Reviews by Paul Clark

Opening in the West End with goth sass raised to 11, Beetlejuice The Musical is peppered with contemporary digs at the UK and other musicals. This includes filthy and hilarious jokes about Paddington that will make fans choke on their marmalade sandwiches.This production at the Prince Edward Theatre is full of life, even if its subject is death. Based on the enduringly popular 1988 film, the music and lyrics by Eddie Perfect and the book by Scott Brown and Anthony King gleefully tap into the original source, and while some elements are firmly established goth tropes, it doesn’t feel dated.The success of the evening is due mainly to David Fynn’s wonderfully manic performance as Beetlejuice, his connection with the audience firmly established from the outset in a striking opening that quickly wrong-foots the audience. Meta-theatre is joyously employed, and he has a striking Robin Williams-type energy that never drops throughout the show.All the principals are strong, especially Hannah Nordberg as grieving teen Lydia, with soaring vocals, and Aimie Atkinson’s superb life coach Delia. The duet No Reason, performed by Lydia and Delia, is a show highlight. David Hunter and Chelsea Halfpenny are perfect as the boring ghostly Maitlands, and Alisdair Harvey exudes great fun as dad Charles. What is particularly striking is how hard the ensemble works, with costume changes and character switches performed with aplomb and panache.It doesn’t break ground within the gothic musical tradition, the design is quite conventional, and occasionally the material is stretched a little thin. The Netherworld number What I Know Now, although beautifully executed, feels very much like filler. Fynn is also so charismatic as Beetlejuice that I occasionally found myself impatient for him to return on stage. However, it builds very well to the wedding scene and Beetlejuice’s final exit. Just as you thought Paddington was safe, it is worth being in your seat for.The show seemingly has a built-in fanbase and it’s wonderfully atmospheric to see some cosplay in the auditorium. It delivers exactly what everyone wants and should settle in for a long run.

There is a unique aspect to British comedy that perhaps does not translate well into other cultures. From Up Pompeii!, the Carry On films, Morecambe and Wise and many more, innuendo is king. Kenneth Williams famously said: “If I see an innuendo in a script, I whip it out immediately!” There is no chance of that with Mischief’s first musical, Thespians, premiering at the Mercury Theatre, Colchester. In fact, the puns are impossible to count in this glorious entertainment.We are taken back to the island of Icaria and the creation of theatre itself, meeting Thespis, widely considered to be the first actor, who becomes a hit at the Festival of Dionysia by stepping away from the chorus and engaging in dialogue as a specific character. The whole situation is spoofed perfectly by an outstanding ensemble. The book and lyrics by Jonathan Sayer crackle with jokes, while the music and lyrics by Ed Zanders are tight and witty, with poignancy when needed.There is not a weak link in the cast, and the lead actors are comedy gold. As Polly, the real talent behind the success, Claire-Marie Hall brings humanity and gravitas as everything escalates around her. Mia Jerome is outstanding as the seer Melampus, her visions reducing the audience to hysterics, while Luke Latchman and James Spence are wonderful as star-crossed lovers Atlas and Thespis.However, the evening belongs to the comic genius of Marc Pickering as Adonis – not his real name – who plays the delusional fish-out-of-water character to the hilt, physically and vocally perfect. Rhys Taylor is excellent as The Tyrant, campy and fun, bringing a pleasing Diana Rigg-like quality to the role, while Mischief stalwarts Matt Cavendish and Allie Dart are tremendously entertaining narrators.The musical numbers celebrate silliness while also moving the action forward. The Dionysia is staged like the Eurovision Song Contest, with different styles and genres, while the Old Man Tango is a delightful spoof of Cell Block Tango from Chicago. The pace never drops – assured direction from Robyn Grant – and the second act progresses brilliantly, with the pressure of fame and the threat of death hanging over the troupe. There are also plenty of theatrical jokes to keep fellow thespians happy.Performed on Jasmine Swan’s outstanding, colourful and highly functional set, Thespians could well join Mischief’s other successes in the West End.

The origins of Peter Shaffer’s 1973 classic came from an anecdote he was told about a young boy blinding six horses in a stable in Norfolk. Driven to explore why that would happen, Shaffer created a struggle between children’s psychiatrist Martin Dysart and the troubled teenager Alan Strang.Staged originally with metal horses’ heads and hooves, symbolically representing the ritualistic nature of worship (and presented like that in the 2007 Daniel Radcliffe version), this stunning revival of Equus at the Menier Chocolate Factory eschews those symbols. Instead, it builds on the physicality of the equine ensemble, the horses represented by strong, muscular performers, with movement director James Cousins foregrounding the erotic, masculine appeal of Alan’s worship. This is the perfect venue for such an intimate piece of theatre. We are the congregation in this church, witnessing one young man’s rituals and world and an older man’s questioning of everything he once found true.The performances are excellent, headed by Toby Stephens and Noah Valentine. As Dysart, Stephens resists the urge many actors have to make him appear too buttoned up, too cool at the start of the play. His emotional distress is evident from the beginning, drawing a clearer line between his professional manner and his personal turmoil, making his final speech all the more devastating. As Alan, Valentine is wiry, crackling with energy and vulnerability, his defiance and obstinacy giving way to heartbreaking revelations. Amanda Abbington is a passionate Hester, and Colin Mace and Emma Cunniffe are powerfully convincing in their distress at their son’s actions and their desperation to explain why. But it’s the horses that hold your attention. They create the sea in the excellently staged beach scene, with Ed Mitchell a perfect Horseman/Nugget, the bodies ebbing and flowing, entwining and at times embracing Alan Strang.Lindsay Posner’s direction keeps the pace right, the debates are passionate, and the play is allowed to breathe and let the impact settle in. The staging is gripping, and even if the outcome is inevitable, you find yourself yearning for a happier conclusion. It’s like coming to the play anew, making fresh discoveries as this classic is brought to sensuous life.

Still known to many through the Patricia Highsmith novel and the film adaptation, The Talented Mr. Ripley arrives at the Mercury Theatre, Colchester, on its national tour. A rich psychological thriller, Tom Ripley is sent by financier Mr. Greenleaf to persuade his son, Dicky, to come home from Italy, where he has been painting and idle for too long. A trail of lies and deception is created, and Tom murders Dickie. As the net closes in, we find ourselves silently rooting for our anti-hero, wondering how he can get away with it. It’s a stylish adaptation by Mark Lelpacher, but suffers too much from directorial conceits that feel unnecessary and go nowhere, and a pace that is quite leaden, especially in the first half. However, it is held together by a strong lead performance by Ed McVey, always onstage, commanding attention through stillness, charm, occasional fits of paranoid intensity, and excellent psychological battling when he assumes the persona and life of Dicky Greenleaf. As Greenleaf, Bruce Herebelin-Earle drips with privilege, exuding confidence and arrogance, his ease making Ripley yearn to live that life of luxury. However, their friendship evolves very quickly, and we get no sense of trust between them. Maisie Smith does well with the thankless part of Marge Sherwood, the love interest, but she does bring some grit to the second half, though the character could have been feistier. The ensemble works well, delivering the minor characters effectively, but the narrative is often interrupted by a meta-theatre device of the actors shouting “Cut”, and rearranging scenes and furniture. This is, presumably, to show that we shouldn’t trust anything Ripley says, but it is never developed enough to become interesting, mainly being irritating.As in many adaptations, the first half suffers from exposition overload, and the second half fares better as tension rises, but even then, it feels overplayed, the ending taking some time to arrive. However, there are many flourishes of movement that delight, not least a scene in Venice where masks become pigeons, and Holly Pigott’s set allows gorgeous flow and movement of the company. Despite its shortcomings, McVey’s performance as Ripley deserves to be seen, the beating heart of a deceptive mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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”.

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.

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.

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.

Live theatre may be ephemeral, and yet it remains incredibly vital to our culture – as seen in Michael Daviot’s sharply observed take on the legacy of (John) Duncan Macrae.For just two decades following the Second World War, Macrae was one of Scotland’s most recognisable character actors on stage and screen – and yet now, nearly 60 years after his death from an undiagnosed brain tumour, he is fading into obscurity despite his significant role – as an actor, director and producer – in the development of a distinct “independent theatre style” in Scotland during the latter half of the 20th century.Originally performed to great reviews at the Scottish Storytelling Centre last year, this is a slightly cut-down version of A Noble Clown – the original, two-hour version included the dramatic pause of an interval, the ghost of which still remains here. We encounter Macrae in a “bit of a scunner” afterlife, flitting in and out of memories of his biggest roles – both on stage and off. This means we can shift, in the blink of an eye and some carefully choreographed lighting changes, from the memory of the 1960 Royal Court Theatre production of Eugène Ionesco’s Rhinoceros – starring Laurence Olivier, produced by Orson Welles – to a humble wonder at natural beauty while walking with his young daughters on holiday in Millport.As writer and performer, it’s clear Daviot knows his subject well, but he is also aware of the risks inherent in such autobiographical “tell, don’t show” productions – so he deftly leaves it to brief snatches of some of Macrae’s most notable roles – ranging from the serious (such as Inspector Goole in J B Priestley’s An Inspector Calls) to the comedic (Macrae’s numerous Hogmanay TV recitations of The Wee Cock Sparra) – to do some of the narrative heavy lifting.This exploration of Macrae’s life and career is not without its occasional sour notes: his occasional arrogance once successful as a performer – be it comparing a whole theatre company in Dublin unfavourably to himself, or deliberately upstaging his Para Handy castmates during a Radio Times photoshoot. Clearly, there’s much that’s barely touched on – the darker aspects of his marriage to Peggy, for instance – and we naturally yearn for more.Nevertheless, what we are left with is a strong sense of Macrae’s character and motivations, shared by Daviot with deftness, fluidity and without theatrical excess. One senses, however, that Macrae would have expected no less.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.)

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!

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.

It’s that special time of year when the UK’s oldest professional summer repertory theatre stages weekly productions in Frinton-on-Sea, a jewel on the Essex coast. Steeped in tradition, and marking the debuts of many now-major actors, the company has chosen the perfect production to celebrate all things British.The now-famous tale of a group of Yorkshire WI members taking their clothes off for a charity calendar to raise money for the local cancer visitors’ centre has evolved into Calendar Girls The Musical, created by Gary Barlow and Tim Firth. Staged in the McGrigor Hall – home to the Frinton WI – and with music played live on piano by the wonderful musical director Neil Somerville, there is already a delightfully charged atmosphere as the show begins.And what a crowd-pleaser. One thing that impressed me is that the poignancy, and the horrendous effects of cancer, are not skimmed over for the sake of light entertainment. This is a confection with bite, and it’s served up by a very good ensemble with excellent leads. Shona White, as Chris – the naughty, rule-breaking WI member who gets the idea for the calendar – is perfect; many of her lines get cheers, and she is a smashing singer. As her grieving, sensible, more down-to-earth best friend Annie, Claire Carrie is a superb foil to Chris. Their friendship is totally believable.For me, Tracy Collier, as the “older” member of the troupe, stole the show, capturing perfectly the retired teacher whose put-downs, gruffness and jokes hit every mark. All of the women get a wonderful turn in the spotlight, especially in the beautiful, tasteful and heart-lifting calendar shoot scene For One Night Only, but it would be remiss of me not to mention Chris Garner’s quietly strong performance as John – the husband of Annie – whose death leads to the positive outcomes of the money raised.It’s not quite perfect: head mics would have made some of the lyrics clearer, the music occasionally overwhelms the vocals, a couple of cast members tended to swallow their words, and the pushing on and pulling off of the sofa was a bit distracting. However, Emily Raymond’s excellent direction leads to a triumphant production.This is no shop-bought Victoria sponge, but a production baked in the themes of friendship, love and good old British character.

Musical theatre appears to thrive on some of the most unexpected subject matters – the lives of poetic cats, the founding fathers of America, The Jerry Springer Show – so a new musical set in an NHS mental health centre doesn’t feel quite as extreme as you might think.Given its minimal cast and staging, this is a Fringe production which sensibly cuts its suit to match its cloth, but still ends up with something memorable. The cast of four actors are genuinely strong, especially when they have to double-bank as additional supporting characters. The featured songs by Greg Van Kerkhof and Ben Hawkin are strong and successfully push forward both character and action: a duet, “Share the Moon”, is a particular delight.All told, Julianne Chauhan’s script is remarkably even-handed in its approach to the subject of the NHS mental health service. While a strong “anti-psychiatry” argument is forcefully put forward by a diagnosis-seeking Sam (Heather Davidson), who sees herself as a “cult-classic anti-heroine”, it is balanced by the relatively successful recovery of depressed, agoraphobic Eddy (Robbie Hail), who manages to make a genuine recovery.The script even ensures that antagonistic authoritarian figure Dr Roswell (Steve Grant) has some moments of clarity and perspective, while Martin Maclennan finds truth in both a proactive care worker and a “selectively mute” patient. Admittedly, some occasional attempts to “go meta” – characters/actors referring to being in a musical – don’t quite hit the target, but overall, this is a roughly-hewn gem worth seeing.

There was a lot of excitement around Any Liptrot’s 2016 memoir, The Outrun, which combined a searingly honest take on her alcoholism with atmospheric descriptions of her native Orkney. Eight years on, her story is back: as a film (the Opening Gala at this year’s Edinburgh International Film Festival) and a stage play as part of the Edinburgh International Festival.Although such introspective source material is not unheard of in “art house” cinema, it’s arguably more challenging when it comes to popular theatre, which generally craves drama and a sense of “aboutness”. True, there is a frail narrative thread: the lead character’s growing sense of disconnection; her feeling that Orkney’s open spaces are increasingly suffocating; her eventual realisation that experiencing “everything” in the bars and nightclubs of London doesn’t actually leave her with anything.But, despite Isis Hainsworth’s commanding performance throughout the play’s running time, it’s very hard to care, and her character’s isolation is underscored by sharing the stage with a nondescript chorus of nine actors—some of whom step forward to perform thinly-sketched school-friend, boyfriend, rehab peer, scientist.As if to compensate, this is a production full of gratuitous metaphors: be they in the script – how a repaired wall “doesn’t have to be perfect, just strong enough for the storms” – or the massive video montages of natural textures and blurred cityscapes created by Lewis den Hertog. From music and soundscape to physical choreography, there is much to impress, but overall it lacks sufficient humanity to make us really care.

It’s four years since George Steeves brought his Magic 8 Ball show to Edinburgh, winning the heart and mind of at least this reviewer with such an honest, bold theatrical collage of spoken word and song narrating George’s somewhat confusing childhood and early adulthood as someone with Asperger’s. Love and Sex on the Spectrum is, in some respects, a sequel, given it continues with the previous show’s near-final big reveal that he’s actually gay. In form, though, this new show is quite different; not so much theatre as stand-up, with George re-moulding his material to fit the small rectangle of the room’s “stage”, while holding onto a microphone as his only prop. And you know what? For someone best known as an actor and singer, he’s remarkably good at it: there’s a real sense of energy in the room as he shares the often humorous, always authentic, ups and downs of his sudden flowering as a sexual being with a smartphone and a clear desire to catch up for lost time. (Swipe left!)Many people with Asperger’s are “late bloomers”, he tells us: George is honest in describing himself as both asexual (and desperate to be straight) for the first 27 years of his life. So the heart of this show is partly about how that – remarkably quickly – changed, and how trying to find “the one” for a longterm relationship can prove to be a particularly dangerous addiction for someone “on the Spectrum”, for whom restrictive repetitive actions are quite a thing. Even though, for a time, he thought he was “so picky” when it came to potential partners’ age, height and hygiene. At the top of the show, George apologies for all the American references he’s going to use. Thankfully, the likes of Justin Timberlake, Sex and the City and Glee are sufficiently well-travelled not to require too much translation: that said, various 1990s horror film references may be more challenging for some. In any case, despite some necessarily US-based specifics, George’s story is surprisingly universal; and one delivered with heart, skill and engaging honesty.

According to The Stage’s recently departed Scotland editor, Thom Dibden, comedy first overtook theatre as the largest proportion of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe’s programme during the 2010s—so is presenting a one-man theatre show about a comedian actually attempting to have a foot in both camps? It’s fair to say that it works—for the most part. Though that’s as much down to Samuel Barnett’s no-holds-barred performance, as Marcelo Dos Santos’s writing.This is a monologue, structured like a stand-up set, in which a somewhat neurotic, self-depreciating and self-sabotaging gay stand-up comedian – for whom rejection is his “safe space” – reveals his growing concerns and doubts about what appears to be an unexpectedly potential long-term relationship with “the American”—who is, of course, an intelligent, cultured and drop-dead-gorgeous adonis. Our stand-up – all too familiar and comfortable in a succession of seemingly meaningless one-night stands (except for friend-with-benefits Michael in Hampstead) – has difficulty coping when sexual stimulation isn’t the primary first-date aim.Even worse, though, is the American’s cataplexy, a medical condition that means laughing could potentially kill him. For our stand-up, who needs an audience to laugh, this is almost a deal-killer—except that, for once, he’s beginning “to feel things” and “not feel shit after”. Of course, the implied stability the American brings is also scary; and so our somewhat unreliable narrator naturally begins to self-sabotage again. The self-loathing gay might be a cliche you’d hope we’d have moved on from by now, but he’s drawn with depth, complexity and a genuine sense of the absurd.Barnett is absolutely fantastic here; he’s funny, charismatic and importantly connects with his audience immediately—despite having to perform “in the round”, rather than in a more traditional (and helpful) stand-up-facing-audience set-up. Director Matthew Xia clearly knows his stuff, but in the end it’s actually Marcelo Dos Santos’s script which feels more fury than sound. The end result is that the self-promoting producers of Fleabag need to move on further.

It must be a baker’s dozen years since Scottish author, playwright and performer Alan Bissett first introduced us to Moira Bell, his much-loved tribute to the hard-working, hard-playing, straight-talking working class women who surrounded him during his Falkirk upbringing. In this third – and apparently final – collection of monologues, we again find Moira ready to take on the world and its sister—and still sharing every moment with her best pal, Babs.The unseen, unheard Babs is, of course, ultimately just a theatrical device; someone for Moira to talk to instead of talking directly to the audience. Yet, on this occasion there’s an added frisson early on that this believably long-established relationship could be taken away from Moira, thanks to Covid-19 and Scottish Government instructions for everyone to stay at home. Of course, Moira’s back-to-the-wall willingness to take on all-comers is the constant powerhouse of Alan Bissett’s humour, but it’s clear he’s increasingly fascinated by the genuine subtleties of the woman now she’s 50 years old. Part of the attraction of Moira as a character – if not as a real-life neighbour – has always been her varying degrees of self-awareness; here, on more than one occasion, she’s occasionally pulled up short by momentarily seeing herself as others do. If she pauses for thought, though, it doesn’t follow that she immediately changes her behaviour. She still sees little point in most of Scotland outside of Falkirk, but following more than a year in lockdown – and also a year “on the wagon” – she has certainly become more aware of the passage of time and everyone’s ultimate mortality.As with the two previous shows, Bissett performs alone on stage as Moira with no attempt to drag it up like some Scottish answer to Mrs Brown’s Boys. Nevertheless, she is undeniably in the room, with Bissett’s performance honed and subtly guided once again by director Sacha Kyle. Story changes are indicated by no more than a brief dip of the lights, and a change of seat on stage. Yes, Bissett slips easily into other supporting characters – generally the poor men Moira runs into – but he never loses his focus, and is always in the moment with all the characters.Much of Bissett’s work – especially his novels – is about Scottish, working class men, but Moira clearly offers him a different angle to talk about the world. Not least because, while she may not be the most knowledgeable woman in the world – there’s a great joke about the Carpenters which deserves its repeated usage – Moira’s smart, and occasionally profound: not least about how, one day, all the strangeness of lockdown will just be a faded memory.

Playwright/director James Ley first gained some attention as a co-producer and writer of Leith-based The Village Pub Theatre, which provided performing space to a fresh band of actors, directors and writers. Learning his trade in an environment where humour and brevity were generally preferable, it was hardly surprising when Ley’s first major work, Love Song to Lavender Menace (about Edinburgh’s ground-breaking queer bookshop) combined wit and celebration with more serious intent.So it is with Ode to Joy which, as its subtitle rather gives away, explains how uptight late-20s Gordon – for whom any variety of sex has “never been a big part of [his] life” – decides he needs to change and (with some chemical assistance) become “Pig Gordon” at the world’s biggest and most iconic sex party—which is held every year within a former Berlin power station. Given the minimal staging — a few costumes on a rack at the back of Summerhall’s Demonstration theatre, a couple of circles chalked on the floor – this production relies on its four performers.Thankfully, they’re more than up to the task, proving that “show, don't tell” isn’t actually always the best way to push a story forward. Much of our attention is, of course, focused on Brian Evans as the titular Gordon—a minor legal officer in the Scottish Government, who’s happy to have learned so much on an LGBTQ working group, but is at least sufficiently aware that it’s not exactly experiencing the real thing. Evans gives Gordon the precise degree of rigid-armed, iPad-holding nervousness required to balance his otherwise wide-eyed, genuine likability; we can’t help but love him.There are, however, several moments when Marc MacKinnon essentially “borrows” the show as “Manpussy” (aka Tom) who – barred from the night club for not wearing “sporty” clothes, appears as the show’s Narrator—indicating, from early on, that the comedy here isn’t just dirty and outrageous, but meta. Manpussy may be miffed at being given the role, but the most outrageous narrator ever seen outside of a pantomime is equally upset if anyone tries to take it from him: “Do not manipulate them,” he says at one point, referring to his appreciative audience. “That’s my job.”Manpussy’s partner, meantime, is the apparently aptly-named Cumpig (also known as Marcus), who is both horrified and knocked sideways by Gordon’s innocence, and is the one to tell the newbie that he “can be anyone [he] wants”. He’s also a fair hand at Shakespearian emails – complete with emojis – which help push Gordon unexpectedly towards his dream party. And talking of party, the fourth – unspeaking – performer is Simon “Simonotron” Eilbeck, who is mixing an unmissable beat from the moment the audience starts to make its way into the venue, contributing a deeply-felt aural aspect to the show’s imagined world.Ode to Joy is about friendship, love and, yes, having fun along the way. Only one thing lets it down; a cack-handed, out-of-the-blue comparison of Gordon’s self-realisation on the dance-floor with an independence-winning Scotland that’s once again part of the European Union by 2029. I can just about ignore the hubris in Gordon’s declaration of a sex club as the true heart of Europe; but not the unsubtlety.

There’s significant anger in One of Two; a sense of injustice felt by a young man whose experience of the not-so-subtle cruelties and discrimination endured by disabled people is doubled—not just that experienced directly by himself, but also indirectly impacting on his more seriously disabled twin sister, Bec. As even writer/performer Jack Hunter tells us later, the opening is “a bit intense”, reflecting how “he’s not good on his own”.Thankfully, there’s also humour; and, although this work is presented as a solo show, Jack’s certainly not on his own this time—his “womb mate” Bec remains a significant presence through pre-recorded audio and video recordings, commenting on and berating him in that all-too-familiar sibling fashion. Developed in association with Summerhall’s Mary Dick Award, Playwrights’ Studio Scotland’s Disabled Playwright Programme, and disability-led Birds of Paradise Theatre Company, One of Two is an authored work that comes with a real confidence about what it wants to say and how it will say it—or, indeed, caption it.Jack and Bec were born nine weeks premature, and starved of oxygen at birth: as a result, both have cerebral palsy. Not the same kind or degree of cerebral palsy; poignantly, Jack relates how, when they reach secondary education, he feels guilty for escaping the isolation experienced by his sister simply because of “being slightly more able”. As they grow older, he is able to spread his wings, not least by moving on to study drama; Bec, who requires a powered wheelchair to get around independently, is “confined” by the decisions and lowered expectations imposed on her by reluctant teachers.Jack certainly doesn’t want to be perceived as being an “inspiration”. Because he’s such an engaging performer, you can easily laugh at his threat of physical violence to anybody describing him in such terms. But the anger is definitely there: at the lack of genuinely sufficient support in mainstream schools, the systemic expectation that disabled people should learn to cope, not to succeed. If there’s a lesson for us all, it’s not to accept mediocrity.

“It’s about us—together,” explain Jake Jarratt and Cameron Sharp, in their new play in which two drama students – straight “Jake”, gay “Cameron” – end up trying to sleep in the last free bed at an end-of-term house-party. They’re sort of strangers, despite being on the same course, and “emotionally tired” rather than simply drunk, but over the course of an hour we’re shown a night that might just make their lives better.Against a relentless background of mediocre dance beats, and muffled other-side-of-the-wall fornication, W*nk Buddies is a playful, occasionally touching exploration of two young men working out how the rules of masculinity apply to them: whether you’ve arrived at Uni from Durham, or just want to dance the night away in a local gay bar. The unsurprising revelation of the story is that both these men are “fish out of water” — Jake, the working class kid for whom Drama was originally the warmer-roomed option for Detention; and Cameron, forever the “poof” in a straight world. Both embody, and are fighting, certain stereotypes around masculinity, straight and gay—and the show goes some way to summarise these either through the occasional fourth-wall-breaking nod to the watching audience, or a dance routine — performed with what can safely be assumed to be a deliberate and endearing roughness. That said, football-speaking, beer-drinking ex-boxer Jake is already further from his safety zone than Cameron; the girl’s bedroom in which they’re both not sleeping is a spectrum of pink and Britney albums, and more cocooning than the local gay bar he once visited like a tourist.Scripted by both performers, W*nk Buddies – succinctly directed by Melanie Rashbrooke – understandably plays to both performers’ strengths, and fits its Fringe-friendly one-hour slot well. Yes, it arguably needs a more clearly sign-posted conclusion; and, without mikes, some dialogue was occasionally lost as the music was turned up-to-eleven. But as a heart-warming reminder of the need for us to both listen and explain our lives, W*nk Buddies is fine indeed.

Mrs Puntila and her Man Matti is that relatively rare thing for the Royal Lyceum Theatre—a star vehicle, rather than an ensemble production, that happens to have two audience favourites: Elaine C Smith (the titular Mrs Puntila), whose position as a Scottish national treasure and broad pantomime favourite has more to do with TV’s Rab C Nesbitt than her undoubted talents as a serious stage actor; and Lyceum audience’s own favourite Steven McNicoll (Matti).It’s a pairing, however, which not only doesn’t work, but fails to gel in remarkably uninteresting ways. McNicoll’s appreciated because of his expertise in marrying theatrical contrivance with layered humanity, so he’s ideal casting as much-put-upon chauffeur, and “voice of the common man”, Matti. Unfortunately, his performance can’t help but illuminate the limitations of Smith’s harsh, show-boating approach to wealthy landowner Mrs Puntila, which feels more suited to a few minutes on the variety stage of the nearby King’s Theatre than this Brechtian revamp of the Lyceum—except that it lacks the subtlety you’d expect even there. Smith opts to give us the flat boredom of a drunk who is just as grating when she’s supposedly sober; worse, given that she’s arguably best known for her work in comedy, Smith fails to “land” many of the play’s major comedic moments. As an example, her drunken outrage at the social injustices arising from a zero-contract, minimum-wage gig-economy really should come across as funny, given her position as a major employer, or at least deeply ironic. Sadly, the result is a lifeless “Isn’t this terrible?” feeling leaving you untouched, emotionally and (given this is Brecht) intellectually. Smith and McNicoll’s differing approaches (unfortunately mirrored in the rest of the cast) are symptomatic of a production with no firm idea of what this Scottish retelling is supposedly “about”— with director Murat Daltaban forced to resort to a scatter-gun approach of theatrical business to enliven Denise Mina’s meandering script: which, all too late, suggests Mrs Puntila as a perfect symbol of Scotland’s skewered land ownership. An insight, of course, given to McNicoll’s Matti.

Edinburgh’s Traverse has long-championed new drama—indeed, the venue’s self-description is the simple goal of being “Scotland’s new writing theatre”. As a result, Traverse Theatre aims to give unheard writers access to its stages through either its own initiatives – such as flagship education project Class Act which, in 30 years, has developed more than 900 scripts – or cooperating with other theatre companies, including Glasgow’s world-famous A Play, A Pie, and a Pint. The specific focus of Pride Plays, according to Edinburgh-based co-producers Shift, was – is – “to give the stage to voices of a community who still feels underrepresented in Scottish theatre”. (The specific community they have in mind would appear to be LGBTQI+ identifying playwrights, clearly determined to legitimise the lived experiences of their peers.) These were, in one sense, nothing more than rehearsed readings, with scripts clearly held in the actors’ hands, performed on a stage empty except for a few chairs. Yet, thanks to skilled actors and focused direction, the results could still genuinely emotionally affect an audience. Natalie McGrath’s We’ll Meet in Moscow was essentially a monologue about a Muscovite lesbian who finds true love while fleeing across Siberia. Although I found McGrath’s script on occasions too needlessly verbose, there were numerous subtle decisions by performer Rebecca Elise and director Connel Burnett which helped “sell” the central character’s loneliness, joy and determination within the wider context of LGBT+ oppression in Russia. In contrast, Katie Gartlan-Close’s Cocoon focused on two women, Randy and Sophie, whose marriage is fractured by the latter’s desperation for motherhood, and an unexpected opportunity during a supposed holiday train journey between Vancouver and Seattle. Gartlan-Close isn’t afraid to use comedy as a means of punctuating the drama, something she has in common with Gabriella Sloss, whose 787 Blinks expertly explores the consequences of rape, women’s friendships, and positive relationships. In one sense it’s dramatically the strongest of these Pride Plays—somewhat ironic given that, bar one hint of bisexuality, the characters are presented as fundamentally heterosexual and cis-gendered. Dramatically, though, it's strong enough to slightly overshadow J D Stewart’s Elastic, which inventively (if not always clearly) explores the changing dynamics within a “ménage à trois” from the present day backwards in time.If nothing else, these Pride Plays are excellent calling cards for everyone involved: not least directors Burnett, Laila Noble, Sarah Masson and Jo Rush. They successfully create emotive theatre with little more than some chairs and a cast of young, talented actors who must be congratulated, not least for successfully embodying a range of clearly delineated, yet nuanced characters—ensuring that these new playwrights are not just worth listening to, they need to be heard.

Many Scots first experience of comics is likely to be two series published by Dundee-based D C Thomson in their long-running newspaper, The Sunday Post. These are "Oor Wullie" – the adventures of a good-natured, 10-year-old “cheeky-chappy” and his pals – and "The Broons", an extended tenement-living family. Both exist in the fictional Scottish town of Auchenshoogle—a bizarre cross between Glasgow and Dundee, where the 1960s never quite arrived.There’s little doubt of these characters’ iconic status: in 2004, "Oor Wullie" was voted "Scotland's Favourite Son", ahead of William Wallace and Sir Sean Connery. This year, a charity-fund-raising "trail" of artists’ statues of the wee lad sat on his bucket (the iconic image which usually begins and ends each of his one-page comic strips) raised smiles and money across every Scottish city. He was never, to be honest, part of my own childhood (my family wasn't the sort to buy either The Sunday Post or reprint Annuals) but for many he's a very definition of Scottishness.So, certainly fair game for a new musical, and it's a relief to say that the Noisemaker team of Scott Gilmour and Claire McKenzie have come up with a humorous take on the character that’s respectful and yet aware how this Peter Pan-like character relates to the real Scotland after 80 years in print. This isn't simply a musical set within the nostalgic monochrome world of Auchenshoogle, although it manages its fair share of catapults, dungarees and making fun of the local policeman; with a light touch, it has much to say about the reality of a multi-racial, multicultural Scotland.Indeed, while Martin Quinn gives us a perfectly loveable Wullie (all spiked blond hair and innocent anarchy, though never far from bursting into tears, especially in the face of parental control) the show’s principal protagonist is actually new character Wahid (Eklovey Kashyap), born in Scotland of Pakistani parents and the subject of constant, albeit largely verbal racist bullying. Seeking sanctuary in the school library, the mysterious librarian (who later turns out to also be the "Oor Wullie" artist) gives Wahid an "Oor Wullie" Annual as a way of seeing modern, real Scotland anew and also finding his place in it. It’s arguably very 21st century that Auchenshoogle is, in this show, an alternative dimension into which Wahid can enter, and Wullie and pals escape—all in search of Wullie’s famous "wee bonnie bucket", which (of course) symbolises both his – and Wahid's – ultimate control of their own stories. Too philosophical? Well, you're not likely to notice; there's plenty of fun to be had here with an exuberant cast and production that's full of energy and joy.

“We do not live in the back of beyond, we live in the very heart of beyond,” argues Roman Stornoway, a struggling musician and the central protagonist in Kevin MacNeil’s theatrical adaptation of his own novel, a “romantic tragicomedy” and arguably a literary description of the Outer Hebrides that’s far more honest than any picture-laden tourist guide. It’s also a novel about alcoholism, and how, “like all over-thinkers”, Roman proves “an enemy to himself”.Presented by Dogstar Theatre Company, there’s one distinctive aspect of this particular production: it’s all-female ensemble. Between them, its cast of three women introduce the characters and situations, play the roles, provide sound-effects and perform a number of songs, in both English and Gaelic, that are either heart-rending or morose, depending on your point of view. (“We’re Gaels: misery is supposed to cheer us up,” they say. They have a point.) It’s a script that’s gloriously not afraid of its innate theatricality – directly addressing us on occasions, and more than ready to milk the audience for humour. Naomi Stirrat is undoubtedly powerful as Roman, grandly expressing the man’s initial glamour and charm, while not overplaying the selfishness underneath; Rachel Kennedy does well as the ultimately good-natured friend – and never consummated love interest – Eilidh, although is clearly able to have more fun in supporting characters such as drinking companion Captain Moses and “Wee Free Kirk” representative The Reverend, ever ready to ensure that “proper values” are “thrashed into you”. Chloe-Ann Tyler, meantime, has the challenge of presenting the seemingly exotic Hungarian student Eva, a short-lived romance that ultimately ends with Roman thrown onto the street.There is much to enjoy here; not least the irreverent humour, and an honest look at the realities of alcoholism, a part of Hebridean life that one gathers some would prefer not to be shown at all. It’s also a story of people trying to work out who they are, even when “on the margins of the margin”, though there’s a bleakness in the realisation that it’s a challenge not everyone appears able to meet.

I well remember when Jenni Fagan’s explosive debut, The Panopticon, first appeared in 2013. Asked to review it, I unusually read the novel in one-sitting, consumed by not just Fagan’s brilliantly evocative prose but the depth and strength of her central character, 15-year-old Anais Hendricks, who has spent all her life in the Scottish care system—a system she refuses to either let define her as a person, or grind her down.Fagan has since published both a second novel (2016’s The Sunlight Pilgrims) and a poetry collection, but has returned to The Panopticon by adapting her own novel for this production by the National Theatre of Scotland. The result is, as literary adaptations go, a powerful, gripping and at times almost visually overwhelming experience, making particularly nightmarish use of Lewis den Hertog's video projections on Max Johns’ triangular-columned set. Yet it also highlights an imbalance that seemed far less significant in the original book: this is an ensemble production with an almost overwhelming star performer in its midst. Anna Russell-Martin holds our attention from the start as Anais, the girl who survives as much by telling stories to herself: not least her “birthday game”, imagining herself a different life right from a different birth. Sooner or later, though, the reality of her actual situation impinges, explained in terms of “The Experiment” being conducted by mysterious, black suited men in bowler hats. They watch her, constantly, or so she believes, trying “to see how much the human spirit can endure before it breaks”. The result is that she neither trusts anyone around her or gives ground when challenged. This has got her into trouble, of course; we meet her with just eight weeks before she’s old enough to leave care forever, but she’s on her last chance. Staff member Angus (Paul Tinto) – ex-biker gang, ex-soldier – wants to ensure she doesn’t go straight into adult jail, but the odds appear stacked against her, in part because of an alleged connection to an assault on a female police officer which left her in a coma. We’re not even sure whether or not Anais actually did it, given the two had “history” and she refuses to say either way.Angus’s furious defence of Anais in court not-withstanding, there are few occasions when the ensemble cast circling around Russell-Martin’s central performance have anything like her depth or strength; their roles are necessarily less detailed and nuanced, although it’s fair to say that the range of characters remains impressive. Overall, however, you’ll leave the theatre thinking, perhaps rightly, of Anais: the young woman who, despite everything, genuinely convinces us that she’s a good person.

Having this year reached the notable landmark of their 500th new production, the team behind the award-winning lunchtime theatre phenomenon that is “A Play, A Pie and a Pint” in Glasgow West End venue, Òran Mór, have spent much of 2019 resurrecting a few old favourites alongside some strong new work. Fly Me To The Moon, by Northern Irish playwright Marie Jones, was first performed in 2010; sadly, it remains all-too-relevant today.Loretta (Sandra McNeeley) and Frances (Julie Austin) are two underpaid social care workers who daily visit the unseen Davey, a disabled elderly man whose only pleasures in a seemingly joyless life are betting a few quid on the horses, and listening to his old Frank Sinatra records. The two women, meantime, are doggedly keeping their respective families’ heads above water, just about. While Francis is genuinely proud of one son, now earning some cash by flogging pirated DVDs, Loretta would honestly “get shot” of her unemployed, computer-game-playing partner except that her own kids “have got attached to him”.Then, off-stage, Davey dies—and Frances realises that, if they delay informing the authorities for a few hours, the pair can safely split the £80 of his pension that Loretta regularly withdraws for him from the bank every Monday. It’s just stealing from the Government, not Davey, she insists; and a stressed out Loretta eventually agrees. But then the temptation gets worse: on the day he dies, Davey finally wins big on the horses, meaning that if they keep quiet for the best part of 24 hours, they could easily afford to go on a colleague’s hen party overseas.In Sarah McCardie’s sharply directed production, McNeeley and Austin masterfully hold tight to the authenticity of their characters without ever risking the loss of our sympathies. Despite its potentially depressing subject matter, the soul-destroying poverty on the front line of social care and Meals on Wheels, Jones’s script remains full of life, energy and humour. Nearly a decade on from its original production, Fly Me To The Moon tellingly feels more timely than ever.

It was the title, I must admit, which first attracted me to review Total Immediate Collective Imminent Terrestrial Salvation; its promise of combining "stage action and illustrated text", about "a man who manipulates a group of people to sit in a place together and believe in something that isn't true". It sounded either fascinating or pretentious, brilliantly witty or a waste of time. Unfortunately, it proved to be nowhere near as effective as presumably intended.It relies, to a large extent, on creating a kind of religious atmosphere as we gather together in a public space, brought together in to a circle to read from the hardback volume placed on every chair. This echoes the narrative of a man, following a near-death experience that killed his young son, seeing the end of the world in a predicted eclipse, but also the salvation of himself and his believers. We're not just the audience - we're placed in the role of those followers, expected to believe in every word we believe he has foreseen and written down for us.Much of this is symbolised in how we 'read' the story; we are told when to turn the page by cast members with a repeated, smiled "OK" that increasingly becomes condescending or strangely scary. It's a slow burn on occasions, as writer/ cast member Tim Crouch clearly underestimates how quickly some people can read. This is perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the piece – robbing reading of the individuality which so distinguishes it from the shared experience of performance. Time and again I felt restrained, pressured, oppressed by the lethargic pace of the production and inevitably, I resisted. I peaked ahead. Not much good did it do me. Illustrator Rachana Jadhav's work failed to impress anything beyond the realisation that a graphic novel which has to constantly name its characters from one page to the next has failed at the first hurdle of narrative continuity. Overall, this is a calculated, heartless affair. Now, perhaps that’s the point, though I place little value on the results. Portentous, pretentious and miserably inadequate, it essentially left me imaginatively... cold.

Theatre-making manifestos always make me wary, in part because I'm inherently suspicious of portentous artists in any field: "The aim is not to depict the real, but to make the representation itself real," says the Ghent Manifesto—er, what?! That said, the results of such "manifestos" can create work that's emotionally powerful, technically inventive and genuinely diverse—delightfully challenging both the "traditional" ways things are done, and the kinds of people actually doing them.La Reprise – "The Repetition" – is about the brutal, homophobic murder of Ihsane Jarfi in the Belgian city of Liège in 2012. The production has a traditional five-act structure, but in most other respects is far from typical: the first half, for example, puts the theatrical process centre-stage, including the audition process through which three of the roles were given to non-professional performers. On occasions, the mood can be quite light, although it's a dark humour. Liège, the former Steel capital of Europe, is now a city of the unemployed: brutal murder a perfect metaphor of its decline.The core of the play, devised by director Milo Rau and cast, is the titular repetition; an enactment of the events leading to Jarfi's abduction from outside a gay club, and the violent car drive that eventually led to the edge of town where he was beaten and kicked to death. Unfolding pretty much in real time, shown through a mixture of live performance and video, it's understandably tough to watch—even though it's necessarily choreographed in a way that’s so clearly dependent on the "victim" selling the impact of each blow by their reactions, as was explained earlier on. We're told that Jarfi's grieving mother was unhappy with how her son's life and death was put on public display during the subsequent trial, and I can't help wonder what her reaction was to the idea of this play. Sold to us as a means of witnessing and remembering Jarfi’s life and death, it's wrapped in intelligent theatrical philosophy, but still strikes me as hurtfully voyeuristic and focused too much on death rather than life.

I have absolutely nothing but admiration to the performers of Recirquel Company Budapest, given that some of their number must have spent their entire lives training their lean, muscular, sinewy bodies to do things that the human form is surely not supposed to be able to do. But just because they can do something doesn’t mean it’s intrinsically worth doing, especially when dressed up in a pretentious framework of confused human mythology and symbolism.Visually, yes, it can be stunning: not least when beams of light are revealed as the performers brush away sand from the rectangular sand-covered performance space in the centre of the stage. They also have some minor fun with a large, malleable mirror surface. Audibly, however, there are times when the accompanying musical score – which switches from drums to flutes and vocal chords with unfortunately all-too-predictable regularity – pushes past the point of cliché in marking out this supposed exploration of humanity’s cultural and mythical roots. Performed, it has to be said, by a remarkably white cast too. Let me repeat one thing: the performers are remarkable, whether giving the impression that they lack a few vertebra, juggling six or seven white balls at a time, or gymnastically dancing with a ladder. These are circus skills performed with skill, grace and a sufficient hint of just how difficult and dangerous they really are to achieve. It’s the pretentious, portentous framework that raised my heckles: also the potential sexism in that the lone woman in the cast of seven appears to be chiefly decorative, as the statue of a Greek goddess, and malleable to the desires of the men. Disappointingly, there was also a lack of any sense in the individual performers’ characters growing out of the supposed wider narrative, unless you count an apparent duel by juggling between two of the performers. So, although this is clearly an ambitious attempt at creating contemporary circus, much of it struck me as gilding the lily unnecessarily, and in the process missing the core wonder of the whole exercise—the brilliant, wonder-creating gymnastics on display.

Whether it’s because Hollywood has force-fed us with them for decades, or simply because the concerns of teenage life are pretty universal across most of the Western world, we’re all pretty familiar with the iconography of US High School movies. That, arguably, is why it makes a sensible choice of narrative theme for Los Angeles-based “acrobatic theatre” company, Short Round Productions, whose new show Filament brings real energy to some traditional circus iconography.Filament’s cast may not be doing anything technically innovative, but they certainly deliver with a great deal of flair, skill and enthusiasm. More importantly, Filament is imbued with genuine drama. A notable example being how Bekah Burke expresses her character’s genuine heartbreak at a failed romance in her aerial hoop routine. In contrast, contortionist Allison Schieler gives a wonderfully comedic performance as the quiet “mousy” girl who slowly reveals greater depths. Significantly, Mark Keahi Stewart, whose main skills on display are hand balancing and acrobatics, gives us the “jock” who realises he’s gay and in love with the allegedly physically inept “comedy relief”.Filament – presumably titled after the backdrop of bright lights from which the cast emerge and disappear – powers along strongly with barely a pause, its narrative plots slowly building within and between the moments when each individual performer get their chance to shine. Perhaps the biggest surprise is Oscar Kaufmann, playing the two-timing “jock” ultimately undone (and tied up) by his spurned girlfriends. An expert in the unusual Cyr Wheel (a massive single aluminium hoop within which he performs while rolling and spinning it around the performance area), you almost feel sorry that his character still gets their comeuppance (Almost!).There’s only one small complaint to be made about this production, especially when seen within the context of a traditional circus tent; Thanks to the positioning of the bank of massive lights, it’s clear that Filament is intrinsically designed to be viewed primarily from one direction rather than in the round. While you don’t lose that much when viewing from either “side”, it’s nevertheless enough of a consideration to be aware of where you sit.

