doherty’s drug addiction was public knowledge, but the pills, drugs and alcohol simply went with the territory – and our protagonist was along for the ride. Barât’s life spirals out of control, in and out of rehab, and bailiffs at the door. At a rehab event, she is asked to write her own obituary. However, it’s 2025 and she is still here, baring her soul at Edinburgh Fringe.Barât takes to the stage and begins to sing a song, but after a technical hitch she stops and appears to go into unrehearsed explanations about the production – although this is, of course, scripted. The upshot is that it gives Barât a harder battle to regain the audience; the uncertainty and the struggle may be an allegory for her life, but it is perhaps a production choice to revisit. However, once she hits her stride, her tale is adeptly revealed.She recounts, iteratively, the myriad poor choices: the bottles of vodka, the cocktail of pills and drugs – all against the backdrop of her brother’s success. There is no hint of envy, just a nagging sense of their close relationship drifting. Touchingly, when she boards an 11-hour flight to South Africa to enter a somewhat unforgiving rehab centre, any apprehension is tempered by her joy at having alone time with Carl.Her acting career never really gets off the ground, save for the occasional minor stage play or advert. She catches a break though – she lands a gig working with a Hollywood A-lister, but her self-destructive undertones kick in and she makes a mess of everything, quite literally.Lucie Barât tells her truth here at Traverse, warts and all. She exposes the abandonment issues, the neuroses, the anxiety, the ego, the misogyny, the resentment, the fury, the sense of a life unfulfilled and, above all, her vulnerability.It must have felt like her adult life was spent in the shadow of her famous brother – and indeed, at times, she was little more than an accessory to the band. However, the touching denouement reveals that Barât has survived and thrived, finally finding her own identity and voice and, as she says, “feels good”.

Eight hours of religious choral music: The Veil of the Temple is not so much a musical performance as an experience.The work consists of eight cycles, which vary from 30 to 95 minutes. Three ten-minute breaks were scheduled, but audiences could come and go freely, creating a relaxed atmosphere without the fear of having to concentrate for eight hours straight. Notably, few took advantage of the open-door policy beyond the scheduled breaks.The experience is surprisingly personal – the sharing of the performance is counterbalanced by the length of silence demanded of each individual when listening to a piece of this scale. This is emphasised by the brilliant staging: soloists, instrumentalists and choir members use the entire hall – the main stage, stalls, stepped platforms, the circle balcony and even a corridor entrance – so that each audience member has a different experience depending on their location.Each cycle is performed in a higher key than the last. This rising pitch – beginning with bass parts sung so low they sound like groaning machinery – creates the sense of slowly ascending from depths to ethereal and ecstatic heights, concluding with the eighth cycle.The production effort is outstanding: eight hours of performance using five choirs, along with intricate coordinated performer movement designed and mastered under Thomas Guthrie's direction. The lighting design and execution are also superb.The performance was conducted by the tireless Sofi Jeannin, who – after controlling the music (and occasionally the audience) with command, concentration and precision for eight hours – looked ready to take on another sixteen.The Veil concludes with the Sanskrit word shantih (peace), referencing T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. This comparison fits well: just as Eliot’s poem is a survey of the cultural history of East and West, Tavener's Veil – sung in English, Aramaic, Church Slavonic, Greek and Sanskrit – combines Byzantine and Anglican religious traditions with Islamic and Tibetan instruments, Sufi texts, Templar mythology, Jewish texts, the Upanishads and St John's Gospel.Is knowledge of all this required to appreciate the experience? Thankfully, no. Listening and meditating is all that’s needed.There's clear contemporary relevance in The Veil’s coalescence of Western, Eastern and Islamic traditions into one search for meaning – with the final chants of Shantih, Shantih sounding not like a whisper but more like a challenge. The EIF should be congratulated on staging this rarely performed and uniquely demanding piece with such care, imagination and passion.

At its heart, Up is a story about how opposites attract. But it also touches on ideas around luck and fate – about choices and coincidences – in ways that are genuinely engaging, thought-provoking and, for lack of a better word, playful.The story focuses on what happens when Jamie – who believes she’s been extremely unlucky all her life – finds herself sitting next to “born lucky” Jay on a flight to Brazil—which, true to form, runs into extreme difficulties. Much of the narrative thrust for this show comes from the rhythmic returns to where our two-member cast – co-creator (with artistic director Douglas Irvine) Zoë Hunter and Michael Dylan – re-enact emergency masks dropping from above their heads, engines stuttering in flames, and hand baggage crashing to the floor. For, as they explained in an early “lesson” on the science behind powered flight, if something does go seriously wrong with an airplane, “gravity wins”.Depressing? Not a bit of it: there’s a lightness to proceedings, thanks to the way the story is told. Wilson and Dylan use numerous toy planes and cars, action figures (of various sizes) and small suitcases filled with knickknacks to illustrate and progress the narrative – what the publicity refers to as “a fantasy table-top exploration using object theatre” but arguably best resembles children playing with whatever objects come to hand. Nor does the set resemble a passenger aircraft; rather it feels like the small corner of one of those vast warehouses where the retrieved items from crashes are stored. Wilson and Dylan are surrounded by metal shelves filled with cardboard boxes, and a whiteboard; they spend much of their time behind a small collection of office desks, facing out to the audience.Its sense of “play” – in the childhood sense of the word – paradoxically may distance us from much of the reality of the situations we’re shown, but nevertheless helps us connect with the core emotional aspects of each character’s back story – in particular their past loves and traumas. It’s concise writing, combined with two energetic performances, which ensures we believe how and why these two people have met at the right – or possibly the absolutely wrong – time, and how arguably it doesn’t matter which.Notwithstanding the asides name-checking the ancient Greek concept of the “Unity of Opposites” or more recent investigations into people’s ideas of good and bad luck undertaken by Professor Richard Wiseman, this is a dynamic, entertaining and remarkably uplifting production.