Let's be honest here: I've never particularly liked clowns. We're not talking coulrophobia; I've never been scared of clowns, or ever found them creepy. I’ve just never found them particularly funny; and, from my limited experience of circus shows, their often total reliance on dull slapstick and victimising knock-about has always left me cold. All of which now seems beside the point, because – shock horror – I genuinely enjoyed Kombini, by Montreal-based Les Foutoukours.Perhaps it's because there's a genuine sense of old-school clowning here. There are characters; there's an emotional story, of sorts, supporting the physical comedy, the attempted balloon animals, the prodigious amounts of popcorn thrown about the place. In Rémi Jacques and Jean-Félix Bélanger there's a complimentary combination of experience and energy and, above all, intelligence and respect for their craft that would appear (at least for me) to make all the difference. There's a real sense of belief in what they're doing; these aren't simply men dressing up and mucking around. They're actors playing specific, deliberately devised roles. The show's scenario is simple enough, although technically (at least on the day of the review) one that starts when the pair join us while we're still queuing up to get into the venue. Kombini, once they realise they shouldn't just be sitting among the audience eating popcorn, is the story of two clowns, both hoping to escape the monotony of their everyday lives and, like any "resting" actor, waiting for the phone call from an agent or director that will change their lives forever. Alas, the only offer they receive is for a child's birthday party—cue malformed balloon animals. Jacques and Bélanger give us a robust mix of traditional circus skills – juggling, and superbly choreographed acrobatics – with a studied, Russian air, which holds the attention and delights in equal measure. Though ably supported by Félicie Wingerter’s bright, practical costumes, Francis Hamel’s unfussy lighting design and Alexandre Paradis’s emotive original score, it's the whole show that most impresses, touching with some real heart on the importance of love, friendship and the true meaning of success.

The International Union for the Conservation of Nature has, for many years, produced and maintained a “Red List” of species which are either already extinct or in danger of being lost. The list currently includes some 28,000 species, not counting the thousands more likely lost before we even know that they’re there. The current extinction rate, it's suggested, is up to 1,000 times higher than “average”; we’re in the sixth mass extinction in Earth’s history.Bristol-based Mechanimal’s new production, Vigil, is a cry for attention, a protest, and act of remembrance in anticipation of an all-too-possible ecological collapse. Performed and directed by Tom Bailey, it’s main visual feature is the projection of names from the Red List on a massive screen in an otherwise empty space. African Wedgefish, Purple Marsh Crab, Pecatonica River Mayfly, each change accompanied by the crack of a projector changing slide, although equally it could be the firing of a gun: Mediterranean Pillow Coral, Spiny Dwarf Mantis, Delicatessen Salamander. There’s an unexpected poetry in some of the names.Bailey, initially sat on a clear perspex box filled with animal bones, watching the names, eventually rises and starts moving around the room in an attempt to “impersonate” the listed species as best he can, although on occasions the staccato of names changes too fast for him to keep up. Later, he scatters the bones across the floor, in frustration and horror: “Everywhere I look, they’re disappearing,” he says. “All I see is their disappearance.” At one point, the soundtrack becomes that of the battlefield; is this suggesting humanity has, by its actions/inactions, declared war on life on Earth?Simply-focused, undoubtedly sincere, and at least superficially impactful, Vigil is ultimately an extended exercise in awareness raising, but it suggests no solutions to combat the continuing growth of the IUCN Red List. Nor does it answer perhaps the most obvious issue: that planet Earth has already survived FIVE mass extinction events during its 4.5 billion year history. Doesn’t that mean there’s a good chance that life – though not necessarily human life – will ultimately survive?

There are two challenges at the heart of Fox-tot!, a new work from composer Lliam Paterson and director Roxana Haines for Scottish Opera. The first is arguably the most obvious: devising an opera short enough to hold the attention of children under the age of two. The other is more subtle: creating a story about change and growth that nevertheless means something to toddlers who still crave the security coming from repetition and familiarity.Paterson's story is about a kit (a young fox) sent by its mother to see and experience the world through the eyes of a cat, a frog, and a butterfly – each represented by a succession of puppets. As night turns to day – the Moon and the Sun represented by huge blue cloth and yellow fur balls – there's a split between the children and the necessary adults in the room. Most of the former unquestioningly accept the puppetry without question. It's clearly the grown-ups who are less sure about a giant butterfly with the head and tail of a fox!Designers Giuseppe and Emma Belli have created a delightfully old-school world of cosy armchair and autumnal leaves, against the silhouette of a city and the inventive designed puppets from Mervyn Millar for Significant Object. Singers Katie Grosset and Daniel Keating-Roberts are both engaging performers, especially welcoming for those audience members who are not yet always sure where to look when in a theatre space. Meantime, musicians Laura Sergeant and Michael D Clark perform Paterson’s engaging score – alternately percussive and atmospherically melodic – with an easy lightness of touch. The result is a surprisingly uncompromising, fully operatic experience.Inevitably, not everyone will be happy—some two year olds will have a tantrum, no matter how good the show is. Still, the so-called grown-up world of theatre and opera could well learn a valuable lesson from this kind of show: not least the positivity and enjoyment that comes from letting your audience play on, and explore, the "stage", sets and props afterwards. Definitely the kind of audience interaction that makes an impact!

There appears, these days, to be an almost apologetic desire among directors and producers to find ways of presenting traditional circus acrobatics and high-wire acts with some added theme or layer of symbolism, as if the performers’ skills are no longer quite enough to hold an audience’s attention. Whether it’s ancient myths or the clichés of American High School movies, it can often prove more of a hindrance than an added plus for audiences.Bence Vági’s Recirquel Company return to Edinburgh with Paris de Nuit, a show which initially appears to be drenched, for no discernible reason, in the fantastical world of a 19th century Montmartre cabaret. Except, after an opening musical number slightly lacking some clarity to the vocals, the whole scenario actually starts to work, adding a layer of sleek, sexy sophistication to proceedings. Almost from the start, we begin to see the individual performers as just that—individuals – with distinguishable characteristics which, though necessarily played broadly, ensure that we engage with what’s happening on the stage.While arguably a succession of individual acts, there’s a delightful sense of momentum, with some cast members popping up to distract the audience while equipment is set up or dismantled; Whether that’s erotically presenting fruit jellies to the men in the front row, or just proving that an extremely tall, muscular man can walk in high heels if he wishes to. On occasions, there’s even a delightful mesh of a homo-erotically charged two-man trapeze act with a haunting song asking “What makes a man a man?” It’s a beautiful combination of subtle vocals and impressive physical strength and coordination.There’s humour too, not least from the female assistant slightly reluctant to support a guest juggler, although she subsequently performs a subtle dance and heart-in-mouth aerial act that’s genuinely touching. She’s a prime example of the breadth of this show’s emotional range. The only disappointment, is that it’s all effectively performed within a proscenium arch, rather than above and around the audience: but that’s presumably down to its particular venue.

I have a slight confession of bias. Any show that warms up its arriving audience with music by Kate Bush has, as far as I'm concerned, already earned at least three stars - as well as my immediate goodwill.Of course, it's possible for the subsequent production to squander the latter and descend the star ratings. However, Son of Dyke, written and performed with charm, energy and real heart by Jordan Waller, doesn’t put a foot wrong.On the surface, this is an autobiographical study of Waller growing up as the gay son of two Lesbian parents, and his search for his biological sperm-bank-depositing father. Some might be offended by his self-comparisons to Jesus (though there are photographic reasons for this) or the fact that, while Waller was bullied at school, it wasn’t initially because of either his own sexuality or because he had two mums. Well, that did happen eventually; thanks to advice from his Kate Bush-loving, non-birth mother Dawn, Waller found a way to turn things round to his advantage.Deeper down, though, Son of Dyke is a tender, grounded show about grief. Waller’s sometimes humorous attempt to track down his biological father and then meet up with his previously unknown half-sibling are blatant attempts to fill the hole in his life left by Dawn’s death. Even more significantly, Waller decides to become a sperm donor himself: although one does wonder if that’s chiefly to get a great wank routine into the show, or to make a serious point about how much gay men now rely on the internet rather than their imaginations when it comes to reaching orgasm.You don’t need a father to still be a man, Waller insists more than once. For all the script’s witty gay asides, there’s plenty for “straight” audiences to enjoy. After all, grief and pain are common enough human experiences. Waller’s conclusion – to accept his losses and not let it stop him bringing more people into his life – may verge on trite, but is nevertheless a dash of wisdom that’s well worth remembering and sharing.

As a reviewer, there are several situations that I normally hope to avoid while covering the Fringe: it may surprise you, given that essentially I'm here to force my opinion on you, but what most of them share is a desire on my part NOT to be noticed. Stick me near the back, or behind the largest person in the room (assuming that's not me), so I can watch, listen and take notes in peace.That's obviously harder to do WHEN I AM THE ENTIRE AUDIENCE. I'm not sure why Gavin Lind, on the evening of my review, suddenly faced an audience of one, sitting there barely hiding their Fringe media lanyard. Yes, he's still – despite being in his early 40s – in the early stages of his comedy career, so extremely unlikely to have sell-out runs in Edinburgh. Yet. Maybe the listing – describing Lind as a "shattered, middle-aged, gay" – is putting of the youngsters, the hipsters and Guardian readers? Or perhaps it's his alleged reputation for being offensive, crude, but – unforgiveably – not funny?Important point to make here: my only source of information about the latter accusation is Lind himself, as he explained his relief that, sitting in the middle of the second row, I was at least not on the front row "Voodoo Seat" which had previously been occupied by hecklers, insulters and walking-outers. But let's be clear: Lind IS funny. Sort of like a South African with tinges of Australian Scott Capurro, being honest, although the irony is that Lind, like Capurro, will probably be at his best with an audience large enough to whittle down one angry walkout after another. I'm well aware that my 50 minutes of Lind is unlikely to be like that experienced by any other audience: at times it verged more on a conversation, albeit with one participant holding onto the "stand-up's crutch" of a microphone. But Lind has attitude, good material and an innate understanding of how to work his audience. Above all, he has the grit and determination to go ahead, even to an audience of one.

It's a fact of life that any standup on the Fringe who is neither white nor straight is likely required to spend at least part of their show addressing it. Sam See – working the room in a muggy Attic, immediately gaining some audience traction by offering to lightly spray them with cool water – is no exception. That said, he does appear to understand how being a gay stand-up from Singapore is a definite USP. Singapore, it turns out, doesn’t really "do" Human Rights that well, famously once described as "Disneyland with the Death Penalty". It's a country where a man, publicly declaring themselves on stage to be homosexual, genuinely risks arrest, imprisonment and large fines. Given how See likes to discuss his sexuality on stage (talk about what you know, right?), he has had to often officially "pretend" he's gay, even though he and everyone watching him knows it's the truth. This may help explain why, on seeing an audience member taking notes, he has to remember they’re a critic, not a government inspector.Lee comes across as honest, clever and (at the risk of being condescending) endearing. (Sexy too, especially if you like bow-ties.) But that doesn't mean he’s a push-over; there’s real steel in his comedic bones. There has to be: while it may be entertaining to learn about the full reach of police powers in Singapore when it comes to stage magicians, See doesn't shy away from the darker consequences of such laws and social traditions. Yes, he may detour for comedic affect into now "traditional" subjects for an Fringe show (Grindr and dating, for example) but never gratuitously.Performing comedy, Sam See tells us at one point, genuinely helped him come to terms with being gay, and he's happy that – in turn – being confidently "out" on stage, in LGBT-hostile countries, has helped some audience-members also feel a little bit better about themselves. He's not boasting; it explain what he does. Still, here's hoping growing audiences will discover that there's more to Sam See than "just" being the gay comedian from Singapore.

James Barr is single. As a young, sexually available gay man, this is clearly a problem – or at least, it's a problem for the sake of his show which is ultimately about the ups and downs of dating. Well, that and an avocado metaphor, in which he's sufficiently invested to wear an avocado costume for the entirety of the show. (No idea how much that sort of outfit costs; he probably hasn't any money left).Although the avocado gag is a good one, there's a slight sense of it being an unnecessary crutch that Barr really doesn't need. He's more than sufficiently charming, witty and funny without it, although inevitably it does add a certain ridiculousness to the supposedly intimate table-for-two when he invites various audience members up on stage "for a date". Such audience participation can, of course, be risky. On the night of this review, the first "date" was in such a bad place following a relationship break up that Barr felt obliged to promise to buy him a drink afterwards.Nevertheless, it was an excellent example of how well Barr can take control of a situation and mine it for the best comedy he can without stepping across the line in to cruelty. Given all that, though, the most effective of the "dates" on stage followed Barr's decision to try being straight, asking a woman up to his intimate table-for-two (with the added security of a straight guy who's supposedly there to give him suggestions on what to say when the conversation dries up). Let's just say that, unsurprisingly, it's funny but doesn’t exactly work out.While it's a shame – and potentially ageist – that Barr just automatically ignores any "Daddies" (this reviewer included) when looking for date material among his audience (I'm not bitter, honest!), it's fair to say that his show is bright, cheery and cleverer than you might expect. Hugely original? Pushing envelopes? Arguably not but definitely refreshing and Barr has a clear talent when it comes to punchlines. Just a shame he doesn't ditch the avocado costume sooner.

As might be expected, the environment – specifically, the “environmental emergency” we currently face – is one of the more notable themes running through this year’s Fringe. This play, written by acclaimed Suffolk-born playwright Tallulah Brown, views the consequences of climate change through the eyes of two children – Margaret and Stanley – living on the Alaskan tundra, awaiting the overdue resettlement of their indigenous community by the American government, in order to avoid ever-rising water levels. Margaret is almost 14, desperate to move to Anchorage and enjoy the comforts of city life; Stanley is younger, small for his age and “still a child playing imaginary games”. Cruelly, for reasons never quite explained, she’s convinced Stanley he’s responsible for the melting tundra, but she also has a plan: when spring comes, signalled by the annual arrival of great flocks of geese, they’ll both run away to the big city. Stanley has his doubts, but naturally enough he trusts her implicitly—she’s his big sister, after all. Deciding on a dry run, it’s clear he’s being led astray.The two soon become lost in the forest, without the stars to guide them. Eventually, they do make it back to their mother and step-father, but there are consequences: Stanley most obviously loses his trust in his big sister, while it’s becomes clear to everyone that Margaret is no longer one of the tribe and will – must – leave. So it should be no surprise when the play shifts forward, to that “faraway” (Not!) future of 2025/26, when Stanley, now a young man, reluctantly visits his sister, effectively “exiled” from her family in a starving polar bear-infested city.When The Birds Come envelops us in a world effectively and affectingly conjured out of words and sounds alone. The latter scene, significantly, isn’t simply an exercise in “I Told you so” for the characters, even though it presents a near-future scenario where “cities are unprepared” and “people are going to have to move”. Tallulah Brown’s point here is clear: climate change is real, and it will affect us all, sooner rather than later.

There are lots of words you can use to describe Jon Long, purveyor of clever gags and witty songs. He's undoubtedly pleasant company on stage: likeable, agreeable, personable, at times charming, and generally amiable, good-natured and gracious. He's also an engaging performer, compassionate and understanding of the world and why he should try to do better when it comes to the environment. I suppose what I'm basically trying to explain here is… he's nice.That's a word I usually try very hard to avoid; in part because of the general overuse that's robbed it of any intrinsic meaning, but also because its etymological origins are more unkind – back in the 13th century, it meant foolish, ignorant, frivolous or weak—none of which apply to Jon Long. Unless by "weak" you’re referring to the nerve damage in his left arm that means he's "partially disabled". He can still play guitar, though: and so accompanies himself through a succession of songs – although musical deviations from the chat that weaves around them is perhaps a better description.Admitting to "romanticising dystopias", and emotionally "shutting down" when things – such as environmental apocalypse – get scary, Long is nevertheless pleasantly honest company. Songs such as You Can't Recycle That – inspired by his time as a tour guide at a local tip (sorry, recycling centre) flow amiably into descriptions of embarrassing work situations. Admittedly, his attempt to engineer some audience competition (on the day of this review, the women definitely sang louder than the men, although that might be because there were more of them) felt a tad forced. As indeed was his succinctly rude opinion about joggers, to be honest. That it all seems so effortless is all to Long's credit, given that this is his full-show debut. Despite believing himself to be a natural pessimist, the simple fact is that the self-described "Planet Killing Machine" is… lovely company for an afternoon. You'll definitely leave his company feeling happier about yourself than you did going in, which is definitely a "win" and surely a recommendation worth splashing across all his posters in future.

Leo Kearse isn't, by his own admission, a 'woke' comedian. (Apparently he's got a lot of toxic masculinity – though he surely gains some brownie points for at least checking.) What he doesn't have, at least initially at this particular performance, is a spotlight; which is slightly ironic given he has this year made the 'leap' from one of Edinburgh's free fringes to a basement space run by one of the 'Big Five', 'Fringe-proper' promoters. It's a step up none-the-less, career-wise, although I do think Kearse can't be doing too badly, given the many riffs based on what happened in sunny, far-away holiday destinations. In most cases, the target of his humour is himself, though his self-depreciation clearly hasn’t been enough to avoid being (for example) thrown out of a hotel, or banned from his own venue while working in Perth, Australia. The irony in anyone that being told to leave an 'inclusive space' is not lost on him: nowadays liberals, he suggests, believe in everything except diversity of opinion. Kearse self-identifies (to use the popular vernacular) as a right-wing comedian, as someone who believes in small government and low taxation. While much of his early material focuses around being the son of hippy, liberal English parents who (bizarrely) settled in the west of Scotland, there's a sense here of trying to placate an audience who are not as hostile to him as he might fear. It's when he finally steps into the minefield of gender politics, and political correctness in the #MeToo era that things begin to get genuinely interesting. Even if he too easily plays 'troll'.A joke, Kearse points out at one point, is an awkward truth, and the best comedians – like the best journalists – are focused on holding power to account, whether that 'power' comes shaped as politicians, dictators or supposed social liberals who nevertheless sound like Mary Whitehouse. Kearse is definitely among the former, although perhaps his real challenge at the moment is that he's nowhere near as reactionary as some of his critics want him to be.

Titania McGrath may just be a young Kensington girl with a modest Trust Fund and a thirst for social justice, but she's in Edinburgh to make a difference, and inspire us common people to recognise the injustices of the 21st century patriarchy all around us. Indeed, having apparently conquered the world of social media, she's now set her sights on running the country, hence the Fringe launch of Shame UK, political "Party of the Woke".Originating as a spoof Twitter account, and then a book brilliantly satirising the millennial desire for intersectional victimhood, Titania's lecture-cum-spoken-word-performance has two things going for it. Firstly, the script: Andrew Doyle’s twin careers as playwright and risqué stand-up ensure a sharp, subtly-shaped hour that never wastes a moment on a cheap gag (although that's not to say there aren't any… they're just not a waste of time). Secondly, there's the performer: Alice Marshall proves beyond doubt why she's an award-winning comedy actor, embodying Titania without the knowing sarcasm that would have ruined everything.Like many iconic comedy characters before her, Titania's core strength is that she's totally unaware of her own ridiculousness: that for her to claim being a modern-day Rosa Parks, or Mahatma Gandhi, is laughable, and not just because she's "young and hot", so not like other veterans of the social justice movement. Occasionally, Doyle almost pushes Titania's lack of self-knowledge too far to be even momentarily believable; and yet there are equally the most subtle of references for an attentive audience to pick up on, to understand just how much Titania is the intolerant monster she's supposedly fighting. There's definitely an up-to-minute feel to proceedings: an opening video-montage, for example, (telling us there's "nothing to fear" in arguably the most fearful way possible) includes "our" new Prime Minister Boris Johnston outside Number 10. Yet there's also a sense of a long history of comedic fools behind Titania, with Doyle and Marshall providing a much-needed look at ourselves. So, as Titania says after performing one of her poems: "You’re Welcome."

Liam Malone, it’s fair to say, is not backwards at coming forwards. Perhaps its down to his upbringing by parents who – given that their son was born without bones in his lower legs, which were eventually amputated – signed him up to every sport going, presumably in an attempt to instil confidence and a competitive spirit. Arguably, it worked: he’s a gold-medal-winning Paralympian, after all, who’s now determined for success on the comedy stage. Certainly it’s interesting to watch him before the show starts: he’s roaming around the front of the stage, dressed in dark t-shirt and shorts, prosthetics proudly on display. He’s sipping his pint, making small-talk with some women in the front rows—and, yes, there’s a noticeably high proportion of women in the audience compared to some other stand-ups I’ve seen in Edinburgh. He’s not just a pretty boy, though, as we soon learn: “Great to have all you fuckers here,” isn’t the most genteel welcome you’ll receive in Edinburgh during August, but it certainly sets the tone.As a standup, Malone is absolutely ready to take the piss out of the consequences of his impairments, and he has plenty of throw-away remarks about getting through airport security—something which his international sporting career has led to him doing quite a lot. Interestingly – it’s presumably a cultural thing with New Zealander’s – he has no hesitation about describing himself as “handicapped”: nor does this come across at all as an attempt to be a comedic bad boy, although that’s obviously a role he otherwise revels in: “I’m going to Hell,” he says on more than one occasion, smiling.Malone obviously wants to stand among the more provocative, boundary-pushing comedians of the world, enjoying our slight discomfort when he talks about the death of his mother from cancer, or about him getting into a fight with “little people” during the Paralympics. It helps, of course, that he’s sufficiently pretty and charming to get away with it, but he’s definitely also good enough in terms of material and delivery. Stardom, once again, clearly beckons.

"I could be one of the Boys," New Zealander Chris Parker sings ecstatically at the start of Camp Binch, wearing a shirt and leggings echoing Elaine Stritch's iconic one-woman show. It’s a heady introduction to 'camp', and quickly followed by a screeching of tyres as Parker dons a wig to become the kind of straight guy who's just incapable of saying the word "gay" while still attempting to address the proverbial elephant in the room. Then there's another swerve, as we switch back to Parker, and enter the main body of the show: a biographical 'investigation' into the experiences he's had in life, complete with a succession of school-related photographs taken from the Parker family album. There's an early brush with show business in the form of a TV advert for milk, and then the unavoidable progress through a succession of schools, during which straight guys have "worked you out before you've worked yourself out”. Leading to his experience of being asked back, as a notable former pupil, to address its traditional "Leavers’ Dinner".Parker is full of sweaty energy, barely contained on his small stage, and ready with plenty of clever asides, not least his idea that nigh on any movie you can think of will be significantly improved by replacing one of the main characters with a camp gay old man. But there's a more serious point here too: that, particularly in his senior school years, he only survived the relentless homophobia prevalent in his rugby-loving, macho-straight New Zealand school because he was lucky enough to find a safe space in its Music and Drama Department alongside like-minded students.Parker’s clearly heartfelt response to the subsequent discovery that this department had been lost in an earthquake, robbing current gay pupils of an oh-so-vital safe place, arguably endangers the light atmosphere he's spent so long creating. Bringing back the ultra-straight guy wig (now identified as his school's headmaster) and ending on a song do at least ensure his hour-long show has a certain symmetry, but in an unnecessarily disconcerting way.

In a festival where comedians eager to share their personal histories, foibles and perspectives on the world can oft seem ten-a-penny, it makes a pleasant change of pace to spend an an hour in the company of Marcus Brigstocke presenting as Lucifer Morningstar, aka Satan, the Devil, etc, etc. And his commitment to the show is obvious as Brigstocke didn't reserve the red body-paint and horns for the poster photo-shoot alone! Admittedly, Brigstocke's not adverse to puncturing the make-believe if he thinks it'll get a laugh, especially once he starts sweating make-up into his eyes or fears his left horn may slip slowly down his face. (He's performing in a relatively large venue, but it's just as sticky and airless as required by Fringe rules.) However, the set up becomes clear early enough in the show - Lucifer has come to Edinburgh, a "city designed by Escher" because Hell is full. This should give you a sense of the often erudite nature of at least some of Brigstocke/Lucifer's asidesIt's our fault, apparently. During the last few decades we've lowered the bar to eternal damnation to such an extent that Hell is now looking "take back control" of its borders, although obviously not in a racist UKIP sort of way as even Satan has his limits. Thanks to the information overload of the internet and social media, none of us can forgive each other any more, with the result that something as formerly innocuous as putting your bag on a seat on a busy train is a sure-fire route to eternal flames and torture.Brigstocke spends much of his time showing how our ethical standards shift and evolve, not just over time but in our everyday application of them. And yes, Brexit, Boris Johnson and Donald Trump all crop up - sometimes before planned - but Brigstocke’s satire is intelligent, acerbic and spot on. It says much about the state of our world, though, when it apparently takes the Devil to tell us how to look after each other.

Pathetic Fallacy, at heart, has a Unique Selling Point—the show’s creator, Anita Rochon, isn’t actually in Edinburgh. She’s decided to reduce her carbon-footprint by not flying across from Canada to Edinburgh for the duration of the Fringe, instead relying on a locally-based performer – a different one every performance – to be “Anita” in her place. On the day of this review, it was the delightfully bemused Welsh actor and director Gareth John Bale.Dressed in similar striped top to the Anita we saw on screen, Bale is stood in front of a green screen so that he can, in turn, be added to a set of pre-recorded visuals—following instructions displayed on a 'for his eyes only' monitor in real time. It’s certainly ambitious—there’s at least one moment when the 'main' screen went blank for a second or two, underscoring the bandwidth this whole exercise must use, but it’s clear that part of the fun for the audience is that the guest 'Anita' has no idea of what is coming either.This must surely be among the most blatantly 'educational' shows on the Fringe this year: while I already knew the meaning of Pathetic Fallacy (the attribution of human emotions to non-human objects or phenomena, like the weather), I hadn’t been aware of its original attribution, and I certainly left the show knowing far more about the naming of major storms than I did going in. This is fine in itself; all the same, there does feel, on occasions, an imbalance in favour of the pre-recorded and prepared—leaving pretend 'Anita' doing little more than trying to keep up.Technically impressive (especially when pre-recorded Anita was green-screened next to Bale on an aircraft and later in a cafe, talking about their lives), Rochon has developed a visually impressive multi-media experience exploring art, culture and our changing perspective on climate change. When she calls 'Anita' to see how the show went, it’s a timely reminder for us all to consider how we reconcile damage done to the planet simply by being here?

Ryan Calais Cameron’s powerful new work plays with the meanings of its title in many ways: our central, point-of-view character has the “distinctive qualities of a particular type of person” and yet a representative symbol of much more than first appears. In less than an hour, we come to empathise with not just one full-of-life man, who’s nevertheless cracking at the edges, but with societal consequences for far too many others.Richard Blackwood may well be lying down, “asleep”, as the audience comes in, but after that alarm clock goes off, he’s full of energy and vigour, albeit with the lingering sense of his circumstances trying to make him old before his time. He’s ex-Army, separated from his partner and child, living on his own in severely reduced circumstances, but working and even more determined than before to enjoy the weekends. His mates are getting on, though arguably they’re more honest in accepting that they’re now “three old men chatting old shit”. Our hero, though, keeps on going.The initial focus of the play seems clear enough: the horrendous realities of racism potentially experienced by BAME military who, on returning to civilian life, find themselves attacked by some in the society they risked their lives to defend. Our man’s determined, however, not to react to the racism he encounters, whether it’s from the nightclub security man or the short-arsed “big man” who ultimately wins in picking a fight with the former soldier. Taken to hospital, he experiences different forms of racism; dangerously, for a man who has “a lot of words” but few that work for him.The evening ends in a police station, with consequences that are meant – quite deliberately – to shock, shifting the context of everything we’ve seen up until then. Cameron’s play may end as quite a blunt instrument, but beforehand it’s deliciously full of life, colour and a distinctive voice that Blackwood expresses with both physicality and subtlety. A short, sharp and memorable story of a life lived as well as it can in far from ideal circumstances.

Biographical performances like LipSync, produced by Cumbernauld Theatre as part of their Invited Guest project, don't always have some obvious, political point to make; they're more often encouraging audience empathy, sharing someone's life experiences and view of the world. The nearest that this new two-woman show comes to point-making is when Kirsty Young, the subject of the piece, admits she wants to be more than just "a speciality market for giant pharmaceutical companies". For Kirsty has "CF", Cystic Fibrosis. Diagnosed in 1997, when she was eight years old and only interested in Boyzone, pickled onions and singing, the rest of her life has been increasingly shaped by the disease. (Not least that, according to current medical practice, she’s supposedly meant to be always at least two metres away from any other person with CF, her younger sister included.) There are simple diagrams explaining how people without CF can nevertheless be carriers of the mutated genes responsible; there are detailed explanations of hospital stays, of the anticipation and doubts about the latest Superdrug treatments. This is an emotive introduction to what the American writer Susan Sontag memorably described as “the kingdom of the sick”, filtered through the theatrical device of Kirsty sharing the stage with Alisa Davidson; both dressed identically, both sitting at hospital bedside tables, both either speaking simultaneously, or finishing each other's sentences. Directors Amy Angus and Ed Robson use a combination of lighting, subtle soundscapes and the heartfelt interaction between the two performers (who do not self-identify until near the end of the show) to envelop the audience in a world created from the fragility of Kirsty’s very real situation. "We don’t mean to frighten you," Kirsty tells us. To be honest, this show is scary only in the sense of how quickly we become intimately concerned with Kirsty's life and her "drowning from the inside". But, vitally, we also know not to pity her; to quote the Billy Joel song which punctuates the show: "I don't need you to worry for me 'cause I'm alright... Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone."

"Poor Fellow." It's the briefest description given of Robert Kirkwood, and a repeated refrain throughout artist Brian Catling's theatrical sharing of this young man's story: the rise and fall of "Bobby Awl", the most famous – infamous – "street idiot" in 19th century Edinburgh. That "fall", we're told, was total: even the memory of him was quickly overshadowed by the fate of fellow "street idiot" and friend, "Daft Jamie"—famously murdered for cash by Burke and Hare.Working largely from a cheap chap book, published soon after Bobby Awl's death, and now held in Edinburgh City Libraries, Catling's first play is an exercise in sharing the basic facts of Bobby Awl's life and asking us to share those stories in order to bring the short-lived Robert Kirkwood (he was only 22 or 23 when he died after being kicked in the chest by a mule). To aid us in our own retellings, there's a real sense of fairytale: as a newborn, for example, he was kept warm in a large boot, hung over a smokey fire."Poor Fellow"? Quite deliberately, this retelling is made by women – Ruth Everett, Maisie Greenwood and Georgie Morrell – with some fun found in their relative abilities to "do" authentic-sounding Scottish accents. Significantly, we never, directly, see Bobby Awl on stage, apart from a cast of his skull made after his death: he's instead "present" through the creation of tableaux and the use of simple props, such as numerous cloth bags pulled inside and out. Catling's point is clear: stories are ultimately the only things that survive us after we die, especially once no one's left alive who actually remember us. It definitely helps that the play is presented within the constrained atmosphere of an old anatomy lecture theatre (albeit one in a former veterinary training college); with the audience looking down on the performers, there's that real sense of us dissecting Bobby Awl's life and times. Yet that's also a risk: the problem with site specific works, after all, is that they lose what's worthwhile when performed anywhere else. And what’s the point in that?

Her name is Lila, and she’s a proud Blackfoot woman, she tells us. Making a video to explain herself to her partner, or anyone else watching, she confirms that she knows what she’s going to do is illegal. But that’s not the same as being wrong. Lila knows that to find her younger sister’s killer and just let them "walk away" is wrong, and (as a former soldier, never "untrained") she knows what to do.Tara Beagan’s characterful monologue, performed with real heart, subtlety and intensity by Cherish Violet Blood, is the story of a woman seeking vengeance for the brutal murder of her younger sister, just one of thousands of Indigenous women recorded as missing or killed in Canada during the last few decades. The staging is pretty basic: just Blood, her smart-phone on a tripod, and two large screens behind her, onto which the camera’s view is projected. Except, under Andy Moro's uncluttered direction, these images are frequently manipulated and enhanced, yet never at the expense of distracting us from Blood's truthful performance. To explain herself fully, Lila tells the camera, and us, about her life, growing up in a trailer park, impoverished and all-too-often abused or molested by men. Thanks to Blood's low-key intensity, these dark moments hit home hard, as they rightly should, but are given their impact as much by the wider context of her childhood, becoming protective of her younger sister "Hammy", and bonding with her otherwise uncommunicative father during the first of several hunting trips to kill deer. Lila now believes, spiritually, she’s part deer. "Do you see my antlers?", she challenges the world.A cynic might suggest that Beagan’s script veers too much towards diversity and cliché; soldier Lila’s a lesbian, while her favourite “Aunt” was her mother’s gay hairdresser brother Gary. But Blood's performance gives Lila’s world real depth and validity, and offers a climax that just touches the right level of horror and validation. This is by no means the middle-class-targeted "pain porn" which Lila mocks at earlier: it’s life, sharp as her knife.

"It looks nice. A nice place to live," says Josh, looking around the empty stage in the heart of Summerhall's temporary Roundabout venue. "Let’s do this," partner Abbey agrees, which is fine—we’re used to Fringe dramas with little or no props and scenery to either set up or take down. On the other Hand We’re Happy has all the appearance of being a two-hander character piece, mixing pathos and comedy with real skill.But writer Daf James is happy to plant a few surprises on us, not least when both characters suddenly turn to the audience around them, inviting opinions and even taking a vote to help decide what they should do when it comes to adopting a child. It's not your typical interactive Choose Your Own Adventure theatre - James is still very much in charge, using the couple to warn us that "this is a story about love, but sometimes we have to go dark." That's sometimes almost literal; other times, we're talking much more emotionally. Despite the artificiality, we care.Indeed, when Josh joyfully shouts out that he's been accepted by an adoption panel and will shortly become a dad, the audience are happy for him and applaud. Nothing, however, is simple. This is clear when it comes to meeting the mother who is committed to give away a child she nevertheless loves, in the hope that she will have a better life. There's some genuine fun from the unavoidable culture clash—him, a nervously comfortabe well off middle class man versus the working class "not backward at coming forward" Kelly, nevertheless determined to pull her life together. With an excellent cast – Charlotte O’Leary, in particular, emotionally grounds Kelly when the character could have been little more than a cheap “chav” stereotype – this is a drama that works well. Although perhaps James could've avoided the temptation of retrospectively overlapping events in the characters' earlier lives which, frankly, raises the spectre of coincidence just too much. It's a small quibble, though, about an otherwise succinct little drama that fits its running time almost perfectly.

For All I Care is, first and foremost, the story of two women. It is, however, also about the current state of the National Health Service and the promise made by its founders. First: Clara, shoplifting items requested by "the Devil" (aka local brute Diane) who sets herself on fire in a high street changing room. Second: mental health nurse Nyri, sleeping with a policeman half her age, and mourning the death of her mother.The nub of the story is when Clara becomes the patient to whom Nyri believes she has a duty of care, even though – sooner rather than later – the health authorities decide that Clara is a "low-risk" patient, meaning she is a possible threat to herself, but not the wider public. Nevertheless she is unfortunately taking up a bed in a "medium-risk" unit. An added complication comes when Diane gets involved with Nyri's uncommunicative teenage son, possibly providing him with drugs. However, this is essentially a subplot to the central story of two women trying to make sense of the world and their roles in it.Alan Harris's script is sharp, characterful and full of lovely little details: Nyri remembering her dying mother, for example, her "breaths out longer than breaths in," before they finally stopped; the slightly-nauseating, just-following-procedures boss, constantly clicking his pen; Clara's lightly-given assertion that "I don’t believe in anything because I can't afford to". Director Jac Ifan Moore has come up with a simple device to indicate when characters other than Clara or Nyri are speaking: performer Hannah Daniel simply speaks into one of three microphones hanging down from the ceiling in an otherwise dark, near-empty stage. There is, however, one all-too obvious problem with this minimal staging. It is true that performer Hannah Daniel succinctly distinguishes between Clara and Nyri using little more than a pair of sunglasses, accent, and subtle body posture—we never doubt who we're watching at any given moment. It's an excellent performance, but unfortunately marred by a lack of projection, especially in such a large performance space where noisy air-conditioning is a constant distraction. Long story short: Daniel needs to be miked up.

You’ll learn two things from Aaron Simmonds’ Disabled Coconut. The first is that you should never, ever get on the wrong side of his Gran on social media, because – age 84 – she’ll tear you down with 'pushing the envelope' wit. Secondly, the talent clearly runs in the family, as Simmonds – BBC New Comedy Award finalist and self-declared 'wheelchair enthusiast' – offers sharply-observed comedy grounded in his disability, but by no means limited by it.It’s fair to point out that Simmonds’ show probably shares many of the features you’ll find being performed by numerous other young, male stand-ups currently in Edinburgh. Not least, when it comes to talking about past, invariably failed relationships or an embarrassing 'first impression' introduction to his prospective father-in-law during last year’s Edinburgh Fringe. Simmonds talks about past gigs, including one for the BBC. He’s somewhat self-mocking about being gluten-intolerant, explaining why he feels it’s vital for us to properly fund scientific research into devising gluten-free pizzas that are actually edible.Yet disability is there throughout, not least in the title—inspired by the fact that, despite having cerebral palsy since birth, some other disabled people have accused him of 'not being disabled enough". Coconut is a racial slur used by some BAME people against those they consider non-white on the outside but, like a coconut, white inside. Simmonds is, to be honest, confused how this metaphor can possibly map onto disability. He's brilliant at finding a humorous side to being disabled, not least the realisation that his own personal parameters when it comes to 'embarrassing' are not the norm.When it comes to the reactions of non-disabled people to him and his girlfriend, Simmonds is focused not so much on their cringe-worthy idiocies, but in the ways he and his girlfriend hit back. They sound like a well-matched pair, with a mutually serious commitment to a good punchline. Amiable, likeable and with a commanding presence on stage, Aaron Simmonds is an exciting talent. But seriously – don’t engage with his Gran on Twitter.

Apparently, Richard Stott got into comedy “for all the wrong reasons”; at least, that’s what the aforementioned Richard Stott says. To the great relief of everyone in the room, however, it’s clear he’s NOT in the wrong career. While Stott may open his hour with some light, fairly predictable banter about life as a Fringe performer, it does the job of relaxing everyone, swiftly and expertly. Which is surely what any professional stand-up wants.It’s also important as it establishes the foundations for what could be termed his USP (Unique Selling Point) as a stand-up—that he has Poland Syndrome. It’s a non-life threatening physical impairment – named after a doctor called Alfred Poland, not the country – most commonly characterised by underdeveloped chest muscles and short webbed fingers on one side of the body. TV presenter Jeremy Beadle, who died in 2008, was arguably one of the most famous people in the UK to have the condition; will Stott take on that position at some point in the future? He could well do.This show is not, however, some bespoke work of theatrical standup on disability access in the arts; it’s a show about a young man growing up with a condition that made him different, but not necessarily in the way you’d expect. He wasn’t bullied at primary school because of his small hand; not when he proved its usefulness in retrieving objects from cracks in the ground. It was only later in his life, following numerous operations to improve his posture and dexterity, that things began to change—and he began to understand what being disabled means, especially in show business.For, sad to report, it’s not been at all plain sailing: Stott admits that he’s had to deal with depression, struggled with body dysmorphia, and generally been disappointed by an adult world that’s proved far less accepting than the one he first discovered when he started out at school. That, I guess, is the “message”: which he presents with honesty, good humour and just the right level of annoyance. Definitely one to watch out for.

It takes a certain bravery, or innocence, to name your debut full-hour show at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe Don’t Bother. Potentially, it's opening up a collective noun of own goals: "Don't Bother Seeing This Show," being just the most easy critical cheap-shot. Except, when it comes to Bróccán Tyzack-Carlin's poetry, spoken word and audience rapport, the obvious take-away is quite the opposite: "DO Bother To See This Show. Bother lots." Though some might suggest Bróccán’s a star in the making, I'd suggest he's pretty fully formed already, just waiting to be discovered by comedy's top astronomers. His voice helps. It's deep, characterful, full of colour and subtlety; the sort of voice you expect to soothe you on Radio 4, though perhaps not then panicking about the logical inconsistency of saying someone "looks like a million bucks". Or even "a million books". Talking of which, Bróccán shows he'd be a natural for the talking book of Enid Blyton's The Adventures of Peter Rabbit, although he might question some of the details! His own attempt at a children's book, called Happy as Larry, is delightfully sick, though arguably his best riff is about the many years of mental distress triggered by the T-shirt phrase: "Dip me in Chocolate and Throw me to the Lesbians." Bróccán successfully manages to wring much more material out of this than you'd think possible. Less showy, but equally good, are a series of poems about Apollo astronaut Neil Armstrong, spread throughout the show, that are essentially about ignoring both the external and internal voices trying to tell each of us: "Don’t bother" trying to achieve anything.Early on, Bróccán suggests he chose his show’s title as advice for us: "Don't Bother" looking for some unifying theme, or even connections between disparate examples of his writing, produced over several years. Except, properly modest writer that he is, he has found those connections, and played them expertly. And as a performer, he has just the right level of tact not to draw too much attention to the fact. Catch him if you can.

It may be because of the stage productions and films which I saw growing up, but my innate and core expectation about musical theatre is that it tends to be on the big size, if not in terms of the number of people on stage, then at least when it comes to the scale of the emotions on display and the lushness of the orchestration. It's therefore pleasantly surprising to experience the one-man variety. That said, the emotions which composer/performer Brian Joseph shares are most certainly large scale - anger, grief, frustration and a tinge of disgust at himself. "I am the most ordinary person there is," he insists at the start. Yet the story he tells is both personally intimate and huge, like the life-altering experience of supporting his wife through the successful treatment of a remarkably rare cancer. She survives, and Joseph makes it clear that there's a happy ending. But nevertheless, he feels that the experience has left them with a glimpse of the void, of death, that most of us will never experience.Joseph is an accomplished guitarist and keyboard player, and his songs touch on a variety of styles - particularly when he opts to tell particular aspects of his life story through the filters of Hollywood film genres such as rom-com, Disney/Pixar fairytale and horror story. Joseph's lyrics are full of character, wit and the occasional twist, not least when he protests too much about being the life and soul of the party, or of being the one who will cope with the situation because he's the one who "will make the soup". He's the care-giver. He's the Dad. There's a sense that Joseph's turned this period of his life into a show for the same reason he documented his wife's illness and treatment through the lens of his old-school film camera: as a way of processing it all, of coping, of being "in control of the story". Many performers are doing something similar in Edinburgh just now. Some, arguably, will be better actors; none, though, are quite are so honest.

Bystanders begins with staging reminiscent of a police detective’s office – plain desks, a few chairs, and piles of boxes full of paperwork and evidence. This subtly adds support to the premise that, although performed by actors, this is a work based on the testimonies of real people—that Bystanders is, long-story-short, a work of 'verbatim theatre'. Except, after a deliberately flagged false start, we’re clearly told this isn’t the case.All the stories making up Bystanders are true, and a few may even be familiar to the audience, given they made the news. But we’re reminded that, with just one exception, the creative and production team only spoke with one of the six people featured, relying for the rest on court reports, official documents and speculation and imagination. Do they – do we? – have a right to do the latter? Their assertion is a clear yes, if it ensures a degree of authenticity, showing how homelessness can bring people down in both spectacular and unspectacular ways.Cast members Jake Good, Libby Liburd, Mark Locyer and Andre Skeete share the numerous roles, on occasions explaining that their characters are speaking in accents or foreign languages without trying to imitate them. They maintain a strong clarity throughout, despite the numerous scenarios and characters. If they play them broad on occasions, that’s not without effect—so used are we to Skeete playing former boxer Vernon, that it’s a genuine and humbling shock when we’re shown photographs of the real man. That’s important so that we’re reminded that these are real people, with real lives.Brought into shape by director Adrian Jackson and dramaturge Sarah Woods, Bystanders is a call to take homelessness more personally. Indeed, we’re shown people doing just that – like Jenny, the good-natured staff member at Terminal 5, setting up a crowdfunding campaign to help a man get back to Greece. That these different stories entwine towards the end might feel like narrative expediency, but this is about showing how none of us are really bystanders.

What makes a home? It’s one of a number of questions that Victor Esses asks of audience members as they come in, taping their responses for use later on in his show. And the interaction doesn’t stop there: towards the end of the hour, he asks us to consider if we had to leave where we live immediately—where would we go, what would we take, and who would be want to ensure were safe? These are all relevant, of course; to his own story as a gay man of mixed race and heritage, now based in London—where is home to him? How does he place his body in this particular performance space, in an former anatomy lecture room? His mother and her family fled civil war in Lebanon when she was a teenager; his father left Beirut when he was 12. Esses suggests that the many years of moving on, from France, to America and ultimately Brazil, may have contributed to his mother’s homophobia, racism and fear of change. Problematic: as he’s gay.Esses effectively uses a mixture of video projection, photographs, music and songs to expand on his background, to suggest what home means to him — chiefly for himself, but also his family. One of the most tender moments is from 2017, his first visit to Lebanon, during which he was able to FaceTime his ecstatic mother while going round showing her childhood home, now an artist’s flat and studio. It’s “the biggest gift I could ever give her”, and you can tell that means a lot, despite the many problems and barriers which stand between them because of his unashamed sexuality. Growing up, Esses watched lots of war films and Holocaust documentaries—why did so many of the latter’s victims not simply leave before it was too late? Now he has some understanding of why: he has found his own home in London, a point he makes while symbolically rearranging his props into a fortress against the underlying homophobia inside his own family. In all, a thoughtful, subtle reminder of how hard home is to leave.

At first glance, The Ugly One looks somewhat clinical. Becky Minto’s set is a mixture of white and grey blocks, the only colour coming from small fruit bowls placed on plinths on either side of the stage. There’s a conveyor belt to the rear, suggesting industry but lacking the oily dirt of machinery. When the cast appears, one by one, bringing on clear plastic seats, they’re uniformly dressed in suits—albeit pastel-coloured suits. Yet the tone of the next 75 minutes is clear from how the cast walk on, posturing and eyeing up the audience, daring us to laugh. And, we do; what follows is laugh-out-loud funny, with an ensemble skilled in teasing the most from their roles through body posture, facial expressions or dialogue. The situation is ridiculous, and is abstractly presented; yet we quickly accept Lette as a man who’s boss considers him too ugly to sell his invention (a new type of high voltage connector), a man who’s only married because his wife never looks him full in the face.Martin McCormick is up to the job of making us care about Lette, whose (fruitily portrayed) plastic surgery procedure changes him from being the ugliest man in the world to the most handsome… someone whose features are so entrancing that he can arouse anyone while going through the technical specifications of his connector. That he achieves this switch with pretty much nothing more than some added sparkly lipstick is remarkable, although McCormick’s undoubtedly supported by the assured comedic skills of Michael Dylan, who does double duty as Lette’s jealous assistant Karlmann and a rich old lady’s “awkward”, sex-obsessed son.Sally Reid plays both Lette’s apologetic wife and the aforementioned rich old lady with just the right level of impact, on occasions switching between the two at the drop of a feather bower. Helen Katamba, meantime, shifts effortlessly between stereotyped northern boss and the surgeon whose new technique becomes a global success. All the performances are, necessarily, broadly done: there’s not much subtlety to be found in lines such as “The fact is that you’re unspeakably ugly.” But, under Debbie Hannan’s excellent direction, the story is sharply told, and comes with all the speed you expect from the best Farces. Importantly, of course, this isn’t just about the laughs; playwright Marius von Mayenburg is taking on significant topics ranging from a loss of personal identity, the pitfalls of success and the cult of celebrity, and it’s clear that Maja Zade has done a great job translating the original into English. When an emotionally disintegrating Lette is on the brink of taking his own life, we’re emotionally committed to his situation. Just as we should be.

First, let’s get the biggest disappointment out of the way first: Them!, a joint production between the National Theatre of Scotland, writer Pamela Carter and director Stewart Laing, does not (Spoiler Alert!) feature any giant mutant ants, except in a trailer for the original 1954 film. Second: this curiously intriguing show-cum-art-installation (alas) ends up being noticeably less than the sum of its parts, concluding with a dissipated whimper, not a focused bang. Carter and Laing's main concern appears to be about the narratives that we use to comprehend the world; specifically, the problem when an imaginative "what if", WHEN constantly repeated, inevitably becomes a predictable, restricting "must be" that's no longer fit for purpose. Initially, our way into this idea is through the cliches of a television chat show, part-Norton sparkle, part Oprah therapy. Our host is the delightfully "loud" Kiruna Stamell, keen to uncover the emotional roots (the "Man-opause"?) behind Guardian-reading director Laing suddenly wanting to make a musical action movie adaptation of "Them!".Things start to evolve when the deliberately stilted Laing, playing himself, says he's had enough and exits the stage, to be replaced by an all-together more impassioned incarnation excellently performed by Ross Mann. But the disruptions continue: one of the cast members, "Prof", joins "The Director" on the sofa, arguing that 1950s' attitudes to technology and the role of men and women in science, as much as the expectations of what happens in a modern action movie, are no-longer fit-for-purpose. Giant ants may have been an effective metaphor for change in 1954, but how about 2019?Or would AI-operated ant-like machines be a better metaphor? The nearest we get to this on stage are five young actors, playing self-adaptive robots representing some Netflix-owned Future. The questions continue when the intriguing figure of Toni (a startlingly compelling Rosina Bonsu) suddenly assumes the host's chair. It's Toni who invites us to move on to either Part Two of the show (a noisy night club, ear-plugs provided) or straight on to Part Three, where we can observe and follow some 150,000 leaf cutter ants from Trinidad in an extensive connection of boxes and tubes. Fascinating stuff, but in portraying a television studio the makers seem to deliberately opt for an amateurish camera crew. Despite most of the action being shown on a large screen, no real effort is made (until the end) to improve access by adding subtitles. Worst of all, after wandering round the ant complex, there was no firmly policed route back into Tramway. I ended up in the car park at the back of the building. Or was that actually the point?

Jim Brown's Sea Changes is a play that delightfully and unashamedly embraces the info-dump, to the extent of having most of its characters directly introduce themselves to the audience, and then going on to drip-feed us, as and when required, with background details required by this introduction to the Fisheries Research Vessel SS Explorer, which carried out important maritime science between the 1950s and 1980s and is currently berthed in Leith, undergoing restoration.Back in the day, the ship was apparently crewed by many larger-than-life characters: engineer Wullie Gardner (a stolid performance from David Magowan) who knows every nut and bolt of the ship's engine but considers it sufficient that he remembers the names, if not the ages, of his seven children; the prematurely bald, inoffensive drink-loving Tommy Keir (an ever-delightful Charles Donnelly, always able to find emotional truth behind broad comedy); Hamish Munro (Chris Alexander), the good-natured cook with a nice little sideline in supplying Leith restaurants with fish; and the shy, somewhat defensive science student Aaron Presley (an endearing Gregor Davidson). Our way onboard, however, is in the company of Sean Docherty, who worked on the ship after a short spell in prison and, unusually, eventually made the leap across the significant (and clearly sign-posted) divide between lowly crew members and the regularly changing teams of scientists. Current drama student Charlie West copes well embodying a character whom we see at two distinct stages of his life: first as the settled scientist, husband and father who travels to Leith to see the Preservation Project for himself, then as the young “cocky wee sod” who initially came on board with no particular desire to be there. Director Mark Kydd casts well, keeps everything moving smoothly and makes the most of the venue—which is, fundamentally, a lounge bar. This includes the important contribution made by guitarist/singer Al Clement and fiddler Laure Paterson, two highly skilled and talented musicians just sitting by the side of the “stage”. Overall, the result may not be the deepest of dramas, but it’s certainly an enjoyable introduction to an overlooked part of Scotland’s nautical history.

Curious Shoes is a show that's unashamedly dominated by the perceived needs of its target audience, people living with dementia, and those who care and support them. Devised by Magdalena Schamberger, it's a gentle, amusing, and uncomplicated hour of movement and song; a succession of skits performed with smiles and wide-eyed tenderness, held together not so much by a narrative arc but a repeated refrain of "Let's Go!" that promises some good times ahead. There's a strong whiff of Hollywood iconography too, with the show's four characters each based on film stars for whom shoes played an important role: there is Fred (Astaire, in the likes of Funny Face); Bette (Davis, in Now Voyager), Charlie (Chaplin, in City Lights) and Vicky (Page, in The Red Shoes). We're all on first name terms here, each of us in the audience given a name-badge on the way in; this enables "Charlie" and "Bette" in particular to welcome their new friends, to share names and the unexpected memories triggered by them. It's an appropriately low-key start to proceedings. I do find reviewing this show a tad problematic; I’m not, as yet, part of its intended audience, but from the reactions of those around me, Curious Shoes clearly reassured and inspired happiness among its largely female audience on the day of this review. To be honest, I found the constant smiles on the performers' faces at times unsettling, occasionally looking more like light concussion than genuine pleasure, but their interaction with audience members was genuine and trusting, not least during one popular section in which we were encouraged to help unpack bags and boxes full of various artefacts and accessories. A tender Tim Licata and charming Christina Liddell, as "Charlie" and "Bette", held the stage for much of the show, with invaluable support from the lean, hat-doffing Colin Moncrieff and enchanting Nicolette Macleod as "Fred" and "Vicky"; each resplendent in outfits which clearly defined them by different colours—Blue, Yellow, Green and Red, respectively. Macleod in particular contributed some genuinely touching songs, both as singer and musician—some new, others familiar and echoed among the audience. It’s a gentle journey, with moments of stillness and occasional slapstick, as our four characters get tied up in knots, both physically and emotionally.I did find the show slight too long; its undoubtedly "relaxed" pace took some getting used to. But, again, I'm arguably NOT the best person to judge; it held people's attention and, at the end, most audience members seemed in no hurry to leave, happy to chat with the performers for hours more. This is a show full of care, tenderness and understanding; a beautifully interactive response to a growing need among our ageing population.

Arguably a surprise word-of-mouth hit during the 2016 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, this physical-theatre exploration of a mass hostage-taking returns to the Scottish capital with - thanks to the Children's Festival - a far greater chance of reaching its target audience of young people. Presented by Belgian "Art House" Bronks, Us/Them is a remarkable piece of theatre that expertly translates an inhuman ordeal through the language of the playground, into something almost understandable.Starting with an almost completely empty stage, focused performers Gytha Parmentier and Roman Van Houtven appear as eager-to-please children, frantic for attention as they draw out a chalk map of their school, 'School No 1 in Beslan', in the Caucasus. Significantly, there’s mention of a path leaving the school that weaves its way through the deep woods to the distant border with Chechnya, a strange land where there are suddenly no trees, where all the men are paedophiles and the women have moustaches. "Othering" is clearly a concern here, as fairy tales mix with the narratives of satellite TV news. And then the attack happens; arguably the one moment when the show's presentation deliberately loses clarity, the performers’ energetic shouts and running around lost under a loud soundtrack of Russian singing. Afterwards, we have to quickly play catch up, as the school-children, and many of their mothers, grandmothers and even fathers attending a special school assembly (nearly 1200 people in total) have been taken hostage by a group of Chechen terrorists. The siege will eventually end after three days, when Russian security forces storm the building using tanks, incendiary rockets and other heavy weapons. 334 of the hostages, including 186 children, were killed.Many dry facts about the siege, in particular the numbers involved, are repeated throughout Us/Them, although the reality is filtered through the numerous ways the two 'children' narrate the realities of the occupation, such as the ways in which, hands held high, they marked the passing hours of thirst, heat-exhaustion, and peeing. School classes become the filter through which they try to make sense of what's happening to them: PE is how they survive standing still and arithmetic lessons are how they attempt to work out the practical logistics of a varying number of terrorists keeping watch over more than 1,000 hostages. With the stage transformed into a cat's cradle of strings representing the terrorists' booby-traps, tied with easily burst black balloons as their bombs, writer and director Carly Wijs's production is certainly unafraid of moments of silence. Significantly, we're often told that something "didn't happen like that", but that’s the whole point. Powerfully performed, Us/Them is a very grown-up show that questions the simplistic narratives we easily rely on to describe ourselves and each other.

It's appropriate that this particular production within the 2019 Edinburgh International Children's Festival is the only one slotted into the schedule for the Netherbow stage within the Scottish Storytelling Centre. For the most part, this is a story that's told rather than shown, with the staging there simply to support writer and performer, Toby Thompson (a former Glastonbury Poetry Slam Champion) in the telling—often in obvious ways, but sometimes by a more circumspect approach! I Wish I Was a Mountain is adapted by Thompson from Faldum, a fairytale (Although it features neither fairies, nor princes, nor princesses.) by the Nobel Prize-winning author, Hermann Hesse. Thompson presents it in a way that both personalises the story to him, and opens it up to his audience. He may come across as a gentle, slightly gauche man on stage, but there’s a subtle beauty to both just the story and the way it’s told, that holds your attention. Director Lee Lyford is to be congratulated for the dramatic focus he instils into the show.The show is filled with music and surprisingly effective mechanics, from a pop-up book to a series of model houses revealed one inside the other like Russian dolls. Anisha Field's set proves to be an effective backdrop, while lighting designer, George Seal, and sound designer, Jonathan Everett, make strong contributions to the overall tone. Nevertheless, it's the script that's most important. Significantly, Thompson often reminds us that the inhabitants of this particular fairytale are just like us, albeit without Facebook. (“Just faces. And books”). Just like him, too, slightly nervous, but wanting to please and be happy.I Wish I Was a Mountain is a fairytale about wishes and the extent to which we should always be wary about what we want - just in case we’re lucky enough to get it. In some respects, it's an oddly structured story, and Thompson works hard to soften the blow of the final quarter, during which millennia pass. Ultimately though, the story is an enchanting exploration of desire and possessing, and how once we've got something, we don't always want it anymore.

Super Human Heroes from theatre group The Letter J (in association with Paisley Arts Centre) has a simple message: We all need to do our little bit to help make the world a better place, even if that's just by using less plastic or just being kinder to other people. We have a tendency to put our trust in heroes to save us, but the show highlights that this just isn’t good enough. Projected onto a central screen, a succession of made-up newspaper front pages underscore the state of the world; "It Just Got Worse" is arguably the most amusingly grim headline among them, if only because it's true! In any case, in response, three ordinary flatmates somehow manage to reinvent themselves as costumed superheroes: brilliant Captain Sunshine (Jon Bishop), question-asking Super Curious (Judith Williams) and the fast and furious Courageous Kid (Ruth Janssen). "The world needs saving, and this is what we’ll do!" they announce, before setting out to right wrongs and save lives. ....Until they find themselves out of their depth and it all starts to get too much.Superheroes are nowadays a pretty-mainstream concept, the stuff of blockbuster movies, but there's a sense here that Bishop, Williams and Janssen are assuming an audience whose knowledge of superheroes is somewhat less than the listed age-range might suggest. Yes, this results in some beautifully tender songs, performed by Bishop on guitar, where he ironically suggests "I'm a tough guy/Real tough". However, his assertion that "Superheroes with feelings/Can't save the day" is although arguably a suitably child-friendly comment on the dangers of toxic masculinity, but ignores the emotional complexity of an increasingly sophisticated superhero genre.Bishop sings, performs and provides the illustrations, Williams gives us some great comedy moments, while Janssen offers emotional collapse expressed through energetic choreography. The show is full of light, shadow and movement but, at least on the night of this review (with a largely adult audience), it left me emotionally untouched—and so not sufficiently distracted from the somewhat unsubtle arrival of the show’s "message" that we should all try to be Super Human Heroes.

I have a confession: I’d never previously heard of Erich Kästner's 1929 novel, Emil and the Detectives; It just wasn't a part of my childhood. But if this stage version (written by Nicki Bloom and presented by Australian theatre company, Slingsb) is anything to go by, that was definitely my loss. And not just because it broke the ground when it came to 'independent-children-versus-devious-adults' storylines. It also has much to say about friendship and community; What makes a town a town? What makes it home? These are questions asked early on, but our hero, Emil (excellently played by Elizabeth Hay, who captures his lonely bravery very well) has to leave "New Town" to answer them, heading for the nearby big city where his grandmother lives. He's given money to pass on, but this is stolen by a self-centred, untrustworthy man in a bowler hat who's in his seat. This is just one of the many roles played by Tim Overton, who frequently switches between beguiling innocence and snake-like maliciousness in the blink of an eye. The city-smart kids who come to Emil’s aid may initially be faceless cartoons, but using a mixture of projections, shadow-play, lighting effects and models, this production (directed by Andy Packer), creates wonder and magic out of the simplest of elements. Wendy Todd's and Ailsa Paterson's at-times sombre designs ensure items are frequently picked out of suitcases and cupboards with either humour or pathos, seamlessly textured by appropriately designed lighting (by Geoff Cobham and Chris Petrifies). Quincy Grant's lush, cinematic score, meanwhile, gives depth and emotional heart to the narrative, especially during those moments when Emil almost loses heart.While there are some sequences of outright physical comedy (For example, the car chase across the city with Overton constantly changing hats and characters), it's often the quieter moments that linger longest in our memory, not least when Emil finally returns home to a welcome he simply didn't anticipate. This is a satisfyingly exciting tale, inventively told, that speaks strongly about children’s conflicting need for, and fear of, their first steps away from their parents' protection.

There's little doubt that The Duchess of Malfi has become the most popular and successful work written by the English Jacobean playwright John Webster. Its concise narrative, complex characters and at-times beautifully poetic language has ensured that the play continues to be revived across the centuries. As a result, it remains one of the finest examples of that oh-so-blood-soaked genre, the 'Revenge Tragedy,' beaten in fame only by Shakespeare's Hamlet. Whether or not Zinnie Harris’s adaptation, The Duchess (of Malfi), will feature so highly in her own oeuvre is a different question. There is much to praise here. For example, she deftly shows us the flowering of the now-widowed Duchess of Malfi, when Kirsty Stuart, a lady in red, finds her voice at a microphone under the spotlight. If much of Webster's poetics are lost in Harris's more modern dialogue, there are undoubted moments of modern equivalence, raising a smile if not a tear; "He strikes me as a common arsehole of the masculine kind," being just one example. Harris does tidy up some of the rough edges in Webster’s original, not least in making the Duchess the mother of twins - rather than three children - over a period of several years. It's within the characters that she turns the up dial; with the guilt and anger of the Duchess's two brothers, the "imposter syndrome" felt by her new husband Antonio (Graham Mackay-Bruce) and the guilt of hired killer Bosola (Adam Best). Dressing her characters in something approaching modern dress, Harris sacrifices period verisimilitude but gains dramatically from the current context of the #metoo movement. Make no mistake, this is a somewhat dispiriting and brutal story of a liberated woman brought down by the untrusting, fear-filled men around her. If Angus Miller feels slightly not yet up to the hard challenge of showing us the psychological breakdown of the Duchess’s twin, Ferdinand, it’s perhaps because he shares so much stage-time with George Costigan. As their elder brother (an abusive self-serving Cardinal) Costigan gives us a text-book example of how in acting less is so often more; There’s one line in particular which he deliciously downplays with both humorous and horrifying effect. This is a modern, stylish production playing off against Tom Piper’s off-white minimalist, multi-level set, and the use of brutally bold video projections (part newsreel, part stage description) is loud and sharp. As a cathartic tragedy, it’s by no means easy viewing, even with Harris’s use of her murdered female characters, washed clean of blood, as a chorus in the later acts. But, on the plus side, and unlike the original, Harris at least leaves us some hope.

Three, as the song goes, is a magic number. From Three Little Pigs to the three wishes in Aladdin, the number between two and four has particular appeal in the stories, myths and fairytales we tell ourselves, in order to explain the world. So, it's no fluke that the core of Finnegan Kruckemeyer's fairytale-styled play This Girl Laughs, This Girl Cries, This Girl Does Nothing (touring Scotland in this new production from Stellar Quines) are triplets.Thrice upon a time, their story starts like Hansel and Gretel, abandoned deep in the forest, but quickly becomes about how each grows, matures and becomes comfortable in their own skin. Kruckemeyer's focus is on how, although looking almost identical, the three girls are very much their own selves, and respond to the world accordingly. Eldest triplet Albienne (Rehanna MacDonald) sets off towards the sunset, becoming Viking killer and much-loved baker; middle girl Beatrix (Kim Allan) aims for the sunrise, bringing colour and fun into otherwise grey lives; and youngest Carmen (Betty Valencia) stays put, becoming the perfect host.Each young actor is bold and heartfelt in their characters. The only visual differences between them are the colours of their striped socks. However, in this energetic production by Jemima Levick for Stellar Quines, there is no confusion or doubt, as we're told the triplet's individual stories in turn, with never a pause. Great support comes from Ewan Somers, who plays the triplet’s father and numerous other supporting roles when not acting as narrator – although it's important to point out that these three girls are as much the narrators of each other's lives as he is. Jean Chan's set is appropriately a nursery of toys, boxes and books on shelves, which becomes a succession of landscapes as and when required. As a work of theatre, the script can be accused of leaning towards "tell" rather more than "show," but Kruckemeyer’s understanding and use of the grammar of fairytales and childhood play is enchanting and ensures that this heart-warming story of self-realisation feels shorter than its 70 minutes running time.

There’s something reassuringly "classy" about this production of Patrick Marber's The Red Lion, now touring Scotland for the first time courtesy of Glasgow-based Rapture Theatre. Frances Collier's set (presenting the home changing room of a semi-professional football club in the North of England) is solidly "realistic" while still teasing us with little pieces of theatricality, aided immensely by Mark Doubleday's lighting which perfectly creates distinctive noon/dusk/night settings for the play’s three scenes.Under Michael Emans' focused direction, the cast are undoubtedly in a class above what might be expected of a production touring generally small venues in central Scotland. John McArdle and Brendan Charleston, unsurprisingly for anyone who has seen them before on stage, are superb as, respectively, kit-man Yates, full of weariness and hard-earned wisdom, and the team manager Kidd, the brittle personification of low-rent show-business. Between them is the most pleasant surprise: 2018 LAMDA graduate Harry McMullen, who more than holds his own against two experienced performers, creating in protege Jordan a strong yet fickle persona. Nominally, Marber's 2015 drama is about football, but from early on it's clearly about far more; a state-of-the-nation drama exploring the Thatcher-esque conflict over whether or not aspects of our culture can simply be bought and sold for hard cash. When Yates, a former player and a part of the team all his life, is finally goaded into explaining why he hates Kidd, he insists its because the manager doesn't love the club, dismissive of the many volunteers who tend the grounds and keep the whole enterprise going. The worst: "You don’t even love the Game."Kidd does love the game, even if he sees the Club first and foremost as a business that can advance his personal prospects... what he hates most is being considered an amateur. Jordan, despite his self-declared Christian principles against lying, keeps a secret from both men which ultimately brings all three of their careers in the Club crashing down. Yates's, meantime, for all his talk of team loyalty and tradition (going right back to him, as a baby, being washed in the changing room sink) seems almost infatuated with Jordan's talent and what it could mean to him personally.Marber’s characters are subtle, multi-layered and revealed as much more heightened than you'd expect; in that respect there's absolutely nothing to complain about. Where I have my own doubts (non-football fan that I am) is that the play sometimes feels as if it's more about the specifics of football than it needs to be. Given the potential that can be found in dramatic conflict between community and individualism, that feels something of a disappointment.

When Noel Coward warned a certain Mrs Worthington against putting her daughter on the stage, it's highly likely that he didn't have Matilda The Musical in mind at the time. For not only are its young cast members in the spotlight, they fully deserve to be there. That said, I do worry about the psychological consequences for any young girl who finds herself the focus of rapturous applause from a near-sold out Edinburgh Playhouse.As a performer, Freya Scott (playing the titular character on the night of this review) takes everything in her stride: more, she embodies the musical's distinctive mix of innocence and the grotesque, ensuring we immediately take the scripted precocious, five-year-old book-reader to our hearts. Scott's performance is tight, her voice clear and yet surprisingly emotive, whether she's singing about being "Naughty" or finding solace in the "Quiet". The rapturous applause she receives at the end is perfectly justified; it's an open wonder of this now-touring show that the producers continue to find such talented young stars. There's little to say about the show itself; Dennis Kelly's script feels more in keeping with Roald Dahl's original novel, at least in comparison to the film adaptation, while Tim Minchin's lyrics and score – if lacking an obvious "breakout" hit – nevertheless successfully build character, narrative and atmosphere. Although the sound system at the Playhouse on occasions sounds a bit tinnier than it should, there's an undoubted scale to this production which ensures its not swamped by playing in such a large venue. Rob Howell's set and costume designs, along with Hugh Vanstone’s lighting, all contribute notably to the whole story.Disappointingly, some ensemble songs (especially from the children) lack total clarity in diction and emotion, but overall the production is evenly balanced, with Elliot Harper (cruel head-teacher Miss Trunchbull) and Carly Thoms (kind teacher Miss Honey) finding nuances in their particular characters. Thanks to the strength of its original source, "Matilda The Musical" undoubtedly enjoys a narrative focus and relative complexity all too rare nowadays, especially in comparison to most jukebox musicals. Good show!

It’s seldom fun to leave a venue thinking: "Well, that's an hour of my life I'm never getting back." Especially when some audience members stood up to applaud at the end. Nor is it fun to subsequently write a review that explains why; not least because it requires reliving the whole experience and attempting to explain that, while a performer may have something interesting to say, the way in which they do so… definitely isn’t.In the show notes, (Can This Be) Home is described as "not your average show", as "half music gig, half spoken word". What that official introduction fails to mention is the degree to which these two halves fail to gel, with Iceland-born Kolbrún Björt Sigfúsdóttir’s low-key poetry intercut, with the subtlety of a stopped cassette player, by Tom Oakes's somewhat gasping flautist reminisces. She speaks of that "wonderful feeling discovering somewhere you belong"; he talks of tunes and people encountered on his travels round Europe and, in particular, Scandinavia. Only towards the end do they perform together; too late. This is, of course, a Brexit show, scheduled for the eve of the day the UK was supposed to leave the EU. (Theresa May even screwed that up, forcing Sigfúsdóttir to read hasty updates from her notebook.) What we get are the thoughts of a woman who found a welcoming home in the land "of the Spice Girls and The Clash", who is now increasingly horrified by the "othering" of numerous minorities, including "foreigners". A woman who has comes to Edinburgh, where three in four votes cast were for Remain, to make her protest—talk of preaching to the converted!Sigfúsdóttir is described in those show notes as "a director, playwright and dramaturg", but she's not the most engaging of performers; I found her pious air of mannered nervousness distracting, and contagious. Oakes, meanwhile, has the air of a friendly dog but the confusing thing is, that for a show supposedly about connection and communication, there’s absolutely no chemistry between the pair on stage. While she performs, he reads a book; when he's playing, she's busy making clay models of a house. Frankly, the subtlety of symbolism here is topped by the red-lit stage when she gets really angry.Worst of all, for a show described as being "literally in the making since the summer before the vote", (and given the multi-national make-up of its contributors during the development process), you'd think it could've ended up a tad less low-tech (tape recorder, a splat of clay on the floor, small unfolded map and some polaroids), and less like something put together one rainy afternoon by a couple of complete amateurs.

The sketch show can be a difficult beast to tame. On the plus side, it can enjoy all the advantages of speed, with situations and characters broadly drawn and performed, and visited only long enough to give the punchline some... well, punch. On the negative, it can verge on being "bitty", of feeling disconnected and lacking a narrative thrust to carry the audience along to a hopefully satisfying conclusion. Swings and roundabouts, you might say.Playwright and novelist David Henry Wilson's solution to this, in a show written for actors John Shedden and Finlay McLean of Splinter Productions, is to lay down threads between the sketches, sometimes repeating or referencing previous characters, not least the gaunt skeleton who features so prominently in the show's publicity. Shedden and McLean also have some fun, not least in the two "interviews" with notable Shakespearian characters (Shylock and Hamlet) which are split across the two halfs of the show, in the latter sketch referencing the other roles they had played. Plus the show begins and ends with The Singer. Promoted as a "not altogether crazy look at a crazy world", this is arguably as much about "funny peculiar" as it is "funny ha ha"; Wilson is a writer clearly striving for more than just cheap, easy laughs, and the final twists in some of the situations portrayed here are more philosophical than laugh-out loud funny. Some, such as "Uptopia", about an alien form of life comparing our civilisation to its own, have all the surprise of a lesser episode from the old "Tales from the Unexpected"; others, most notably "The Death Artist", are perfect little diamond nuggets of drama. Some targets (for example, self-serving local councillors, lazy workmen abusing health and safety legislation) give proceedings a slightly conservative air, although mockery of some "Bring Back the Good Old Days" Old Critics balances things somewhat. The overall problem, though, is that while these sketches are, for the most part, "well made", there isn't anything that could be described as truly memorable. Get a Life! may look at the world, but has little of depth to say.

This is a Spoiler. It's about something right at the start of the show, so I'm not spoiling much, and I know I'm not alone in doing so. (Last year's review in The Guardian did pretty much the same as I’m about to, though I doubt for the same reason.) I'm making this Spoiler because this show made me angry, more angry than I’ve been for years. Not about its subject, unfortunately. About the show itself.So, the Spoiler. Fat Blokes starts when Joe, a large bearded man, begins to dance and slowly undress in what is presumably supposed to be a sexually provocative manner. Suddenly the lights snap up and the show's originator and "MC", Scottee, fiercely demands to know what we're finding so funny? Yes, some in the audience WERE laughing, and I couldn't say for sure that it wasn't in a somewhat mocking manner. But I wasn't. Personally, I find ANYONE trying to dance in a supposedly sexy manner more sad than either funny or sexy, regardless of how "attractive" they supposedly are. So Fat Blokes starts by accusing me, unjustly, I would say, of a specific, bigoted act, and also uses a cheap trick to attempt to entrap me. Just for a second, I was genuinely furious, which is not, it has to be said, an emotional state I often experience in theatres nowadays. (Arguably, that says more about most theatre than it does about me.) Scottee struck me as condescending, patronising and an arse. But, it did trigger another thought: I hadn't immediately accused those near me, who had laughed, of any form of unfair behaviour. Was I actually guilty by association?This isn't a work of theatre, at least in terms of it being a narrative told with dramatic import. Fat Blokes, for the most part, is a loud, bold cabaret of spoken word reportage interspaced and intermixed with Lea Anderson's complex choreography, during which these five plus-size men on stage are impossible to ignore. Given that a significant number of the cast are also gay, there's a temptation to suggest (another cliche, another intolerance?) that they’re for once actually flaunting their size, something they can’t necessarily do during their normal lives away from the sanctuary of the stage."This is fat rebellion," explains Scottee; certainly, it's an opportunity for us to hear these men's stories of childhood bullying, adult violence and their daily struggle to accept themselves and their bodies within a culture biased towards thinness. Thankfully, there are moments of joy, not least when the men feel strong enough in themselves to take off their smock-like shirts and dance, flesh boldly on show. I'm still angry though. And not entirely convinced.

When Edinburgh's Royal Lyceum Theatre announced that they were producing a stage musical based on the iconic 1983 Scottish film Local Hero, I must admit to wondering if it was (a) a sign that one of Scotland's most successful producing theatres had decided to play safe with a familiar brand; and (b) little more than an exercise in nostalgia. Let’s just say that, as a critic, I'm now looking out for anywhere selling humble pie.In many respects, though, I WAS right. The marketing (with a strong emphasis on that iconic red telephone box) deliberately stokes its audience’s nostalgia for the film. More importantly, Artistic Director David Greig and the film's writer/director Bill Forsyth have not attempted an update. While simplifying and focusing the story, they've ensured anyone fond of the 1983 movie will not be disappointed; the most striking differences are those of tone, not story. The humour is slightly more cutting; the men, boyish in Forsyth’s film, are a tad tougher, albeit still nowhere as mature as the women in their lives. Indeed, the undoubted star of the show, and effective co-lead within this consummately balanced ensemble, is Katrina Bryan as Stella, hotel cook and partner of the local hotelier. She alone among the villagers realises that the money from an American oil company, intent on buying the village to build an oil refinery, comes at too high a price. The significance in this is her perspective: Stella’s an incomer from Glasgow – a “blown-in” rather than someone born in the village. Bryan is a strong performer, but Greig and Forsyth give her – like many of the female cast – some great material. Back in 1983, Forsyth’s Local Hero appeared somewhat prescient, asking those materialistic, money-obsessed 1980s to take a long hard look at themselves. Nearly four decades later, its story of a Scottish fishing Village easily seduced by the big Bucks of an American Oil Company, touches on wider questions about value, quality of life, and the disconnect between what humanity can (or thinks it can) do to its environment, and what those ecosystems actually need in order to sustain themselves. It helps that Greig and Forsyth opt to keep this a period piece, before the rise of global social media. Director John Crowley and his team do well to suggest the film’s “gloaming” cinematography, by projecting various sunsets and aurora onto a planetarium-style screen, but arguably the surprise is Mark Knopler’s score. Though lacking an obvious showstopper, his songs feel familiar and dramatically satisfying, rooted in character and story. Wisely, he carefully rations the use of the film’s beautifully melancholic main theme, keeping it pretty much for the end where it undoubtedly works best.

In drama, an audience can either be ahead of what the characters know, or behind them, catching up; each approach has its dramatic advantages and disadvantages, but what is needed for either is clarity of approach. Iman Qureshi's latest play (winner of the Papatango theatre company's New Writing prize, and currently to be seen in a co-production with English Touring Theatre) unfortunately reveals too little to be genuinely surprising, and does so clumsily too.Ayesha is a British Pakistani who, with husband Zeyd, runs a Muslim funeral directors’ business in "a small divided town in the Midlands". Both business and marriage are in trouble: respectively, because of a lack of sufficient customers, and her seeming reluctance to have much sex, let alone children. Then into their lives walks distraught Tom, a young white man looking to arrange a Muslim funeral for his boyfriend, who has died after a drugs overdose. The crux of what follows is based on their refusal to perform the funeral, and Tom's subsequent decision to sue them for sexual discrimination. Even Ayesha's oldest (and once-closest) friend Janey, now a London-based human-rights barrister, reluctantly back in town to see her ailing mother, is appalled by their decision, and initially refuses to help. Yet here's the rub. Initially, we're given no firm indication of either Ayesha's or Zeyd's attitudes to homosexuality. Possibly quite deliberately, neither Qureshi's script, Hannah Hauer-King's direction or the cast's performance deny the possibility that the refusal is because Tom's boyfriend's death was, intentionally or not, a suicide. Later, when Janey suggests this could be their best form of defence, it seems all too obvious.That Qureshi attempts to discuss Abrahamic religions' attitudes to non-heterosexual relationships, and to do so impartially, without preaching, is admirable, but there's a sense of things being too tightly written to be entirely believable; or, indeed, sufficiently surprising to have real dramatic impact. (Not least the all-too-guessable "revelation" concerning Ayesha's and Janey's school-girl relationship. Janey's confession to feeling "like I'm a foreigner in the place I was born" is also breathtakingly unsubtle; so much for her supposed understanding of Ayesha's own life in the "small-minded, small-town backwardness" she herself was lucky enough to escape. Nevertheless this production has much going for it: Aryana Ramkhalawon (Ayesha) offers a portrait of nuanced sadness, which beautifully blooms in a heartfelt connection with Francesca Zoutewelle’s Janey. The two men may have less emotional room, but Assad Zaman’s Zeyd is a loving husband who’s neither bully nor monster, while Edward Stone’s Tom at last shines when Ayesha, attempting reconciliation, asks him to tell her about his boyfriend. The message: there are no easy solutions, but there’s still hope for us all.

“The music I listened to between the ages of 11 and 21 probably affected by life more than pretty much anything else. It influenced how I dressed, how I spoke, and who I was friends with: it led me to books, films and artists I might never have discovered otherwise. For better and worse, it made me what I am today.” So you can become “lost” in music, and yet also “find” yourself through it.That, at least, appears to be the idea at the heart of the award-winning Magnetic North theatre company’s latest production, a collaboration between the company’s artistic director Nicholas Bone, composer Kim Moore, musicians and numerous young people. The result is what is apparently now called “gig theatre”: in which a dramatic story is told through words, songs and (in this case) some nifty video images created live on stage. There’s not so much set as set dressing—designer Karen Tennent drapes microphone stands and the instruments in ivy, with Simon Wilkinson’s lighting design suggesting a romantic folly in moonlight.The songs – written by Moore along with performers Jill O’Sullivan (violin and guitar), Alex Neilson (percussion), Emily Philips (violin and clarinet), and Claire Willoughby (violin and saxophone) – focus both on ancient Greek mythology and the complex relationships between two participating groups of secondary school students from Glasgow and Edinburgh (whose sampled voices are incorporated into several of the tracks) and the music in their lives. In terms of performance there is little to fault, technically; Neilson, in particular, creates a remarkable fluidity and range of percussive sound and rhythms, while the three women sing, speak and play with real dexterity. But (and yes, this entire review has been hurtling towards a “but”) while the folk rock music – arguably too reliant on reverb, and amped up too harshly – is a matter of taste, this certainly ranks among the least emotive and involving retellings of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth that I’ve ever come across. As for the brief, singular and unsubtle intrusion of the performers’ own thoughts on music and Greek myths, they are unexpectedly tossed into the proceedings like a large stone into the middle of a frozen pond, breaking the metaphorical ice and the strength of the whole piece. According to the programme notes, this production is the result of “over three years of development and workshops with young musicians”, some of whom join the main cast on stage for the alleged musical climax. Hopefully, they enjoyed the experience and have genuinely grown from being involved, for there was limited benefit from this Music not lost on its audience; sadly, a classic example of something being far less than the sum of its parts.

When Jo Clifford ("proud father and grandmother") first performed her play, The Gospel According to Jesus, Queen of Heaven, at Glasgow's Tron Theatre, it attracted both full houses and some 500 protestors outside the building. Nearly a decade later, the outrage continues: one petition, demanding that Edinburgh's Christmas festival apologises for including this "blasphemous" play in its 2018 programme, has attracted more than 26,000 signatures so far. Yet reviews continue to touch on five stars. The problem, though, is that both reactions strike me as having their foundations more in the play's subject (critiquing Christianity through a queer, and in particular trans, perspective) rather than the actual quality of the play itself. It's difficult otherwise to understand how anyone could become quite so impressed or incensed by this portentious, pretentious sermon performed with such soporific repetition that its hour-long running time feels interminable. Yes, there are a few, all-too-brief moments when genuine poignancy magically touches the heart, but they're fragile islands soon drowned under the rising water of uninspired Biblical plagiarism. "Beware the self-righteous and the hypocrite," our Jesus says. Perhaps she should add theatre critics on that list, but it's a dangerous assertion to make, given how close Clifford subsequently comes to glorifying the trans and queer. "Think poetically," she adds: yet there's little here that can be described as memorable, let alone "poetic". The script frequently lumbers as much as Clifford does physically around the long table which constitutes the "set"; the predictable recasting of familiar Biblical parables (a drunken "Queen" becoming the Good Samaritan, the prodigal son transitioning into a daughter, etc) alas retain their horrendous innate superiority. It would certainly be interesting to see this work performed by a trans actor capable of presenting this Jesus, less mannered, as distinctly less authorial. This may well explain its international success; as it is, if this "Gospel" has anything to say about the state of trans and queer rights in the world, it's that we're sadly still at the point where we'll praise something for being done at all, rather than for it being done well.

It's said that Edinburgh is a city, the size of a town, that feels like a village; or, in other words, the Scottish capital is sufficiently small and compact that you don't need all "six degrees of separation" to connect with its other inhabitants. Except, of course, Edinburgh has many "villages", social as much as geographical. Irvine Welsh's vicious Begbie, after all, is unlikely to know Muriel Spark's Miss Jean Brodie, especially in her "Prime". In many respects, the two principal characters in Kieran Hurley's Mouthpiece are just as unlikely a pairing: Libby, 46, a playwright who has lost her motivation to write, who's back living with her alcoholic mother somewhere within the city's respectable Radio 4-listening suburbs; in contrast there's Declan, 17, from one of the city's impoverished housing estates. They meet on Edinburgh's Salisbury Crags, when he stops her from jumping off the edge to her death; she, in turn, is entranced by his drawings, seeing in him a creative talent with the potential to flower despite his impoverished upbringing and volatile home life. So she seeks him out, gives him new art pencils and encourages him to draw. She takes him to see the Scottish Gallery of Modern Art, a place he didn't believe was for him, which he's amazed to discover is free to enter. Inevitably, the two grow closer: and, for at least its first half, Mouthpiece takes on the feel of an odd-couple romantic comedy, the pair's gentle ribaldry (of their musical tastes and dancing abilities, to name just two) slowly but surely demolishing their defences: until sex rears its head, of course, and suddenly the romance is gone. Hurley's Mouthpiece, the final work by the Traverse Theatre’s departing Artistic Director Orla O’Loughlin, comes with a certain level of self-awareness; the narrative's context, in part, is set by Libby's frequent references to the "rules" of drama and narrative, while the two characters' final confrontation is set during a post-show Q&A following a performance of Libby’s acclaimed new play, Mouthpiece... at the Traverse Theatre. Hurley’s point is clear: imposing narrative tropes on people's lives isn't always truthful. When Libby ends her play with the brutal death of Declan’s surrogate, he sees her as dismissing him... just like everyone else.O’Loughlin’s direction is unflashy, enabling Neve McIntosh and Lorn Macdonald to deliver two distinct yet emotionally authentic performances. Kai Fischer’s simple set successfully frames much of the action, while Kim Moore's use of sound and music supports the cast well. If the conclusion lacks a certain punch, it's arguably because Hurley can't go the whole way—after all, as an audience we’re consistently reassured by how we’re NOT sitting in an actual Q&A with the author.

What makes a "traditional" pantomime? It's certainly not just a case of blowing the dust off a 1970s panto script and hoping for the best; here, the Brunton’s now regular panto provider, John Binnie, writes and directs a new version of Jack and the Beanstalk that offers all the local references you'd expect, along with bold colours, numerous "Behind You!" moments, and comedy ranging from a cream pie in the face to light sexual innuendo. Yet it's equally of its time: most notably, with the significant role given to Jack's sister Jilly, played with considerable flair by Brunton Panto regular Eilidh Weir. Jilly is brave, bold and (much to her mother's disappointment) "scientific"; much more intelligent than Jack, she's full of questions and a determination to learn. So, definitely not the helpless damsel in distress. And yet the traditions of pantomime are strong: to her own surprise and horror, Jilly falls completely in love with Ewan Petrie's gloriously self-centred Prince Designer Labels, as he does for her... despite her being so NOT his "type". Thankfully, their gratuitous romantic duet is performed under duress, in a Big Cooking Pot while they're slowly boiled alive. Nevertheless, everything that's going on means that our titular Jack is ever-so-slightly on the back foot: Ross Donnachie is effective enough as the focus of our sympathies, albeit (at least this early in the run) sometimes a tad self-conscious during the dance routines. Sadly, he's almost constantly upstaged: by Jilly, by Graham Crammond’s solidly played Mither Mandy Moo Moo, numerous other broadly-outlined characters from Wendy Seager, and a pantomime cow with a penchant for lying in bed. A wonderfully loud production, it successfully distracts us from its inherent financial restraints. (The Beanstalk is done as well as last year’s somewhat bigger production at the Edinburgh King's Theatre.) Indeed, there’s only one serious scripted stumble: while it's definitely "traditional" to compare Jilly to a current politician, namely Scotland’s First Minister Nicola Sturgeon, it's surely not to have Jilly shout out for Scottish Independence. Good to have politics in a panto? Oh no it isn't!

The works by French poet and playwright Edmond Rostand, just one of the victims of the influenza pandemic which swept the world in 1918, are today largely forgotten; the one exception is his 1897 "heroic romance" Cyrano de Bergerac. Arguably the world's most famous play about "noses, war and love letters", Cyrano has enjoyed numerous revivals and adaptations on stage and screen, and been translated into English by authors including Anthony Burgess and Christopher Fry. Its "ugly duckling" story of a brash, strong-willed, poetic soldier forced by circumstances and self-doubt to write love letters, on behalf of a fellow cadet, to the woman he himself adores, has long resonated with audiences. Its innate emphasis on the power of words, however, has often proved problematic: arguably, none of the other adaptations have proved quite as "on the nose" (if you pardon the pun) as this Glaswegian Scots verse translation originally commissioned by Communicado Theatre Company for the 1992 Edinburgh Festival Fringe from the pen of Scotland’s inaugural Makar, Edwin Morgan. It's full of energy, emotion and some pretty forceful rhymes. This provides its own challenges, not least finding a cast capable of imbuing Morgan's audacious verse with emotional truth, and a lead actor with sufficient swagger, energy and stamina to play Cyrano – a character who, once he appears, is essentially on stage for the best part of three hours. Given the resources behind this new co-production between Glasgow's Citizens Theatre, Edinburgh's Royal Lyceum, and the National Theatre of Scotland, it's little surprise its cast are at home with the language; but its genuinely lucky to have Brian Ferguson, a charismatic actor with the sinewy energy to hold centre stage. Dominic Hill's familiar directorial style (he prefers a curtain-less stage, cluttered with tables, chairs, and costume racks, among which the cast mingle, sometimes wearing outrageous frocks and hairdos) fittingly focuses our attention on the words and emotions. Unlike its earlier run within the reportedly troubling acoustics of Glasgow's Tramway, here in the more traditional proscenium-arched Royal Lyceum Theatre, the cast are more clearly understood, at least emotionally, for it's fair to say that some of Morgan's vocabulary undoubtedly passes this somewhat middle-class Edinburgh audience by; but Lizzie Powell's lighting again superbly focuses our attention where it should be. If there's a potential failing in Morgan's translation, it's that he doesn't sufficiently cut back Rostand's early scene-setting; the story only kicks off once we understand the love-triangle between Cyrano, gauche lover Christian (Scott Mackie), and the object of both their affections, Roxane (a delightfully lucid, sharply nuanced Jessica Hardwick). Nevertheless, this production successfully imparts the original’s bittersweet tone: that only time distinguishes the superficial from the genuine, and often too late.