Bluebeard’s Castle is a haunting one-act chamber opera for two voices and piano, set in the atmospheric Old St Paul’s Church. Béla Bartók’s work, which premiered in Budapest in 1918 to a libretto by Béla Balázs, offers a chilling glimpse into the darkest corners of the human psyche.The plot follows Duke Bluebeard, who brings his new wife Judith to his shadowy castle, where seven locked doors conceal symbolic secrets. One by one, she opens them: a torture chamber, armoury, treasury, garden, vast domain, and a lake of tears – each stained with blood. Behind the final door stand Bluebeard’s former wives in silent horror as Judith joins them.Symbolically, the doors reveal layers of Bluebeard’s inner life: his secrets, vulnerabilities and traumas. Judith’s determination to see them all reflects the human desire for complete intimacy, while the blood-stained visions suggest the cost of knowing too much.Old St Paul’s proves an inspired venue: its soaring columns and shadows evoke the oppressive weight of Bluebeard’s castle, with a chill that seeps into the audience. James Corrigan’s baritone as Bluebeard is rich and authoritative, balancing power with vulnerability. Mezzo-soprano Catherine Backhouse as Judith moves convincingly from fierce curiosity to tragic resignation.However, Bartók’s music is best experienced with a full orchestra. Despite Lliam Paterson’s mastery at the piano, the accompaniment cannot always achieve the necessary legato and variety. Using the church organ at a key moment heightens the gothic atmosphere, so it could have been utilised more.Minimal staging leaves much to the imagination. Perhaps too much, as even the crucial seven doors are only hinted at. In the church’s resonant acoustics, the text sometimes blurs, making the plot harder to follow for newcomers. The result is beautiful, unsettling yet emotionally distant.

The Truman Capote Talk Show is a poignant and informative exposé on the life and death of a great writer. Winner of the Scotsman Fringe First 2024, this one-man play starring Bob Kingdom about the iconic American writer returns to the Edinburgh Fringe at the intimate Attic at Pleasance Courtyard. Capote remains an icon of culture, both popular and amongst our literati, and any staging of his life and times, or rather his death and times, consequently comes with preconceptions. These may be about the actor’s mimicry of his unique speaking voice, or the specificity of his gestures, his posture, and so on.Within the first few minutes of this play, these preconceptions vanish. Kingdom makes his interpretation known: more than an impression, Kingdom’s Capote is his own invention, not unlike noteworthy portrayals of distinct historical personalities like Gary Oldman’s Churchill or Frank Langella’s Nixon – arguably even a conduit for the ideas this monologue aims to convey.The stage is minimal: it is Capote, costumed in the author’s recognisable vogue, a small wooden table which could as easily display a typewriter or a cocktail glass as it does Capote’s symbolic hat, which sits there for the show’s duration, and us. The stage is set – as Capote himself describes it, self-consciously referencing the mechanisms of the theatre itself – and, arguably, one of the most performative authors of the 20th century is granted an audience post-mortem to directly address with the details of his life: his successes, his solitude, his addictions, his losses (from death or betrayal in the name of art). If you don’t know anything about Capote going into this play, then it is guaranteed to teach you a thing or two, not only about the author but about the celebrity cultures – particularly classical Hollywood – and metropolitan circles he fervently pursued. Jokes are consistent, often ironic, always observational and Capote-ish in phrasing (“She had one of her faces lifted…”) – some of which will certainly go over the heads of audience members who haven’t heard of Greta Garbo, among other large-scale names of yesteryear.But The Truman Capote Talk Show also connects on an emotional level which, in the end, cuts through its wall of irony and deadpan references to the formal features of theatre within the play itself. By the end, what we are left with is precisely what the world is left with – an image of Truman Capote, haunted by unfulfilment in the final phase of his life: a portrait of the author which subverts the standard tale put to stage or screen in the past.This is a poetic piece of writing, lyrically enfleshed by a terrific central performance, which asks questions about honesty, love, integrity, and happiness. For those who didn’t catch it last summer, now is the time.

Aviaja’s Soil is about not belonging – choreographed and performed by Sarah Aviaja Hammeken, who is half Danish and half Greenlandic. Growing up in Denmark without her Greenlandic language (Kalaallisut), she does not feel at home in either country, and this impacts on her sense of identity.The show opens with her lying face down in a heap of black soil. Nothing happens for ten minutes, testing the audience’s tolerance. However, this image stays with one long after the show is over, and there is a potentially powerful performance piece waiting to be released. Sadly, it remains more of a lecture.

Jamie is a good lad: devoted to family and football, a passion he shares with his father. Even his mother has a Saltire flag on a stick she waves throughout every Scotland game.Together, they had planned to attend the opening game of the 2024 European Championship between Scotland and Germany in Munich, but they suffer a setback and the trip is called off. Jamie is devastated, but doesn’t give up on the idea. What follows, in Nick it for Munich at Greenside@George Street, is Jamie’s quest to see the game while handling family and friends in a series of incidents – some of which help him on his way, others that block his path, divert him or draw on every ounce of ingenuity he possesses.The play is written and performed by Aric Hanscomb-Ryrie, a talented emerging artist from Edinburgh, and was developed with the aid of a Keep It Fringe bursary. He plays several roles in the 60-minute solo show as various characters converse with Nick, the sharply drawn central figure. Energy, physicality and humour abound as his story unfolds in a series of twists and turns that make for an engaging, well-paced narrative, delivered with clarity, strong projection and a ringing local accent.Director Aaron Clason draws out all the laddish elements while making Nick an endearing character, and – along with assistant director and movement coordinator Zoë Maunder – has used every inch of the tight space to create an animated production, complete with focused sound and music.Nick it for Munich is an unpretentious, well-told story, performed with passion and pride.

Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of FDR and the ‘First Lady of the World’, fought all her life for peace, democracy and universal human rights. But today, all she stood for and everything she achieved are under sustained attack. In this classy and timely piece, her voice of sanity and compassion echoes down more than 80 years, under the careful guidance of writer and performer Alison Skilbeck.The central conceit focuses on Mrs Roosevelt’s visit to the UK during the height of the war, but ably navigates her rich biography from privileged birth to fulfilled death. The period is thoughtfully evoked through Jane Heather’s spare set design: a chair, a hatstand, a trunk, and jolly bunting covering most of the bases, while Emma Laxton’s judicious sound design contributes to the atmosphere without ever overwhelming the action.Skilbeck covers much of the known ground of Eleanor’s life and offers up some tasty titbits and anecdotes that keep the action moving with charm and gentle humour. Eleanor’s difficult early life, familial connections to the presidency, and overpowering social conscience are conjured without sentiment: her unorthodox marriage, FDR’s known affairs and Eleanor’s alluded ones are explored with a fusion of tastefulness and candour that one suspects Roosevelt herself might rather approve of. There is no particular agenda here to either out or closet Roosevelt, and the affections she nurtured for those known lesbians in her close circle are embraced without becoming reductive or pulling focus.It is a very generous performance, allowing one of the most lauded first ladies of all time to breathe with a redolence and reality that cannot help but draw silent comparison with the current incumbents of the White House. A cast of characters – diplomats, royalty, land girls, servicemen –are portrayed by Skilbeck to texturise the piece and invite an appreciation of Roosevelt’s common touch. A touch that belied her aristocratic and monied background, and which seemed to have taken especial flight whilst at finishing school in London. The script’s brisk nonchalance somehow elevates Eleanor’s fervour for workers’ rights and racial equity, just as her quiet acceptance of FDR’s lovers seems to heighten the intimacy of their understanding.Eleanor Roosevelt was, by anyone’s standards, an extraordinary woman. A woman compelled to speak out. Compelled to make a difference. She bore deep personal sadnesses, scaffolded the longest presidency in the history of the United States, and unfailingly prioritised the most fundamental needs of others over her own reputation. That she was also far from flawless merely makes her more engaging, even at the distance of the best part of a century. And this show celebrates the power that messy, imperfect humans have to change the world.

Atomic Cabaret goes heavy on the atomic and light on the cabaret. Lynda Williams brings a genuinely laudable passion to a dark and difficult subject, but unfortunately the performance feels more like a government-issue infomercial than a cabaret. The slide deck feels amateur, and the songs struggle to truly captivate.However, the show had poignant moments that prompted serious contemplation – particularly a rendition of Peter Seeger’s translation of Never Again the A Bomb. The upside is that I learned more about MAD realities; the downside is that that’s a hell of a mood killer. A little levity would have helped.

Mancunian sketch writer and performer Andrew Doherty clearly comes to the 2025 Fringe with a positive reputation based on his previous hit show, Gay Witch Sex Cult – he’s already attracting near sold-out performances, and there’s a lot of immediate love from the crowd. Thankfully, this is a gift he doesn’t squander; he effectively engages with his audience from the start, and builds on that foundation with real skill.Not surprising, really, as there’s a lot to love here: Doherty presents himself as a young man so enthusiastically in love with musicals – thanks to having discovered Six – that he now wants to share with us (in an audience research kind of way) a few scenes from his forthcoming Arts Council England (ACE)-supported musical, AIDS Actually. From the title alone, you might think this isn’t in particularly good taste, but (of course) that’s actually rather the point.And, at the risk of getting serious, this is clearly one of the issues Doherty is focused on: his character knows the kind of shows that he really wants to make, but his dependence on public subsidy means that ACE effectively call the shots – so when its increasingly demonic representatives, watching him via a conference call, tell him to “AIDS-it-up” and make his show more “Northern” (a challenge for someone from Manchester), he doesn’t have any alternative but to comply. This is combined with their ongoing insistence that he remains “non-political” – which, you could well say, is pretty hard to do when writing about a pandemic which effectively killed a generation of gay men. The challenges faced by public arts subsidies within an increasingly polarised social media are plain to see – and, in Doherty’s hands, also happen to be laugh-out-loud funny too.To be fair, not everything in this show is yet working on all thrusters – the subplot in which Arts Culture England apparently murders Doherty’s parents (to help give him the emotional trauma he needs to make “great” theatre) doesn’t quite land as well as you might think. And, in a purely technical early-in-the-run sort of way, Doherty’s conversations with a pre-recorded ACE demon are littered with extra-long pauses that can’t entirely be explained away by supposed issues with his broadband width.Nevertheless, if you’re looking for a laugh-out-loud show that sneaks in some surprisingly serious ideas behind the jokes, then it’s unlikely you’ll find anything better than this particular Sad Gay AIDS Play.

The 11th Hater's Ball brings true chaos energy to the Fringe’s only late-night improv show, taking audience prompts and throwing them to a rotating nightly guest cast of four comedians, each brought on to hate whatever the host selects. The trick? Say the unsayable – without being racist.Darius Davies is a charismatic host who balances antagonism and humour with ease – an essential skill, given the show's premise. Something is going to get hated on.On this occasion, the show seemed to suffer slightly from a mismatch of comic styles, from Adam Greene’s dry British wit to Kate Boyle’s peppy Irish charm. Boyle, to her credit, even admitted at one point that she didn’t want to be mean – an understandable sentiment, if one that’s slightly at odds with the brief. With guest performers changing nightly, your mileage may vary. But Daniel Delby and Joey Delgarno delivered confident, hilarious sets laced with running gags and shared jokes that built steadily with the audience.The show had occasional pacing issues – likely owing to Boyle being a last-minute stand-in – and a few fumbled lighting and sound cues added some unwanted stutter.In the end, the show landed in an odd spot for me. I had a great time, but it didn’t quite earn a full four stars. If a 3.5 rating were an option, it would fit perfectly. That said, the head-to-head between Daniel Delby and Joey Delgarno alone made the ticket price worthwhile. It’s no small feat to see someone comedically defend paedophiles without losing the audience. As I said – your mileage may vary. This is not a show for the faint of heart or, in Darius’s words, “anyone with blue hair.”

The Other Mozart tells the true, forgotten story of Maria Anna (Nannerl) Mozart, the genius sister of Amadeus, who performed throughout Europe alongside him to equal acclaim before her story was lost to the obscurity thought to be more fitting for females of the period.It is unlikely that you will see a more beautiful set design this Fringe – alone in the black box space, the skirts of a lavish white gown are spread in a giant circle of lace and froth. Among the folds and pockets, tucked away from the prying eyes who would not understand, lie key memories of Nannerl’s life… music, souvenirs from her European travels, books, and letter after letter regarding the mischievous little brother who took a continent by storm in the late eighteenth century. This is a treat for lighting designer Joshua Rose, who is able to use a full range of colour palettes against the neutrality of this canvas to illuminate each of the contrasting chapters in Nannerl’s life.The gown itself (immaculately realised by Magdalena Dabrowska and Miodrag Guberinic) seems to represent the maturity and acceptance of adulthood, which the young Nannerl dances around and through and over, before finally accepting that she will never inhabit the fantasy world her brother has been gifted. Thus, for much of the piece, Nannerl prances about the stage in her corset and pantaloons – free-spirited, dynamic, hopeful; before admitting that she must put away childish things and climb into the fierce-looking farthingale contraption ominously waiting to enclose her in its iron embrace.Those familiar with the story of the scatological musical genius whose intemperate mouth belied the beauty of his compositions will have much to engage with here. But there is no need to have an exhaustive knowledge of the backstory. The piece is so carefully constructed that we are treated to a substantive amount of information, which never dips into lecture territory but is always delivered with a delicious verve that somehow makes Nannerl’s relegation to a mere footnote in history all the sadder.Sylvia Milo (alternating with Daniela Galli) created, wrote, and stars as Nannerl, giving a towering performance that never tips into self-indulgence but gently and generously evokes a funny, knowing, clever, loving, and divinely talented woman who was denied her due in life. Much of the success of the execution lies in the way the creative team have used minimal methods to construct maximum effect – the control and economy deployed by director Isaac Byrne and his team demonstrating the tightness of grip and completeness of understanding at the heart of the process.The script is based on the well-documented facts about Mozart’s colourful life and on the hilarious and heartbreaking letters the family penned to one another during their times apart. It is a delightful piece in which a woman once reduced to the shadows is finally granted her own time in the spotlight.

Sweaty, nostalgic, camp, and maybe just a little bit magical. Club NVRLND is bringing the greatest hits of the 2000s to their fully immersive nightclub reimagining of Peter Pan. It’s Pan’s 30th birthday, but will tensions between him and a rival club owner get in the way of a great night—and rekindling a spark with runaway bride Wendy? The atmosphere on the dance floor is electric as the audience is encouraged to dance and sing along with the performers as the show unfolds around them.This is a night out like no other this festival season, best enjoyed with a group of friends and a drink in hand. Immersive theatre has become a bit of a buzzword in recent years at the Fringe and can sometimes fall into the trap of being a tokenistic bolt-on. This is far from the case with Club NVRLND. The audience is standing the whole time, needing to move around the space as the story plays out. Performers will dance with you, and songs are performed from within the crowd—it feels genuinely exciting and different. Because of this setup, it does mean there will be occasions where being able to see the action can become an issue for some sections of the crowd, but that just adds to the chaotic atmosphere, which you quickly get used to. There seem to be some sound teething problems in getting the balance right, with the challenge of the loud club music (and loud audience) meaning at times sections of dialogue were lost. Hopefully, this will be resolved by the end of the run. The plot is fun and silly, with no great depth, but that is not what you’re looking for from this sort of show. You’re looking for a party—and what a party they have to give.The cast themselves are phenomenal; they show so much skill in getting the audience on side and comfortable enough to join in with the fun. By the end of the night, I don’t think there was a single person not dancing. Additionally, they also pull off some genuinely powerful vocal performances and dances that don't let the energy drop for even a second. These lost boys are not to be underestimated in their musical theatre calibre. They’re giving it all on stage and reaping rewards from an audience who fell into the palm of their hands.