Watching Clare Duffy's one-act play "Arctic Oil", a particular phrase kept coming back to me: that mantra of 1960s' student protests and second-wave feminism, "the personal is political". Or, to put it another way, that people's – and especially women's – private, personal experiences are unavoidably entwined with larger societal, political structures. It's how this surprisingly tense, intergenerational showdown can touch on issues from global warming to the rise and fall of the oil industry.Duffy's chosen location is the bathroom of a house on a remote, and tantalisingly unspecified island, somewhere to the north of Shetland. As with the best dramas and sit-coms, it features two characters who are trapped in each other's company: physically, because the elder of the two, Margaret, has locked the very firm oak door and apparently swallowed the key; personally and socially, because they are Mother and Daughter, with a lifetime's resentments festering between them. Margaret's motivation is simple enough; to stop Ella from joining a soon-to-depart environmental protest ship that’s heading north to the Arctic.The younger woman, Ella, is herself a mother, but her baby son Sam is in another room, and apparently already a VERY sound sleeper. So, it's just the two of them: Margaret, who fears for her daughter's safety and the risk of her baby grandson losing his mother; and Ella, outraged by her mother's wilful interference in her desire to help draw attention to the environmental risks from the rigs drilling for oil in the Arctic. Ella sees her mother as part of the problem; Margaret believes that "certain people, of a particular disposition, will see apocalypse on every horizon." Director Gareth Nicholls ensures a naturally-paced drama here, with grounded, nuanced performances from both Jennifer Black (Margaret) and Neshla Caplan (Ella). Especially early on, though, it does feel as if they're fighting the set: designed by Gareth Nicholls and Kevin McCallum, it’s genuinely functional, and looks "lived in". Nevertheless, it's a tribute to his cast and Stephen Jones's edgy electronic soundtrack, that Nicholls is able to stoke up the tension in such a large space.

"Best leave history in the history books—get on with living." That's what Glasgow teenager Michael (Ryan Hunter) is told by his well-to-do grandmother Grace (Anne Kidd), in Scotties. She's that rare animal: an active senior citizen who (against stereotypes) never reminisces about the past. He's a youngster with a poor opinion of the Gaelic language his parents Aonghas and Morag (Stephen McCole and Mairi Morrison) have tried to pass on to him. Both, according to this new play by Muireann Kelly and Frances Poet, are attitudes to life with real, negative consequences for their own mental health and sense of self; indeed, we're shown how Grace's difficult emotional relationship with her daughter Morag pretty well proves the philosopher George Santayana's famous belief that "those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it". In the course of this 90 minute, one-act play, however, Michael does more than simply remember the past; while working on a school history project, he seemingly slips back the best part of one hundred years to live in it. He finds himself among a group of Irish potato pickers, working in and around the west of Scotland: being economic migrants, and Catholic among Protestants, they're viewed with hostility. This is where Kelly and Poet most risk rendering us insensible with their "subtlety", as they underscore, highlight, embolden and italicise the parallels between today's Brexit-dyed hostility to foreign workers (especially those looking and sounding different from us) to how Scotland reacted to the deaths, in 1937, of 10 Irish potato-pickers in a bothy fire. In contrast, the use of dreams to explain the time travel feels subtly done.Kelly, who also directs, plays with a variety of theatrical forms within a space where Simon Wilkinson's nuanced lighting can easily transform Charlotte Lane's apparently solid set into a ghostly, layered glimpse of the past. Just as layered is the script, which features three languages (Irish and Scottish Gaelic, as well as English) with the audience expected to work out what's going on from whatever dialogue they can understand. (Which, honestly, is easy enough to do, if you pay attention.) Arguably, this relatively "realistic" approach to Scotland's different languages is the most refreshing aspect of this particular time travel story.A grounded-ensemble cast do well in their various roles (doubling up when they have to) but special mention must go to Hunter, who imbues Michael's cheeky-teenager with more pathos than you might expect, and relatively professional newcomer Faoileann Cunningham, who excels as Molly, the lone survivor of an all-too-human tragedy which Scotland appears to have forgotten about quite deliberately. If nothing else, this play successfully resurrects its memory, for both its characters and audience.

Within a cluttered clearing in some woods that's neither town nor countryside and so somehow feels like nowhere, an unnamed Man (David McKay) sleeps the sleep of the just-finished-a-bottle-of-gut-rot-cider. He's woken up – eventually – by the desperate exploration of his broken home by a starving 12 year old Boy (Ashleigh More), on the run from something so terrible that he can't – more likely won't – initially say what it is.This latest co-production by Scottish children/YA theatre company Frozen Charlotte and arts organisation Stadium Rock is an excellently-performed two-hander which raises some important questions – even if it doesn't answer them – about the support our society gives to not just its children but also their parents when times get tough. Debut playwright Xana Marwick's dialogue is suitably minimalistic, at times harsh; while director Heather Fulton does a great job bringing out the meanings between the lines, including an opening scene which runs without dialogue for several minutes, effectively building the tension to when the Man first wakes. There's a touch of the archetypal here; objects in Katy Wilson’s set are nothing more than flat cut-outs, while the Boy's "one friend" – a crow – is represented through Geraldine Heaney's video animation (continuously displayed on one of three television screens dotted around the Man's camp) and a soundscape by Matt Elliott & Dougal Marwick. Fighting against any potential flights of fancy, McKay and More keep their characters rooted in reality – physically, verbally, emotionally. More is particularly impressive, given that this is her professional debut; yet her gender-blind casting remains distracting—why didn't they just make the Boy "the Girl"? Marwick's script is not without problems; not only does it rely slightly too much on coincidence, it never focuses as sharply as it could on its supposed central question of where the duty of care for the most vulnerable in society actually lies. Nevertheless, she imbues her characters with an at times fascinating and endearing imaginative life; and, in this production, sees her words given an effective, nuanced production of which everyone can be proud.

It's just four years since Pitlochry Festival Theatre put on a production of Anne Downie's 1989 play The Yellow On The Broom, based on the autobiographical novel by Betsy Whyte about Scotland's Travellers in the 1930s. Given that it's a workmanlike script rather than a classic – notable more for its subject matter than anything remotely poetic – you might well ask why Dundee Rep's Artistic Director Andrew Panton has chosen to revive it again so soon.The obvious answer is that it's been a hell of a four years, and the play's focus on the treatment of migrants and minority ethnic communities strikes a significantly different tone in our Brexited, Trumped 2018, one that was almost unimaginable during VisitScotland's "Year of Homecoming" in 2014. The play highlights the hand-to-mouth, itinerant life of one particular Traveller family effectively enough, as they move from one site of agricultural labour to the next; what's more toxic now is the constant risk of hostility, bigotry and simple hatred that can come from landowners, police or local school-children. Both Whyte and Downie offer some colour, of course; one of the Travellers we see in passing is indeed a drunken thief, while the reality of domestic abuse (talk of a woman beaten by her husband because she once sat with her legs apart) isn't outrightly condemned. Also, main character Bessie and her parents do occasionally benefit from the kindness of strangers: not least the support of an encouraging headmaster, who recognises the Traveller's culture as part of Scotland's history; or the friendship of a Jacobite-obsessed laird largely mocked and rejected by his own class for being damned "eccentric". "Memory, unlike people, cannot be contained," says the older Bessie, played with reliable strength by Rep veteran Ann Louise Ross; but Panton’s decision to split Bessie's role in two, with the charismatic Chiara Sparkes as the young girl in most of the action (while Ross narrates and observes from the side) doesn't quite work as a theatrical representation of memory. Having some cast-members in multiple roles – Irene Macdougall plays seven parts, at one point switching from vindictive school-girl to bigoted teacher mid-scene – while focusing our attention on the Townsley family, nevertheless undercuts the wider community they're in. Kenneth MacLeod's set – a natural amphitheatre – is initially impressive, but also limiting when long journeys on foot are represented by the cast wandering its circumference. A mix of traditional music and new compositions by John Kiely successfully underscores a sense of community and culture. But the play’s unavoidably episodic nature, as we follow the Townsley family through the seasons, strangely lacks impetus, with a succession of dramatic moments ultimately just not joined up strongly enough.

Paper Dolls is advertised as a one-man show, but the person standing in front of us for the next hour isn't the show’s performer, writer, director and producer Shaun Nolan; rather it's Billy, a young man who apparently decided to become a politician and sprouted his first pubic hair on the same day. It's quite good as first lines go, though arguably then slightly undermined by Billy not being sure whether the two were linked.Standing for election as a Westminster MP, Billy's campaign is initially somewhat sketchy, both within and outside of the story; until, that is, he decided upon the single issue that would help push his campaign forward. He chooses to push for unisex changing rooms within the Department Store where he works; a move which apparently raises a significant amount of controversy with local media, social media platforms and, eventually even some national mainstream news outlets. Over the course of a week, Billy learns much about the world, not least the near dozen other candidates also standing in the election.The most notable of these is the Conservative candidate (and Billy's most obvious "Frenemy") James. As with all the other characters, we only see James through Billy's eyes, and there are some reasons to doubt him for being a somewhat self-centred, unreliable narrator. Nevertheless the dynamic between the two characters is arguably the most interesting aspect of Paper Dolls, not least their momentary "Will they, Won’t they?" rendezvous in a gents toilet, full of narrative promise. In the end, though, James and the other characters are all there just to underscore Billy's own narrative, rather than explain their own. There’s an earnestness and presumption about this production that at times verges on the annoying; despite Nolan's on-stage presence and reasonable vocal talents, his own script ensures that it's neither easy to warm to Billy nor care much about his unisex changing rooms and the apparent animosity they inspire. To paraphrase the US radio presenter Ira Glass, Nolan’s taste is clearly excellent, but his work at the moment isn't really up to his own standards—yet.

The Traverse One stage looks more ready for a gig than a piece of theatre, but while music undoubtedly runs through the heart of Cora Bissett's latest, most autobiographical work, this is equally a heartfelt examination of parent-child relationships, presented with passion, tenderness and the fuck-you attitude of rock 'n' roll at its best. It's both specific in its details of the 1990s music scene, and universal in its recollections of growing up.To explain: clearing out the old family home in Glenrothes, Bissett – now an award-winning mainstay of Scottish theatre, as writer, director and actor – uncovered both her teenage diaries and the magazine and newspaper clippings that her late father had preserved. For Bissett's earliest professional performances, aged 17, were as lead singer of indie band Darlingheart. Signed to one of the big labels, they supported "posh" Radiohead and "Mockney" Blur. There was a buzz around Darlingheart; and, then, one failed album later, there wasn't. Screwed over by their manager, facing a massive tax bill with no money, the dream was over.Or, rather, it was just her first attempt, as following an attempted solo music career, aborted before it even began, she moved to London looking for success in life, music and love. Under the guidance of the Traverse’s departing artistic director Orla O’Loughlin, Bissett has now condensed all her teenage experiences into a piece of theatre where, sharply dressed in black jeans and t-shirt, she's once again the lead singer. The rest of the band – actors Simon Donaldson and Grant O'Rourke, with the percussive brilliance of musician Susan Bear – take on all the other roles, with alacrity and emotional commitment. The days of an NME review deciding a band's fate are long gone, of course, but there’s much here still relevant about the way the music industry and media can chew up and spit out young, fragile youth without a care. Yet that’s just details; the core story here is really about mums, dads and their daughters. That said, don't be in too much of a hurry to leave—you’ll miss seeing the Darlingheart video!

It seems that Cardiff-based Hijinx Theatre Company are happy to take risks. Not when it comes to integrating professional actors with learning disabilities in their productions; that's been a successful, creatively fulfilling policy for years. Not when it comes to working with physical theatre comedy ensemble Spymonkey; Hijinx has long worked with the best. No, isn't the big risk here tempting fate by bringing a show to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe called The Flop?If it was a risk, then The Flop is one definitely worth taking, for this latest Hijinx/Spymonkey production is a brilliantly entertaining French farce that's well aware of its production shortcomings and exploits them mercilessly for great comedic purpose. What we might kindly refer to as the plot is inspired by the true case of the Marquis de Langey; back in pre-Revolutionary France, he was sued by his wife's family for failing to impregnate her. He was then forced through Trial by Congress to prove, under public legal scrutiny, that he was physically capable of consummating their marriage.The show takes the form of a fourth-wall-breaking pantomime, presented by six gormless players who are forced to work with a minimal number of props and costumes, in front of a wide wooden set which includes numerous doors and windows which, as in any farce, are used with great frequency. Almost from the start it's clear that the humour will be broad, unsubtle, and laced with anachronistic references by a sharp, on-the-ball cast and crew, underscoring the whole artificiality of the production, especially when some of the cast attempt to grab their moment in the spotlight. A great ensemble keep this deliberately shambolic show going forward at just the right pace, without losing any of the clarity that effective farces require. And, though it might seem strange to say it, the remarkably witty script - devised by the whole company – manages to sneak in a few serious points (“The Patriarchy didn’t give me pockets,” for example) that are played lightly but effectively. Definitely good fun if you possess a bawdy sense of humour.

Mark Thompson is quite clear about what his (modestly) titled Spectacular Show isn't: "It's not a science lecture," he insists. "It's all about having a bit of fun with science." Though, obviously, it's fun with a "Don't try this at home" caveat, at least regarding some chemical reactions shown during the show. Science, he warns us all on several occasions, should be treated with respect— as the slight whiff of burnt man-hair reminds us! Yes, there's an educational aspect to the show, in that Thompson explains some of the basics of physics: that electrons repel each other; that some gases are lighter than air, and inert; that air pressure changes depending on how fast or slow air is moving. Thompson doesn't particularly go into details: after all, the average age of the audience was probably around six-years-old! You get the feeling that he believes the important thing at this point is the attention-grabbing spectacle, and connecting the "science" to things children can easily relate to in their world.Arguably, that's why the most successful displays involve everyday objects rather than complex mechanisms showing different sound wavelengths in a line of flames. (On the day of this review, the kids around me seemed pretty confused by Thompson bringing out his stylophone, while some of the grown-ups wriggled uncomfortably with their own spoiled childhood memories of Rolf Harris.) In contrast, across the board there seemed a genuine wonder at the water-absorbent crystals commonly found in babies' nappies, and real surprise when Thompson spectacularly showed us just how much stored energy there actually is in an individual jelly baby. Thompson is an engaging figure on stage, though consciously always a grown-up, rather than a sugar-rush CBBC presenter. As to whether such shows encourage any real interest in STEM subjects (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics)... well, until someone starts keeping academically-defensible records over the long-term, it's surely not an unreasonable conclusion that they're unlikely to do any obvious harm. Especially given the many excited kids I saw leaving the venue afterwards.

Wonderfully unexpected opportunities can occur at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe; even more so at the 'Free' variety. You can be queuing for Stephen Bailey: Our Kid only to discover that, as he's away 'doing some TV,' his slot in the room is filled by another young, gay standup called James Barr. Curiously, as we shuffle in, none of us seems upset by the news, perhaps because no money has yet changed hands.Either that or a significant proportion of the audience already know Barr from his TV, radio and voiceover work for the likes of MTV, Bauer Radio and Heat magazine (clearly I’m not keeping up with Culture!) and trust him to offer reasonable value. While still relatively new to standup comedy, Barr clearly knows how to both work an audience and structure a show for reasonable narrative impact. If this particular crowd is slightly more inhibited than he's used to, it's likely down to this particular performance starting at 5.15pm rather than 9.50pm, with all the implications regarding inhibitions and alcohol consumption. Subject-wise, we're on pretty familiar ground; Barr's show is primarily about his (increasingly desperate) search for 'the one' and that perfect, long-term relationship with the man of his dreams. It's a desperation that can be triggered by a Royal Wedding (especially one involving a fellow red-head); it can inspire the fear that he's like an avocado dangerously close to its 'best by' date, ready to be rejected in Waitrose. The costume change involved may not seem particularly necessary, but his riff on being an avocado is a fine example of its kind, delivered with just the right level of innuendo. There are, of course, obligatory tales of dating apps, but arguably the most interesting moments are with the potential dates – ie, cute audience members – Barr brings up on stage. In at attempt to accelerate the intimacy between them, he asks some of the 36 questions devised by the US psychologist Arthur Aron to bring couples closer together. Despite the risks, this is when Barr proves he can stay absolutely in control, regardless of any weird material the public throws at him.

So what exactly IS the Trouble with Scott Capurro? Is it that this left-leaning liberal American (yes, he's the one, apparently) seemingly talks without pausing for breath? ("Are you keeping up or is this too fast?") Is it because his alleged raison d'être is using the blackest humour to "make the unpalatable, palatable"? Is it his glee when audience members walk out—which he achieves within ten minutes, on the night of this review?.Or is it that, despite engaging with nigh on every single remaining person in the room during the course of his wide-ranging monologue (some might use the adjective "rambling," but it's so smoothly done it feels like there's a route map somewhere), there was disappointment when the one person he doesn’t attempt to interact with in any way – that's me, by the way – happens to be a reviewer? Certainly he would know that someone from Broadway Baby was in the audience that evening; was I really that obvious, sitting in the third row, writing in my notebook without looking down?It may, of course, be that he got his fill of material from the rest; there is only so much material even he can fit into under an hour and the one thing you can definitely say about a Scott Capurro set is that he does cover quite a lot of subjects, even if some are lightning-fast asides before he swoops back to the main subject of the moment, which in this case was either his "big, black" Mexican boyfriend, his step-mother, or the Brighton gig where he ended up being half-strangled by an outraged audience member. Capurro is one of nature's sharpest raconteurs, yet there was a sense the night of this review that he wasn't firing on full cylinders; either that, or perhaps it’s just the wearisome consequences of marriage beginning to wear him down. Even that kind of Capurro, though, is still head, shoulders and a significant amount of upper torso above the competition—as he glances at us, daring us to be outraged. Some trouble is definitely worth it.

Tim Renkow insists he’s spent the last decade on the comedy circuit trying to find a social or racial group that he’s NOT able to insult, because that would mean – as a disabled redneck from the Southern States of the USA – he had finally found someone worse off than him. But, no such luck. So he just has to start the show as he means to go on—punching up like the rebel he is.“All stereotypes are true,” Renkow points out early on; the difficult thing to remember is they don’t tell the whole story. So if people see his cerebral palsy and immediately put Renkow in the box labeled “the disabled”, it only seems fair when he returns the favour, most obviously with how some non-disabled people can appear so condescending, patronising or just damned nervous in his company. Mind you, his behaviour in lifts does sound a bit strong, though a lifetime of people calling me “brave” just for going about my day probably would make me a tad snappy too. As with any successful stand-up, Renkow’s gift is to show us the world from a different perspective, not least questioning why the designers of buses seem to assume that wheelchair users and babies will automatically get on well with each other. Yet if travelling on an accessible bus is now an increasingly common option for someone like Renkow, it’s still nothing compared with the delights of the London Night Bus in the early hours, and the archetypal characters you will meet there—not least the Lost Tourist, who will never see their life in quite the same way again. On the night of the review, Renkow did seem to have a few problems remembering where he was in the set, which he blamed on having earlier drunk Irn Bru for the first time. Although he did deliver a kind of inspirational message about seeing people as people, he was also sufficiently on a sugar rush to not take it too seriously. We don’t want Renkow becoming too friendly—where’d be the fun in that?

What a difference a decade can make. When, back in 2008, Midsummer was first performed within the intimate space of Traverse 2, the "indie-rom-com musical" seemed a surprisingly inconsequential affair, especially given it was co-created and directed by David Greig, who the previous year had enjoyed huge acclaim for the double-whammy of Damascus (about Western intervention in the Middle East) and a new adaptation of Euripides' The Bacchae starring Alan Cumming. Now it's 2018, and Greig is not only one of Scotland’s leading writers, but also Artistic Director of the Royal Lyceum Theatre, the Scottish capital's principal producing theatre. Midsummer, the small experimental musical co-created with Gordon McIntryre (of Edinburgh indie group Ballboy) and done very much "for fun", is now given pride of place in the Edinburgh International Festival, in an enlarged version performed within one of the city's most august (no pun intended) venues, the Hub. This is arguably the story of the Little Musical That Could, and it looks as if it's doing so all over again. Essentially, Midsummer is the story of Helena and Bob: she, a divorce lawyer; he, a small cog in Edinburgh’s criminal underground. They’re both 35, and beginning to question the course their lives. The pair meet in a wine bar at the start of Edinburgh's midsummer weekend (it's raining), get horribly drunk, have sex, and then assume they'll never see each other again. But we know they must, not least because their story is in part being told by older versions of themselves, clearly a couple. Indeed, the staging initially resembles a wedding reception or anniversary celebration.Greig's inventive, lively writing provides a strong foundation for an engaging cast, who are kept focused by director Kate Hewitt; yet the added joy really comes from McIntyre's songs. Some will make you laugh—not least that hangover song! Others make for pause and reflection. A decade on, Midsummer – now with a cast of just five (not including the rest of the live band) – has naturally, gracefully grown to fit its much larger venue.

"Life is a hideous thing," we're told by the lean figure of Simon Maeder, dressed for dinner and sitting in a leather armchair like some classic teller of ghost stories. We can hardly see him for the dry ice, but it's true that the man he's playing is like smoke himself, an author more famous now than during his lifetime, revered by many as one of the most influential writers of weird fantasy and horror.The Anglophile American author Howard Phillips Lovecraft is nowadays best known for "the Cthulu Mythos", the collective title given to numerous short stories and novellas in which he explored ideas of ancient, unknown Elder Gods and unspeakably horrific "Old Ones". Lovecraft's core belief was that human conceptions of law and morality were meaningless in cosmological terms, and that it was naive arrogance on our part to even think otherwise. This new play by Maeder and Dominic Allen suggests quite strongly that this particular perspective was probably a result of his snobbish character and even more restrained upbringing in late 19th / early 20th-century New England. Certainly there's evidence aplenty, which Maeder and his co-writer and fellow performer Dominic Allen gleefully present for our attention. Lovecraft was only four when his father was struck by mental illness. He himself had a mental breakdown at 18 and lived with an overprotective mother until he was 30. Allen and Maeder suggest that Lovecraft grew up into a self-loathing snob, ready to sing 'God Save The King' on the Fourth of July; a wannabe English gentleman for whom writing for money was unbecoming; an immigrant-hating white man whose "problem with New York City is everybody else".The pair happily point out the Lovecraftian paradoxes, not least him marrying a Jewish emigrant despite his self-published anti-semitism. Maeder's main achievement is bringing humanity to Lovecraft's gaunt image, whilst Allen is a bundle of energy and humour, constantly switching between supporting characters as and when required. While sometimes lacking narrative clarity, the overall result is a lively telling of a life that ironically reads almost exactly like an H P Lovecraft story.

It was irresistible, I suppose: part way through Dan Freeman’s absurdist play A Joke, the acclaimed Scottish actor John Bett turns to his co-stars to start a joke with: "Doctor, Doctor". "Yes," reply Sylvester McCoy (the seventh Doctor Who) and Robert Picardo (the Emergency Medical Hologram, aka 'The Doctor', from Star Trek: Voyager). The moment does get a knowing laugh, but what's interesting is that it's by no means the biggest during the show.This is important; any accusations of McCoy and Picardo's presence being stunt-casting crumble away in the light of them firstly being so good on stage, and secondly attracting a far wider audience than just Doctor Who and Star Trek fans. McCoy's physicality and Picardo's verbal dexterity are perfectly matched by Bett's mastery of the play's razor-sharp dialogue and rapid-fire one-liners. "An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a joke"; by far the biggest 'joke' about this particular cast is that the archetypal 'Scotsman' here is the only one NOT played by a Scottish actor.While the Fringe is surely the most open of all the Edinburgh Festivals, to the new and unexpected, there's also a place for something like this, where we can all genuinely relax in the hands of three skilled, experienced and relaxed performers who know what they're about. Under Tony Cownie's praiseworthy direction, there are no worries of a misjudged performance: just the opportunity to enjoy three actors who appear totally at one with their amnesiac characters as they argue, disagree and begin to work together in order to work out the 'who, what, where, when and why' of their situation. A Joke, naturally, has something to say about the structure of jokes: a punchline "has to punch"; you can either be in a joke or live happily ever after, but not both. Sadly, in explaining the joke, it's all too easy to suck the life out of it. And so it is here: pithy rapport not withstanding among the cast, this still ends up a play which fizzles out rather than deliver a memorable punchline.

Perhaps it is because of the multi-show venue, or just the financial realities of bringing any production to the Edinburgh Fringe nowadays, but Peter Darney’s production of Charles Gershman’s Free & Proud is a stripped down affair. Two actors: Faaiz Mbelizi and Michael Gilbert. Two chairs which they bring onto an otherwise empty dark stage. The only theatrical support comes from Nicola Chang’s soundscape and Sherry Coenen’s subtle lighting design. Our attention is, necessarily, sharply focused.Which is just as well; Free & Proud is a deceptively concentrated emotional tour-de-force, exploring, in a mixture of almost interacting flashbacks, the story of a failing marriage. In so many respects it is a universal story, but what undoubtedly adds flavour and subtle colour to the mix is that it happens to be a marriage between two gay men: Nigerian physicist Hakeem and American data analyst Jeremy. So we see them meet, fall in love, marry, then begin to lose what was special between them when the underlying differences between them begin to grow. So far, so predictable. And yet... A central metaphor referred to throughout Free & Proud is of a dot moving on a line between two points; the inevitability of motion, and both the dangerous paralysis and potential for reinvention that comes from finding yourself stuck—whether this is in scientific exploration or a relationship. This can hardly be described as a play with excessive on-stage movement, but what there is (devised by Jess Tucker-Boyd) is narratively significant from the start, when we find the optimistic Hakeem on a bus chatting with an old woman while depressed Jeremy is stuck at home hating the spreadsheets on his computer.Although a sharply observed and subtly directed examination of the birth and death of relationships – both romantic and family – what makes Free & Proud really memorable are Mbelizi’s and Gilbert’s heart-felt, nuanced performances. Given that what we have here are, for the most part, two occasionally interlinked monologues, the success of this production is rooted in both actors being capable of sharing and playing with the emotional balance between their characters, all to the betterment of the act in its entirety.

For anyone who thinks they don't make physical comedians like Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton any more, here's a word from the wise—which, in this context, essentially means anyone who has just come out of Kaput. Simply put, they do; and there is arguably none better, at the moment, than the larger-than-life Australian "acrobatic clown" Tom Flanagan, whose award-winning family show is contributing to a rise of kazoo playing among children! There are plenty of self-defined "family shows" in the Fringe nowadays, but Kaput combines simplicity and intelligence in a way that genuinely keeps the kids and accompanying adults laughing, albeit not always for exactly the same reasons. More than once, Flanagan subtly mimes something flying over his head, presumably referring to mildly naughty jokes which adults will see but their kids hopefully won't. That said, I'm assuming the red silk hanky hanging out of Flanagan’s back-pocket (a prop for later on) isn't in any way a reference to the hanky code common in the 1970s' American gay scene! The show's scenario is simple enough: Flanagan is the projectionist-come-handyman of a small provincial cinema (presumably back in the "silent" era) who accidentally puts a hole in the screen just before the 1.30pm showing of A Love Story. His attempts to repair the damage only make matters worse, and a succession of incredibly physical mishaps (as he tries to glue up some new paper to cover the gaping holes his "repairs" create) almost lead to the cinema burning down. The echoes of Chaplin and Keaton are clear, but lightly performed—and if you're a child, of course, they’re absolutely new. What makes Kaput so special is Flanagan's easy rapport with audience members of all ages—and it's not just because he initially offers popcorn as a bribe to keep us happy. When, out of seeming frustration, he brings an audience member up to help re-enact the film, Flanagan reveals a genuine talent for getting the best out of people who minutes earlier never thought they’d take part in a five-star Festival Fringe show.

It's obvious from the loud, excited audience in Assembly Studio 3 that London-based comedy theatre trio The Pretend Men – Nathan Parkinson, Zachary Hunt and Tom Rose – have returned to Edinburgh with something of a reputation, after previous critically acclaimed, sell-out performances of their high-tempo, cinematically-inspired Police Cops, and its unexpectedly 1980s "low-fi sci-fi" sequel Police Cops in Space. Tonight's audience is clearly expecting to have a really good time.We do. The humour – verbal, visual or both – isn't so much thick and fast as a constant downpour, leaving breathing between laughs very much a personal option. Pretty much all of the show is incredibly silly, but that doesn't mean The Pretend Men assume their audiences are stupid; the speed at which even the envelope narrative – set on a distant alien world where robots rule and humans are despised third-class citizens – is genuinely surprising. The Pretend Men clearly assume their audiences are sufficiently up to speed with the genre to know what's going on with a minimum of explanation.The main story, about the drunken son of a famed Police Cop in Space who comes to accept his destiny in the face of a murderous android, is iconic enough to be understandable – to the extent that much of the background is sketched out with a few scraps of dialogue and some moments of physical theatre, during which the cast seem willing to loose layers of clothing. This main part of the narrative is focused on Sammy (Parkinson) getting back to Earth; his pilot Ranger (Hunt) is no Han Solo, however, and the other characters (mostly Rose) aren't exactly Star Wars material either.The improbability and ridiculousness of some of the situations, plus the occasional "malfunctions" of props and costumes (inevitable, really, given the speed of the show), is such that even these three performers aren't always capable of keeping a straight face. But they’re lucky; with this kind of show, "corpsing", while still to be avoided, nevertheless enhances the mood, reinforcing the bond between the cast and audience. Simply put, we're all "in on the joke".

Tom Neenan has been a regular Fringe attraction for several years now, bringing a succession of one-man pastiches - Edwardian ghost story, Vaudeville Horror tale, 1950s British Science Fiction, etc. – easily defined by their knowledgeable wit, focus on wordplay and speed of delivery. Yet while many of his previous central characters have been oblivious to certain of their own character flaws, Neenan takes this to a whole new level with his latest creation. . . . . Tom Neenan.Tom's girlfriend, Hannah, is missing; she vanished one day in a motorway service station, leaving only a cryptic text message: "It's Always Infinity". As any sensible, forward-thinking, feminist man would do, Tom has decided to both search for her himself (who needs Missing Persons?) and turn the whole experience into a multi-media theatrical work on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Which, of course, Tom sees as a perfectly proper response to the situation. But then Tom IS the kind of man who believes it possible for him to perform a scene that passes the Bechdel Test with flying colours.It's fair to say that on this occasion, Neenan, the show's creator, rather than Tom - the character, on stage – is flying without the reliable parachute of easily identifiable and mockable genre characteristics; It's Always Infinity is very much a character-based comedy where his strongest material arises from Tom's total blindness to his own failings, and just how ridiculous his thought processes and actions actually are. Arguably, Neenan occasionally over-eggs the point, not least at the beginning, but then again it's difficult to argue against a full room of people laughing at Tom's amazingly skewered idea of a perfect date. As expected, there is an entirely sensible explanation for the whole situation, which comes just as Tom is on the point of totally losing it on stage. Certainly, you can never criticise Neenan for holding back as a performer; his commitment to his characters is full-on, and he's always willing to let the audience decide about them—even as his scripts carefully guide us to the "right" decision about them, the outcome being clever, and thought-provoking.

Marmite: it’s the breakfast spread that we apparently love or hate, and the word has – in that way the English language often does – subsequently evolved far wider metaphorical implications covering a whole host of things we’re unlikely to sit on the fence about. Which is why, it turns up here as the title of a funny, heartfelt story of love, sex and an ultimately doomed relationship between two young gay men.Eddie and Dylan first meet in a Wetherspoon’s in Bristol. They’re both on dates with other guys, but the pair end up going back to Eddie’s. This is the hesitant, "Aw, bless!" start of what appears to be a beautiful relationship; even Eddie’s bold-as-brass sister Rosie thinks his new beau is handsome. While she clearly loves her little brother, she ironically puts in motion a set of events that ultimately dooms the couple. After Dylan has moved in, she innocently asks whether or not they plan to be exclusive, and it's all too obvious that Eddie is shocked when Dylan doesn’t immediately say "yes". Co-writers and co-directors Hallam Breen and Phoebe Simmonds have come up with a tightly scripted, sharply observed tale playing with ideas of monogamy, trust and loyalty in a relationship. Admittedly, their conclusion is pretty obvious - if both partners are not on the same page in terms of how they see their relationship, this could lead to disaster. Not being written in the 1990s, though, we at least avoid either of the gay men dying. Spoilers: there's something approaching a hopeful conclusion, even if it's not the obvious Disney happily ever after.Of course, a big part of this production’s success is thanks to its cast. Jonas Moore easily embodies Eddie’s awkward anger and frustration. Meanwhile Matt Pettifor absolutely nails Dylan’s hot mixture of doubt and pretty-boy swagger. That said, both simply have to be at the top of their game, otherwise Rosanna Hitchen, as Rosie, would easily walk away with the show under her arm. A bright, bold and lively adventure in modern living.

People Show have been producing work for more than 50 years which, given the self-indulgence of People Show 130 (or The Last Straw, to give its more Fringe-friendly title), is something of a surprise. This is a work that’s needlessly puzzling, inherently boring and very occasionally startling in turns, although it's most often the latter for not particularly interesting reasons: an exercise in theatre-training that’s somehow escaped out into the real world. But what's going on? There's a man (Gareth Brierley), dressed in purple and pink; there's a woman (Fiona Creese) mainly in green. They talk, more or less intensely, for the best part of an hour, sometimes at each other, sometimes at where they were standing just moments before, sometimes into each others' faces. "Here’s a thing. Where are the Philippines?" he asks at the start, without thought of looking for a map. "With great stories come great truths," he adds, portentously. Frankly, it's too easy for the mind to wander, to become distracted by the setting, and what it contains. Within Summerhall’s Demonstration Room, where who knows what veterinary lectures were once given, People Show have created a circular performance space carpeted in shredded white paper. (Using newspapers might have been more symbolically appropriate, given the supposed theme here.) The space is partly illuminated by floodlights erected in four "corners". In the centre there's an erect door in a frame (which is opened precisely once during the show) with a dog-shaped draft excluder at its base. There's a fan, some heaters; and, distractingly, a hamster cage in the rear which is, annoyingly, not featured once, so why is it there? At one point Brierley tells the story of self-serving, authoritarian bears elected by warring squirrels who just want things to get better, while Creese tells of a lost grey parrot in the park, which she fears has been brutally killed by seagulls. Genuinely upset, she then repeats a happier version of events which Brierley whispers in her ear; and for one, brief glorious moment People Show 130 actually works. But, alas, it doesn't last.

David Mills is always well turned out: sharp-suited, finely tuned, sitting on his stool like some Easy Listening Singer from a bygone age. Indeed, there's something compulsively melodic about his laid-back delivery; his barely-pausing-for-breath monologue, with its near-poetic repetitions, deviations and call-backs to us, his "people". And, to keep the branding consistent with his poster, he enters holding a somewhat prickly plant: well suited for each other?Well, certainly one audience member thought so; clearly feeling somewhat exposed on the front row, a late middle-aged man attempted to Paddington Bear-stare Mills out, failed to put him off, and then left his wife to enjoy the rest of the show. That Mills won this "battle of the wills" so decisively, without fuss, proves that he’s not just a guy who's “smart and funny and looking dynamite”; he works well with his audience, not least (on the day of this review) another front-row-audience-member who had the seeming advantage of being younger, sexier and German.It's easy to list the subjects Mills talks about: the excessive number of promotional "weeks" in London; the countless Edinburgh Festivals, and his own history at the Fringe; the best things about Prison; the new perspective this London-based American now that he has dual (or should that be "duel"?) citizenship; the wonders of Stonehenge; Brexit; turning 50; and keeping young by having as much sex as possible; when being gay used to be cool; his Mother; the horrors of technology. But you have to listen, people, listen to Mills to get the full effect; there really is no alternative. Yes, there’s a genuine risk of Mills actually pulling some kind of inspirational point from out of his own (some might call "tawdry") experiences. Thankfully, he chooses to soften the sharp edges of this homily with his wonderful low-key mixture of charm, irritation and polite disdain. And then he exits – far too soon, we laugh – from Underbelly's Wee Coo performance space, with plant in hand. Hopefully, both will be sufficiently watered; they deserve it.

Erewhon: or, Over the Range is a fantasy novel by Samuel Butler which, first published anonymously in 1872, presented itself as the experiences of its narrator on discovering the mysterious country and near-utopian community of Erewhon – an anagram of "nowhere" – which had largely abandoned the controlling influence of technology. Seen by many as a satire of Victorian society, Erewhon was praised by George Orwell and even referenced in a recent episode of Doctor Who.While undoubtedly following in the literary tradition of Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels, Bulter's Erewhon lacks its iconic cultural status, meaning that a certain amount of contextual explanation is required. Adaptor and performer Arthur Meek is happy to provide this at the start of this co-production with Edinburgh-based Magnetic North: not least the narrator's imperialistic, mysognistic, homophobic attitudes which are neither to be applauded nor condoned. Meek, self-identifying as a white straight male, insists that he's in no position to either excuse or apologise for the consequences of British Imperialism around the world, especially with regards indigenous cultures. What follows, though, is the tale of a British explorer who, seeking adventure, unthinkingly – and only for time – "goes native". With some subtlety we're led into a scenario where first contact is effectively made by the native culture rather than the arch imperialist; much of the humour in this reworking comes from seeing our man "George" outraged that the imposition of culture and beliefs wasn't the other way round. When he finally rebels, he accuses the Erewhonians of being incapable of questioning the society and moral standards into which they were born—a charge equally applicable to him, of course! The USP of this presentation is that it is given as an old-school Magic Lantern show, albeit one reliant on LSD-illumination, the occasional use of an iPhone, and accompanied by pulsing, amped-up electric score performed live by Eva Prowse. While the disparate illustrative styles of the numerous artists responsible for the slides don't really add anything to the presentation, the mix of technologies on display is both entertaining and thematically satisfying.

"Bitter Sweet Symphony" by The Verve. "Fly Away" by Lenny Kravitz. Some song by the Spice Girls. My Left Nut's pre-show soundtrack alone does a great job of taking us back to 1998, although it's left to Michael Patrick to give us the geographic context of Belfast. Not the Belfast of the Troubles, or the signing of the Good Friday Agreement; this is the Belfast of an eight-year-old boy being told his father has died.In many respects, My Left Nut perfectly fits the blueprint for a show on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. It comes with an innuendo-laden title and superficial subject - specifically, growing up with an enlarged testicle - which actually covers far deeper topics, such as mortality, or a boy growing up without the influence of a father. Not only that, it does so with real tact, literary skill and genuine understanding. The accompanying programme makes a point of noting this is the first play either Michael Patrick or Oisin Kearney have written; if nothing else, that suggests we have two talented playwrights here. Having a great script is one thing, but its value is limited without a brilliant performance and appropriate direction. As seems increasingly common in Edinburgh in August, the set here is a single wooden chair on an empty stage; it's thanks to Patrick's brilliantly engaging and energetic performance that we truly connect with both him and his mates – those "beautifully cocky, terrified guys" – as they attempt to discover how the world works and also how they can meet girls. Patrick, under the guidance of producer Una NicEoin, director Kearney and mentor/director Emma Jordan, easily holds our attention from start to finish.This is a show not only full of humour and buzzing energy, but also one unafraid to pause and give breathing space for those quieter, emotional beats that, once you connect the dots, properly show us Patrick's own growth from Sega "Streets of Rage"-playing eight-year-old towards an adult beginning to emphasise with his mother’s experiences. An undoubted and wonderfully entertaining tour de force that deserves to be seen sooner rather than later.

Rik Carranza is a Star Trek fan. Still. The title of this touching, heartfelt show rather gives that away, which is why it's initially a surprise when he tells us how at one point he boxed up all his Star Trek memorabilia and donated it to a charity shop. And then went on to become a football fan, because he wanted to be "normal". Yet the team he chose happened to wear red-shirts—coincidence?Carranza’s show may, on the surface, be about how he became a fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation (through its terrestrial BBC2 broadcasts on Wednesdays at 6pm, the BBC's "geek slot" during the 1990s, and also home to Thunderbirds, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and old Doctor Who re-runs). However, on a more fundamental level – and why you should consider seeing this show even if you don't self-identify as a "geek" or "fan" of anything, let alone Star Trek – it's about him finding a place in the world, and a family and community he can call "home". Carranza grew up in Edinburgh's Granton area, son of a Filipino father and Scottish mother. He offers some interesting perspectives on the different emotional cultures they came from, and how they reacted to the verbal and physical bullying that was a regular part of his life while at school. He also explains how Star Trek – with its multi-racial casts, occasionally profound ideas and less profound phaser-blasting space-battles – became an imaginative safe space. Except when it wasn't: a revealing moment is when he explains how Depression could turn even Star Trek's iconic "Live long and prosper" against him. Spoiler: it sort of all worked out in the end. Well, that's pretty obvious given that Carranza is standing on the stage in front of us, in fine spirits and with a Trek-loving girlfriend (sorry boys) in his life. That's good news for us, though: Carranza's a genuinely funny, amiable and honest performer, and his skill in teasing out the wider social implications of his own experiences ensures an entertaining hour in his company.

Until relatively recently in Western society, children with physical, sensory or learning disabilities, or a wide range of neural and behavioural challenges, were either institutionalised in "special" schools or abandoned to the back of the classroom. Since the 1980s, a more "inclusive" ideology has brought children with Special Educational Needs (SEN) into mainstream education; arguably, the problem with this policy is that it's seldom, if ever, come with sufficient financial resources to make it work. Written and performed by Samuel Clayton, Statements is a one-man play which aims to explain the challenges of current SEN support from a wide range of perspectives: Clayton portrays a several teachers and support staff on the front line, parents, and – most importantly – three boys under the age of 10 with SEN. This is clearly a well-researched piece (Clayton has worked alongside children with SEN for several years) but the resulting knowledge is carried lightly and, despite the set consisting of a just a single wooden chair and a flip-chart, presented with significantly more "show" than "tell". Agency-supplied teaching assistant Chris, although by no means the first character we encounter, ends up being the link between the three boys with SEN, as he is assigned to each in turn despite a lack of support or training that could otherwise help him make a real difference to their lives. There's Daniel, who has Aspergers and a remarkable connection with music; Javid, the refugee with Down's Syndrome who has never been to school before; and Toby, whose anger issues are arguably best summed up in his comment that "It's hard to say sorry, easy to make a scene." Most of Clayton's targets are pretty obvious: not least the assertion that the use of professional acronyms, industrial terminology and grand-sounding initiatives can easily, dangerously turn "children" into "case studies". Beautifully written and directed, the show's simple staging focuses our attention on Clayton's respectful, distinct portrayals; an energetic masterclass in character performance. Despite its somewhat downbeat conclusions, Statements remains a poignant, ultimately exhilarating perspective on the world; most importantly, one that simply refuses to preach.