God bless Kieran Hodgson. With immaculate timing, just as Scotland has gestured goodbye to Donald Trump, Hodgson arrives in Edinburgh to give us his take on the USA.He bounds onto the stage in front of a giant Stars and Stripes with instant affability and proves himself a genius storyteller. Hilarious and highly intelligent to the point of nerdiness (hear his expertise on naming British railway stations), it’s fascinating to see where he’s going to take us.He’s a ‘voices guy’ – a Radio 4 Dead Ringers regular – and language is his way into the States. After an English childhood loving American things while his parents dismissed them as “American rubbish”, he finally makes it to the USA. He’s Sandwich Man in superhero film flop The Flash. Yes, really.He’s taken aback when his American accent isn’t deemed good enough by the producers. It’s not the strongest narrative device for getting us into the country, but it opens the door to some sharp observations of Americans (his Met opera lovers are spot on) and brilliant accents.Hodgson muses on his shifting view of the States as he’s grown up, and he ultimately returns to the wisdom of his parents – socialist defenders of the English language.The weaving of heartfelt belief with clever commentary is what makes Hodgson special. He is, quite simply, very funny.His finale, featuring the arrival of Trump – a subject he has eschewed throughout the show – lands like a punch in the face, given Hodgson’s gentle style up to that point. Not only does he sound like him, he looks like him too. Almost frightening, but what a way to end the show.

Jessie Nixon’s performance comes across as a little unpolished – but in a way that works for her. Her larger-than-life persona is messy in the way your best mate might be, and we love her for it. She seems like the sort of person you’d want to go for two pints with – but any more than that, and you’ve no idea where your night might end up.The early musical numbers are genuinely outstanding. These range from sultry, velvet-toned poetry that reels you in, to a Bucky Kentuckey retelling of a DM story that has you clapping along... even through the chemical burns. Her more prepared material feels solid and well rehearsed.Unfortunately, it’s the more ad-libbed elements of her performance that let her down. The second half feels a little repetitive, with the same punchline to every other joke: herself and her weight. There are only so many ways you can say you’re overweight but stunning before it begins to feel a little played out. The same goes for the abrupt crowd shouting that accompanies most rejections or impositions by the opposite sex.This has the makings of a great show, but for now its rougher edges are showing. Jessie Nixon is overflowing with character and is one to watch. She has serious comedy chops when delivering prepared material, and there’s no doubt she’ll find her feet as she grows into her own and gets off the notes.

ENOUGH is a bold new drama that follows police recruit Irie as she battles systemic injustice within the Met. But beyond this, it forces us to examine our own prejudices and unconscious biases – exploring which behaviours we are prepared to excuse, and which we are quicker to condemn.The service has come in for a great deal of criticism in recent years – and the fact that almost all of it seems not only justified but long overdue is a shocking indictment of the people who are supposed to be the first and last bastion of civil protection. Following the watershed moment of Sarah Everard’s murder at the hands of a serving officer, more and more examples of corruption and abuse of power have hit the headlines – each one driving another nail into the reputational coffin of the police. With the Met – supposedly the nation’s premier law enforcers – frequently at the heart of these allegations, and repeated claims of assault and institutionalised misogyny, it is a scary time to be a female in need of help.ENOUGH is an episodic piece, perhaps more immediately suited to television in structure. The action unfolds across a series of short scenes that introduce us to the Sarge, Constable Chris and Constable Irie. Irie is new, bright-eyed, desperate to make a difference. But her colleagues are older and wearier – long immune to the charms of doing one’s best, and plodding their way to retirement with as little trouble and as much kickback as possible.Friendly banter, pub quizzes and the requisite reliance on coffee and doughnuts soon start to give way to lies, corruption, bullying and abuse. The piece is short, but so cleverly written that we initially doubt our reading of the circumstances before blaming the perpetrators – a phenomenon already grossly familiar to every woman in every uncomfortable situation ever.The acting is superb across the board, and has a way of seducing us into the worlds and motivations of the characters that threatens our own judgment when things turn nasty. This complicity is a key strength of a piece that is relentless in its layering of truths and uncompromising in its message. The three leads are well defined and distinct – and the final twist is a masterstroke of storytelling and audience manipulation.One of the play’s main aims is to give a voice to those who refuse to be silenced – and as the lights black out on the hopeful recruit brought low by the people she so wanted to be a part of, there is little doubt that it has succeeded.

It is a brave choice for a monologue to thread its narrative frequently with: “But we don’t talk about that.”The particular “thats” in question are varied, but what they share in common are the ways in which women’s lives and experiences are so often denigrated or ignored by systems – especially medical systems – that are invariably designed by men.“Not being believed is part of the package,” performer and writer Olivia Ormond says at one point, as she condenses six years of physical pain – which doctors couldn’t explain or mitigate – into a sharply felt, direct-to-audience monologue. What doesn’t help her situation is that, for reasons she goes on to explain, Ormond had spent most of her life “trying to be smaller, to disappear” – physically as much as psychologically, with the operational scars to prove it.Yet now, for the sake of her own mental health, she needs to deal with the pain, to hopefully get it diagnosed and treated – she needs, in short, to be noticed and understood. But that also means being recognised as a person; as more than a set of symptoms, scan results and numbers. She needs to be actually heard in the silence that inevitably follows giving her medical history for the umpteenth time.Although based on Ormond’s own life experiences, this is far from a diatribe about medical gaslighting or the gender health gap – her approach is both subtle and rounded, as she reveals the numerous, sometimes contradictory layers of a woman so frustrated by the failings of the medical profession that she swore never to return to the “sticky blue seats” of the nondescript medical reception room – and yet, a year later, found herself back in their grasp once again.Ormond intertwines memories of childhood and of her relationship with her mother with some subtlety. As a writer, she gives herself room; as a performer, she reveals depth with minimum fanfare in terms of production. The set is a chair and clipboard; the lighting cues, under director Juju Jaworski, the only overt theatricality, naturally support the transitions in time and focus.Ormond doesn’t always project her voice to the back of the room – and it’s not a large room – but her movements and stillness are concise and telling, contributing to a performance that lingers in the memory far more strongly than you might initially expect.