This November happens to mark the 55th anniversary of the BBC broadcasting the first ever episode of Doctor Who, so it's hardly surprising that several shows on this year's Fringe have again opted to grab hold of this now-iconic part of British culture; indeed, the people behind Space Doctor even touch on some of the aspects which distinguish Doctor Who from other popular British TV shows like EastEnders—its active fandom base, for example.So this show begins with its audience suddenly playing the role of the audience at the 40th anniversary convention of Space Doctor, a (very) short-lived series apparently broadcast for little more than a minute on BBC2, back in 1978. This hasn't stopped at least one devoted fan, Nancy Adric, from organising annual conventions, and writing new Space Doctor scripts (although for copyright reasons she's changed the names of most of the characters and concepts). The suggestion is that she alone has kept enthusiasm for the long-cancelled show high among the guests and audience alike—albeit at gunpoint. Certainly there’s potential here: it was near enough on its 40th anniversary, after more than 16 years 'lost in the wilderness' as an ever-so-derided piece of cult TV, that the news broke about the BBC making a new series of Doctor Who. This is not, however, the fate for Space Doctor; we're promised a re-enactment of the first episode, but this stumbles on the not-so-shocking revelation that Space Doctor is actually real and that the biggest mistake the programme's producers made was to show just how low-budget the rest of the universe actually looks. What follows is an unsubtle parody of Doctor Who's vengeful aliens, 'celebrity historicals' (hello Henry VIII) and 'timey-whimey' plots; it has all the speed of the best farces, but lacks the clarity, sharpness, and slammed doors—like a rushed student revue where the cast are having more fun than the audience. As for the final plot twist about the relationship between time-travelling Space Doctor and Doctor Who, well… you’ve probably guessed it already.

I'm sure that history will suggest otherwise but, after seeing George Steeves perform his one man show, I couldn't help but think that Stevie Wonder must have written his song "Lately" with him in mind. Its frequent reference to 'a man of many wishes' seems very appropriate, given what Steeves tells us about his young self—not least his overriding determination to enter (and of course win) US television talent show American Idol. Children very early on develop aspirations as to what they want to achieve when they grow up, and Steeves is quite clear about just how determined he was regarding participating in American Idol. As the show’s title suggests, this is partly because Steeves has Asperger's Syndrome. This pervasive developmental disorder – if you pardon the medical term – has had a signifiant impact on his entire life. While there's the possibility of a happy ending for this talented singer, actor and writer, it's not easy hearing about his slow and often painful progress through the American education system. With any show based on the performer’s own life and experiences, there's always the question of just how much has been tweaked slightly for the convenience of retelling. However the sentiment feels genuine here. Few people would choose to relate a moment when they almost made their mother cry, for example. As the show develops, Steeves reveals his amibition to raise more awareness of Asperger's, and to help 'neurotypical' people understand more about the condition. Steeves' message is very simple, of course - just treat people with Asperger's like… people.Steeves is a bold performer, a fine singer, and a survivor. He knows he's lucky - not least because, as someone categorised as “high functioning”, he's in a position to speak out for those who aren’t so lucky. There’s real anger too, not least about the current US administration. Thankfully though, he pulls back just enough to avoid the show becoming a diatribe. Yes, there's still much to do, but Steeves is doing his bit.

If silent Hollywood star Buster Keaton is remembered for anything, it's his emotionless, mask-like expression; so the initial shock here is that this Buster speaks and smiles. "Yes, I have a voice. I've always had one," he says, which we soon learn was about him having creative control over his films—a significant issue for him given that the framework of the show is Buster introducing himself to his new paymasters at MGM studios. This new musical, written and performed by James Dangerfield, is understandably somewhat kind to its subject, focusing on seven important days between 1917 and 1927. Intentionally or not, this approach emphasises how Buster's career in cinema was synonymous with the entire industry: he came from a Vaudeville background, found his particular niche in stunt-heavy short films, and then worked hard to become one of the industry's biggest stars. As a coda, we also learn that his fame and success waned with the coming of sound, but he survived long enough to be "rediscovered" by whole new generations through television. There's nothing wrong in a musical having a bitter-sweet narrative, of course; and Buster's fate was arguably far better than that of his mentor in the business, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, whose on-screen career ended after a Hollywood sex scandal. Dangerfield's goal here, obviously, is to give some suggestion of Buster's motivations and focus, not least when budgetary constraints and a failing marriage contrive to knock him down for good. These range from a love of the camera, capable of bringing "to life whatever I can dream", to the sad realisation of his failing marriage: "She shopped, I drank." This show's problem, though, is that, with just one performer, there’s too little variety and conflict; some of Dangerfield's songs are really good, but here they risk blending together into blandness, in part because Martyn Stringer's pre-recorded piano/synth arrangements simply grate on the nerves after half an hour. And finally, while Dangerfield is a fine performer, he's no Buster Keaton—as becomes obvious from the inclusion of original footage of the man himself.

"Grow up, mature, and come back when you have something to contribute!" It's not the most sympathetic way to address a young audience; nevertheless, it succinctly shows us the 'eat or be eaten' attitude of Eric (Lennart Monaster), who is one of five business-suited adults suddenly dropped into a strange world of bedside furniture and night-lights in this production of Expedition Peter Pan. Plus, as in the best pantomimes, it ensures a loud, fervent response—and not just from the children!Netherland's own Het Langland theatre company are by no means the first to play with J M Barrie's near-mythical 'boy who never grew up', Peter Pan; nor are they they alone in seemingly bypassing any need to even name-check Great Ormond Street Hospital (to whom creator J M Barrie gifted the rights to the character), let alone pay any royalties. Thankfully, though, they're also rare in actually focusing on the sense of fun in the original, rather than the cloying sweetness that attracted Steven Spielberg with his own take of a grown-up Peter Pan rediscovering his childhood. That said, adults reclaiming the joy of playtime is certainly at the heart of this piece: along with Monaster’s Eric, we have overwhelmed working mother Paula (Aafke Buringh), the self-doubting Thomas (Gijs Nollen), banker Martin (Folmer Overdiep) who had all his childhood dreams shattered, and Caroline (Kim Berkenhagen), who is forever overcompensating for being "too young". In the course of the show's 75 minutes, all five gradually, fantastically succumb to childhood—from the initial unexplained lego bricks, pirate cutlasses, marbles and paper aeroplanes, to a full-scale pirate adventure where Thomas just doesn't get the idea of being dead. Director Inèz Derksen and co-creator Christian Schönfelder have undoubtedly created a show with genuinely wide appeal: for the adults, there's the warm nostalgia of childhood fun and games; for children, the never-grows-old spectacle of supposed 'grown ups' not acting their age. Importantly, though, the cast certainly don’t hold back – as the men's sweat-stained shirts testify – and, combined with a bold soundtrack, they fully deserve their near-standing ovation at the end.

Part of the inherent challenge for Noel Jordan and the Imaginate team when putting together their annual Edinburgh International Children's Festival is their very diverse potential audience: after all, the theatrical needs of toddlers and pre-school children can hardly be more different than those for young adults. Nevertheless, South African production Mbuzeni – credited as being for 12+ years – seemed to attract a largely adult audience for its evening performance, which is arguably a shame. Not because it failed to match the expectations of such an audience: quite the opposite.The play – written and directed by the acclaimed young South African poet and playwright Koleka Putuma might have come in at under an hour, but is a concentrated delight of young black female voices singing, music and expressing themselves in the poetic tonal clicking language of Xhosa. Putuma’s focus on the imaginative lives of four young orphan girls, who regularly sneak into the local graveyard to play out their obsessions with burials, is both hugely effective and wonderfully affective. More teenagers should definitely see it.The staging is simple enough: a few blocks outlining locations, and a mixture of lighting and choreography signalling their movement around their own small world, alone and largely independent of the local "middle of nowhere" community which largely distrusts and rejects them. Putuma's ensemble cast – Thumeka Mzayiya, Awethu Hleli, Sisipho Mbopa and Nolufefe Ntshuntshe – superbly embody the physicality of young children, and yet chillingly can easily switch into representing both the old women of the village and the crow-like supernatural crones which inhabit their constantly morbid dreams. No wonder one eventually asks: "Can we take a break from funerals?"Putuma's script is both humorous and disturbing—from the young girls' idiosyncratic ideas of what Heaven is like (involving the likes of trifle, sunglasses, and "quiet") to their largely failed attempt to get help when they need it. To be honest, the plot's conclusion is by no means surprising, but the way in which the story affects the characters – who respond with a sudden maturity, very much belying their age – is undoubtedly moving and memorable.

Fairy tales survive because they can be constantly retold, uncovering new depths and relevancies to the world today. Thus Suzanne Lebeau's reimagining of Hänsel und Gretel – the story of two young children who, abandoned in the forest by impoverished parents, manage to outwit a cannibalistic witch living in a cottage made out of confectionary – finds fresh gold by shifting the narrative focus onto Gretel, and building up her sibling rivalry with The Little Brother.In this production by Montreal-based Le Carrousel, the heavy lifting is in the hands of cast members Émilie Lévesque and Jean-Philip Debien, who successfully embody the physicality and focus of young children. Somewhat unexpectedly, it begins with a description of Hansel's birth that is potentially more graphic than expected in a show deemed suitable for six-year-olds, but what many of its younger audience will connect with completely is the impact on the then-13-month-old Hansel, waiting in her high-chair for her favourite vegetable soup. Suddenly, she's the big sister, expected to be 'grown up'.Childish resentment, then, is key here. Yes, there is a lot more 'tell' than 'show' here, but the production makes the best of its stylistic choices, with Stéphane Longpré's set – 15 wooden highchairs, originally set in a circle – effectively used to represent forest, witch's oven or whatever else is required. Given that the story – translated into English by John Van Burek – is clearly being told in retrospect, there is a surprising amount of tension (not least when the two children are lost in the forest), despite it being clear that both characters must survive in order to tell the tale. Hansel may get all the sweets to fatten him up for the oven but, in this version of the story, it's Gretel who is given the most meaty character arc. If her journey is ultimately from resentment and jealousy to acceptance of her family and her place in it, the fact that she even considers NOT rescuing Hansel at least ensures that this retelling of an otherwise familiar story has a genuine grimness befitting its folk origins.

Andy Manley is undoubtedly one of the treasures of Scotland’s current theatrical landscape, all the more so given his seemingly innate (but presumably hard-learned) skill in holding the attention of the youngest, most restless of audiences. His open, child-like manner is authentic and entrancing; he’s a genuine reminder of silent-screen comedy and expression, especially in this largely wordless, but nevertheless expressive, work co-created with director Ian Cameron and designer Katherina Radev.Stick By Me is promoted as being a new show “about friendship and play, and the importance of treasuring little things”. While this is certainly true, it is saved from being a diabetic peril by deeper resonances. Having successfully explored the limits of his playground, for example, an adult voice says “No!” every time Manley tries to step beyond the stage. Stick By Me is also a play about learning to understand boundaries and rules, not least those arbitrarily imposed on us by those in authority. While food for thought for most of us, that’s everyday life for any young child.Although Manley’s character isn’t allowed to leave the stage, he is free to look inside a large cardboard box which, to his initial puzzlement, contains nothing more than a single ice-lolly stick – the ultimate Amazon mis-match of packaging. This stick quickly becomes an imaginary friend, and Manley is spot-on with his embodiment of a small child matching postures and actions with the object of their affections. This again resonates well with the show’s intended audience; on the day of this review, the children were pleased to be given a lolly-stick of their own after the show. Yes, there is some broad sticky-related comedy early on – when we first see Manley, for example, his legs are taped to his chair – but that’s as much about breaking the ice as anything else. Supported by Will Calderbank’s charming musical soundscape, Craig Fleming’s unfussy lighting and Christine Devaney’s adept choreography, Manley and the team at Red Bridge Arts offers us an authentic childlike view of the world – full of excitement, energy and emphatic delight.

It’s ten o’clock on a Friday night in Brighton and Temple Bar is buzzing. Some of us have come here specificaly to catch Lolbot Wars: a comedy show based loosely around the structure of Robot Wars. Others were ushered upstairs at the last minute to pack out the room.In a lively, even rowdy atmosphere, we were entertained by compère and creator Elliot Wengler, plus four comics: Eliott Simpson, Simone Belshaw, Jamie Allerton and Mike Lash. There were some real highs over 45 minutes or so of free comedy – but unfortunately a few notable lows, too.The basic premise of the show is that four comedians battle it out in a series of head-to-head contests. There’s the battle round, where they tear into each other with inflatable weapons; the insults round, which speaks for itself; and the improv round, where they riff from words and pictures scribbled on cards by the audience. We didn’t actually get to see that bit.Wengler explains all this to us at the start of the show, reminding us about such joys as Hypno-Disc (Hypno-Disc!) and Craig Charles’s poetry, “The Pussycat’s withdrawn her claws, so it’s time to say goodnight from Robot Wars”.The line up of Lolbot Wars changes every night during its four day run, and there’s quite a bit of improv meaning each show will be different. It felt to me like tonight’s acts needed a little bit more time to bed into the set up. Maybe Wengler could have done a bit more to put them at ease, or pick the battles a bit more carefully. We all stumbled into an awkward moment during the insults round which could have been avoided.Luckily for all of us, Jamie Allerton was there to help us out. Allerton quite frankly stole the show (even if he didn’t technically win it). Where the other stand up sets held the stage, he owned it. A flurry of energy with a clever routine, he stormed into the room and changed the atmosphere. And when things slowed down during the insult battle with Mike Lash, he stepped up and turned the scene around admirably.Structurally Lolbot Wars needs a little more work: the battles lacked oomph (like Robot Wars itself, I suppose) and weren’t really long or interesting enough. And just when I had settled into a groove and was really enjoying myself the show just sort of stopped, ending on more of a whimper than a bang.Lolbot Wars was a decent hour of comedy, with some nice ideas and likable performers (again like Robot Wars, then). Craig Charles would probably be proud. Don’t stay at home like boring bores, get out to the Fringe and see Lolbot wars.

The Looker is the surreal, dark yet playful story of Vida: a young woman who yearns to break free from the call centre and take control of her life.Stepping into the heat and shade of the Bosco Theatre in Brighton’s Old Steine, there’s a definite sense of breaking away from reality. The roar and chaos of the Speigel Pub quitens to a gentle rumble. With her clipboard and quick wit, a strange blue-haired character – face half-covered by a puppet-like mask – guides guests to their seats. Meanwhile, a sad looking puppet sits quietly in the corner, writing a letter to herself.Once everything is settled, the show begins and reality slips further and further away from us in an enjoyable and engrossing hour of theatre. There are dream sequences, and maybe even dream dream sequences, as well as mysteries and plenty of suprises on this surreal journey.Vida walks through a colourful cast of characters - including herself. She is an emotional anchor for the audience on a sea which can be hard to read; she is calm and serene while all around her is chaos. Although she is not without her mysteries. The puppetry behind her is beautiful to behold. Her movements surprisingly graceful and yet infused with a sadness and vulnerability.The other puppets and characters are full of charm and creativity, created on a shoestring (probably literally, actually) and are all the better for it. There’s the sock puppet bird, the pushchair motorbike, the bickering Sisters of Sleep, and the simplicity of an origami crane flying through the air. Oh, and the Morris dancing sheep, twacking banana skins against each other.The all-female cast of Sabotage Theatre deserve great credit for bringing so much life and soul into the production. They’re playful and busy, shaking the fourth wall to good effect. There’s a lot of fruit, too - much of it eaten throughout the performance (they’re probably so busy promoting and preparing that that’s all they get to eat all day).Different people will take different things away from The Looker. Its pleasantly ramshackle storyline lurches around with mystery, interest and plenty of laughs. However, it ends on a rather abstract note and perhaps leaves one too many questions about what messages, if any, The Looker was trying to convey.Stepping into The Looker feels like walking into another world. One populated by puppets and people and all sorts in-between, with magic and music in the air. And although there’s nothing magic about good puppetry, it sure can be spellbinding.

Sometimes, when it comes to suspending our disbelief, we just have to go with the flow. In Eddie & The Slumber Sisters, for example, it is never explained why the guardian forces monitoring the dreams of children appear to resemble the Andrews Sisters dressed to entertain the US Air Force during World War Two, nor why they have an unseen superior called Charles; how many of this show's intended audience will have even heard of Charlie’s Angels? Yet, to their credit, the much acclaimed director-and-writer team of Gill Robertson and Anita Vettesse run with this USAF-vibe in both staging and front-of-house staffing, and it works. Additional support from the National Theatre of Scotland (co-producers along with Catherine Wheels Theatre Company) enables designer Karen Tennent to think more spectacularly; the result is a circular, revolving stage around which the audience sits on a variety of seats, chairs and beds, while four compass points are filled with either the Sisters’ scaffolding and technology or the titular Eddie's bedroom. The result feels genuinely spacious.Chiara Sparkes is suitably troubled as young Eddie, who has started having bad dreams – always starting at 2.17am – ever since her much-loved grandmother died. Those nightmares are becoming so bad that the detectors in Slumberland are showing readings of more than 29 points, although what that precisely means, and who is really in danger, isn't made clear. This is odd, given that the early part of the show is a tad too explanation-heavy as the three Slumber Sisters – Natalie Arle-Toyne, India Shaw-Smith and Colette Dalal Tchantcho – outline the scenario, along with some excellent close-harmony singing. Nevertheless, the psychological toll of the bad dreams is getting so bad for Eddie that the Slumber Sisters ultimately have to break all the rules, entering the real world in order to help – some confusion with an obviously fake Elvis Presley notwithstanding. The show genuinely takes flight in this latter half and the result is a genuinely affecting exploration of grief and why the desire to say goodbye isn't just something adults know.

August Strindberg apparently subtitled his play Creditors (in Swedish: Fordringsäxgare) a “tragicomedy” but, while David Greig’s 2008 adaptation does indeed contain a few decent one-liners to inspire laughter, this remains an all-too-easily depressing tale of individuals brought down by the forgotten or overlooked fracture-lines in their own personalities—not least their ability to easily forget how past actions always come with a price which has to be paid, sooner or later. A decade on, Greig – now well established as the Artistic Director of Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre – has chosen director Stewart Laing to revive his version of arguably Strindberg’s most mature work, which is essentially a series of three concentrated duologues between young artist Adolph (Edward Franklin) and the mysterious visitor Gustav (Stuart McQuarrie), Adolph and his author wife Tekla (Adura Onashile), and Tekla and Gustav. What we witness is a slow but sure-footed exploration of jealousy, distrust and revenge that aims to be timeless and specific, although there remains a disconnect between those two aspects which is ultimately distracting.As someone genuinely unsure about the recent resurrection of “broadcast theatre”, which manages to neither transmit the unique atmosphere of live performance nor match the full cinematic potential of filmed drama, it feels strange to admit that some of the most effective moments of Stewart Laing’s directorial take on Greig’s script involve the audience watching the action taking place inside the beach hut (which fills much of the Lyceum’s stage) on a screen. In part, this is simply down to tight choreography which results in the camera operator providing some emotionally intense visuals of Tekla and Gustav, head to head. The real strength, however, comes from the cast: as is to be expected from an actor of McQuarrie’s skill, he is adept at shifting emphasis between stage and close-up camera work. While Onashile may lack obvious screen experience, she contains her performance well, providing us with a fascinating mix of vivacity and hurt as Tekla suddenly comes to recognise the author of her undoing. It’s a shame, really, that Franklin only has the opportunity to give us a somewhat theatrical stage performance as Adolph, restricted to using the broadest of performance strokes during his scenes with McQuarrie and Onashile.Less successful are the four young women, dressed as Girl Guides, who arrive on stage between scenes, perform some action – semaphore, or lighting a fire – and then leave, stone-faced and silent. Their costumes are indeterminately vintage, suggesting a 19th century Scandinavian setting that somewhat clashes with the ethnic-blind casting of Tekla. Clearly looking to emphasise the timeless themes of Strindberg’s classic, Laing ignores how often that’s paradoxically best achieved in the quite specific.

“In my day, we trusted people. We knew there were some bad apples but we thought most people were good.” So says Morven, grandmother of unseen three-year-old Joshua, in genuine frustration to his mother Maddy who, during the course of Frances Poet’s Gut, becomes increasingly neurotic about even the merest possibility that he was sexually molested by some unknown male stranger that Morven unthinkingly allowed to take Joshua into the supermarket cafe toilets.This isn’t about sexual abuse; rather, Gut is focused on a mother’s cracked trust in the people around her, and how the maternal instinct to protect can be taken to horrendous extremes. It’s about how the smallest doubt can undermine “gut instinct”, giving the equivalent of a super-growth serum to the concept of “stranger danger”. Yet, for much of the time, we’re easily on Maddy’s side; her fear – initially shared by her husband Rory – is understandable. Her growing uncertainty is all too credible, not least because director Zinnie Harris casts George Anton as the various other “Strangers” she encounters. For Anton does 'creepy' really well, whether playing a stoned neighbour, police officer, social worker or fellow parent. His habit of upturning boxes of nursery toys, left scattered across Fred Meller’s clinically clean set, is a visually succinct means of suggesting the disorder and danger from which Maddy believes she’s protecting her son. Here, Kirsty Stuart gives a layered, grounded performance as Maddy; she’s suitably balanced by Peter Collins, who as Rory has the far from showy task of embodying calm stability. Lorraine McIntosh, meantime, gives us a sweet, caring grandmother at a loss to her daughter-in-law’s reaction. Harris effectively underscores Maddy’s unease with sound samples from the old Charlie Says cartoon public information films which, arguably, scared generations of children – though not necessarily for the right reasons – during the 1970s and 1980s. In terms of the script Poet may ultimately pull her final punch – we don’t spiral down into the rabbit hole – but Gut nevertheless remains a startling, worrying essay on why trust in our fellow man is a requisite for civilisation.

A road movie, according to Wikipedia, is “a film genre in which the main characters leave home on a road trip,” during which “the hero changes, grows or improves over the course of the story”. While its literary roots can be traced back to epics as old as The Odyssey and The Aeneid, it’s not the most common theatrical form, not least because multiple locations are more challenging to create within a singular performance space. It’s certainly not impossible, however, as this lively Dundee Rep revival of Stephen Greenhorn's “road movie for the stage” proves. Originally premiered at Edinburgh’s Traverse Theatre in 1997, Passing Places reaches its 21st birthday (once upon a time, the age of adult responsibility) in fine form. Yes, it occasionally betrays itself as a period piece, with references to Safeway supermarkets and Kate Adie (but with absolutely nothing said about the strength, or otherwise, of WiFi across the Scottish Highlands and islands). Yet in its focus on two young men trying to find somewhere they feel they belong, it’s timeless.Alex (Ewan Donald) and Brian (Martin Quinn) are our central characters here; desperate to escape from their hometown of Motherwell – “nothing but shoe shops and Burger Kings,” according to Alex – they do a runner with a state-of-the-art surfboard and head north in a clapped out Lada. Unfortunately, the board belongs to Binks (Barrie Hunter), Alex’s psychopathic gangster boss, who’s soon hot on their heels as the lads head north for Thurso, where the surf is up all year round. En route they’re joined by free-spirit Mirren (Eleanor House), and encounter a succession of life-changing experiences. These provide the ensemble cast numerous opportunities to outline some broad comedy; Greenhorn is no slouch when it comes to one-liners. This is particularly so for John Kielty, who on this evidence is potentially Scotland’s greatest as-yet-undiscovered Dame. Taqi Nazeer and Emily Winter skilfully delineate their succession of characters with some surprisingly subtle physical and vocal mannerisms – when not aiding Kielty in providing the live musical soundscape, off-stage. Meantime, Becky Minto’s set – fundamentally a false perspective road rising into the darkness – offers an expansive backdrop for a succession of locations conjured up in words and lighting. Though difficult to feel any tension in Binks’s on-off pursuit, director Andrew Panton nevertheless ensures a lively pace, and has cast extremely well. House imbues Mirren with a genuine sense of humour, while Hunter – though dangerously funny – never completely breaks the tone. Quinn and Donald successfully take on the challenges of their characters, ensuring that when the lights go down, we’re genuinely pleased that both have gained some understanding of where they belong.

If theatre is home to lies that impart truths, then this Actors Touring Company’s production of Roland Schimmelpfennig’s Winter Solstice (translated by David Tushingham) makes no attempt to suspend our disbelief; the cast of six are dressed casually and, for the most part, sit around a group of tables on an “undressed” stage, covered with the detritus of paper cups, bottles of water, nibbles and scrap paper typical of any theatrical or television read-through. We’re introduced to middle-class intellectuals Albert (Felix Hayes) and Bettina (Kirsty Besterman) already bickering about who should chat with Bettina’s newly-arrived mother, Corinna (Marian McLoughlin). Part of the stress is thanks to them not yet knowing how long she’s going to be staying, although it’s likely to be until after their (referenced, but never seen) daughter’s birthday – some two weeks away. There are, of course, whole lifetimes of resentments and misunderstandings between the three, some of which are slowly revealed during the course of the play. What brings them into focus is the arrival of Rudolph (David Beames).Corinna met him on her snow-bound train; thanks to his chivalry to her in a time of need, she invited the lonesome Rudolph to join her for Christmas. He is undoubtedly elegant and distinguished, an excellent pianist, full of charm, modesty and learning. Yet there’s something about him which puts the increasingly stressed-out, medicine-taking Albert on edge; a potentially nasty undercurrent in some of his ideas and views about art, civilisation and the nature of humanity. Given his self-declared residency in Paraguay – though he’s clearly not from there – is there a hint of a Nazi survivor?Schimmelpfennig’s play works on several levels; most obviously, there’s the all-too-recognisable drama in a family stressed out by the self-imposed closeness of Christmas; in which the only seemingly happy individual is their young daughter, who we never see or hear directly. There’s the stylistic approach of the cast not just speaking their dialogue but also commenting on their thoughts and actions, informing us of the time of each scene, every moment, as events seem to hurtle increasingly towards a major crisis. And there’s a brilliant moment when the metaphorical rug is effectively pulled from under our feet. Simple choreography – the tables are at several points rearranged to indicate different perspectives on the narrative’s location – adds to what might initially appear to be a show with no obvious design, despite the subtle wit employed in the cast using “to hand” objects as props. Undoubtedly, director Alice Malin, in this touring revival, does a very good job ensuring a clarity and speed to proceedings that holds the attention, and lingers in the mind afterwards.

“It’s sweat on your brow that gives life meaning,” says one of the supporting characters in Chekhov’s Three Sisters, and it’s fair to say that, on occasions, there’s a distracting sense of effort being made by some cast members, which is not always comfortable for the audience. Yet one of the strengths of Lung Ha – Scotland’s principal theatre company for performers with learning disabilities – is that they’ve never shied away from taking on challenging work.Under Maria Oller’s nuanced, yet bold artistic direction, Lung Ha have tackled Chekhov before, but this large-scale attempt at one of the writer’s most iconic works – in a new version by playwright Adrian Osmond – arguably pushes some of its performers to the edge of their performance abilities. Equally, though, it showcases some true star turns, most notably by the three actors playing the titular sisters: Emma McCaffrey is the solid, reliable core of the show as unmarried schoolteacher Olga; Nicola Tuxworth embodies the frustrations of unhappily married Masha; and Emma Clark gives a nervous energy as youngest sister Irena. They are certainly given some invaluable support: an energetic Gavin Yule never fails to find some fun in Latin teacher Fyodor, who fails to notice – or, more likely, turns a blind eye to – Masha’s affair with the philosophically-minded Lieutenant-Colonel Veshinin (Paul Harper). Kenneth Ainslie’s painful-looking physicality, meantime, helps give a greater depth to what on paper is a far-from-sympathetic role as the sister’s foolish brother Andrey, whose weakness for gambling and lustful choice of the domineering Natasha (an at times genuinely scary Teri Robb) as his wife, ultimately fractures the sisters’ home and lives together.As one of the company’s “big” productions, Three Sisters benefits from its cast of 20; Oller again shows her skill in choreographing such a multitude on stage, with the support of movement director Janis Claxton. Designer Karen Tennent, who has worked often with Lung Ha, again produces an environment which is evocative of the late 19th century without being a slave to detail, with sufficient flexibility to represent both interiors and exteriors as required – helped, of course, by Andrew Gannon’s lighting. The live music, by Finnish composer Anna-Karin Korhonen, successfully evokes the melodies and melancholy of Russian folk tunes.Three Sisters is arguably about people straining against the societal expectations imposed on them, a theme given additional depth by the nature of its cast. Sadly, it’s impossible to ignore the wider context in which this particular production launched — namely Lung Ha’s controversial loss, and subsequent reinstatement, of regular funding from Creative Scotland. If nothing else, the timing ensured Three Sisters necessarily became a defiant reminder of why Lung Ha’s voice deserves to be heard.

Perhaps it was tempting fate, but David Leddy’s decision to call his latest work The Last Bordello now comes with a certain irony, given that it could well prove to be his final production under the “Fire Exit” banner – thanks to the company controversially losing its modest, yet vital, funding from Creative Scotland. If this proves to be the case, he can hold his head high – this is a quality, albeit puzzling, work of theatre.Inspired by the life and work of Jean Genet, Leddy’s script takes no prisoners, from the start asking if “the Maestro” is wanking in the darkness of the auditorium. As the dark drapes part, a set of dusty white is revealed, a space which we soon learn is supposed to represent a 1970 Palestinian brothel on the final night before politically-motivated bulldozers move in to clean up the town. A young soldier is there “to become a man”, but is clearly out of his depth among the residents, who decide to spend this final evening reminiscing and inventing tales.All of this is by turns amusing and disturbing; all-too-episodic, but equally revealing as the alleged brothel stereotypes are in turn shown to be inventions, performances. Mood and tone are set by Nich Smith’s forthright lighting, while Becky Minto’s set is sufficiently flexible to remain suggestive of location and time rather than especially realistic. Danny Krass’s sound design, meantime, is both atmospheric and at times startling – quite deliberately, of course. Despite the air of unreality – at one point, the young soldier asks: “Are you guys surrealists?” – Leddy is able to turn up real dramatic tension in the room.That’s all the more impressive given how the final scenes of the play deliberately strip away layers of performance and meaning; essentially, Leddy’s pulling the rug from under us, and we’re left questioning nigh on everything we’ve seen up to that point. In some respects, this feels simply annoying, yet nor does it feel wrong. Vibrant, inventive and intelligent, this is precisely the kind of cutting edge theatre that Scotland needs. Creative Scotland take note.

While not even Herbert George Wells’s own first dalliance with the concept of time travel, his 1895 novella The Time Machine has nevertheless become pretty much the definitive text on the subject – one television Time Lord notwithstanding. Certainly, it’s held to be among the earliest pillars of the science fiction genre, alongside Wells’ own The War of the Worlds and The Island of Dr Moreau, which essentially set the standard for alien invasions and genetics. Classic though it is, Wells’s The Time Machine is probably not everyone’s idea of particularly child-friendly, family entertainment; not least that nasty bit about the far-future underground-living Morlocks, monstrous descendants of the British working classes, essentially farming the gentile, upper class Eloi as cattle. The Scientific Romance Theatre Company, however, have an excellent solution. They treat the whole thing as a modern fairytale, tell it partly using puppets, and lighten the nastier moments with humour; some verging on slapstick for the grown-ups, some clever enough to keep the kids interested. Strangely enough, their approach genuinely works. Matt Rudkin plays the Time Traveller, as well as operating his own self-made puppet avatar within those scenes where the budget clearly doesn’t extend to completely changing their drawing room set; Rudkin may initially come across as slightly earnest, but soon gains the audience’s attention and affection. Meantime Rick Conte, equipped with a truly fabulous moustache, provides some depth to both “the Editor”, in the Victorian-set framework, and Weena, the young Eloi who the Time Traveller befriends some 800,000 years in the future. Deborah Arnott successfully gives housekeeper and a suspiciously trade-unionist-sounding Morlock leader real energy.Under the expert direction of the much-admired Andy Cannon, this speedy, take-no-prisoners adaptation of The Time Machine is respectful of H G Wells’s original tale while never taking itself too seriously. Importantly, recognising its own necessary limitations, it’s a production which brilliantly makes the best of them, not least giving its younger audience members numerous opportunities to stretch their own imaginations – and perhaps just pick up a few ideas along the way!

Writer and director Tony Cownie has established a particular niche at Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre, taking potentially overlooked 18th century comedies (like Carlo Goldoni's The Venetian Twins) or modern works inspired by them (Liz Lochhead’s Thon Man Moliere) and giving them a distinctly Scottish twist. There are therefore few surprises in the staging of The Belle’s Stratagem, a comedy of manners – first performed in 1780 – written by the trailblazing, yet now largely overlooked, Hannah Cowley.Cowley must rank among the earliest women to write for the British stage, so it’s hardly surprising that Cownie retains – arguably sharpens – the play’s focus on women surviving in a male-centred world. At the heart of the action are Letitia Hardy and Doricourt, a young couple betrothed since childhood, who are now expected to marry. Just back from his Grand Tour of Europe, however, Doricourt finds Scottish women pale when compared to their European peers, and is totally unimpressed by Letitia. Outraged by such “indifference”, she schemes to subtly seduce the man after first driving him to hate her.Plenty of Cownie’s writerly and directorial tropes are on display here: not least Neil Murray’s colourful costumes, which are deliberately contrasted against his singularly two-dimensional, monochromatic settings based on period engravings. Cownie also gives the dialogue an invigorating brush-up into a more local (and, at times, distinctly modern) style, so that the whole play genuinely totters on the edge of Pantomime. (There’s even the sight of Steven McNicoll, as Letitia’s father Provost Hardy, doing a turn as dame when allegedly “disguised” as a woman during the all-important masked ball that is the heart of the second half.) There are definite opportunities, therefore, for some cast members to play to the back of the stalls, not least Richard Conlon as the misogynistic Courtall who, in a disappointing example of directorial restraint, isn’t given a moustache to twirl. That said, his character’s scheme – to seduce innocent Lady Frances Touchwood, recently married and new to Edinburgh High Society – brings us to an arguably more interesting subplot in which merry widows Mrs Racket and Mrs Ogle (a delightful Pauline Knowles and Nicola Roy) encourage Frances out from the stifling protectiveness of her man-child husband Sir George (a brilliant Grant O’Rourke). Angela Hardie and Angus Miller give some genuine depths to the relatively “straight” roles of Letitia and Doricourt, but there are plenty of delicious characterisations to enjoy around them, not least John Ramage’s gossip-obsessed journalist Flutter and McNicoll’s wheezing, dandruff-covered servant. Importantly, though, Cownie as director ensures that his ensemble nevertheless works well together, with the whole production remaining larger than the sum of its parts. Familiar in many respects, but fun nonetheless.

Most stand-up comedy these days is based on the lives of the people standing behind the microphone, albeit reshaped to varying degrees to ensure their material matches the “rule of three” defining all the best jokes in the world – essentially a beginning, a middle and the wrong ending. Mark Thomas’s latest show, while obviously rooted in his own political standup, nevertheless furthers his move towards theatre – with at times quite devastating emotional intensity. Thomas’s new show – like previous works Bravo Figaro!, Cuckooed, and The Red Shed, all available on DVD – is based on his own experiences, and use a variety of theatrical techniques to make this more than just a stand-up routine. The focus is his time setting up and running a comedy workshop in the Palestinian city of Jenin, which is such a ridiculous idea on so many levels. It’s typical of the man to raise a metaphorical finger to Power – whether it’s that of the Israeli Government or the Palestinian authorities – but this is perhaps his most affecting production yet. In part, this is because Thomas shares the stage with two of the workshops’ participants, Faisal Abualheja and Alaa Shehad from the Jenin Freedom Theatre. He is careful to give them plenty of time on stage, whether playing themselves, other aspiring comedians or any of the people Thomas met in his time in Palestine. But it’s also because he is willing to push for an audience silence rarely found in either theatre or comedy – an absolute, hold-your-breath silence after he informs us that the young men we’ve just been told about, or seen on screen, are now dead. Thomas, of course, is expert at drawing us back to laughter, though there are some aspects of the show that may seem a bid odd; not least us applauding filmed excerpts from the comedy show at the end of the workshops. It makes a point none the less – how difficult it is for most Palestinians to travel outside their borders. Also, it is recognition of arguably a fundamental, political idea: that Palestinians can be funny – whether it’s about the generalities of life or the specifics of living under military occupation – all while dispelling a few patronising preconceptions along the way.Self-aware, self-mocking and ready to highlight their own absurdities, Thomas, Abudalheja and Shehad are engaging, intelligent and passionate performers. Like any comedy review, going into too much detail about their routines is dangerous – not so much a case of “spoilers” as plain theft. So, suffice to say, this is a show that undoubtedly informs, educates and entertains – and proof positive how, in some situations, comedy is the strongest defence any of us have.

The central metaphor running through Frank McGuinness’s 2012 monologue The Match Box is almost breath-taking in its simplicity; it’s that all of us, all of our lives, are ultimately as brief, and unknowable in their duration, as a struck match. Repeatedly through this show’s 90 minutes running time, Janet Coulson strikes one match after another, letting some burn to their natural end, while others are blown out quickly. Too quickly, you might even say.Coulson plays Cal, who is alone on a small Irish island, the ancient home of her family. She worries that it’s so quiet there that she can hear herself breathe, which isn’t good for anyone. So she begins to tell us both what happened to her, and why she has reacted to life’s burnt matches in the way that she has done. So we learn that Sal once lived with her parents in a northern English city; that she got pregnant and subsequently chose to raise a strong-willed, independently-minded daughter called Mary. And then… well, “What happened, happened.”We learn, pretty early on, that a 12-year-old Mary was killed on the street, an innocent bystander in a foolish gun-wielding dispute within a criminal family which, for numerous reasons, would never be brought to justice by the Police. Subtly and with an often heart-wrenching authenticity, McGuinness shows how a single death has far reaching consequences, tearing the life out of not just mother but doting grandparents. He understands too how the last thing many a grieving person wants is to be comforted by the world; which is why Sal chooses to do her own thing.Richard Baron’s touring production for Firebrand Theatre is as muted as its largely empty cold-blue set, ensuring that our focus always remains on Janet Coulson, who gives a spell-binding performance as Sal – fully engaging our sympathies even while teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. McGuinness’s script is honest enough to say there’s never an end to grief, but with Coulson’s performance we sense Sal will keep going on all the same.

It’s 36 years since Andrea Dunbar’s breakthrough play announced the all-too-brief flowering of a new writing talent – “a genius straight from the slums,” as the Mail on Sunday snobbishly described her. A lot has changed since then; indeed, much has changed in the last year, after women – mainly women, but also a few men – finally called time on the sexual harassment and abuse of power long part of “the Business they call Show”. So, perhaps it was only to be expected that, initially at least, the Royal Court suddenly felt it unwise to revive a play which could be said to focus on a 27-year-old married man satisfying his lust with two naive babysitters – both “not quite 16”. Yet that’s arguably a misreading of even the play’s title—in which “Bob” almost sounds like an afterthought. This is, first and foremost, a play about the two young women, Rita and Sue, and their attempts to have some all-too-fleeting fun in a world unlikely to offer them any other prospects. Dunbar arguably shows us they’re exploited, but it’s economic as much as sexual; yes, Bob doubles Rita and Sue’s baby-sitting money as he takes them on a detour up the moor, en route checking how much they know about condoms and sex. When they leave school, the girls end up slaving away on a Youth Employment Scheme, a strike ironically cutting their paltry pay-packets even further. No wonder they look to Bob for excitement and adventure, but even he’s not always able to deliver, when a lack of work forces him to consider selling his love-nest car. Dunbar doesn’t judge; nor does she lecture. Her characters stand as they are, although it helps having someone like James Atherton – formerly of Hollyoaks and Coronation Street – as Bob, although he still loses our sympathies once he denies his actions. Yet the stars of the show remain Taj Atwal as the increasingly guilt-ridden Rita and Gemma Dobson as the far less guilty Sue; perfectly encapsulating their heady journey from fun-seekers to lost dreams.

Alan McHugh has played in enough pantomimes down the years to ensure It’s Behind You! reeks of authenticity, albeit the heightened theatrics of the genre. Set in the cramped dressing room of some impoverished provincial theatre – the star on the door is cut out of yellow paper – this two-hander proves to be a more subtle character piece than you might first expect, given the opening clash of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and a rubber chicken.McHugh and co-star Paul James Corrigan play Norrie and Nicky, respectively performing as the Dame and Simple Simon (brother of Jack, of Beanstalk fame). Things are not going well between them, however: 62 shows into the run, Norrie’s accusing Nicky of missing cues, going “off-book” and rushing through the show just to meet some film producers to help boost his day-time soap career. It’s done well enough, although Norrie’s bitchy dialogue and OTT-metaphors are all-too-low-rent drag queen, which one guesses is deliberate, given the two men’s diverging careers.For Norrie appears to be spiralling downwards into envy and resentment, the occasional full-on savagery clearly fuelled by his own personal insecurities about his past and future career. Nicky, in contrast, seems to be getting ready to fly the nest, escaping from this world of garish frocks, neon-coloured make-up, puns and predictable punchlines. (“Drum-tish!”) Yet it’s here that McHugh, for the first time, pulls the rug from under our feet. This isn’t, it turns out, just about professional jealousy; it’s about family. Once that angle becomes clear, the whole situation is given significantly more emotional depth. McHugh the performer is highly skilled at tongue-twisting panto craft; as a writer, he’s equally adept at exploiting those abilities for their full dramatic potential—the “shoe shine” sketch, which Norrie forces Nicky to perform, perfectly encapsulating a man suddenly terrified of losing everything he holds dear. It’s sharp writing that thankfully compensates for a couple of additional carpet-pulling revelations – not least about “Ashley” – which seem, at best, unnecessary and immodestly “right-on” distractions.

David Harrower’s debut play, Knives in Hens, made a big splash back in 1995, recognised as a modern classic which has since seen revivals by companies as diverse as the National Theatre of Scotland (in 2011) and, last year, Donmar Warehouse. It’s a brutal, raw script; a love triangle set in a mud-splattered rural world where superstitions are plentiful and a custom of hate is passed from one generation to the next without question. Our focus is first on the ploughman “Pony” William and his young, hard-working wife. We’re never told her name—ironic given her own innate desire to learn the world and understand God by naming things. (When her husband says she’s “like a field”, she insists: “I’m like nothing but me.”) Later, when she’s sent with their corn to the mill, she’s reminded to hate and not trust the miller, Gilbert Horn. Partly, it’s to ensure the miller doesn’t take more than his legally due share of their ground flour; partly, it’s because he’s a man who writes and reads. Ignorance and acceptance of “how things are” is at the core of the harsh world into which this Young Woman was born. Yet despite her own initial fear and revulsion of what putting ink on paper can do, the Miller successfully challenges and encourages this ploughman’s wife to start writing down her own words and thoughts, to find her own voice. It’s the beginnings of a secretive relationship with the Miller that’s far more than just sexual—although this is, of course, a part of it. In her blossoming as a woman and individual, she changes all their lives forever. Perth Theatre’s Artistic director, Lu Kemp, creates a stark, memorable production that expertly matches Harrower’s sparse, emphatic dialogue. She has cast incredibly well: Jessica Hardwick gives the Young Woman real heart and intensity; she instantly holds your attention, if not initially your affection. Rhys Rusbatch, meantime, embodies a weary sense of entitlement and suppressed violence, a husband who treats his horses with more care and attention than his wife. Michael Moreland, in contrast, gives us the initially defensive miller—a wiry man seemingly made of ground-down dust—who nevertheless sees something in the Young Woman that her husband doesn’t.Jamie Vartan’s brutal set – grey, stone-like, with a central performance area matched by a circular hole of darkness overhead – is impressive enough, but Simon Wilkinson’s subtle lighting – switching smoothly between a misty hoar, near darkness, and the golden hues of a beautiful sunrise – makes its strong geometric shapes even more memorable. This is a thoughtful, starkly beautiful production; an impressive calling card from the recently refurbished Perth Theatre, a welcome declaration of ambitious intent.

When watching the stage adaptation of any book, especially one I’ve not read, there’s often a question lingering at the back of my mind; would I appreciate this more, would I understand this better, if I had? It’s a telling distraction, of course; arguably, any stage adaptation should stand or fall on its own metaphorical feet as a work of theatre; if you need to bring background information to make the experience work, it’s failed.Not that this stage adaptation of Marguerite Duras’s memoir is a failure; it is beautiful to watch, a balanced combination of theatre and dance within a simple set of delicate drapes and monochromatic graphics. There is an equally entrancing soundscape of French and English pop that, while historically inaccurate for 1930s Vietnam, feels narratively appropriate. It’s a rare coproduction between three of the country’s most creative performance companies: Scottish Dance Theatre, Stellar Quines, and the Lyceum. Yet all through the 90 minutes running time, I couldn’t help wonder: What I was missing from the book? Worse: Why should I care? There is a potentially extremely involving story at the heart of The Lover, the memoir of a 15 year old French girl’s passionate affair with a 27 year old Chinese man; how her family’s poverty and his millionaire father’s expectations of an honourable marriage ultimately doomed their relationship. Apparently following the approach of the memoir, this stage adaptation by choreographer Fleur Darkin and director Jemima Levick avoids names and details of the individuals involved; only the Girl’s two brothers have names, but both are pretty much robbed of individuality by having all the characters’ dialogue pre-recorded, in female voices. The lithe, physical strength of the dancers is, at times, breath-taking; whether it’s Amy Hollinshead’s free-spirited Girl, Yosuke Kusano's lean and curiously vulnerable Man, or Francesco Ferrari and Kieran Brown as the Girl’s two extrovert, quarrelling brothers. There are occasions when the choreography is narratively succinct and far more effective than any written scenes could be; and yet, equally, there are also moments of cliche—such as the cast’s initial crawling entry onto the stage, which cuts at the ropes of suspended disbelief and leaves you wondering what’s fundamentally wrong with simply walking like a normal human being.For all the production’s promise of being “an irresistible blast of sensual heat for the dark days of January,” however, the reality is that The Lover lacks full-on passion, or a reason to care. Entwined, carefully choreographed bodies are not, in themselves, sufficiently erotic no matter how young and muscular they might be—not when the overall emotional experience they supposedly portray is deliberately kept at such a physical and emotional distance from us.