Opening onto a burning pyre drizzled with litres of silliness, Bebe Cave: CHRISTBRIDE is best described as Girlie Pop meets Catholicism Wow.This one-woman show uses a medley of characteristic accents to deliver seemingly whimsical (for the 1400s) societal commentary and pop culture references that hold up in the modern day. These references land just right through a medieval lens, allowing Bebe (or rather Bethtilda BigBum) to maintain the breakneck speed of a narrative that takes her from dark-ages wench to CHRISTBRIDE superstar in no time at all.The host of voices she brings to the stage are critical to the performance, and you’re never lost as to who is doing what – nor even particularly surprised when Jesus turns out to be Scouse. Of course Jesus is Scouse.Goblin energy flows strongly into the space, and there’s the occasional character break – but it only adds to the performance, giving her a chance to riff with the crowd. What’s more, she seems to be loving every minute of it. The crowd certainly were.Join Bebe Cave for an authentic fever dream from the Middle Ages – if you like women who are people and have strong opinions on mud.

There are at least eight ways an opera diva can break a glass – and just one involves her vocal cords. Get ready to shatter your expectations of opera as an elite art form that requires well-trained sitting muscles, binoculars and a mortgage for tickets.The American soprano Steph DePrez, currently living in Berlin, is a rare breed: a Wagner-singing comedian. Her show is a masterclass in blending genres, as she effortlessly weaves her vocal talents with sharp wit and hilarious storytelling, making for a truly enjoyable Fringe experience.Though DePrez is more than capable of breaking a glass with her voice, the magic lies in the metaphor. The show is all about smashing the glass ceilings that life throws our way – whether in the opera world, comedy, or simply in being human. Things don’t always come easy. From the moment you declare to your parents that you’re going to become an opera singer and perform Wagner’s Ring, to actually wearing the Valkyrie’s armour on stage, it’s a long and winding road of disappointments, missed opportunities and a pandemic thrown in for good measure.In classical opera terms, a soprano singing Wagner must possess an immensely powerful voice, capable of heroic declamation, soaring lyricism in the upper range and the stamina to sustain long, demanding passages over a full orchestra. In common terms: these sopranos don’t just sing – they summon thunderstorms, bend brass sections to their will, and make the violins quake in fear.So what makes a successful opera diva trade the grandiosity of an opera house for a stand-up gig at the Fringe? The pure joy of performance, the thrill of making people laugh and the desire to explore different facets of artistic identity. The essence of DePrez’s performance lies in genuine connection – whether through a soaring aria or a perfectly timed punchline. With the full-body expression of a Valkyrie, she transforms the small room into Valhalla itself, announcing that Brünnhilde has arrived.Telling her life story through metaphor gives DePrez’s storytelling structure, but loses some of the spontaneity and raunchiness of her earlier comedy performances, which I particularly enjoyed. However, her ability to combine serious vocal chops with relatable humour, delivered with infectious energy, will leave you buzzing for a long time.

Deceptively simple, Trace of Belief, choreographed by Hsieh Yi-Chun, is a captivating, dreamlike dance that deepens and grows on the viewer. Exploring, through temple processions and rituals, the experience of prayer – from the quietly meditative to the ecstatic, and applicable to any religion – it asks what we can put our faith in within an agnostic world. Is there still something beyond ourselves we can believe in?Multicultural, melding classical Chinese and Western contemporary dance, this is a subtle and delicate piece featuring dancers of remarkable flexibility and expressivity, accompanied by a soundscape flavoured with temple bells, Chinese drums, gongs, cymbals and suona (Chinese trumpet).Starting quietly with the sound of water drops and birdsong, six dancers – three male and three female – dressed in brilliant blue wide-legged trousers flecked with white, stand together, slowly swaying. As one dancer breaks away then turns and returns to the group, another follows. Later, more complex groupings evolve, suggesting that there is strength in unity, while individual solos speak to the need for independence. The piece becomes not just about religious experience but also human relationships. The beauty of this work is that it allows the audience to bring their own experience into it and interpret it as they wish.A particularly dramatic section features two men in painful rapture, their use of feathered fans – symbols of spirituality but also of male power – enacting the self-destructive potential of such intensity, as one turns his fan against his own abdomen.The choreography is skilfully varied, delighting with unexpected shifts in mood and style. Audience members may recognise Tai Chi movements and delight in the raised knee with bent foot, a gesture from Chinese opera, as well as Chun’s signature low pliés and fluid, circular movements, which she associates with flowing water – all combined with Western balletic lifts.The final section features Hsieh Yi-Chun herself, semi-naked and standing only in her underclothes, offering herself to the audience as if to say: this is who she is. Belief in self, belief in dance – that is what matters. Trace of Belief may not transport you in the way that a louder, more in-your-face piece might, but it may subtly transform you.