It’s a real shame temporary roadworks make accessing this show’s venue ever-so-slightly off-putting; also, that the venue is still relatively new, especially when it comes to putting on festive fair, and is up against highly marketed venues such as the King’s. Nevertheless, if you manage to find your way to The Studio on Potterrow, part of the city’s Festival Theatre, you’re in for a show with more heart and thought than most.“The Steadfast Tin Soldier” was Hans Christian Andersen’s first children’s story, so it’s appropriate that Mike Kenny’s new adaptation is the foundation for Scotland’s leading disability-led theatre company Bird of Paradise’s first winter show especially aimed at children. The story was a childhood favourite of director Garry Robson, not least because it resonated with him because it had a “disabled”, abandoned hero—and a conclusion which, while sad, nevertheless felt emotionally “real”. This new telling, using a combination of narrative, original live music by Lauren Gilmour and Audrey Tait, and puppets by the award-winning Victor Nikonenko, retains both. Added resonance is given through the show’s framing device, in which the cast play a gang of outcast, disabled kids housed in “the Place”—an orphanage, although it’s location is left deliberately vague—who entertain themselves and bond over telling tales from a battered copy of “The Bumper Book of Children’s Stories”. We’re told central character Jack, played by BOP’s co-artistic director Robert Softley Gale, once hated, but now loves, the story of The Tin Soldier. Part of the reason why he and his slightly rebellious cast retell the story now is to explain why he changed his mind.The titular tin soldier is incomplete, made from “left-overs”, and thrown out of the nursery for being “different”; this production doesn’t hide the parallels to disability in even the 21st century, although the script successfully balances the original tale’s timeless narrative with more current concerns. The cast are uniformly engaging, although Caroline Parker is a particular vision in purple as the principal BSL-signer. The result is an engaging and satisfying piece of theatre.

This revival of Shona Reppe’s acclaimed puppet retelling of the iconic fairytale is a fascinating jewel of a production, ideal for young children and families alike; subtle, succinct and aware of its narrative limits—unlike Cinderella, for example, we’re pointedly told that we’re NOT going to the Ball—while nevertheless confidently giving our imaginations enough room to play and become emotionally involved. Stripped of panto razzamatazz, this is among the best retellings I’ve ever seen.Experienced puppeteer Rick Conte has taken over performance duties this time round, entering with a duster and a friendly air. At least in terms of performance the show is just him, with the able support of some lighting and sound effects. He’s an articulate, delicate performer, capable of giving the delicate Cinderella puppet—made of rags and pipe-cleaners—a real sense of life and personality. In contrast, her abusive step-sisters—intent on spending their father’s money and snagging the Prince—are represented by a mismatching pair of silk gloves; one orange, one red. It shouldn’t work, but it does!It helps that Cinderella doesn’t actually say that much; her personality is expressed more through coughs and sneezes than speech, unlike the stepsisters who, while rough-voiced bullies, provide much of the comedy. Other characters are often more suggested than revealed, by either dialogue, sound or lighting effects; Conte himself becomes the handbag-using “fairy godmother” who decides to help make Cinderella’s wishes come true, while the dancing, entranced prince—presented in what’s essentially a dream sequence—is nothing more than a paper cut-out, made luminous with some ultraviolet. Our focus and sympathies, therefore, always remains on Cinderella. It’s not perfect, alas: the opening “fairytale” music is a tad disconcerting for anyone familiar with Philip Glass’s score for 1992 horror film Candyman. Repeated references to unseen Uber driver “Nigel” also feel forced and out-of-step with the show’s delicacy. Overall, though, the tone is pitched just right; sweet without being saccharine, and not afraid to revive some of the more gruesome aspects of the tale that others have sanded down over time.

There’s a deliberate cheapness to the temporary, painted proscenium arch erected in the Brunton’s theatre-space, indicative of this local panto’s rough ’n’ ready (and necessarily low-budget) approach that, when it works, nevertheless keeps its audience—on the night of this review, predominantly under the age of 10—genuinely entertained. And that’s without having to resort to any glittery special effects; simply having a cast member emerge from behind the audience has some amazed.Like so many European folk tales, the story of “Beauty and the Beast”—of how a young girl comes to love and save/tame a beastly man—has been pretty much trademarked in our imaginations by “the Mouse”. That said, this new version by Brunton-regular Mark Cox is less Disney, more “disnae”—and comes with an obligatory scattering of usually negative references to some of Musselburgh’s neighbours, such as Tranent, Prestonpans and Longniddry. Strangely enough, though, Edinburgh itself doesn’t get a single mention; a calculated slight, perhaps, to a Scottish capital that’s easily capable of overlooking its own neighbours?Anyway: James Boal plays Prince Hamish, all to aware of how dashing and handsome he is. While out “training” for the 400th Massive Muddy Musselburgh Marathon, he and his manservant Fraser (Raymond Short) cross paths with the husband-seeking Mordena (Julie Coombe). She suggests they get hitched, but Hamish declines; in iconic “scorned woman” behaviour, this sorcerer turns him into a hairy, howling beast. Only true love will break the spell, which is why Fraser persuades bright and bubbly Katie (Eilidh Weir) to stay at the Castle, along with “Auntie” Agnes Anderson (Keith McLeish) and her son Angus (Martin Murphy). The end result of this story is hardly in doubt, despite the best efforts of Mordena and her man-servant Murdo (Mat Urey) to stack-up the Boos. Nor does it help that Boal provides a far more nuanced Beast than supposedly heroic Prince, hindered by a black-out transformation that lasts too long. Thankfully, both Short and McLeish are sharply on-the-ball when it comes to keeping things moving, but one feels sorry for Murphy, all too often surplus to requirements in the side-kick stakes. Weir has a great singing voice, but lacks the opportunany emotional development.Unlike previous Decembers, this year’s Brunton production is remarkably short—two 45 minute halves. Even for a panto, it feels a tad insubstantial, although some obligatory scenes—such as the ghostly “It’s behind you!”—at least feel they have a place in the drama. Nevertheless, when the actors’ plot-driving dialogue is repeatedly drowned out by the crowd, it’s perhaps time to pause and enjoy the audience interaction, instead of rushing straight for the finale.

As Scotland’s self-declared “new writing theatre”, Edinburgh’s Traverse does like to offer up an alternative to the pantomimes and decidedly family-focused fare on offer elsewhere around the city, while still utilising fake snow. Morna Pearson’s new award-winning play, How to Disappear, certainly fits the bill—even if, initially, it feels out of time. It’s no “I, Daniel Blake”, but Pearson’s focus on oppressive bureaucracy surely isn’t most people’s idea of festive fun.Admittedly, that’s partly because, almost from the get-go, How to Disappear is funny—surprisingly so. Owen Whitelaw has played quite a few intense, even violent characters in recent years, but he’s a revelation here: his Robert is a naively optimistic creature who is emotionally and intellectually focused inwards, a man-child who hasn’t left his bedroom for 12 years, or in two decades stepped out of the house that he shares with his younger sister Isla. Robert’s hair is matted, his skin cracked and peeling; as a social human being he is barely functioning. Enter his benefits accessor Jessica. Jessica’s determination—to (a) fill out her forms, and (b) prove that Robert is actually fit for work—is invariably played for comedy, as we see the unstoppable pigeon-holing mentality of the DWP crash against the seemingly immovable realities of Robert and Isla’s dead-end lives. Sally Reid has a real talent for landing the laughs without sacrificing any emotional realism, although it’s fair to say that she benefits from being given a character who is shown some depths from the start; sadly, in comparison, Kirsty Mackay is given little beyond shouty victimhood through which to gain our sympathies. All in all, How to Disappear appears to be an engaging, and finely tuned examination of mental illness and how people can all-too-easily “disappear” from society. Yet that’s not enough for Morna Pearson; she has a twist up her sleeve, and I don’t just mean the totally unexpected set-change, which designer Becky Minto should be praised for. To avoid “Spoilers”, I won’t say any more, beyond that the second half successfully establishes a radically different framework to explain what’s been going on. As theatrical conceptual breakthroughs go, it effectively underscores and adds pathos to the whole situation.Director Gareth Nicholls does an excellent job here, not least in keeping the play’s momentum going between scenes, which sometimes involve jumping back and forward over time while the cast shift props in the semi-darkness, our attention focused instead on the flickering digits of Robert’s bedside digital clock. Importantly, he ensures that the finale, while possibly too saccharine for some tastes, nevertheless effectively offers a resolution that fits the seasonal context of this production.

It’s said that actors should never work with children or animals, presumably because of their unpredictability and the extra work this requires. While usually focused on casting, this must also be extended to working with very young audiences, such as the advised “three to seven” year olds encouraged to see this Christmas offering from Scottish Youth Theatre. Young children, let’s be clear, can’t be guaranteed to provide the responses expected of them!The scenario, devised by the cast, is simple enough: Tommy (Jai Sharma) is stuck at home with itchy chickenpox, while brother “Big Bad Brian” (Michael Dallas) is heading off for a Christmas party where there’ll be loads of presents, games and food. Apart from his “new pals”—ie, us—Tommy’s only chance of “adventure” is the “secret” snowbird he helped make earlier. Being near Christmas, of course, when we’re led “into the back garden”, this Snowbird (Rachel Still) magically comes alive and transports Tommy and us to the Moon, where we meet a marooned astronaut and his shy alien pal. It’s all deliberately interactive; the children are expected to help unfurl the Snowbird’s wings, and help her flap them. They’re asked to help pick up a shower of soft meteorites that fall from above. There’s lots of running around pretending to be snowflakes and the like, all of which helps bond the audience as well as hopefully tire them out slightly so they’re not too fidgety. But there’s also some fine, subtler than you might expect performances—especially by Dallas, who doubles as the astronaut quite happy in his lot despite apparently having been on the moon for 30 years.Using gentle songs and large projected visuals, this is a show which successfully engages its target audience and encourages them to play together, think, and let their imaginations flourish. The only wrong-turn I felt, was at the start; when Tommy’s playing with various Star Wars figures, he suddenly reveals Luke Skywalker’s parentage. Perhaps it goes over the heads of the youngest children in the audience, but for those six and seven year olds? Spoilers!

Stories illuminate the truth, lies hide it; that’s just one of the lessons audiences of all ages can take from Suhayla El-Bushra’s energetic new adaptation of The Arabian Nights, brought to Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum stage by director Joe Douglas; a suitably magical portmanteau of mythical stories within stories that offers a genuinely inventive, and refreshingly vibrant family entertainment for the festive season. Nothing quite like the desert sands to keep you warm in winter! For the grown ups, admittedly, there’s more to El-Bushra’s retelling of these ancient stories than just the entertaining rumination of a 2000-year old dog with serious flatulence issues. There are references to a Sultan’s capricious tyranny, where thousands of rules—most of them senseless—restrict everything from storytelling to being a girl. And there’s a coming-of-age narrative, where the previously irresponsible young Scheherazade risks everyone in order to entertain a grief-scarred Sultan every night with exciting and informative stories, in order to rescue her mother and the market stall owners imprisoned for no good reason. Admittedly, there are occasions during the first half when this over-arching narrative doesn’t feel quite strong enough to enable the show to truly fly, not without some pretty hard leg-work by its undoubtedly excellent cast—at least when compared to the gloriously vertiginous “stories within stories” sequence later on. Even so, there’s plenty to hold the attention of even the youngest audience member, not least the superb melding of ancient shadow puppetry and modern digital projection. This is a fun-filled production which feels modern and yet not disrespectful of the original stories in either intent or presentation. It’s a softened version, admittedly; Scheherazade (Rehanna MacDonald, who gives us a lively, appealing heroine) no longer faces nightly execution after her wedding night, for example. (A vindictive sock genie, meantime, sails close to the shores of Disney with its blue muscular appearance; indeed, the ubiquity of “the Mouse” in Western culture might explain why Aladdin gets a name-check and little more.) Yet some genuine jeopardy remains, thanks to Nicholas Karimi who, as the Sultan, gives a sufficiently nuanced portrait of one man’s power, reminding us of the sharp edge of the executioner’s sword that’s waiting just off stage. It’s important to note that the Royal Lyceum’s The Arabian Nights is an opportunity to see a far more diverse range of performers on stage than is often the case at Christmas-time; individually and together they prove to be extremely versatile—most have to play at least three characters—and funny. The overall result is a show that’s full of surprises, and just enough of a theatrical challenge for both children and adults alike.

It’s mildly amusing to see two grown men briefly falling into a childish bragging-match about their fathers—one a retired Church of Scotland minister, the other a former Bishop. Yet that rather sums up Our Fathers; this new collaboration between two atheist sons of the clergy—Nicholas Bone (Artistic Director of Magnetic North) and Rob Drummond (Traverse Associate Artist, and award-winning playwright and performer)—is at best mildly amusing, and mildly thought-provoking.Bone and Drummond may be the only men on stage, but there’s a third non-believing son of the clergy in the mix; the 19th century author Edmund Gosse, whose memoir Father and Son explores his own evolving relationship with his fundamentalist preacher father Philip—a man who, while understanding science, believed in the Bible literally. Bishop Bone had recommended the volume to him—“I think you should read it, I think you’ll find it interesting.”—and Bone had, in turn, passed it on to Drummond, while wondering what his father had meant by bringing the book to his attention.Father and Son is an exploration of Bone’s, Drummond’s and Edmund’s relationships with their fathers, not least the semi-public up-bringings they each had thanks to their father’s vocations. (One example: Drummond admits that his school mates regularly sung “Son of a Preacher Man” at him.) Gradually we realise that, although recordings of both men are played between scenes, Bone’s father is no longer with us, and that this particular atheist son somehow regrets never having “come out” to him as a non-believer. Had that been why Bishop Bone had given him Edmund’s book in the first place?At one point Drummond goes as far as saying that Bone is “doing this show because you regret not having the conversation about the book”, which is mildly “meta” as we assumed some difference between the real men and their onstage personas. While the two men on stage are speedily and succinctly delineated—Bone the fastidious, “as-we-rehearsed” guy with the good-condition book, Drummond the more easy-going, over-sharer who writes notes in his copy, and demands to play Edmund at the last minute—their arguments about the show, and each other’s paternal relationships, simply feel “acted”.Karen Tennent’s set successfully evokes the Victorian classroom, albeit with fascinatingly lit objects on small tables dotted around it, while Scott Tynholm’s music adds some real emotional depth, but Our Fathers is a show that, while intriguing and excellently staged, nevertheless feel mildly tricksy for the sake of it. It’s an entertaining 70-odd minutes, but there’s no real emotional or philosophical punch; dramatically-speaking, the conflict between belief and paternal relationships remains sadly unresolved.

“We’re beautiful, wild, free and full of joy,” say the titular Maids, Solange and Claire, towards the close of Jean Genet’s 1947 drama, courtesy of Martin Crimp’s 1999 translation. Yet there is certainly little happiness to be found here, within the writer’s all-too-clear lament for the unfulfilled and powerless, the put-upon and taken-for-granted, who slowly but surely must be driven mad by the unfairness of their place in the world.Set within a lush, elegant Parisian bedroom—Kenneth Macleod creating a sumptuous set, all chandeliers, relief-work and a floor strewn with rose-petals—the first act is pretty much a two-hander, as we’re introduced to Solange (Ann Louise Ross) and her seemingly self-centred, overtly dramatic mistress (Irene MacDougall), bereft of a lover and bemoaning her maid’s “contamination” of her life. On the point of violence, an alarm goes off—which is when we realise that this is just an elaborate, and somewhat sadomasochistic, ritual played by Solange and her sister Claire while their mistress, Madame, is away. Clearly, this is neither the first time they’ve plotted Madame’s death nor the last that a mutual focus on detail has robbed them of the time to carry out the deed, ritually or for real. The pair aren’t just physically trapped in their “squalid and bare” bedroom at the top of the house, or metaphorically in a sisterly relationship in which love has been twisted into disgust; they’re stuck in their behaviour and natures, and that appears to be the worst thing of all. “It’s easy to be kind when you’re rich and beautiful,” we’re told, and they are neither.We don’t properly meet their mistress until the second half, when Emily Winter gives us a Madame who genuinely lives up to the clichés of the first act. Yet as she changes from one wig and dress to another, heading off into the Parisian night for a rendezvous with some overtly-romanticised lover, it’s clear that Madame is as much stuck in a role as the two sisters whom she regularly misnames. Though, of course, she avoids their visual fate; for, when not on stage, McDougall and Ross sit slumped on either side inside huge perspex boxes like lifeless dolls.Director Eve Jamieson’s production is tonally layered—at times angry, at others verging on the grotesque—and sumptuously lit by Tim Mascall, while David Paul Jones provides an impactful musical soundscape that holds your attention. Yet what undoubtedly raises this new production above so many others is the strength of the cast: three women who are each veteran, 18-year members of Dundee Rep Ensemble, bringing nuanced clarity to every moment they are on stage. 

There’s a wonderful clarity to Linda McLean’s short play Thingummy Bob, a firm favourite with Scotland’s leading theatre company for people with learning disabilities, Lung Ha Theatre Company. It tells a straightforward story with neither writerly fuss nor theatrical affectation. Nevertheless, you should never confuse simple for simplistic; it’s a production which touches on some pretty serious issues about our lives, memories and individuality, but does so with charm, humour and a lightness of touch.It’s also quite honest about what’s happening, with Gavin Yule introducing the cast (and himself) while succinctly explaining the characters that they’ll be playing. When it comes to numbers, Kenneth Ainslie ably meets the challenge of playing not just a male nurse, but also a female neighbour, an Elvis-loving policeman and an invisible dog. That said, Yule clearly and succinctly distinguishes between Lesley—the titular Bob’s wheelchair-using nephew in Australia—and a surprisingly articulate and self-aware CCTV system called Binox, which is supposedly keeping an intelligent eye on the comings and goings at Bob’s residential care home.The heart of this show, however, is in the capable hands of experienced Lung Ha performers John Edgar as Bob, and Emma McCaffrey as Gemma, a young woman who has known Bob all her life and is fearful of losing him to dementia. She clings to the hope that Bob still has some superpower, but the problem is that neither she nor anyone else knows what it might be. Bob, meantime, has lost something; he can’t remember what this “Thingummy” is, but he knows two things—that finding it will make him happy, and it’s not where he is now. So, accompanied by the theme to the film The Great Escape, Bob makes his way back to his old home, in search of the “Thingummy”. Desperately worried, Gemma and her mate Cap try to do the same thing, and it’s the latter half of the play which explores what happens next. It would be a massive spoiler to suggest whether or not Bob finds his Thingummy, so let’s instead give special mention to Mark Howie, Lung Ha’s resident funny man, whose character may have a limited vocabulary—for the most part, just “Aye!”—but lands each word with comedic impact.Lung Ha’s Artistic Director Maria Oller once again directs her cast with both an understanding of McLean’s characters and the abilities of her cast, encouraging Karen Tennant to design a startlingly impressive white and grey set which is necessarily wheelchair accessible. Along with Philip Pinksky’s distinctive musical score, the result is a remarkably focused and entertaining production which lightly touches on heavy themes, and leaves little confusion in its wake. Other theatre productions take note!

“Lavender Menace”, according to Wikipedia, were “an informal group of lesbian radical feminists formed to protest the exclusion of lesbians and lesbian issues from the feminist movement at the Second Congress to Unite Women in New York City on May 1, 1970”. James Ley’s new play, though, is not about them. Rather, it’s about another Lavender Menace; arguably, one that was just as passionate and significant—Edinburgh’s (indeed Scotland’s) first gay, lesbian and feminist bookshop.Edinburgh’s Lavender Menace was opened, by friends Bob Orr and Sigrid Neilson, in late August 1982—which, for context, was less than three years after the partial decriminalisation of male homosexual acts belatedly reached dour Presbyterian Scotland. This basement shop lasted a remarkable five years, before being reincarnated as the more prominently-located West & Wilde. Nevertheless, it’s Lavender Menace for which many Scottish LGBT people of a certain age—this reviewer included—have the greatest nostalgia; it was the first “safe space” where many of us could relax, without the stresses inherent in the city’s growing number of gay bars. It’s this role as “safe space” which lies at the heart of Ley’s play, set overnight in the bookshop just before it closes its doors for the last time in 1987. Fictionalised staff members Lewis and Glen are packing books into boxes, while also rehearsing a “homage” to the shop’s unseen founders—the writerly mechanism which Ley uses primarily to explain Bob and Sigrid’s story and how the shop came into being—ironically enough, after Bob’s previous small book-selling endeavour had been thrown out of the city’s LGBT centre for stocking Marxist literature and an allegedly blasphemous Christmas Card. Yet there is more to this play than just the dry history of a community-focused bookshop; Lewis, in particular, sees the closure of Lavender Menace as a sign of a future he doesn’t want, of capitalism’s “commercialisation of gay culture, and culture in general”—a gentrification that comes hand-in-hand with AIDS and Thatcher’s Government pushing through the discriminatory “Section 28” legislation. That’s the political, but there’s the personal here too: Lewis and Glen have known each other for many years and, while never “an item”, are clearly reluctant to admit their genuinely deep feelings for each other.The chemistry between the two characters is well served by Pierce Reed, as the mildly flamboyant Lewis, and Matthew McVarish as the much-more-easy-going “undercover heterosexual” Glen. The two also switch, with some skill, to other characters, both within the “homage” and outside: such as a “Hungry Bottom” policeman, and a closeted man spending an evening looking for the shop without finding it. (The shop sign was taken down every night; not just for fear of vandalism, but to avoid the paperwork that a permanent sign would have required in an architecturally protected area of Edinburgh’s New Town.) Both performers are funny, clever, and full of vigour. Mamoru Iriguchi’s set—chalk-sketched book shelves that magically illuminate with book-spines—is effective without being too specific. Undoubtedly, director Ros Philips keeps a strong pace, but there are nevertheless some moments when it all feels more like a succession of sketches rather than a tightly-bound, cohesive whole; that it’s trying to say too much when it really needs to say less, more clearly.

There were a lot of expectation around this new Wales Millennium Centre production of Manfred Karge’s one-woman play, Man to Man. Back in 1987, Karge himself had directed a young Tilda Swinton in a career-establishing performance at the Traverse, in it’s former Grassmarket home. Yet in 2017, while Bruce Guthrie and Scott Graham have certainly given an engaging Maggie Bain an inventive and visually stylish staging, this version nevertheless fails to quite gel.Bain plays Ella Gericke, who is forced by financial necessity in 1930s Germany to take on the identity—and, more importantly, the job—of her dead crane-operator husband Max. Bain’s physically impressive as she switches from gentle, graceful Ella to a necessarily more wiry Max and to the other people in the story, her Scottish accent deliberately strongest when playing the workers in the pub that she can’t—as a man—avoid. She roams the near-empty stage, now an old man living on pension and beer; such a contrast to when remembering the princess fairytales of her childhood. Richard Ken’s set is large, though significantly empty except for a chair, a metal-framed bed and mattress. Just like Ella as Max, though, appearances are deceptive; the seemingly dull walls become fragile screens on which are projected Rick Fisher’s emotive lighting and Andrzej Goulding’s beguiling projections. Meantime Mike Walker’s soundscapes, be they muffled chatter or the distant thump of heavy artillery, add depth to the atmosphere. Surprisingly, the set itself is strong enough to support Bain as she clambers up and around during the action; there’s no doubt Guthrie and Gorham ensure we always have something to look at. Yet there’s a sense this visually impressive staging is nothing more than theatrical jazz-hands intended to distract us from an examination of gender identity which, while presumably radical in 1987, already now feels somewhat dated and all-too male-focused. Perhaps, in the end, it might have been better simply to trust Bain as a performer to carry the drama without the need for the likes of a digitally crumbling Berlin Wall in reverse.

There’s little obvious theatrical artifice on show; just four actors, in casual clothes, sitting or lying on the plain black floor of an empty stage as the audience comes in. Mariem Omari’s script, we read in the programme, is based on verbatim interviews with a diverse range of men across Scotland, which she believes confirms the increasingly held belief that Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) are among the leading causes of substance abuse, depression and suicide.“Toxic. Complete carnage,” is how Scott Kyle—best known for playing Ross in the Outlander series—describes the relationships that grew up around the council-scheme-raised man to whom he gives a voice. But there’s no monopoly on abuse, as we learn. There’s Manjot Sumal’s comic book-loving asian youth, who doesn’t want to be the one who leads from the front—or even seen smiling in public—in case it attracts the attention of the red-faced bullies. There’s Adam Buksh’s Buffy The Vampire-Slayer-loving gay Muslim, and finally Mark Jeary’s Belfast born child of “The Troubles”. Given the self-imposed limitations on staging, director Umar Ahmed keeps everything moving at a good pace without ever losing focus, no mean feat given that the script constantly jumps from one man’s story to the next, with the other cast members suddenly playing parents, neighbours and others as and when required. Despite the seriousness of the subjects and experiences being raised, there are even plenty of laughs; not least the “David Lynch aspect of Belfast” where your neighbours could quite literally turn round and kill you, or Kyle’s “character” unashamedly saying: “I stopped self-harming when I discovered heroine”. The scariest thought, and arguably the only significant theatrical device through the entirety of One Mississippi, is the idea that the four men in front of us—abused and bullied as the “Faggot”, the “Ned”, the “Paki” and the “Fenian”—are not just opening up about their own childhood experiences, but doing so publicly. If nothing else, it’s clear that this doesn’t, for the most part, happen in real life—with all too deadly consequences.

There’s no doubting the raw energy and physicality of this show, a work of dance theatre that definitely prefers choreography to speech, and uses it—along with some pretty stark staging and a thumping score—to great effect. Of course, given the almost non-stop power moves on display here, it’s amazing that any of the cast have the breath to speak, but that’s what skill, stamina and taking turns in the spotlight can ensure.We naturally first see the Rhythm Rascals at the supposed top of their game, in a visual staccato of poses and dance moves to a soundtrack of heavy beats and recorded audience fervour. This is soon contrasted with a glimpse of their lives off-stage: Manchurian Joshua Smith’s “Oh My Josh!” posting selfies in the bathroom; Swede Pontus Linder’s “Fluid Druid” and his deep-breath exercises; Antti Kyllönen’s “Antti Freeze” focusing on his wardrobe; and now-Dundee-based Latvian Oleg Kiricenko’s “Prime”—the supposed leader of the group—in the kitchen. They seem a disparate group, but not yet foundering.During the subsequent rehearsals, though, the cracks in this b-boy crew start to become clear. There’s Prime’s annoyance with Fluid Druid’s habitual lateness, taken as a sign of not taking the group seriously enough. There’s Oh My Josh’s declared belief that, ultimately, he’s like Superman—destined to go it alone. (It’s a good metaphor, at least until you remember the Justice League of America.) But it’s Prime’s idea of using a classical music remix that shows their future; Oh My Josh and Fluid Druid momentarily go with the idea, but Antti Freeze almost physically slaps them out of it. Although the story of the group’s fracturing is hardly original, there’s a genuine sensitivity in the portrayal of these strong young men’s relationships and dreams—not least the increasing clashes between their innate camaraderie and increasingly sweaty rivalries. Hip hop may not have a reputation for subtlety even in dance circles but here—most especially in group’s final, disastrous performance—Room 2 Manoeuvre prove its dramatic effect is far more powerful than you might think.

Site specific theatre is nothing new in Scotland; from the numerous innovative creations by the likes of Grid Iron Theatre Company to much of the work by the “without walls” National Theatre of Scotland, performances in non-theatrical settings can ensure an impact—when everything works—difficult to reproduce within the safe traditions of the proscenium arch. The twist with Bridget Boland’s Cockpit, however, is that the specific site required is, in fact, a theatre.So, Edinburgh’s Victorian-built Royal Lyceum Theatre is itself part of the drama, playing a provincial German theatre soon after the conclusion of the War in Europe in 1945. It is bedecked with roughly-made signs—“No Fighting”,”No Carrying Firearms”, “No Knives Longers Than 3 Inches”—and littered with scattered possessions. Requisitioned by the British only the day before, it’s already filled up with roughly 1,000 DPs—Displaced Persons. “The whole of Europe under one roof,” as Deka Walmsley’s Sergeant Barnes describes it, one of two British soldiers in charge of preparing the DPs for transport East or West. Barnes is experienced enough to split up the different nationalities up, aware that former neighbours are likely to be the most volatile. (The exception: “Dutch, you can put them anywhere.”) However, Peter Hannah’s well-meaning, but weary Captain Ridley is determined to carry out his orders, splitting everyone on whether they’re headed for the American or Russian Zones. When told of the potential fear and violence this will cause, he insists that “Sooner or later they’ll have to live together.” It doesn’t take long for one of the DPs in his care to point out: “You British don’t understand Europe.”This is only one of many moments when Boland’s script resonates deeply; with the UK’s long-troubled and troubling view of a monolithic Continent, or today’s social-media-fuelled condemnation of anyone who doesn’t share your beliefs. “No man has the right now to be on the wrong side,” says one of DPs, as post-War retribution on Collaborators is demanded. “She’s too clever by half,” says another of an academic, echoing back to us in a distrust of experts and facts. Time and again, it’s difficult to believe that this oh-so-contemporary play was actually written in 1947! Taking the action beyond the Royal Lyceum’s stage, while also placing some of the audience on it, Wils Wilson’s production benefits from several emotionally committed performances from her 12-strong cast (not least Kaisa Hammarlund as former French Resistance member Marie, and Alexandra Mathie as The Professor) which, remarkably, feels even larger during the course of the action. Matt Padden does a great job in making us feel the passing of military vehicles outside the building, while Aly Macrae’s musical score—a mix of Eastern European styles, performed by the cast between scenes—gives the whole thing a contemporary vibe. When the possibility of Bubonic Plague raises its ugly head within the building, the quarantined DPs show what can be achieved by working together—contrasted against Captain Ridley’s frustrated “Democracy is what you’re going to get, whether you like it or not!” And when Sandra Kassman’s amnesiac sings from La Traviata, it’s proof that it’s not just common fears which can hold us together. The question the play doesn’t answer, however, is whether that’s enough.

Historically speaking, the original “Damned Rebel Bitches” were—according to the “butcher” Duke of Cumberland—the Jacobite women who marched behind their men in order to prevent them retreating. In Sandy Thomson’s inventively staged, full-to-bursting new work, the term is instead linked to sisters Ella and Irene—now in their 80s but recently arrived in America in order to find and rescue Ella’s missing grandson Cameron, from the clutches of “Super Storm Sandy”.At first glance Natasha Jenkins’ set is cluttered; early on, it’s even used to represent a life-time of possessions abandoned in Ella’s attic. As the show progresses, though, the cast inventively use the various props to help explain the sisters’ life, from being orphaned during the Clydeside Blitz of 1941 to being threatened by an armed mugger in New York. An order of sorts rises out from the seeming chaos, just as their story also emerges from the sometimes obtuse leaping back and forth along their busy lives, Ella’s age the constant statement at the head of each scene. To add to the fun, Ella—“Over 80 and still the bullied wee sister!”—is played by a veteran actress, the wonderfully energetic Tina Gray, while the role of older sister Irene is given to the considerably younger Eilidh McGormick. Both are brilliant in their respective roles—Gray particularly as the ever-so-young Ella—though this “age-blind” casting does feel a tad heavy-handed on occasion. The ensemble is completed by Jeremiah Reynolds—primarily as Ella’s grandson Cameron—and Geoffrey Pounsett as Ella’s Canadian husband Pete; they inhabit their numerous supporting roles with real confidence, energy and clarity. But they do have to work at it; this is a play undermined by Thomson’s well-meaning authorial determination to rip up every stage cliché about older women—“Every generation thinks they invented sex”—which sadly doesn’t benefit from the fresh, editorial perspective that a different director might have brought. There’s much to praise here, but this is a near-two-and-a-half hour-plus show which feels longer, and doesn’t need to be. 

During the early years of the British Broadcasting Corporation, its first Director-General Lord Reith established the BBC’s mission as being to “inform, educate and entertain”. (Note: in that order.) Certainly, audiences will leave this new production—from Scottish theatre company Wonder Fools—having learned something while also being entertained. However, Reith wouldn’t have approved of the subject matter: this is a show about pornography, and society’s changed relationship to it in the internet age.We’re certainly given a steady flow of facts over the hour: that, every month, more people visit porn sites than Netflix, Amazon and Twitter combined; that men’s first exposure to pornography is now, on average, when they’re 12 years old; that, essentially, online pornography has replaced “behind the bike shed” as their main source of sex education. Oh; and that the Coolidge Effect is a behavioural phenomenon seen in most animals, and named after the former American President who once suggested that a rooster in a chicken farm wouldn’t have sex so often if it only had one sexual partner. To put it another way, males (and to a lesser extent females) will apparently keep sexually activity far longer if there is are numerous sexual partners available—it’s the variety, rather than individual factors, that keeps them (and us) horny. So the core question co-writer and performer Robbie Gordon asks us is simple enough: in this internet age, what happens when the potential variety never stops? What then? If one of the characters Gordon portrays is anything to go by, it’s far from pretty: “a constant craving for variety can take you to places you don’t want to go”.Co-written with director Jack Nurse, The Coolidge Effect is inevitably more tell than show, albeit with the neat trick of Gordon—a friendly enough persona, even when playing hooded rapper “Retrospect”—getting one scene performed by audience members. Some aspects are less successful—those dance movements, for example—but there’s no doubting this show is educational, informative and entertaining; Reith might not have approved, but it’s hopefully the start of a much-needed conversation. 

Given that she’s such a much-loved public entertainer, an all-too-obvious challenge in creating a musical based on the early life of the late Cilla Black—born Priscilla Maria Veronica White—is that, while she certainly had some big hit singles—“Anyone Who Had a Heart”, “You’re My World”, and “Alfie”, to name just three—her back catalogue of really familiar hits arguably isn’t large enough to fill a two-hours-plus musical.Writer Jeff Pope, with directors Bill Kenwright and Bob Tomson, turn this to their advantage, widening the selection of songs performed on stage to give a fuller sense of the world—specifically early 1960s’ Liverpool; even more specifically the Cavern Club—out of which she was plucked by Brian Epstein. The first half of the show may all-too-predictably focus on the numerous ups and downs on her journey from office typing pool to centre-stage, but it does so efficiently and with a real feel of the nascent Mersey Beat that The Beatles would bring to the world.Yet there is also time to show us Cilla’s slow-but-growing relationship with Bobby Willis, who she would eventually marry and—following the death of Epstein—appoint as her manager. It’s all done with humour and a generally light touch, while not ignoring the background of religious bigotry between Liverpool’s Protestant and Catholic communities. While Bobby may well, on paper, feel somewhat two-dimensional, Carl Au breathes real passion into the man who, during the course of the second half, is willing to give up much in order to support the life and ambitions of the woman he loves. Andrew Lancel has “previous”, having played the titular Epstein—the Man Who Made The Beatles. Here, he’s not given an excessive amount to do; while clearly portrayed as the “other” important man in Cilla’s life, he’s resolutely in her shadow, with the show’s sometimes excessive use of spotlights resolutely focused on her. That said, Lancel at least gets far more stage time than any of the actors playing The Beatles, who at one point even play as Cilla’s backing band. Paul Broughton and Pauline Fleming, meantime, bring spot-on comic timing to the otherwise one-note roles of Cilla’s parents. The star of the show, of course, is Kara Lily Hayworth; discovered through an open audition, she has her own story of rising success and fame, and certainly gives us Cilla’s confidence, openness and strong vocals—if not always her occasional gentler moments. In one sense, that’s fine; early on Bobby praises Cilla singing “rock ’n’ roll like a bloke”. But it sometimes forgets that nigh on all of Cilla’s half-dozen hits were ballads.

Part confessional monologue, part lecture and part nostalgic trip back to the days of the BBC’s Jackanory, there’s no doubt that There Were Two Brothers is a funny, personal—yet surprisingly universal—exploration of fraternal relationships. Not least the often unspoken truth that even the closest of childhood siblings can turn out to keep secrets from each other—but, if they’re lucky, will have the opportunity to get to know each other again as adults.Originally commissioned for the 2014 Glasgay! festival, it’s hardly surprising that a large part of this show’s focus is on Mark Kydd’s own personal journey from ‘theatrical’ eldest of five children, growing up in Dundee (decades before it redefined itself as the City of Discovery), to coming to terms with his sexuality within the nascent gay scene of 1980s’ Edinburgh. The unseen, but equally important figure in this story is younger brother Paul—born on Mark’s second birthday, a ‘present’ from his parents ‘whether he liked it or not’. Although happy siblings during childhood, adolescence soon begins to change things.Paul, we’re told, was ‘a dreamer’ who would lock himself away in his room listening to music; Mark, in comparison, was the shy boy who over-compensated by becoming a performer, albeit one who knew enough about school bullies to keep quiet about his ballet lessons—setting a precedent, like many gay men before and since, for him becoming quite ‘accomplished at keeping secrets’. These autobiographical elements are thankfully told with honesty and a complete lack of sentimentality, although you can’t help but smile at his wish he could ‘talk to my 10-year-old self; give myself a hug’. Mark’s life and relationship, particularly with Paul, are contrasted with one of Mark’s early literary discoveries, I Look Divine by American author Christopher Coe. This 1980s novel focuses on the life and death of ‘flamboyant’ gentleman Nicholas—beautiful, wealthy, hopelessly vain—seen through the eyes of his quiet, respectable brother. The sibling relationship, as much as the homosexuality, is what resonated with Mark at the time, which is why he successfully contrasts his own life with an imagined incarnation of the author, who died of an AIDS-related illness in 1994: now remembered in three words: “Wrote Gay Novels”.Under Ros Sydney’s direction, Mark is spot-on as a performer, just the right degree of camp when required; as writer, he’s honest enough to avoid any single moment of reconciliation, and instead focus on how he and Paul learned “how to be ourselves in each other’s company”. This may be a show about gay men—real and imagined—and their siblings, but it easily resonates with anyone familiar with the complexities of family life.

There’s a real sense of excitement in the run-up to Stand By, not least thanks to the slightly-unusual venue—inside an Army Reserve Centre in the north of the New Town. Serving soldiers act as ushers, issuing us with the same single-earpiece headphones worn by police officers on duty. With the rhythmic pre-show music keeping the energy up, there’s a real sense of things all about to kick off.Except, Stand By is quite an appropriate choice of title; this show is focused on four police officers stuck in their van, waiting to be called in to support a police negotiator in a nearby block of flats who’s trying to deal with a hostage situation. When the action finally happens, it’s off-stage—suggested only by sounds, lights and the buzz of half-discernible radio messages in our ears. What we witness here are the sides of police work than don’t usually get shown. The waiting. The boredom. The personal doubts and annoyances. The all-too-real consequences. Natasha Jenkins’ set, a metal-framed abstract of a police van, is almost certainly larger than the real thing, and opened out even further early in the course of the play. However, although director Joe Douglas chooses not to realistically recreate the enforced physical intimacy between the four characters, the emotional consequence of them living in each other’s pockets are in full focus—from the not-so-gentle ribbing about who’s on tea-making duty, and the proper etiquette for buying cakes for everyone on your birthday, to not discussing the strain of the job on family. Writer Adam McNamara, who also plays lead officer Chris (aka ‘GI’), is a former Police Officer himself, so there’s a real sense of authenticity in both the situation, the characters, and the under-resourced reality of life in Police Scotland. Admittedly the language, although hardly pre-Watershed, has probably still been toned down for theatrical ears. McNamara is ably supported by Andy Clark as experienced officer Davey (aka ‘Sparkles’), Jamie Marie Leary as Rachel (aka ‘Morticia’) and Laurie Scott as former Met-officer Marty (aka, ‘McFly’). Their characters are strongly defined, but not without surprising details only revealed in extremis. As writer, McNamara is not above having his characters mock TV and film police dramas on the grounds of their dramatic cliches and lack of realism, but he’s arguably also guilty himself: a budding relationship between two of the characters doesn’t sit easily, but the seeming inevitability of its likely ending is frankly disappointing. Nevertheless, this is still a powerful, insightful drama with much to say and a bold, blackly comic way of saying it. 

This startling, if indistinct production from Mind the Gap, England’s largest learning disability theatre company, gets straight to its point, with cast members slipping into ‘Dear Diary’ mode to talk about love, sex and… babies. Obviously, this shouldn’t surprise us; a learning disability neither prevents hormones nor blinds people to popular culture—be that Disney’s Cinderella or a sexually-choreographed Britney Spears video. So why shouldn’t people with learning disabilities also want marriage and family?Unusually, the programme notes include the ‘relationship status’ of the cast—all four are in relationships, with one married and one engaged—along with their thoughts on possibly having children at some point. As the cast interact with an accompanying sound montage, or video each other to presumably give them some aspect of dehumanised objectification, we’re told statistics surrounding parents with learning disabilities that are truly astounding—that while the official estimate is 40%, advocacy groups argue that up to 90% will have had their children removed by social services. Officialdom’s default position: they simply won’t be able to cope. Mia: Daughters of Fortune is played in an empty space with just a few props, a video screen and a dot-matrix display on which a succession of ‘chapter titles’ are shown: Giving Birth to Ideas, Reality Check, A Day in the Life, etc. The show shifts promptly enough between scenes: from spoken word to dance (using the distortions of shadows to play with ideas of size and form); from scientific explanations of DNA to mock game show Don’t Drop The Baby. It’s a shame that the latter goes on a tad too long, dragging out audience members to ‘help’.Mia understandably focuses on the feelings of parents—and wannabe parents—with learning disabilities, including emotional documentary quotes from those emotionally hurt by their experiences of social services and the assumptions people make about their ability—or rather, inability—to successfully raise children. While pointing out that, in truth, none of us are ever really ready for parenthood, the show’s reluctance to tackle society’s wider prejudices head-on feels a bit like a pulled punch.

There’s nothing that says 'Edinburgh Festival Fringe' quite like the portrayal of sex on stage: that said, compared with many of the thousands of shows in Edinburgh this August, there’s an genuine old-school innocence about Michael Parker’s The Amorous Ambassador. Given that the show’s being performed in a church hall, perhaps it’s just as well that acclaimed amateur company Leitheatre have opted for a traditional farce to mark their 34th year on the Fringe.Admittedly, farces can bring their own particular problems. Derek Blackwood’s set, while it does the job, wobbles on occasions, although that’s probably inevitable given its scale and how many doors and French windows he’s had to include. When it comes to performance, farces also need a light but broad touch; while we have here a clearly talented, well-selected ensemble, there are nevertheless moments when the show doesn’t quite fly as delicately as it could and should. That said, this is likely to sort itself out as the cast get into the flow of nightly performances. The chief protagonist in The Amorous Ambassador is sex-obsessed philanderer Harry Douglas, a former senator who is now the US Ambassador to Britain. Featured in Parker’s earlier farce, The Sensuous Senator, Harry still has an eye for the fair sex, not least his new glamorous neighbour Marian Murdoch, whom he invites over in the belief that both his wife Lois and daughter Debbie will be away. A series of complications, however, ensure an ongoing flow of double entendres and innuendoes, slammed doors and missed encounters, misunderstandings and confused identities that no farce worthy of the name should be without.Many of the cast are clearly having a great time—not least Tim Foley, who appears to be channelling the late Clifton James (best remembered as Sheriff J W Pepper in Roger Moore’s first two James Bond films) as the conspiracy-seeking security chief Captain South. The result is a production that serves its material well; it may not be ‘pushing the envelope’ in any significant way, but it’s a fine example of its kind.

Zinnie Harris has five plays on in Edinburgh this August, including two within the Edinburgh International Festival’s theatre programme. While she may not yet be a household name, in the last couple of years alone her work has been recognised by the Critics Awards for Theatre in Scotland (CATS) as both much-in-demand writer and director. It’s unclear, however, to what extent her new play, Meet Me At Dawn, will add to her reputation.Certainly, it’s been given a fine production by the Traverse’s Artistic Director, Orla O’Loughlin, even if a cynic might suggest designer Fred Meller has literally thrown in the kitchen sink—half buried in a misty darkness which is then suddenly illuminated to reveal a craggy slab of rock, dusted with sand and surrounded by a glistening plastic sea. This is when two women stagger into view: Neve McIntosh as Robyn—frightened, confused, and ready to throw up—and Sharon Duncan-Brewster as her partner Helen—fired up, full of adrenaline at their predicament. Both the survivors of a boat accident.Given it’s a two-hander, McIntosh and Duncan-Brewster prove to be a well-balanced couple, their performances full of fear, anger and that deep-seated love worn down round the edges by everyday physical intimacy. But it is clear, from the start, that something is awry; they seemingly can’t stop talking and, while unsure if they’re on an island or further down the coast from their original starting point, seem stuck where they are. Except… that Robyn is haunted by the ‘muscle memory’ of being somewhere else, alone. Then there’s that ‘mad’ woman they meet, who we never see…To Harris’s credit, the strangeness of the situation draws you in—even all that business with the strange dry moth caught in Robyn’s hair—but it takes longer than it should for their situation to become clearer, with a script so full of words it feels as if the rhythms are much more important than any meaning. Nevertheless, as a touching portrayal of grief and loss, Meet Me At Dawn has real insight and authenticity. 

Upbeat Gordon Southern may dress like the kind of supply teacher that the kids love to bully (his words) but, despite his repeated mantra of ‘Not Laughing, Learning’, his latest Edinburgh show is full-to-bursting with comedic gold, and undoubtedly perfect evidence (if we’re all being scientific) of why you should never underestimate the quality of what’s on offer from the city’s ‘Free’— to get in, if not to get out—Festivals.That’s a Fun Fact is a not-quite-year-by-year selection of notable events from 1989 to the present day; from the Fall of the Berlin Wall (which, Southern points out, the American political scientist Francis Fukuyama optimistically—or foolishly—described as ‘the End of History’) to 2016’s ‘popular’ votes for Brexit and Donald Trump. A sort of follow-up to previous show, Long Story Short, Southern includes both personal and global ‘highlights’—two Gulf Wars, the Fall of the Twin Towers, the death of Diana Princess of Wales, and his own marriage and more recent divorce.Each is the foundation for some tight comedic remarks, or a leap of logic connected with something said by a member of the audience, whom he cultivates with apparent ease. Of course, with less than an hour available to him, Southern has to be pretty selective; I wondered why 2010 skirts by without a mention of the launch of the iPad, given he’s using one to trigger his numerous musical cues. Or why he fails to draw more attention to August 1997 being his debut Edinburgh Festival Fringe. But then, he does seem a positive, forward-looking guy.New Yorker Claude H Oliver II once wrote a poem titled Today Is Yesterday’s Future—one of my own facts for you! OK, our Trump on Twitter present almost certainly isn’t the future many of us expected or hoped to see, even just a couple of years ago. Yet I’d suggest it’s a fact that, despite everything, we can all still look forward to the future. Why? Because Southern will be there making us laugh.

Unwritten, according to the flyer, is ‘a secret history of Scotland’; specifically, though, it uses the individual experiences of three disabled people to talk about Inclusive Education. It’s listed in the Fringe programme under Theatre (albeit with the caveat of ‘true-life’); yet it’s closer in form to Spoken Word: three people on an empty stage, talking straight at us with a minimum of theatrical effects in terms of writing and presentation.Stark? Certainly. Shocking? Occasionally. Memorable? Undoubtedly. There will likely be few shows on the Fringe with more authenticity than this. These are succinct, emotional stories of real lives, told by those who have lived them. They are people who learned by experience that ‘Special’ can be another word for ‘Second Class’. Until all-too-recently, ‘Special’ (ie, Disabled) people would vanish, into ‘Special’ schools and institutions. Policy has changed since the 1980s, but it’s debatable whether mainstream education even now is anywhere near as ‘inclusive’ as it should be when it comes to anti-bullying, child protection and disability. Sasha Callaghan and Stuart Pyper are graduates of the MA Creative Writing at Edinburgh Napier University, while David Nicol has performed in many shows by Edinburgh-based arts company ACTive INquiry. Callaghan’s stately delivery, of her childhood conversations with ‘the Dead’, seamlessly shifts back and forth between amusing—“The Dead are notoriously unreliable.”—and disturbing. With Pyper there is a sharper edge; not least because the adult diagnosis of his Autism is essentially proof that it should have been diagnosed earlier. Nicol, meantime, seems more matter-of-fact about how his varied experiences at school made him who he is. While there’s a clear structure to their show—with a repeated emphasis on them supposedly being ‘Special’—Callaghan, Pyper and Nicol don’t come to any definitive conclusion; after all, they’re still living their lives. Given current austerity-driven government policies, they’re not exactly optimistic, but haven’t given up on being who they are—and being accepted for that. Not as ‘Special’; just everyday, like everyone else—even if they’re performing on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

What would an unpublished Agatha Christie mystery be like if, by some strange quirk of fate, its editor had given it over to P G Wodehouse for a final literary polish? Well, thanks to Tom Taylor, we now have at least an idea; a bit like one-man-show The Game’s A Foot, Try the Fish—a hit during last year’s Fringe, back again along with brand new adventure The Man With The Twisted Hip.Admittedly, one man’s homage is another man’s pastiche, but Taylor clearly knows what he’s writing about; so ‘rakish aristocrat’ (according to the Fringe programme) Charlie Montague is a naturally endearing character, a bumbling innocent abroad—well, Dorset—seemingly soon out of his depth. For Charlie, on a whim, has set himself up as a consulting detective. Some judicious advertisements in the morning newspapers speedily secure his first case—to prevent the death of failing actor, Rex Hamilton, and he speedily travels down to the Cliff House Hotel to join both intended victim and an entourage of potential suspects.That we have a reasonably positive image of Charlie is in no small part because, while he’s obviously our narrator, there appears to be no guile in the man as he explains the plot and performs the other characters, or at least those Taylor (as Charlie) can do voices for—an example of the script’s witty self-awareness regarding the limits of the “set” (a chaise longue on an otherwise empty stage) or its sole performer’s vocal range. Indeed, on occasions, Taylor’s a blur as he slips from narrator, to character, to speaking directly to the audience about their reactions.If Taylor has a potential weakness as a stage performer, it’s an apparent reluctance to ever look his audience straight in the eye. As a writer, however, he really excels; while some jokes are pretty obvious, others are far more subtly rooted in both narrative and character, often coming to fruition when you least expect it. The result: character comedy that, like Charlie Montague himself, is actually nowhere near as silly as you might think.

“I need more light,” our protagonist Caravaggio says at one point, and it’s fair to say that the 16th century Italian’s use of light and darkness is one of his paintings’ signature features. This new biographical play, though, leaves no doubt that Michele Angelo Merigi da Caravaggio was more a figure of the darkness than the light—passionate in all matters of the flesh, quick to anger and absolutely bursting with self-confidence.It’s a challenge to make such a figure sympathetic, not least when we first meet him—on the run after having killed a man in a brawl—but Alex Marchi just about manages it, not least thanks to those quieter moments of genuine affection seen with his valet Francesco (one of several roles played by Danny Hetherington) and Lena (Dorothy Jones), a prostitute and artistic muse. Given we don’t see any of Caravaggio’s work—his paintings represented by empty picture frames—you do wonder what Richard Unwin’s amusingly camp Cardinal Del Monte gets in return for his patronage and support.“What you see in the painter you’ll see in the paintings,” we’re told at one point, as we follow Caravaggio from Rome to Naples—where he stays with artistic contemporary Carracci (Thomas Lodge)—and then to Malta, seeking further commissions and membership of the Knights of Malta. However, it appears that death and violence inevitably followed behind him, as he attempts to build up a sufficiently important artistic reputation to aid in his receiving a pardon from the Pope. He isn’t alone in having “a taste for slaughter and martyrdom,” though; and, it’s suggested here, that led to his death.As might be expected, this production plays a lot with light and darkness; too much darkness, perhaps, while the near-blinding of some audience members is presumably one of the unintended consequence of having to share a common lighting rig in a multi-show venue. Caravaggio's greatest anguish was that he believed God had given him the gift “to see”, but he couldn’t understand why; there’s surely no reason for a blinded audience to ask the same question.

This acclaimed show from award-winning Australian theatre company Sisters Grimm clearly aims to put the “lion” back in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, through a startlingly amusing, messy and self-aware tale of a wild girl—raised, from the age of four, within a leonine pride in the heart of Borneo—who is captured by explorers and brought to 19th century Holland where one of the leading neuroscientists of the day attempts to “civilise” her.Sisters Grimm come to this story from a clearly queer angle, most obviously by having patriarchal self-centred Victorian gentleman scientist Charles Penworth played by a woman of colour—the delightful Candy Bowers—while the wild female creature from the jungle is actually the show’s co-creator, Ash Flanders—his nakedness ensuring there’s no audience confusion when it comes to the performer’s biological gender. Genevieve Guiffre, as Penworth’s “assistant” Helen Travers, meantime, is an almost non-cis personification of unrequited love, although she’s importantly up to speed with the latest campaigns by the suffragettes. A love triangle waiting to happen.For, as Travers points out to the supposedly “civilised” Lilith, awaiting the etiquette test that will award her Dutch citizenship (and therefore official human status), “We humans are a little competitive too, where mates are concerned.” Thanks to Travers’ goading, Lilith momentarily “regresses” back to her violent, animal self, but she finds no respite in either 19th century Dutch civilisation or the lion enclosure in Amsterdam Zoo—the lions there, born in captivity, know nothing of the jungle she grew up in, yet are still more lion than she’ll ever be. Lilith’s caught between cultures, and for a time lost. Under co-creator Declan Greene’s tight direction, the story is told quickly and clearly, with a script full of self-aware laughs about the artificiality of the production—though never at the expense of the characters themselves. Under designer Marg Horwell, everything in Amsterdam is either black like cracked bakelite or hospital white, while Lilith’s wildness is signified by bright pink mud that increasingly leaves the floor slippy underfoot. No wonder Bowers and Giuffre wear waterproofs and wellington boots; the show’s risk assessment must’ve been an interesting read. Yet there’s little doubt this approach to the story just feels right. Emma Valente’s startling animations and Pete Goodwin’s sound design contribute much to the production, flickering between humour and horror. This is a show which touches on many important subjects—cultural arrogance, the emancipation of women, a fear of immigration and a diluting of cultural identity—but does so with a deceptively light touch and a willingness to show how even a night at the opera can bring the least likely of people together. Brilliant stuff.

Given that so much of the stand-up comedy you’ll find on the Fringe is blatantly autobiographical—at least to some extent—it’s not surprising that a lot of Jamie MacDonald’s material is grounded on him being ‘that funny blind guy’. He’s not afraid to milk his disability for comedic effect; but then again, the same can be said of his hometown of Glasgow, and the ‘Weegies’ who are, arguably, aggressively friendly at people.At the risk of getting all politically correct, this is just how it should be; MacDonald’s visual impairment is just an aspect of his life, not an all-defining description which bans self-mockery. His honesty and ‘let’s get on with it’ positivity certainly help reassure any potentially nervous audience members, who may be unsure if they should even laugh with a disabled comedian, let alone (on a few occasions) at some of the stupid things done by the man on the stage with a microphone and a white stick. Blind people, shockingly, have a sense of humour. Arguably, MacDonald is most assured when mining the comedic possibilities from his own life—not least his experiences of using public transport, an Everything-You-Can-Eat buffet, or a Scottish-Polish wedding with some truly excessive amounts of home-brewed vodka. Yet he’s no slouch when it comes to more fanciful skits, such as an all-too-imaginable ‘middle-class Jungle camp’ established outside Melrose after England closes its northern border with an independent Scotland. Or his conspiracy theory about the Government, with the collusion of the RNIB, aiming to stop blind and visually impaired people from ever reproducing. Given his expressed distaste for referendums—which he believes bring out the worst in people—MacDonald isn’t really a political comic; certainly not party political. Some, though, will argue that he’s actually making a really important political, cultural statement every time he steps on stage: that you don’t actually need to have functioning eyes in order to make people laugh. And you will; indeed, you’re quite likely to have a sore chest after this show.

Time and again during Zinnie Harris’s new adaptation of Eugène Ionesco’s famous farce, people tell each other not to be absurd. Obviously, it’s a not-so-subtle reference to Ionesco’s honoured place within the role-call of the post-War ‘Theatre of the Absurd’, but it’s also surely an apt description within this colourful, but somewhat slow production by Turkish director Murat Daltaban (of Istanbul’s DOT Theatre, co-producing with Edinburgh’s own Royal Lyceum Theatre).In Rhinoceros, human civilisation ends with neither a bang nor a whimper, but rather the low roar of the beast as, one by one, the inhabitants of a small French town start to mutate into rampaging rhinoceroses. Only dishevelled Berenger—who wanders into town the ‘morning after the night before’, covered in bird shit—is destined to be left (literally, as it turns out) the last man standing. There’s no particular reason given for why he’s immune to the change; that said, no explanation is ever proposed for the rhinoceroses in the first place, so it all balances out eventually.Ionesco was originally inspired by witnessing the rise of the far-right “green shirt” Iron Guard in 1920s Bucharest, but Harris and Daltaban have opted to give us a Rhinoceros for our times; the poster image gives the titular animal a Donald Trump-style quiff. There’s talk about journalists being flexible when it comes to facts, arguments over the nature of truth, and echoes of the social unrest seen in Turkey and Venezuela. Berenger is even accused of being a migrant, while the townsfolk get quite heated about identifying the differences between a European and Middle Eastern rhinoceros. Subtle it is not.A talented comedic ensemble equip themselves well here; Robert Jack, as Berenger, has a good line in incredulous disbelief, although the dramatic weight of the piece is carried by Steven McNicol as his friend Jean—most notably while transforming from man to beast. Nevertheless, the world they inhabit feels just too cartoonish to matter; Tom Piper’s white-walled set, shifting and shrinking as Berenger’s world gets smaller—is fascinating, but also literally overshadows the cast.

When you see Leo Kearse — and you should — there’s a very good chance it’ll be a four-star experience. Perhaps even five-stars, if he gets a good tailwind from an up-for-it audience and fewer distractions from passing venue staff, for whom having stand-up performed in the backroom appears to be an annoyance. However, I have to be honest about the show I saw on the night, rather than the one it’s 99% likely to become. Reviewing Preview shows is tricky, you see; especially on the Free Fringe, where everything’s that little bit rougher round the edges.“Are you ready to become more Right Wing?” Kearse asks enthusiastically, though it doesn’t inspire an energetic response given the lack of Tories — or at least people willing to admit to being Tories — in his audience. So it’s left to Kearse to explain how a Scottish, heterosexual white male raised in Dumfries, albeit by “hippy parents” who thought Leo an appropriate first name, appears to have committed the ultimate rebellion and become one of the few people on an Edinburgh stage this August to utter the words “Thatcher” and “hero” in the same sentence — and possibly mean it. Admittedly, Kearse is also the first to describe his show this evening as “a little bit of a shambles”; and yes, it did feel like a list — of reasons why he’s hacked off by Left Wingers, all desperate for something new to get pissed off about — rather than a carefully structured set.Nor do many of Kearse’s points — about the Benefits system, Gentrification or Global Warming — really hold up against detailed scrutiny or thought — although he’s always ready to throw in the occasional surprise to keep us on our toes. Alas, while Kearse does makes some good points about different levels of privilege and discrimination, he is unlikely to live up to the promise of his show’s title. Make no mistake, though: even when not firing on all cylinders, Kearse is a genuinely solid performer with just the right balance of on-stage bravado and self-depreciation. Adaptable, imaginative and totally assured.

Fundamental Theater Project’s Dickless is a tale of rumours, girls, a headless cat and bizarre sexual conquests in the small-town of Dunningham. This is a one-woman show about gender identity and it is narrated from the perspectives of the main characters, Saff and Oli. It's a small stage at the New Town Theatre on which to perform and the set is sparsely arranged with only a chair as a set piece. It is to the credit of Lauren Downie's performance that she manages to make the different scenarios come alive in such a small space. Whether the scene shifts back to her home, to the pub, or onto the street, you are instantly in the moment. The depiction of the town and its various inhabitants is also well-drawn. It makes it easy for the audience to get a sense of place from the dialogue and characterisation alone.Dickless is written by the award-winning Aisha Josiah, and it is a naturalistic and unvarnished account of the types of characters that you would seek to avoid if they lived in your town. It's a play in two parts. In the first half, we get Saff's point of view as she tries to help her friend get revenge after her reputation is torn apart by a sexual experience that has now become something of an internet rumour. Saff is trying to lay low, having been caught out with someone else's boyfriend and the wronged girl is gunning for revenge. The boyfriend in question is Oli, and we get to see his perspective when the play shifts to the second act. Downie is convincing as both the male and female characters and she has to shift quite adroitly as the dialogue between the two quickens.The title of the show is, in effect, the driver of it, but it could be said that Josiah tries to pull the two elements together all too conveniently. As a result, I'm not too sure that I buy into the grand narrative about gender identity. But as a tale about revenge and the depiction of the impetuousness of youth, this works really well.

Andrew Doyle has, allegedly, lost quite a few friends this last year. Not because of some horrendous disaster, but thanks to his apparently unforgivable habit of speaking his mind in social situations and—in a world where anyone’s now a Nazi if they don’t agree with you—daring to express opinions that his now-former friends found personally insulting. Which, when you think about it, does sound a rather odd way of looking at things.Of course, going by his acerbic, forthright stage persona, you might be surprised that Doyle has any friends at all, as he flirts with a young man in the front row (willing to “completely exploit the guy’s ‘open mind’,”), equates marriage—be it straight or gay—with giving up on life, or realises that his 6.30pm time-slot at The Stand is probably too early to be saying some of the things he’s saying. Not that Doyle’s particularly lewd, but he’s always been one for pushing the envelope of comedic taste—“good” or otherwise—though never for a cheap laugh.As one of the men behind satirical news-reporter Jonathan Pie, it’s hardly a surprise when Doyle self-identifies as a socialist, but just because he has it in for Theresa May, Donald Trump and Tony Blair—attracting some peculiar American attention in the process—doesn’t mean he won’t also criticise, question or mock the Left—which is why he’s lost some of his Guardian-reading friends. Mark Twain once suggested that, whenever we find ourselves among a majority, we should take time “to pause and reflect,” but in our social media echo chambers that’s an increasingly unfashionable Thought Crime.All excellent food for thought, and actually quite important, but it does make Doyle sound worthy, if not a little bit dull; and that’s just not fair. The man is a marvel on stage; sharp, clever, mischievous with the audience and frankly THE number-one go-to-man whether you’re looking for a great one-two punchline, a slow-burning routine or an off-the-cuff response. As I wrote once before here: comedy gold.

One figure doesn’t appear in Performers, Irvine Welsh and Dean Cavanagh’s new play inspired by some of the behind-the-scenes stories surrounding the making of 1970 cult film Performance—in which a London gangster (James Fox) hides out within the mansion of a former rock star (Mick Jagger), with all the cultural clashes you’d expect when different social worlds and ideas of masculinity run into each other towards the close of the “Swinging Sixties”.Thankfully, if only for reasons of taste, we never see the film’s co-director, Edinburgh-born filmmaker Donald Cammell. Instead, our attention is on Burt and Alf (George Russo and Perry Benson), two well-turned-out, but otherwise low-rent members of London’s criminal fraternity. They’ve been invited for a meeting with Cammell who, in search of “authenticity”, has decided to cast real London gangsters in the film’s gangster roles. Unfortunately, he’s now stuck in an interminable meeting with Mick Jagger, although production “runner” and self-described “acolyte” Crispin (Lewis Kirk) sees an opportunity to help with the audition process.If you’re hoping for some sharply written, gritty collision between Waiting for Godot and Goodfellas, you’re going to be disappointed. Alf is clearly a good sort, amiable and proud-as-punch of his young niece (Maya Gerber) who’s working as Cammell’s secretary, but his interminable monologue is incredibly annoying—though not as arse-clenching as the so-called Sixties Cockney which sounds so cartoonish it saws through any ropes suspending your disbelief. The cast here are doing their best, but the script is frankly against them, while Nick Moran’s staging feels incredibly blocky and old-fashioned, even for the 60s.When it comes to portraying the straight white working class male, Welsh and Cavanagh have surely never been this bad before, stretching to reach levels of so-called comedy that even a contemporary Carry On… film would have almost certainly avoided. This is a lumbering, laboured farce that pathetically repeats the homophobic and racial slurs of the period without any comment, and considers Perry Benson’s naked arse a suitably fitting climax. Arguably, it is. Avoid.

When Phill Jupitus commits to the Fringe, he does so 100 per cent. There are numerous opportunities to see him across this year's festival and with his main stand up show, he confirms that he is more than able to tackle the schedule that awaits him.He mocks himself as being the star of 'an ever diminishing number of TV shows'. He's a welcome addition to many a TV programme, but if the lack of commissions means that he has more time to devote to the stage, then on the evidence of this performance that's no bad thing. Jupitus acknowledges the difference between his stage persona and that of his TV one to good effect. He's very much aware that people will have wandered in off the street to see that 'man off QI' and are confronted by a shoutier version. He gives all present both aspects of his performer personality.He clearly loves Scotland and the festival in particular and this devotion forms the basis of this show. It acts as a love letter to the place and it's a love that clearly shows no sign of diminishing, nor is it one that he takes for granted. He opens with a couple of songs performed on the guitar. The first takes on a target for derision that you may never have previously considered. The second song's scorn is trained on a band that most would find it hard to disagree with Phill's viewpoint. These hit the mark and are great songs in their own right.Before he puts down the guitar and starts striding the stage like the comedy colossus that he is, he shows how the riff from Scotland's unofficial national anthem can be used as a deterrent in any tricky situation. If the first two songs were mainly there to lead to this punchline, then it was worth him bringing out the guitar for this pay off alone. A slip of the tongue starts him off on an impromptu Call My Bluff riff that is funny and shows his ability as a comedian to deviate from the script. When back on course, he repeats this same fluff. Eventually he regains his line of thought, not before he mockingly turns on the audience who cheer him for getting the line right. His routine about the chip shop around the corner from the venue, had you salivating and laughing at the same time. That's a sensual first for most in the audience. What he details doesn't sound like the most enticing meal in the world, but the way that Phill describes it, you wouldn't be surprised if M&S came calling for him to voice their next advert.The reminiscences about the first time he came to Scotland with Billy Bragg see him wander down memory lane with a affectionate look at all things Scottish. The Krankies are subjected to a waspish takedown. An easy target, yes, but funny all the same. The perils of having a beard and wearing a fleece in Scotland opens up the opportunity for a bit of mimicry and some note perfect impressions. He appears to be having fun with the material as he improvises a few elements that have him and the audience cracking up in unison. The show's big finale, sees him refer to a routine that he's done previously, on Live at the Apollo about his eldest daughter having sex with her boyfriend in his house. His youngest daughter had asked why she is the one that doesn't get mentioned in his act. He redresses the balance with a lovingly heartfelt piece about her. This is lovingly crafted hour of comedy that shows a performer on top of his comedy game. 

If the illustrious names that have performed as part of The Rat Pack Presents is a guide, then it is worth heading along to the Cabaret Voltaire during this year's festival. As part of the Free Fringe, they have a great track record of bringing through acts who have gone on to bigger things. Sara Pascoe, Romesh Ranganathan, and Phil Wang are just a few few of the names that have played this night.Luke Stephen was the compere for the today's performance and his opening routine highlights the perils of being bald. Let's just say that there is not much sympathy, even from within the bald community. There was a great routine about Superdrug's liberal policy in giving out change and the unheralded Meal Deals that they offer. The first act was the Aussie, Daniel Muggleton, whose comedy was sharp and with a fine take on the cultural differences between his home country and the UK. He honed in on Brad, the Canadian guy sat in the front row and this was quite cutting to say the least. His observations stayed just this side of being affectionate. He abandoned the riff about relationships in favour of mining this comedy gold. This spontaneity highlighted someone that knows how to work a crowd. He is helped in that regard by the pocket of Aussies in the audience that could pick up on the cultural references that the other members might have missed. Jo Wells was bravely attempting a line of political humour that is a perilous game these days given the constantly changing landscape. He talks about having had. issues with a David Cameron fronted flyer at last year's fringe. When he offered the opinion that the Tories are almost accepted in Scotland these days, a heckler in the audience helps to modify that point of view. At first I thought that he may be one of the few Tory comedians on the circuit. Given that he has a show at the Fringe called 'I Hope I Die Before I Start Voting Tory' that notion was soon revised. The final act was Sarah Callaghan, who commands the stage like a seasoned performer. Her material starts off looking at her relationship and how that she is in love for the first time. This is not the type that is depicted in women's magazines but something a bit harsher. There is no doubting who is the dominant partner in that relationship. Her boyfriend gets it in the neck for his perennial lateness, which to be honest is annoying from anyone. There's a great riff on the ridiculous nature of ice cream names. Given the revolving roster of names appearing each day throughout the Fringe, it is worth dropping down from the beaten track to see what the Rat Pack has to offer. 

It might seem all-too-witty for a SCRABBLE World Champion, when asked by the media for “a few words” on his victory, to admit 'I don’t really know any'. Yet, as this unexpectedly charming one-man-show by Dylan Cole reveals, the answer is all-too bitter-sweet.This particular SCRABBLE champion, Austin Michaels, has what appears to be rapid onset dementia. At his wife’s suggestion, he’s recording his memories but even that’s slipping. Austin sees this, nevertheless, as an opportunity to tell his story, from growing up with his SCRABBLE-fixated Granny to entering competitions and meeting his wife, Daisy. Cole ensures that Austin is likeable; geekish, obviously—a fan of Star Trek, Nat ‘King’ Cole, film noir and SCRABBLE—who, through learning more than 200,000 words rapidly, makes his way up the World rankings. It’s at a World Championship competition—the year is left unclear—that he first meets Daisy and what we learn of their early romance is endearing. Consequently later when he momentarily forgets who she is, it’s heartbreaking.Cole certainly knows his stuff; many of the symptoms of dementia are all too apparent here, like the repetitions (not just of familiar phrases but whole paragraphs) and his self-coping mechanism of writing down words on post-it notes to remind himself what he’s talking about. A couple of slips into film noir scenes—with Austin as the heroic private detective—are obviously more specific to this imagined character but they add a layer to his character, helping flesh out the world inside Austin’s increasingly “scabby” brain just as it’s shrinking (the disease proceeding faster that his doctor thought).One of the secrets of success in SCRABBLE is, apparently, knowing your anagrams. During the play, Austin is able to find a succession of messages in a single set of words on a large SCRABBLE board. Yet even that ability fades. Necessarily, because of the length of the play, Cole has to puts his foot down on the symptoms accelerator but the result is a touching study of a man holding on to the end.

The truth about fairy tales, all too often forgotten by us grown-ups, is that the best ones are meant to be scary, albeit in an ultimately reassuring context. This is clearly something that Ralph McCubbin Howell understands well, in his eerie story of never-built roadways and lost towns, for New Zealand-based theatre company Trick of the Light. The result is a delightfully dark adventure, engrossing, entertaining and emotionally touching in equal measure.Within a set of draped maps, hanging like washing, we’re introduced to Gabriel (Paul Waggot), who is persuaded to return home to St Bathans, Otago, New Zealand (a former gold-mine town “by the upside-down hill”) to take care of his elderly mother Maggie (Ellie Wootton). Always slightly different, and full of fanciful stories, Maggie’s begun to steal a wide variety of maps from libraries and bookshops. Gabriel’s first reaction is to move her into the aptly-named Dusty Corners Rest Home, but after she climbs on the roof, Maggie decides it’s time to tell Gabriel about his father. At first Gabriel is dismissive of her story, of her discovering a road into town that, according to her parents, was never built—although it was marked on some maps 40 years earlier. Then she shares her meeting with handsome young man Walter, and his theatre-owning father, and how maps are key to accessing “the World that might have been”. When her “key” is taken from her, she draws her own map; this turns out to be a mistake which brings her to the attention of a malicious, monstrous version of Walter who’s determined to make her his bride.With McCubbin Howell himself providing a range of supporting characters, this small cast (under Hannah Smith’s pitch-perfect direction) successfully weaves a captivating, engrossing tale using a mixture of broad performance, puppets and old-style silhouette “animation” to tell Maggie’s story—each style distinctive in its narrative role and, with Tane Upjohn-Beatson’s evocative music and sound design, creating a whole bigger than its parts: a tad melancholic perhaps, but full of hope and understanding.

Very much in the spirit of the Fringe, Phill Jupitus steps out of his comfort zone with a show of improvisational comedy that sees him inhabit two wonderfully diverse characters that come alive thanks to the prompts of the audience. Jupitus takes on the role of Vernon Herschel Harley, an actor from the Alec Guinness school of the business in the first half, before he switches to play German WWII U-boat ace Korvettenkäpitan Kurt Schiffer, whose greatest achievement appears to have been that he sunk the Bismarck, despite that particular vessel being on his own team.Achtung!/Acting! is a largely improvised show and over the course of an hour the two raconteurs discuss subjects that vary from, Star Wars, Bjork, Bambi, Dick van Dyke, Margaret Rutherford, Stingray, and Troy Tempest. These subjects are all dreamed up by suggestions from the audience and this gives licence to Jupitus to riff on imagined showbiz anecdotes. Before he gets into character, Jupitus alludes to the previous shows which had not worked as well as he had hoped. On the evidence of this performance the idea works well enough. This is mainly because the audience try to play along with the conceit. It was helpful that this early afternoon show was post-lunch and a few of the more outlandish suggestions came as a result of cold drinks having been consumed by some of those present. Particularly those on the row in front of me, who laughed at their own suggestions and the interpretations in equal measure. You can imagine this show not working if someone wants to upstage the performer, thankfully that wasn't in evidence today. Jupitus is a master in controlling his stage and anything that wasn't in the spirit of the show was batted away with ease. The predictable fat joke arrives when someone asks whether Vernon Herschel Harley had ever done a slim fast advert. He slips out of character to berate the person who asked that and it is the last time we get that line of questioning in the show. The change of characters prompts Jupitus’ Harley persona to explain the nature of what a dresser does in the theatre. He invites, Nathan, misheard as Susan, to undress him and then transform him in the wonderfully absurd U-boat captain. This prompts a good level of innuendo and jokes at the expense of the willing volunteer. The second half has a darker turn as you'd expect from such a comedy creation, but it is sprinkled with some surreal moments. We learn that Schiffer used to manoeuvre his U-boat up the Thames and moor it before catching up with English wife, this despite in the midst of World War II. This enables Jupitus to joke about a part of London that he knows well.It's hard to predict what type of show you will get in the remainder of its run, that's very much depends on the type of audience that choose to watch this show. If you like improvisational comedy and are willing to play along with the joke, then prepare to have your flights of fantasy indulged by a master of his craft. 

Wakefield’s poet son may have a self-confessed tendency for lewd social observation but Matt Abbott is also an unpretentious recorder of life in the raw, with a talent for coming up with a memorable turn of phrase, an innate understanding of the full comedic potential in a forced rhyme, yet a commitment to being serious. He’s not one for an ungrammatical, self-regarding pause; like his miner ancestors, Abbott gets on with the job.Two Little Ducks—Bingo slang for the number 22—is a spoken word show with three main strands: an examination of why so many white working class people voted for Brexit; Abbott’s personal experiences of volunteering at “the Jungle” migrant camp near Calais; and the story of 22-year-old Maria, stuck in an unnamed English “tumbleweed town” with a self-centred man-child boyfriend and a going-nowhere job in a launderette. Abbott slips between these with little or no fanfare; he’s a poet who lets the work speak for itself, rather than buried under excessive introductory notes.Abbott is also brave enough to politely suggest early on that we don’t automatically clap after each poem, presumably to let his more serious words and their meaning settle in our minds. Unless the poem ends in a rhyme, that is: in which case all bets are off, and it’s almost certainly one of the funny ones that’s OK to applaud. Especially given that the realities of an overnight Megabus (from London to Leeds for just £3), or the echoes of a fight outside the chip shop across the street, are best appreciated from the viewpoint of not being there. Thanks to school, I’ve long been a firm believer that poetry isn’t written, it’s committed—and should be punished accordingly. Yet Abbott is precisely the kind of poet who, much to my own surprise, always changes my mind. Whether talking about “clothing spread like shrapnel”, or the Calais Jungle camp as an “eyesore of humanity”, his poems are free from writerly affectation, grounded in the ordinariness of street names and dates, in people’s language, and the personal details that can reveal so much. For example: Nan buys young Marie a fancy notebook, “but pocket-money paid for the pen”. Perfect.Perhaps it’s because Abbott IS genuinely committed, to his craft and to doing something to help his fellow humanity, but without ever losing his message in the anger. Or maybe it’s because he’s making some serious points, very well: that when we feel oppressed, we can easily forget our own privileges; and if we feel ignored—worse, dismissed and despised—then a whole class of people might just do the unthinkable. Vote Leave, for example.

The blurb suggests this is a show about nothing, but amidst the surreal humour there is a deeper meaning. The cliché about the tears of a clown rings true with a show that touches on the loneliness of being a comedian and depression, diagnosed in 2011. This might sound heavy going but it's not: Seymour Mace’s Magical Shitcakes From Heaven is a vehement two-fingered salute to the debilitating condition. It is a show of three parts. The first sees Mace enter the stage dressed in a chicken outfit, it's not clear why he's wearing this attire, but this is not questioned by the audience.He reveals a humorous and poignant set-piece with his sad-clown puppet. While this is being acted out on stage, a video shows snapshots of the happier times the pair had together. This highlights the duality of the show really well.Mace then strips down to his underpants for the next part of the performance, this prompts a member of the audience to call out that they “hadn't paid money to see him undress” It was a reasonably good-natured interruption, so you couldn't call this a heckle, but Mace responds in a way that makes it clear what the performer/audience relationship entails. The main part of the show is based around a book that Mace found in a charity shop. It's a self-help book for people who suffer with depression, Live Life Sunny Side Up by Jeremy Ville. The author's name and the tone of the book prompt Mace to show off his own version that's the antithesis of this tome. The hand drawn interpretations of Ville's book are spot on. If you hate this type of self-help book it'll make you wish that Mace's version was available after the show. We learn that being part of sketch group is something that Mace has always wanted to do, but when he tried to do so no one turned up for rehearsals. This is quite a revealing and poignant moment. It addresses the loneliness aspect of the show and that of being a comedian. The ridiculous nature of the two characters he depicts, takes us back into the comedic performance instantaneously with proficiency. Keeping all the elements and themes together is almost a juggling act for Mace, in fact that's the only piece of performance that we don't get. What we get instead is a quiz, ‘The Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Quiz', to determine who the most miserable person is in the audience. Phoebe and Clive battle it out for this honour. This again highlights Mace’s skill for improvisation. This is a tightly packed hour of comedy that could unravel at any moment. It doesn't. The finale involves more audience participation, involving almost half the audience this time. This element necessitates another costume change. I won't spoil the surprise and reveal what the theme or the costume is. Thematically this set piece tops and tails the surreal elements of the show quite well. Mace was nominated for the Foster's Edinburgh Comedy Award in 2015 there is no reason why he won't come into the reckoning with this show. Looking back on my notes it seems unbelievable how much he crammed into the allotted time and how much that it resonated with those present. 

Thanks to the numerous adventures of Sherlock Holmes, we arguably don’t have the best impression of the Victorian Police Detective—especially when it comes to either their intelligence or deductive skills. This is clearly something which Steven Langley—the writer, performer and producer of Victorian Gothic—aims to correct, presenting us here with a good, honest copper with heart, understanding and decency. (Even if his initial cry of “Oh God, I’m knackered!” might suggest otherwise.)This is—or, at least, seems to be—a public lecture by the Metropolitan Police’s Inspector Albert Thorne, grounded on a decade’s experience policing the impoverished, crime-infested East End of London during the final decade of the 19th century. As writer, Langley clearly feels he has to face up to another of our cultural expectations, given that it’s genuinely difficult nowadays to not see those fog-laden Victorian London streets through the cracked lens of “Saucy Jack”. Detective Thorne is no conspiracy theorist, however; for him, the impoverished, crime-ridden East End is the real Jack the Ripper. We learn much about the man in the course of the hour we spend together: the honest copper who works his way up the ranks, the family man who loves his wife (a Victoria to his Albert) and children, and feels responsibility for the police officers under his command—even annoying “Station Joker” William Smith. He’s presented, in no uncertain terms, as a reliable narrator, even when his dreams become somewhat fantastical, or the cruelty and violence of the East End verges into the obscene. “Skeletons in cupboards are not uncommon,” Thorne tells us. He appears to be an exception.As a performer, Langley is centred, succinct and always emotionally in the moment—without milking those several moments that teeter on the brink of Dickensian sentimentality. As a writer, Langley also effectively contrasts the good man Thorne with the evils of an incestuous, self-protecting Establishment. Despite this, though, the conclusion of the play lacks sufficient emotional and narrative punch which, given the many delights and horrors of the preceding hour, is rather a shame.

Confession time: I’ve never been a fan of The Smiths or Morrissey. Oh, I recognise their importance in British popular culture, the innovative high quality of their work—but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Perhaps I was just the wrong age; or, more likely, I wasn’t the right kind of indie kid who could grasp Morrissey’s fey persona and “fuck-you” attitude as inspiration to be themselves, to dare to be different.Many were, of course, including our narrator in Gary McNair’s latest one-man play. What is fascinating about McNair’s apparent belief—in Morrissey being someone whom his teenage self could relate to and seek guidance from—is how universal that searching for support and meaning actually is. Even though I’m someone who usually thinks of Morrissey only in terms of “flagrant narcissist” or “pretentious prat”, McNair’s solid foundation is the authenticity of his story’s emotional core; a reminder, certainly, “that other things are possible”, even if the reality seems that “some labels will just stick”, no matter what you do.The staging is simple, though it could be even simpler; the wall of bright lights and illuminated Smiths album covers (courtesy of Ana Inés Jabares-Pita) almost feel like an embellishment too far when you have a performer as strong as McNair on stage, although they do admittedly add a degree of atmosphere at set moments, not least the almost religious euphoria our narrator feels when he finally gets to see Morrissey perform live at Glasgow’s iconic Barrowlands. But this is ultimately about a writer/performer hitting all the right notes with a emotive coming-of-age tale (of sorts).Ably supported by Gareth Nicholl’s direction, McNair is well-skilled at squeezing your heart one moment, then making you laugh the next—all while standing in front of you, staring you straight in the eyes. You don’t even need to know who Morrissey is to really feel his story of the self-described “Boy with the Thorn in his Side”—a Smiths’ song-title, naturally. One way or another, we all have our own Morrissey. 

Burly Glaswegian stand-up Scott Agnew has for many years joked about “blow-job knee”—wear and tear arising from too much time on his knees providing oral sex. Following a somewhat frustrating experience while in Leeds—the details of which are best heard in his own gruff voice—it’s now happened for real. Hence tonight this self-described “36 year-old poofter” is a sitting-down-on-a-stool kind of stand-up.Last year, during his excellent Fringe show (and in an interview published by Scottish newspaper the Daily Record), Agnew “came out”. Not as being gay; that’s been part of his routine for years. No, this time he was letting the world know he was HIV positive. Thanks to the appropriate medical support—essentially one tablet a day for the rest of his life—his viral load is now “undetectable”, which he accepts is an odd word to associate with a man who’s 6 foot 5 inches tall. Here’s another; he says it’s the best thing that happened to him.Much of this show is essentially Agnew attempting to explain why, which, at the risk of “spoilers”, is essentially down to a fairly strict Catholic upbringing which gifted him deep reserves of self-loathing and self-hate that were only partially muted through using drugs and sex. Being diagnosed with a life-threatening condition apparently made him suddenly realise how much he wanted to live, and to do comedy. All of which is a win-win for us to, as he sidetracks into stories of some of his “stranger” sexual experiences. It’s the “dirty stuff” that Agnew does so well. Agnew is very good with an audience, even the slightly-rowdy, “cocky” male crowd likely to turn up on the first Saturday of the Fringe. Nevertheless, he keeps total control of the room, misbehaviour in the front row mocked and mined for more laughs. And, of course, if in doubt, he threatens—ever so “nicely”—to shag the offender. That usually shuts them up or, well… who knows? A win-win for Agnew either way.

Many an article’s been written on how the gay scene appears dominated by drugs and sex. Once upon a time the dangers were alcoholism and being queer-bashed while cruising, but now some gay men prefer to attend ‘chillin’’ sessions in each others' homes where drugs and sex are always available, even if one often precludes the other. The corrupting hedonism of the gay ‘lifestyle’? A contributory factor in the continuing rise of sexually transmitted infections?Several books and plays have already been written about such chemsex parties, but Peter Darney’s award-winning 5 Guys Chillin’ arguably has the edge thanks to its ‘verbatim’ foundations. To be honest, others may have stronger or more overt narrative arcs, but there’s a real sense of authenticity in the dialogue here, and the experiences being retold, which gives an excellent cast something strong to work from. Admittedly, there’s some writerly stuff going on; in terms of age and ‘type’, this is a remarkably diverse selection of five gay men, which feels just a little too politically correct to be true.Who are our five men? Hosts J (David Palmstrom) and M (George Fletcher), hot ‘Daddy’ B (Gareth Watkins) and his ‘Twink’ partner R (a smooth, tanned Tom Ratcliffe), and late arrival PJ (George Bull). Over the course of the evening, the men talk, take drugs and get intimate. We learn quite a lot about the chill-out party scene (or ‘group sex sessions’ if you’re really old-fashioned, or just old), but the lack of story makes it hard to hold onto details. Except, perhaps, when B admits that being fisted was the nearest he’s ‘come to a spiritual experience’.That said, there’s still an obvious forward momentum, from the initial excitement of the men arriving, to the moment they take their first lines of coke, to the darkest hours when both the drugs and the stories get ever more serious. At one point you think matters are about to take a turn towards disaster, but the narrative is honest enough not to go for an easy Hollywood warning or bad turn. So even when one of their number is put out of action, the remaining four ‘keep buggering on’, either into maudlin disappointment or full-on sex. That’s drugs for you. These five guys are genuinely well drawn—unsurprising, given they’re based on men Darney met on gay hookup app Grindr—but there’s a sense this is written with some disapproval of the drugs while wider issues—’no asians’ racism, for example—are only briefly touched on while others still (ageism, body fascism, internalised homophobia, etc) aren’t even mentioned at all. For all its fun and darkness, 5 Guys Chillin’ feels like a well-meaning ‘safer sex’ campaign.

It's a hard task to sum up quite what The Andy Field Experience is about without using the words surreal and odd. Hilarious is another apt phrase that could be used. What the show is? It's a hilarious romp through the life of a comedian who is clearly going places. Whether his persona is real or affected for comedy purposes you can't help but be engaged with what he has to say.In the cramped confines of The Cellar in the Pleasance Courtyard, the audience laugh along with every surreal twist, turn and flights of fancy during this 50-minute show. It's a show that manages to reclaim the medium of PowerPoint from the kind of stultifying lectures and office presentations that have almost rendered the form meaningless.Using each slide as a prompt, we see hand drawn phrases, photographs, and titles that act as a launch pad for an insight into Field's crazy world. There are also a number of drawings that highlight his other talents, although I wouldn't give up the day job just yet to pursue a life as an artist. There's a clear nod to Vic and Bob, the doyens of this style of comedy with this visual humour. He sets up a number of gags that don't even need to be said, as the crowd are already on side and attuned to the comic's train of thought. Unsurprisingly there's a bit in the middle about hallucinogenic drugs, something which Field has dabbled in. It makes you wonder whether this is what Milton Jones would be like if he had his pick of the mushroom fields. It's a whistle tour of the PowerPoint and there is a danger of the show running over. This necessitates the need for Field to speed through the remaining slides, to get to the grand finale.For all Field's quirks, at the the heart of the comedy is the traditional aspects of the craft, the puns and gags. He gets away with telling the weaker gags by the way he delivers the punchline and almost goads the audience into laughing. That said there aren't many that fall flat.The ending ramps up the surreal nature of show even more and in a way that you couldn't predict. If you want to experience the world of Andy Field vicariously, this run at Edinburgh may be the last time you see him this close up. As he's an act that lives up to the pre-show hype. 