Don’t be put off by the three-star rating – Annmarie Cullen’s vulnerable one-woman show may not be for everyone, but it soars when it hits the high notes. Remember That Time? A Musical begins with Annmarie standing in El Prat airport in Barcelona – a one-way ticket to Dublin in her hand. Having recently been broken up with by her wife, she is returning to her hometown after living abroad in LA and Spain for 25 years. This story about starting over doesn’t quite emerge unscathed in its attempt to blend humour and sincerity, but for Annmarie’s crystal-clear voice and songwriting ability alone, it is well worth a watch.Remember That Time? premiered at the International Dublin Gay Theatre Festival in 2024, where it won Best Performance – and it’s no wonder. Annmarie has written for iCarly, Drake and Josh and the Twilight film series, and her songwriting credentials shine through in this feelgood one-woman musical. Combining Patti Smith’s rawness with the vulnerable singer-songwriter style of Taylor Swift, you should prepare for goosebumps when she reaches the falsetto.The script is delivered in a constant Disney Channel-style voiceover, complete with pauses and punchlines that feel oddly reminiscent of Anthony Bourdain. The narrative style is fun but doesn’t always match up with the show’s raw vulnerability, and you feel somewhat relieved when Annmarie steps away from the mic and speaks more frankly to the audience. The story also tries a little too hard to package itself into a tidy success-story arc, and its LA-tinged sincerity feels slightly out of place at the Edinburgh Fringe. Annmarie talks about hiring a mental fitness trainer and shows weight-loss pictures without the heavy dose of self-satire one might expect at the festival. But Remember That Time? isn’t trying to be a wry, self-deprecating comedy set – it is a retrospective and heartwarming story about one woman redefining success and finding herself. In this respect, it does exactly what it says on the tin – a perfect pre-lunch show for any fans of Eat, Pray, Love.The minimal staging suits the frank intimacy of Remember That Time? and MTV-style projected footage of Saucy Monky playing live transports you straight to their early 2000s heyday. However, the show’s multimedia experimentation isn’t always so effective. Annmarie’s mocked-up Zoom duets, featuring cameos from Naimee Coleman and comedian Gearóid Farrelly, could be humorously gimmicky but leave the audience uncertain whether to laugh or try to keep a straight face. If feelgood musicals and multimedia experimentation turn you off, this might not be the show for you – but fans of high-quality confessional songwriting and early 00s indie rock, or simply anyone going through a crisis in life, are sure to enjoy this one-woman musical.

Awkward Prods (Linus Karp and Joseph Martin) are back with another camp masterpiece filled with parody, pastiche and whimsy. Following their smash hits – Diana: The Untold Untrue Story and Gwyneth Goes Skiing – their latest royal romp is every bit as chaotic, self-aware and deliciously silly as audiences have come to expect.The King of Swedonia is dead, and the Prince must find a husband within two weeks or forfeit the crown. Enter Aaron Butcher, a humble NYC baker tasked with creating the royal wedding cake, who is unwittingly swept into a whirlwind of romance, royal duty and absurdity. What follows is a gloriously unhinged send-up of Hallmark-style romcoms, full of unexpected twists, theatrical flair and tongue-in-cheek charm.With their well-earned reputation for blending irreverence and ingenuity, Awkward Prods deliver all the signature ingredients fans adore. A standout feature – now a beloved tradition – is the inclusion of audience members who are assigned character names before the show and prompted throughout to deliver lines on stage. This continually injects the performance with a sense of play and excitement that invites the audience to immerse themselves in the mad world the duo create.This production in particular feels elevated, with original music by Leland (of RuPaul fame), intricate puppetry, clever use of multimedia (including live video feed), and a stagehand who doubles as the Prince’s henchman. It is peppered with celebrity appearances on screen, including Tove Lo as the Prime Minister of Swedonia and Heartstopper’s Sebastian Croft. While the celebrity cameos offer delightful surprises and a sense of star-studded fun, their frequency occasionally distracts from the central narrative – especially as the performances don’t always match Karp and Martin’s infectious energy. Still, the novelty and humour they bring will likely win over audiences looking for a theatrical treat packed with pop culture.Overall, The Fit Prince is a wonderfully absurd hour that shows off Awkward Prods’ intelligent and witty storytelling. Inventive and always playful, the production’s heart and theatrical mischief, paired with truly toe-tapping original music, makes this a show that knows exactly what it’s doing – and does it with unapologetic flair.

One person speaking their truth with passion should, I believe, be applauded – in principle. And so I cannot dismiss Ron Low's hour delivering The Foreskin Diaries out of hand – if you'll excuse the pun.Ron is about as militant as it gets when it comes to the foreskin – he calls himself an 'intactivist' – and invented the TLC Tugger, the purpose of which is to restore the foreskin of a circumcised male.It has, to date, restored over 63,000.His hour comes to you in the Musicals and Opera section of the programme. So, horrendous details of devastated relationships, ruined sex lives, suicide and gruesome photos (yes, you will see a lot of male junk here) are interspersed with songs. To my ear, it did sound more like one song in several variations, with lines like "Between your thighs, my fragile pride abides" and titles like Love Through My Boy's Eyes.Ron’s outrage is expressed in a 'more in sorrow than in anger' tone. But words like mutilation, penetrative assault, and amputation fly freely. We are asked to close our eyes and imagine a world without male circumcision and exhorted to persuade pregnant friends to leave their boys intact.Owners and lovers of the foreskin might find their people here, Upstairs at Laughing Horse @ Bar 50.

Monstering the Rocketman is a thoughtful, acerbic and tender look at the way in which the British press has played fast and loose with the reputations of the celebrities it has built up – with the sole intention of knocking down again. In this particular case, we are dealing with Elton John – but the list of those forced to pay a disproportionate price for their fame is not only already monstrously long, but – in the immediate and anonymised world of online trolling – ever mushrooming.This piece takes us back to the deep social divisions of the late 1980s: a time in which yuppies and unemployed miners, aerobics and crispy pancakes, Sloanes and punks coexisted. The glitz of Dallas gripped the nation alongside the cobbled realism of Coronation Street. One minute, Frankie was telling you to relax; the next, Section 28 told you what not to do. And nowhere was this hypocrisy more exemplified than within the pages of tabloid newspaper The Sun – at one time suspected to be read by a quarter of the population every day. A newspaper – and the word is used as loosely as proprietor Rupert Murdoch’s moral compass – happy to splash very topless, very young girls across Page 3... while editorials demonised those afflicted by “the gay plague”.The repercussions of its sloppy, sensationalist style still reverberate today. Caroline Flack and Meghan Markle are just two of the names that spring to mind as being unfairly targeted simply to boost circulation. Love them or hate them, any reasonable person would agree that the seemingly co-ordinated tide of bile and bloviation was undue, unnecessary and unbalanced. Anyone remember The Sun’s attack on MP Clare Short for daring to suggest that the titillations of Page 3 were unseemly in a family newspaper? In just one of its many crusades against those who challenged its iron grip on the national narrative, Short was labelled a “killjoy”, “fat” and “jealous”.The witch trials and the public pillory never went away.Henry Naylor uses the true case of Elton John’s battle with The Sun during this strange decade as a prism through which to ponder the terrible power we have allowed to permeate our news sources. Anyone with even half an eye on the headlines in recent years will remember the half-arsed apology issued for the paper’s appalling coverage of the Hillsborough disaster, and the closure of its sister paper after a raft of phone-hacking and improper news-gathering accusations.So it is little surprise that, at the height of his supremacy, Sun editor Kelvin MacKenzie ran a series of fallacious stories about Elton John’s sex life – and subsequently refused to back down despite evidence disproving the allegations, a public spat with rival paper The Mirror, and a televised rebuttal hosted by Michael Parkinson. It took Elton’s deep pockets to force the million-pound lawsuit that finally silenced their spurious claims – pockets that few similarly wronged names have been able to dig into, thus helping to perpetuate the myth of inviolability (see also: bullish arrogance) that cloaks tabloid vengeance.Henry Naylor is a triple Fringe First winner, and it is not hard to see why. This is precisely the sort of important piece that proves why the Fringe needs to exist – to showcase the stories that need to be told, rather than the ones we feel we need to hear. The fracturing of the national media has resulted in fewer high-footfall channels holding power to account. Gone are the days of Spitting Image, Friday Night Live, Rory Bremner… now we are more preoccupied with funny cat videos, furniture makeovers and eyebrow tutorials. There needs to be space for this kind of political theatre for as long as there is a hungry audience – desperate to share the laughs and eye rolls in the dark with others similarly outraged and impotent.Naylor’s is a strong performance, scaffolded by what is clearly a personal campaign to tackle the injustices meted out by the fourth estate. His sincere, immediate and friendly style is designed to encourage those less familiar with the subject, and engage those who remember the heady days of Rear of the Year and Concorde. Naylor flicks between a legion of characters with respect and idiosyncrasy, breathing life into a story that holds as much currency today as it did when it unfolded 40 years ago.

The social science of economics is not widely understood and is largely underappreciated. It examines macro decision-making – such as interest rates – and micro – for instance, at what price point a consumer may switch from high street to supermarket-brand butter. Ever wonder how a local authority decides whether to install a streetlight? Chances are, there’s been a study using economic data; the Value of a Statistical Life is frequently employed, giving rise to the idea of an economic value assigned to human life.All of which brings us to Pique Theatre’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP).GDP, incidentally, is one measure of national economic activity… so why is there a man in a suit tied to an office chair with a hood over his head?Finlay (Aker Okoye) has been abducted and is now in a UK government office. A young civil servant, Rodney (Ioannis Fanis), enters – but he’s the antithesis of threatening, in fact proving to be rather accommodating. The arrival of his boss, Aisling (Emdiane Smith), heightens his anxiety and raises the stakes.The civil service has a supercomputer, UGEN, that can allegedly calculate enhancements to GDP from micro events. In this case, GDP would increase by 10% if Finlay were to commit suicide – and the pair cajole him to play ball.What follows is a series of events over a number of days, during which the situations of all three characters deteriorate as UGEN delivers fresh commands.The influences on Gross Domestic Product have many political, economic and literary roots: Stalin’s Five Year Plan, AI economic modelling, the Post Office scandal, Nazi Germany, Brexit, Black Mirror and Big Brother – both the novel and the reality television show – to name a few.While at times an absurdist piece of new black comedy writing, the smorgasbord of ideas and twists proves jarring, and the demand to suspend disbelief becomes too onerous. The writing and directing could use rework. The performances are largely promising, though, with Smith’s composure being a highlight.However, the overriding message of the production is to signpost human indifference to violence – which, sadly, never seems to go out of fashion.

“Why are there potatoes there?” Not a question you usually hear before a show – even on the Fringe – but it’s an indication of the natural curiosity of a particularly young, uninhibited audience.Until, that is, the show starts with a CBeebies-style animation about Benny Shakes’ garden and his escalating slug problem. Suddenly the kids become very shy indeed. Thankfully, Benny has a child-like air that helps him relate well to under-eights – especially once he breaks the ice by throwing soft-toy vegetables at the audience and inviting us all to throw them back into a large bag acting as a symbolic compost heap: “the only time you can throw things at a disabled person,” he ad libs.Benny’s adaptability certainly comes in useful when, on this particular occasion, the multimedia elements of the show break down – ultimately requiring a full “switch off/switch on” reboot by the tech crew. That he’s able to keep the show moving, and his younger audience members engaged, is impressive. It also suggests he perhaps doesn’t always need quite so many visual bells and whistles to do his job well.Slugageddon doesn’t attempt to hide its educational remit: on-screen game Poo! Or Boo!, for example, offers audience members simple yes/no choices about what should or shouldn’t be put in a compost heap. Its most subtle lesson, though, is the least remarked upon – that we’re easily relating with somebody who happens to have cerebral palsy.(As for the potatoes? They’re part of a musical instrument. Obviously.)