When a comedian comes on clutching notes you would expect that you were about to watch something that was underdeveloped and in need of refinement. Notes aside, this wasn't what you got once Maxwell had finished sashaying around the stage to his entrance music.He delivers a confident performance (as you'd expect from someone who is at his 22nd Fringe) barely distracted by his notes. The same can't be said of the audience, who despite the usual reminders before the start, do their best to throw the comic. Someone's phone goes off and ruins a moment that he was building up to in the early part of the routine, Maxwell carries on manfully, but the momentum was lost a little through no fault of his own. In fact, it was a night of interruptions. Twice we heard what sounded like a baby noise. Surely that must have been a ringtone? There was also the poshest sneeze which was timed just as Maxwell was building to his big finish. Although annoying for the performer he reacts to these interruptions with good grace and makes light of them.The opening sees him dispense with the mic and try to deliver his set to one of the larger rooms at the Fringe. You worry that his voice is not going to last the evening, let alone the three weeks of the festival. We didn't have to be concerned for too long, as it was all leading up to a visual gag that needed the full use of his hands. It certainly was a big way to respond to a question that he gets asked a lot on Twitter. When he gets behind the mic his delivery is a mixture of parading around the stage and sedentary segments. He is seated when he delivers the more thought provoking moments of the show, of which there are many. While seated he evokes memories of that other Irish comedian Dave Allen, though Maxwell's drink looks like water and not Allen's trademark tipple. His latest show explores a number of themes, but Brexit is very much at the heart of it. The comedian gets the inevitable Trump joke out of the way early on and his routine is more a personal take on the the after effects of Brexit. He’s recently moved out of London, away from the 'liberal metropolitan remoaners', to Kent where he is now surrounded by Daily Mail readers that voted vehemently to leave. His new neighbours certainly sound ripe for lampooning.Where he lives and its proximity to Europe make his observations all the more precise. He's very much a europhile and a confirmed remainer too. This is not just because he believes that the French and Germans are good for comedy. His observations about the two countries are funny, but he strays into familiar stereotypes here. Although, having lived in Germany, he can speak from experience about the aspect of their character that he is sending up.He eventually talks about Theresa May and his analogy for the Conservative’s hollow General Election victory is an apposite summation of the result. He has an obvious love for his family and this is confirmed by his anger at a number of horrific events that have happened lately. When talking about his family we see a gentler side to his comedy, when he reveals that he has just became a father for the third time and that he has children born in three decades, that makes you feel for his concerns about the world.

It’s four years since Rob Lloyd first brought this autobiographical, Doctor Who-related show to Edinburgh. Back then in August 2013, fans of the iconic BBC series were contemplating the then-recently announced news that their favourite Time Lord was going to change into Peter Capaldi. Here we are in August 2017; almost a month on, it’s still seemingly newsworthy that a certain space-time traveller will next year look and sound like Jodie Whittaker.While her 13th Doctor is briefly referenced on a few occasions, the core of the show is fundamentally unchanged; this is a journey back in time to 1996 Australia, where young, self-declared ‘drama nerd’ Rob Lloyd first discovered and fell in love with Doctor Who. Which, frankly, was about the worst time possible; after being off television screens for seven years, the alleged ‘failure’ of a TV movie starring Paul McGann had seemingly consigned the Time Lord to absolute television oblivion. The only thing more ridiculed than Doctor Who itself by this point was being a Doctor Who fan.Nevertheless, as Lloyd explains, that’s what he became, full of enthusiasm for the iconic BBC series and desperate to track down as many episodes, books and magazines as possible. The question Who, Me asks — not entirely seriously, as the answer is rather a foregone conclusion — is whether this major influence on his life and personality was ultimately good for him, or just a dangerous obsession. It’s not as if he doesn’t have ‘previous’ when it comes to such things — as a kid he was a big fan of Star Wars (which came back to haunt him), and then Sherlock Holmes.Lloyd is an engaging, energetic performer with a brilliant comedic instinct. Yes, his honesty borders on the dangerous — really, should anyone admit in public to having seen The Phantom Menace quite so many times in the cinema? But this show’s great strength is that you don’t need to know what The Doomsday Weapon is, or who The Carole Ann Ford Clinic is named after. That said, if you do, it just adds to the pleasure.

It’s 54 years since the last conscripted British citizens returned to civilian life after completing their National Service. If a generation is 25 years, then that’s at more than two generations who have never faced the prospect of having to—between the ages of 17 and 21—serve in the British Armed Forces for two years. Whether or not you wanted to. Conscription, however, remains in place in many countries around the world, including Israel.Niv Petel’s acclaimed one-man show asks some simple questions with serious ramifications: how to raise a child if you know that, one day, their turn will come to hold a rifle? What’s it like to grow up in a society where you’re destined to be a soldier from the day you’re born? If theatre is about showing us other worlds in an empathic way, then Knock Knock is a valuable eye-opener, albeit not so much the experiences of the young, but for their parents who are left back home to wait for them to return. Alive, or not. Petel focuses on single mother Ilana and a period of around 20 years in which her only son Elad grows from giggling baby to weight-training young man determined to serve in a combat unit like his best friend. All mothers worry about their children, of course, but Ilana has particular cause; she worked as an Army liaison officer supporting parents and families who had lost sons and daughters in war. She knows what the death of a child does to them. Her greatest fear is of another liaison officer knocking on her door, to talk about her son’s death.Although we only ever hear one side of Ilana’s conversations, Petel’s tight writing ensures we can readily imagine Elad and their neighbours, while Petel’s assured performance—dressed in nondescript white t-shirt, combat trousers and army boots—enables Ilana’s generally optimistic character to easily come through. This is all the more startling during the brief gaps between scenes, when the passage of time is underscored by Petel’s remarkably mechanistic movements and sounds; the physical transformation of his appearance, through his changing body and facial expressions, is genuinely startling, and only goes to underscore the subtleties with which he plays Ilana.Rhiannon White’s costume and set—a plain white table, a chair and basket— are a perfect blank canvas through which Petel is able to draw us into Ilana’s story, and the life-changing dilemma she ultimately faces in deciding whether or not to let her adult son put himself in potential danger. Whatever your thoughts on her final decision, this remains a succinctly told story exploring an issue that will resonate with any parent.

The King is back, long live the King. After a couple of years away from the Fringe the self proclaimed, (although no one is arguing with this notion) King of the Fringe is back on familiar territory.This is a year of landmarks for the comedian. He is celebrating the 30th Anniversary of first performing at the Fringe. This is his also his 40th Edinburgh show in what is his 50th year. Oh Frig, I'm 50!, reflects on that milestone. It's a typical Richard Herring show that is thematically stitched together with a strong narrative arc. The jokes are funny, poignant and at times rude, but this is in keeping with what fans have come to expect. There is something for everyone in the packed out Pleasance One. The diehards who follow his every move will be aware of a number of the references that crop up in his show from listening to his podcasts. These are worth hearing again. Those not familiar with his act enjoy a number of the gags and the occasional deviations from the theme of the show. The way he works the room gets everyone in on the more esoteric material quite quickly. There are a number of call backs to his previous shows, in particular Oh Fuck, I'm 40! Having missed the previous festivals, he has given himself time to reflect on his earlier work and this is the first new show for a couple of years.A great deal has changed in ten years of the life of Richard Herring. He’s gone from going through the classic midlife crisis to being a happily married man with one child and another on the way. On stage, the character that he plays is almost an exaggerated version of himself and one that almost laments this change in his circumstances. Deep down you know that that Herring is happy with his lot, it is still a rich source of material for his shows as a number of the props on the stage highlight.What hasn't changed in the intervening years and that is so good about his comedy writing is that he fills his show with jokes that work in isolation and are funny in their own right. These are often picked up later on the performance and stitched together to form this beautifully woven show. He pokes fun at other more conventional comedians with their line of observational humour. He tries to do it and intentionally it's quite clumsy. Herring is such a master comedian that you know that he could do this type of comedy in his sleep but he aims for something more cerebral. You often come away from one of shows feeling both entertained and educated in equal measure. That is no different from tonight’s performance.Thankfully there is the promise of Oh Shit, I’m 60! Who knows what will change in that intervening period, but until then (and more in the intervening period) you can catch this thought provoking show from a comedian that is growing old gracefully, and that’s no bad thing. 

Ed Byrne's latest show is based around the notion that as a generation we are all spoilt. Ed Byrne is spoilt. So too are his children. Though he justifies this by saying that he's giving his children the start in life that he didn't have. The trampoline in the back garden is one way he highlights the difference between his children's childhood and that of his own to good effect.It's these observations that form the basis of a show that's personal, but never self indulgent. This self awareness has the audience onside from the outset. The laughs are equalled by the nods of awareness from the audience at Byrne's perceptive observations of the ludicrous nature of our age. Byrne originally intended to call the show I’ll Millennial You In A Minute, but this as a title was considered to be 'off-puttingly baffling'. There is nothing baffling or off-putting about this show. The packed audience are treated to a one-hour tour de force performance from the master comedian. At the start he alluded to the fact that the first five shows needed to have the rougher edges honed, these bits weren't apparent tonight. In fact, the only misstep of the night was the from the tech guy who had forgot to bring out a stand for him to rest his pint. You get the feeling that he's probably the least demanding performer at the festival, so asking for this prop is no mere frippery. There is a good level of self-deprecation throughout the show from the Irish comedian, who even though he has successfully navigated his way through a career that most comics would kill for, he still seems to be grounded. He addressed TV fame in a humorous way. Also, the fact that his love for the outdoors has seen him successfully become a columnist writing about his passion. He acknowledged that this might not have been what his younger self would have envisaged as a career path. Equating the price of things, to the price of a skiing holiday, may set your teeth on edge when done by anyone else, but with Byrne you can’t help but indulge.There's a routine that he sets up talking about his son and an electric fence. This is almost abandoned as he veers off in a tangent. Given the consummate professional that he is, he manages to pull it back to the story that he'd set up. It was worth the deviation and the pay off when we arrive at its conclusion. There's the inevitable Trump joke and it's one that highlights another entitled person that fits in with the idea of that everyone is now spoilt. This is a thoroughly entertaining hour that shows a comedian on top of his game. The gags come thick and fast and leaves the audience with the feeling of being spoilt. 

After sold out Fringe shows in 2014 and 2015, Angela Barnes is back with a new routine that is, at times, remarkably and worryingly prescient. Especially given the developments in the relationship between the US and North Korea in the last week.The show details a number of themes, one in-particular, is turning 40 and seemingly doing so without the usual clichés about midlife crises that come with that landmark. We get to hear self-confessed history buff Barnes' love of decommissioned nuclear bunkers, and the time that she spent in one as a present from her boyfriend celebrating her 40th. The mood of the birthday was tempered slightly by the news that Donald Trump was elected as president during their stay, which inevitably leads to a volley of abuse aimed at the leader of the free world. All well-deserved and lapped up by the audience. No doubt, when she put this show together two months ago, the two props of Raymond Briggs apocalyptic tale of a nuclear attack When the Wind Blows and the government information booklet Protect and Survive, were great comic devices to prompt her wanders down memory lane. Barnes apparently paid £60 on eBay to secure a copy of the pamphlet for the show. That may turn out to be a great investment on many levels. This part of the show feels almost educational and is very much on-point. There is a great deal of nostalgia throughout the set, no doubt aimed at the majority of the audience who are the same age (or older) than Barnes. Another one of the other realisations of turning 40 for Barnes, is not knowing the difference between good and bad poetry. This is one of the two things in her anti-bucket list. An ex-boyfriend who claimed to be a poet, but in reality worked for the council, liked the poems by Rainer Maria Rilke. The recollection of this leads to a deft call back later on in the set when she sums her own outlook on life. She bemoans that having reached 40 without children, the fact that people have no qualms asking her why that's the case. There is a poignancy in this part of the set when it is revealed that Barnes, who has no desire to have children, recently found out with a trip to the doctors that she would not be able to have them, even if she had wanted to.The leap from nuclear bunkers to the perimenopause may seem like a great one but the delivery and pace of the performance helps Barnes to do so with ease. There are a number of themes that the set addresses but Barnes manages to pull the threads together well and the show works as a concept. 

Time has not withered Moira Bell, Alan Bissett’s 2009 tribute to the hard-working, hard-playing, straight-talking working class women of Scotland, and Falkirk in particular. In 2017, she’s still arguing with her neighbours (mostly about their noisy sex lives), giving people who disrespect her a piece of her mind, and knocking down any middle class pretentiousness with a single blow. And, as per usual, she’s still sharing everything with her best pal, Babs.But, there have been changes during the last eight years, especially for audience members who were lucky enough to see The Moira Monologues. Moira’s much loved Pepe has long ascended to Dog Heaven, the boys have moved on, and it’s eight years since ‘her’ Billy Lamont left her for another woman. Thanks to her eldest son, she’s also now grandmother to little Matthew, albeit a ‘Nan’ who still thinks she’s hot, and looking out for a man. But, as the second ‘episode’ of this new show adequately proves, the brave new world of online dating isn’t really for our Moira. As with The Moira Monologues, this new show is performed by Bissett alone with no attempt to drag it up like some Scottish answer to Mrs Brown’s Boys. Nevertheless, Moira is undeniably in the room, with Bissett’s performance honed and subtly guided here by director Sacha Kyle. Story changes are indicated by no more than a brief dip in the lights, and a change of location. Bissett even slips easily into other supporting characters—mostly the poor men Moira runs into—but never loses his focus. It’ll still be a strange day when we eventually see a woman play her. Much of Bissett’s work—especially his novels—is about men, but Moira clearly offers him a different way to talk about the world. Through her eyes he despairs, not just at town-centres filled with Pound-shops, bookies and hairdressers, but also stifled working class ambition—Moira ‘doesn’t see the point’ of Glasgow, let alone much of Scotland. Just never, ever take the piss, or you’ll be in trouble. Welcome back, Moira. We missed you.

Given the way that Jan Ravens effortlessly reels off her startling array of impressions it begs the question why it has taken so long for her to branch out on her own. This is her first Edinburgh solo show and it is a masterclass in biting satire, and comedy that deals with the more personal nature of being a 'woman of a certain age'.The show's title is inspired by Ken Clarke's waspish appraisal of the PM so it inevitably starts with Theresa May. The opening looks at the other difficult women in politics. The three female political leaders of Scotland get the Ravens treatment and her Diane Abbott is brilliant and a constant character that pops up during the performance. As ever the impressions are spot on and for someone that has been primarily on radio you take for granted that this is a voice-based act. Visually she manages to capture the mannerisms of the people that she is sending up to good effect. I'm not sure I'll be able to look at Nicola Sturgeon again in the same way after tonight's performance.The show doesn't just dwell on the political. The difficult women theme is broadened out in the middle part to deal with the difficulties of being a women of a certain age. This enables Ravens to run through her repertoire of impressions that are not just from the political sphere. There's a lovely tribute in the middle of the show to one of the great stars that we lost in 2016. I won't spoil the surprise of who it is, you need to see that in person. It's very touching and heartfelt and if the audience weren't on her side at that point, well they were from then on in. The routine about her fantasy shags, being replaced by a collection of fantasy pallbearers was really good too. Again, I won't spoil the surprises here by naming names. There is a great deal of empathy during this part of the show from the largely Radio Four friendly audience (this was confirmed by a call and response). Some may have been shocked by some of the words used tonight that may not have been used previously on that station. The strongest of swear words was used at the mention of Donald Trump, so that's alright.As it is the early part of the run, there was a bit of self-editing going on during the show, but this will work itself out in the coming days. It highlights the wealth of material at her disposal. It is fair to say that the impressions are matched by the writing. The material hits home on a number of occasions and avoids the issues that some impressionists have with regards to being all about the impressions and forgetting to write a show. It was a sell out tonight and I suspect that will be the case throughout its run. This is a show that needs to be seen. 

There’s one point during Geoff Norcott’s latest show when it really flies, when you sense he really has most of the audience on his side — even though at least one or two of them must have seen him already use the material on his regular five minute slot on BBC Two’s The Mash Report. Not that the rest of the show is dull; quite the opposite. His low-key defensiveness genuinely gives edge to proceedings.It helps that Norcott’s a naturally funny man; never one to miss the chance for a joke. Yet his default attitude is best described as ‘wary’—softly spoken, self-mocking, and constantly trying to ‘work out’ his audience and the extent to which it contains ‘Guardian sensibilities’ he can then metaphorically poke with a stick. Although some of his targets are obvious — Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour party, Vince Cable’s Liberal Democrats — as a self-described ‘socially-liberal conservative’ he’s not happy with the current leadership of the Conservative party either, especially after their dismal election campaign and alliance with the DUP.Admittedly, the show is something of a mixed bag. Many of Norcott’s comedic routines are based on his family — especially his disabled, trade unionist father — or incidents which happened to him while he and his socialist wife were on holiday. Norcott also has some pretty good, solid material on the subject of recently becoming a father, and how it makes him feel — especially his confused reaction to whether or not he should equally share in child-rearing duties. But then there’ll be a swerve so sharp onto the subject of Donald Trump that’s even he knows the audience has noticed. What Norcott hopes to achieve, apparently, is to fly into somebody else’s echo chamber and engage in some light-hearted conversation without it descending into a shouting match. Against that standard, his current show would seem to be a success; on the night of this review no one in the audience proved willing to take Norcott up on his regular offer of a ‘heckle amnesty’. I’m just not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

Choose Your Battles is Lucy Porter's 11th Edinburgh Show and it's a wonderfully crafted hour that is both funny and, at times, a poignant look at someone who goes out of their way to avoid conflict.The poster for the show has Porter in a combative pose. Over the course of the hour this is shown to be totally against her nature. Even before the show begins to explore its theme, we see evidence of her gentle ways. A group of latecomers walk across the stage in full view of Porter. Instead of turning on them like a number of comedians would do, she welcomes them and explains to them the concept of the show, having already done so before they arrived. I'm surprised she didn't offer to hold their coats while they got themselves set. The show's title is inspired by a self-help book for parents that Porter had decided to read for inspiration because her two young kids had started to bicker and fight. This brings about some great observational humour about the nature of her parenting style.She draws on quite a lot of her home life for the show and her husband Justin Edwards is the butt of many of her jokes, but you can't help feeling some sympathy with him especially given his wife's forgetfulness. Even a near death experience involving Porter and her children is used for comic effect. There is a reenactment of the moment involving a member of the audience. He (Ronan) happens to be an actor that Porter failed to recognise at first. She assured us that this wasn't a plant. We believe her. Porter moves away from the personal to look at how easy it is today to be easily irritated, offended or wound up by people. She addresses social media and the perils of accidentally googling your own name. Again, this highlights all that's good about Porter's character as she addresses her online troll. There's a part in the show where the audience get the chance to evaluate two modern dilemmas, it is clear that Porter's audience are fully attuned to her point of view, apart from a few outliers. The overarching question that the show seeks to address is how do we know which causes are worth fighting for? This is something that may not have been answered by Porter, if the way that the set has been dressed leads us to believe. Still, even if that question might not have been answered this is still a treat of a show. 

Anna Mann is, according to herself, the greatest actress of her generation—a quote she can now legitimately edit for future Fringe posters with no fear of censor. Yet is this former star of “terribly polite” political play No More War, Please really the right person to show us how to stop the rise of right wing politics? After a glorious hour in her company, it’s clear to say that—wonder of wonders—she is.Given the seriousness of the global situation in which we find ourselves, Anna’s solution is to educate through verbatim theatre. On our behalf she has travelled the UK—well, a few places in England—to speak with ordinary people, and now performs what they said for our education. We have a welcome return of “57, white male man” Nick, with his vocal ticks and behavioural blind-spots; two northern ladies totally confused about the charities they support; and zombie-obsessed Nottingham hard-man Andy Parker. For balance, there’s one Cheryl Glass, a Labour Party Momentum member with clear anger issues.This gives Anna Mann’s creator, Colin Hoult, a succession of opportunities to stretch his acting chops. He does so with relish and a massive dash of welcome audience interaction. Anna may claim to have “literally done no research”, but it’s clear that Colin has—or at least spent some time thinking about the possibility that many of our fellow citizens feel left behind by the changing world, and aren’t happy about it. Anna Mann isn’t also above a few “clever” tricks to show us just how easy it is for us all to slip into Nazi ways of thinking. Always willing to “push the envelope”, not least when channeling Hitler, Anna Mann is happy to play with our expectations, and our willingness to do what we’re told—playing with that unbalanced power relationship between artist and audience. While her final solution to how we stop the fascists is all you might expect from this kind of show, it’s well worth thinking about all the same. She’s not just a pretty face, that Anna Mann.

“Ah yes. We loved Streisand.” It’s just one brief line in this new play from Liver and Lung Productions, but it’s fully representative of the script’s nuanced, aching understanding of human relationships of all orientations, in what (initially at least) appears very much to be a light-hearted stagger through the clichéd straight woman and her gay best friend scenario—you know, the one that will only end when one of them gets a boyfriend.Liver and Lung’s co-founders, Hannah Shields and Shafeeq Shajahan, here play Sarah and Sky, generally found on or returning to the bed which takes up most of the performance space and functions as either Sarah’s or Sky’s most private space. Yet in a quite deliberate stylistic decision, the pair are surrounded, from the start, by the titular “seven other guys”—the men (three topless, three dressed casually, one in a suit) who come and go from their lives without, for the most part, leaving much of an impression. Sex and relationships are literally hovering around them in the gloom.Of course, this format means that Shields and Shajahan have the best opportunity to flesh out their characters; the “seven” are essentially a succession of one-off cameos, with limited time and opportunity in which to leave any impression. It’s to the credit of both the script and performers that they do: we may be talking broad dramatic strokes here—asexual James, self-righteous Jorden, respectable city-worker Richard are just three examples—but all seven actors bring an energetic honesty to their characters, and in doing so give both Shields and Shajahan plenty of variety to play off against.Sarah hates being vulnerable (except when surrounded by “safe” gay men) while Sky—despite all the sex—is riddled with self-doubt after breaking up with his boyfriend Henry. So it’s interesting that she—the trainee lawyer to his alleged filmmaker—appears to be the one most likely to move on. That might disappoint some, but this refreshingly honest and playful production remains a delightfully bitter-sweet experience which makes you think while you smile.

Snowflake, a new play written and directed by the former Artistic Director of Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre, Mark Thomson, feels a necessity to explain its title right from the start; essentially, that the “millennials” who became adults during the 2010s have—thanks to their upbringing—an inflated sense of their own uniqueness and, as a result are less resilient than previous generations. (Which, of course, is arguably how every new generation has been described by their predecessors!)This urge to tell, rather than just show, betrays an earnestness in the production that ever-so-slightly rankles; Mark Thomson’s name may be on the script, but this is a work largely inspired by workshops of young people, for performance by The Network—a new theatre ensemble created by the Scottish Drama Training Network and Pleasance Futures to help young performers make the transition from training to work in the industry. There’s a lot of talent on show here—Shyvonne Ahmmad is particularly notable as central character Jax—but their characters’ blindness to their own privileges is frankly annoying.Nor does it help that there’s a genuine sense of Thomson, as both writer and director, throwing a whole sack of theatrical tricks into the mix. Some are well used; barrages of light and sound very effectively reflects how this millennial generation exist within a constant whirl of social media and shared information, and the pressures this puts on them to mine their own lives for material. Yet others are more questionable: a disconnected WiFi router represented by an apparently “isolated” blind person (stereotypically wearing dark glasses and using a white stick) is at best a joke in poor taste. Thomson has brought together a talented production—as well he might, given his own experience in the industry—with Alisa Kalyanova’s set and Taylor Buntain’s sound design working well to create an overall environment for the characters. This is certainly worth seeing, if only for the chance to catch a few potential future stars at the start of their professional careers, but it’s by no means the argument for its generation it wants to be. 

The finals of the Great Yorkshire Fringe New Comedian of the Year competition as ever throw up a talented assortment of acts. The winning honour went to Jack Gleadow, from Hull, whose brand of physical comedy is the clear audience and ultimately judges’ favourite. He crams a great deal into his five minutes; the reason for having a scooter around his neck becomes apparent when he brings on two members of the audience to help him depict scenes from a couple of movies. His routine about Tinder is excellent too.In second place, was the Geordie Anth Young, whose brand of comedy mines his own experiences with children, both the good and the bad aspects. His material is from a long tradition of northern gag merchants and on this evidence he has long career ahead of him.Tom King was awarded third place. The ex-nurse certainly doesn’t fit the bill as your typical member of the caring profession, with his large frame and hipster beard. His routines about his experiences in dealing with stool samples provoke reactions that range from queasiness to hilarity.Edy Hurst could count himself unlucky not to have been in the reckoning for the main honour with his music-based comedy. His excellent James Bond covers and audience participation work well in the allotted time.Another of the finalists from Hull was Gina Jenkinson, who performs under the name Kelli Taylor. This character-based comedy routines sees her take on the role of a hairdresser. Her view on motherhood is an interesting one, something that may alert social services. Scouser Mike Carter has a good line in self-deprecation. His distinctive look usually prompts jokes which he is happy to crack first. James Harkness, aka Dougie, could best be described as anti-comedy. That’s not a criticism, he is hilarious, often painfully so. There are no jokes as such, but his five minutes is a surreal and entertaining take on the persona of someone who looks like they have drifted in off the street from a shift at their local convenience store. A word too for host Mick Ferry who MCs the proceedings with all the verve and skill that you would expect from someone of his experience, also to the previous winner of the Great Yorkshire Fringe award Simon Lomas whose brand of fish-out of water comedy points to this year’s winner following in a tradition of deserved recipients of this award.  

Alan Bennett’s Bed Amongst the Lentils is one of the great observational pieces from the master wordsmith’s influential Talking Heads series. It’s a role that Maggie Smith played to perfection in the TV series; so tackling this play is an often-daunting challenge for any actor.This version of Bed Amongst the Lentils is produced by West Yorkshire’s Library Theatre Company and sees Deborah Kelly convincingly inhabit the role of Susan, who slowly seeks solace in a bottle of sherry or altar wine, when her choice of tipple has been consumed. It is a one-women show that focuses on Susan, a vicar's wife (Mrs Vicar) whose life of devotion to the service of a vainly insensitive husband sees her stumble into alcoholism and an affair with a shopkeeper (Mr Ramesh) in Leeds. Worn down by the fact that her life has not turned out as planned and the constant one-upmanship of the parishioners, we see her life slowly unravel over the course of the 45-minute play. There is redemption of sorts, but not from the church or her husband, but from Ramesh, in the storeroom upstairs above his shop. There is a good pacing to the performance and it allows for the great lines and observations to be absorbed by the audience. The stage is sparsely arranged, with only a table depicting religious paraphernalia to set the scene. The large glass of sherry is used perfectly to evidence Mrs Vicar’s decent into alcoholism.Even in such a small space, possibly the play could be amplified a bit more to drown out some distractions outside. That said Kelly does of good of projecting herself to make every little nuance of the script to be savoured and enjoyed. She holds the attention of the audience and her timing allows the witticisms to breathe.This performance is a worthy addition to the many interpretations of the great Yorkshire writer’s work.  

There is a tongue planted firmly in cheek with this affectionate tribute to the music of the Carpenters and in particular the legacy of Richard, forever doomed to be the “other” member.Richard Carpenter is Close to You is written and performed by Matthew Floyd Jones, one-half of the excellent Frisky and Mannish. This show continues as a spiritual successor to the duo, carrying on their tradition of perfectly rendered parody songs. It’s a 55-minute romp, plus five minutes for laughs – of which there are plenty- that envisages the career of Richard Carpenter in the years after the tragic death of his sister Karen. It’s an existence that takes in cutting the ribbon at shopping malls, opening memorial gardens, working on tacky cable channels selling compilations of his band’s songs. All the while he’s toiling to get a debut solo album finished and listened to by a world that is more interested in talking about his sister. The show imagines a showbiz hell known as Purgatoria a place where the careers of the overshadowed other elements in famous families or groups are condemned to remain forever embittered about their legacy. This is a quest of sorts for a way out and for Richard to shape a life of his own, out of the shadows. It is also a chance for him to show that he was more than the piano-playing sibling of Karen. It is clear that the real life Carpenters’ lawyers could well have been taking a close eye on this show. Apparently Floyd Jones can only sing six words from the songs. That’s why we don’t get the exact songs; we get note perfect copies of classic Carpenters hits. It’s the opening of the show that highlights Floyd Jones’ talent for parody as spends time running through a medley of songs. For ‘Only Just Begun’, we get ‘It’s the Start’. ‘Rainy Days and Monday’ becomes ‘Stormy Nights and Thursday’. The words and titles may have changed but the tunes are all too familiar. There are unexpected character cameos that crop up along the way, which adds to the occasionally surreal nature of the show. It is clear that there is a deep affection at the heart of this, why else would you devote so much time to putting together a show like this if there wasn’t? Although Richard Carpenter is parodied to perfection the climax of the show does have warmth that certainly makes it a worthwhile journey for the character (and the audience too). It also contains a full version of a Carpenters classic; I won’t spoil the surprise what that is. It’s a show that helps to re-evaluate the significance of the Carpenters’ songs and that is not a bad thing. 

There’s a lot wrong with the world at the moment, but I reckon if you gave everyone a ukulele then you could go a long way to curing all that’s troubling.It's that sense of community spirit that pulls together an audience to witness nearly two hours of entertaining uke-inspired fun in The White Rose Rotunda. It was packed-out to see the local favourites live up to their pre-show billing as one of the picks of the festival. The “Titans of Tweed” walk out to Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’ and that sets the tone for the night. They open with a “traditional ukulele folk number”, ‘I Predict A Riot’ by the Kaiser Chiefs before mining a collection of songs from a number of decades, but predominantly from the Britpop era of the 90s. Classics from Oasis, Blur, Pulp, The Beatles, Stereophonics, Prince, Bryan Adams and even Steppenwolf are repurposed for the thirteen-strong orchestra. It’s a night that also encompasses bingo, as members of the audience are given a card to tick off each song in the first half of the set. It’s the only disappointment of the night, as I thought that I had won. Seemingly, so did all the other audience members. There was even a race around the venue involving the two sound guys during their take on The Spencer Davis Group’s ‘Keep on Running’. Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’ sees Tim from the back row of the Ukes disappearing, to return in a superhero outfit as Yorkshire’s very own superhero: Flat Cap ManEven local celebrity Martin Barass was summoned from the audience to get involved to launch beach balls during ‘Great Balls of Fire’.If this all sounds chaotic, that’s because it is, but in a good way. Watching the Grand Old Uke of York is no passive experience for the audience. You are expected to get involved. While the chaos reigns, the band carries on. There is infectiousness about the way that the orchestra perform. If you took away all the theatricality, you would still have a very talented group of musicians, but it is the putting on a show makes nights in their presence all the more compelling. Given the logistics of the orchestra of that size they don’t go off for a deserved encore, but stay on for a blast through Free’s ‘Alright Now’ to finish off a two-hour set that disappeared in the blink of an eye.  

“O, what a tangled web we weave,” Sir Walter Scott wrote in his epic poem Marmion, “when first we practise to deceive!” It’s a life lesson we can only hope unfortunate police officers Gobbel and Blunt—newly on the beat, it would seem— remember, given that the play’s Farcical succession of misunderstandings and physical injuries arise from their initial reluctance to quickly inform an elderly couple on Christmas Eve of the death of their daughter. Instead, they dither on the doorstep, arguing over who’s turn it is to ring the bell and so give the bad news—a situation complicated by the sudden arrival of Gronya, a vengeful woman looking to lynch a “resettled” paedophile whom she suspects “collaborator” police are preparing to extract to safety. No sooner has she moved on than the pair are faced with the elderly couple, the dementia-affected Garson and her husband, Balthasar with a dodgy hear, who immediately assumes the worst—though about their dog Miffy, missing for the best part of a week, rather than their daughter. First seen at the Royal Court Theatre in 2002, this new Tron production under director Andy Arnold gives Anthony Neilson’s script delightful West of Scotland accents, with a top notch ensemble led by Michael Dylan and Martin McCormick as the loveable but hapless bobbies who rapidly find their situation spiralling out of control. In many respects, The Lying Kind is everything you’d expect of a farce (not least by having an obligatory Man of God caught with his trousers down), yet it’s one that’s tightly written—no loose ends, nothing extraneous—and performed with the right deadpan touch and speed. If there’s a worry with The Lying Kind, it’s Neilson’s portrayal of Garson as a woman whose dementia returns her thoughts to an apparently brief sojourn on a cruise ship back in the early 1960s. Anne Lacey’s timing and physicality in the role are, of course, superb, but the script’s focus on her sudden amorous proclivities—especially to Blunt whom she believes is the ship’s captain—teeters uncomfortably into mockery of mental illness. What saves the day is the fact that, by the time we reach the climax, Garson suddenly appears to be the only sensible character left on stage. Anti-paedophile vigilantes and Lazarus-like Chihuahua notwithstanding, this gloriously naughty sitcom concludes with a life-lesson seemingly learned—that it’s always simpler to tell the truth even when, as one character admits, “it might be bollocks”. Except, there’s one lingering doubt left in our minds at the end; Gronya’s young daughter Carol at one point insists she’s been sexually abused by her mother’s brother. And isn’t believed. Truth, sometimes, doesn’t appear to be enough.

A marriage isn’t just the joining of two people, or even two families—it marks the coming together of two communities. Or so we’re told, towards the end of Duncan Kidd’s latest play for the Leith-based Active Inquiry’s Flashback Drama group and Strange Town Young Company. For the Port of Leith has seen countless migrants settle there and others leave, a process which has undoubtedly left its mark on the history of its communities.The Waves on the Seas is the second of three “Leith Moves” productions, a social history project investigating and highlighting the significance of Leith Docks down the centuries. Unlike its predecessor, Tales From The Hanging Captain, it’s a promenade performance that jumps from one time and place to the another, though always with the clarity that comes from its principal focus—the diary of Luisa Rossi, a young Italian woman who unintentionally arrived in Leith, unexpectedly settled in the port and, through her cooking, made a home for her daughter—the home her own granddaughter now feels she must leave. The reality of migration is underscored by the cast introducing themselves and explaining their own personal journeys to Leith; out of this particular “Baker’s Dozen”, the vast majority were not born within the EH6 postcode, coming from elsewhere in Scotland (even Edinburgh!), the UK, Europe and beyond. For a group of non-professional performers, however, this cast smoothly shift from being themselves to the first of their respective characters, as we’re led into the main space and a simple, highly effective evocation of the hustle and bustle in the Port of Leith in the early half of the 20th century. Time and again the cast involved the audience—as newly arrived migrants with passport to be stamped, or as guests at an wedding reception—helping draw us into the entwining stories of Luisa and her neighbours; only one minor subplot, about “Donna—from the Telly”, fails to connect. Thanks to director Gavin Crichton, this excellent ensemble cast keep the action tight and focused, ensuring an engrossing view of Leith that certainly doesn’t outstay its welcome. 

It’s fair to say that Bounce!, created and performed by French company Arcosm, is a delightfully playful blend of music and dance, performed with real skill and alleged wild abandon. Yet there’s also a real sense that it’s about something remarkably important—our innate ability to ignore, deny, distrust but ultimately overcome the mysteries and challenges that life throws at us—symbolised, on this occasion, by a giant box in the middle of the stage.Not that the four performers initially seem to recognise the box is even there. Two men, two women: two dancers in loose, casual clothing who commence some light-footed gentle choreography while chatting, accompanied by two smartly-dressed musicians who, between them and a sampler, begin to build up layers of rhythmic melody that are both energising and intriguing. There’s a genuine sense that the musicians don’t entirely approve of what the dancers are doing, or at least the way they’re doing it. But the dancers, totally at ease with each other, appear totally oblivious. The result is entertaining enough.It says something about even the youngest audience members that the first big laugh of the show comes when the male dancer’s increasingly free-flowing choreography sends him straight into the massive wooden box, also sending the female violinist to the floor among her scattered sheets of music. At first there is confusion and incomprehension; it’s only really after he crashes into the box a second time that its existence is fully comprehended, and even then it’s akin to a replay of that iconic scene from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: a space odyssey when the apes first encounter the black monolith. What follows is a succession of actions, often repeated to great effect, as the four performers initially try to push the cube away, and then attempt to be the first to climb on top of it, repeatedly dragging each other down in the process. In the course of events, there are several opportunities for the performers to highlight the rhythms than can be found in repetitive laughter and the percussive slaps and beats of their bodies against the box. Beneath the countdowns that come with increasing menace, the four ultimately help each other onto the box, a triumph of cooperation. There’s no doubting the quality of musicianship and choreography on display here—often combined in truly impressive ways. Despite the relative lack of dialogue (and dialogue in English), there’s also a clarity to the “characters” we see, and how they react to the challenge of the box—be it frustration or curiosity. The result is a show that’s genuinely funny, a bit weird, and confident enough to wear its intelligence—both emotional and intellectual—lightly.

Recent years have seen a significant rise in the number of (usually) London theatre productions being transmitted live to cinemas and other venues across the UK. While clearly successful commercially, it’s a moot point whether an audience watching any stage performance on a big screen really are still enjoying “live theatre”, especially once those recording what’s happening on the stage begin to utilise the basic visual language—close ups, mid-shots, long-shots—of cinema.In Falling Dreams, created by Dutch company Het Filiaal Theatermakers, audiences are expected to watch a big screen, on which is shown the Alice-in-Wonderland-styled adventures of a 12 year old girl (played by Karin Jessica Jansen) who is so obsessed with sink holes that, lost in her daily routine of home and school, she unexpectedly falls out of the world as she knows it. Whether this is “just” a dream or a slip into some other dimension is never made clear, but it’s undoubtedly a coming-of- age experience of sorts for the not-yet- a-teenager.Falling Dreams’ unique selling point, however, is that all the visuals, music and soundscape, through which the story is told, somewhat expressively, are created live in front of us by the cast, using a mixture of costumes, scale models, video-editing and “green screen” special effects. While the visual tricks are, on occasion, resolutely low-rent, the final results are far better than you might expect. Also somewhat disconcerting; when watching the screen, as with any visual presentation, it’s easy for us to suspend our disbelief—and yet we can also see how artificial their methods of creation actually are.Falling Dreams can sometimes feel a tad too literal—the girl’s “mood swings” represented by her being on a park-swing, for example—and, just like the original Alice’s adventures, somewhat episodic. But the energy and commitment of the cast is clear, and there’s a rhythmic strength in terms of visuals and sound that’s quite enticing. Weird, but in a good way, as one young boy said behind me after the end of the show.

At one point during Glory on Earth, its two main characters—stage right, the young, romantic Mary, Queen of Scots; stage left, the firebrand Protestant preacher John Knox—are each writing letters to the English Queen, Elizabeth. Hers is full of hopeful friendliness and optimism; his, strident warnings of the dangers from a Catholic revival in Scotland. His letter is folded and sealed with burning wax; she instead uses a modern-day self-sealing envelope.That one short scene epitomises much about both Linda McLean’s script and Royal Lyceum Artist Director David Greig’s choices in bringing it to “his” stage. McLean follows many notable writers in reimagining Mary, with an opening that all-but name-check’s Liz Lochhead’s iconic 1987 play Mary Queen of Scots Got Her Head Chopped Off. But while Lochhead looked at the complicated relationship between Mary and her cousin Elizabeth, McLean instead focuses on the conflict between Mary and Knox: Catholic Queen versus Reformation Protestant; fun-loving youth versus dull-old middle-age; pragmatic compromiser versus religious fundamentalist; woman versus man. Admittedly, basing her play around this binary conflict isn’t without problems, given that McLean essentially criticises Knox for having “no greys” in just such a world view. As it is, Jamie Sives provides a suitably austere, condemning Knox (although his voice never quite fills the space as you feel it should), but—one moment of anguish about his dead wife notwithstanding—he has little emotional room in which to manoeuvre. Rona Morison, as the Queen, is obviously provided with more opportunities to gain our sympathies, but again there’s something in the portrayal that means we never entirely warm to her. Greig’s staging is clean and simple, the beautiful suggestions of arches from Karen Tennent matched by the bold, painterly lighting by Simon Wilkinson. Composer Michael John McCarthy also successfully emphasises the differences between Mary and Knox; he, associated with 16th century psalm-singing, she with a somewhat more diverse—and up-to-date—playlist. Sound is just one tool that Greig uses to highlight the continuing relevancies of Mary’s story; not least her stated intent to maintain Scotland’s links with Europe. That rings particularly true in the Scottish capital, where three quarters of voters wanted to remain in the EU.Much of this play’s energy comes from the constant interaction between Morison as Mary and her girl-band chorus of six, who play the Queen’s retinue, members of her Privy Council, and other characters when required. And yet dramatically the most effective scene remains the one-on-one meeting between Mary and Knox, without any witnesses; a reminder of how dialogue and acting alone can still hit the spot without need for other theatrical tricks.

“Keep going,” actor Andy Clark says repeatedly to the musicians behind the glass screen in the unsubtly-named Limbo Studio created on stage, ensuring that we find our seats accompanied by a regular single drum-beat. It’s hardly the most torturous of repetitive sounds around but, after just a few minutes, it’s a genuine relief when Louise Quinn’s play finally begins. But that title is almost a hostage to fortune; not torturous, but certainly tortuous.Clark plays recording studio owner Jake, who’s been working on the same album by the same band for the last 15 years. Success, after one hit single, has passed him by. This information is rather clumsily info-dumped in conversations between Jake and his dole-claiming, ciggie-rolling “mate” Nick, who generally wanders through life with all the empathy and swagger of a toddler. Annoyingly, it’s never once made clear why either Jake or “Dawnings”—the band, played by Quinn’s own group, A Band Called Quinn—are taking so long; why either, in fact, would put up with the situation. It’s a small detail that niggles, not least because it’s certainly not because “Dawnings” are rubbish. A Band Called Quinn, for the most part kept in the relative shadows of the recording booth, expertly perform an album’s worth of tracks which are, one imagines, meant to reflect and comment upon Jake’s gradual Mephistophelean fall when a joke dance track that’s the work of seconds—with the catchy, no-selling-out title “Kill Them All”—first of all becomes a You-Tube hit and then a big earner thanks to its alleged use by the US Government in its “enhanced interrogations”. If you’re not a fan of A Band Called Quinn’s velveteen guitar pop, however, this cross between gig and play can feel lethargic and lacking in dramatic pace, despite the best efforts of the cast (Clark and Harry Ward as Nick) and the impactful video projections devised by Tim Reid. Creative ennui may well be at the heart of what’s going on here, but it’s a challenge to show that engagingly on stage—bells and whistles not withstanding, this isn’t the best, despite some scene-breaking choreography which livens up proceedings and effectively shows rather than tells Jake’s internal conflict. This is a visually appealing, often funny twist on a familiar-enough narrative; and both Clark and Ward are excellent, the latter especially once he’s required to personify the more dangerous aspects of the world into which Jake has fallen. Music is Torture also plays well with the ways of social media but, in the end, this alleged insider’s view about the temptations of the music industry just doesn’t have the necessary lightness of touch.

In 1983, the BBC published a retrospective about “the first 25 years” of the by-then globally famous BBC Radiophonic Workshop. Written by co-founder Desmond Briscoe, the book was celebratory yet unavoidably biased, not least in how relatively little space was given over in the early chapters to co-founder Daphne Oram. This new play, written by Paul Brotherston and Isobel McArthur, is clearly an attempt to rebalance the history books in her favour.Yet it’s also honest enough to suggest that, while “the Workshop” is arguably what Daphne’s now best remembered for, it certainly didn’t work out as she’d hoped. Daphne had campaigned for at least six years for the Corporation to start experimenting with the creation of electronic music and sound. During the course of the play, we’re shown numerous examples of the blatant sexism and casual conservatism that stood in her way. Even when the go-ahead was reluctantly given, sufficient resources were not; and the Workshop was expected “to pay its way”, serving other BBC departments and “composing to order”. It certainly wasn’t the “laboratory of sound” in which Daphne could experiment for experiment’s sake, and she resigned from the BBC a year after the Workshop’s founding. It would be another woman, albeit one equally interested in sounds and their manipulation, who would put the Workshop on the map, when Delia Derbyshire “realised” Ron Grainer’s Doctor Who theme in 1963. Yet Delia also ultimately became disenchanted by the BBC’s bureaucratic mindset, leaving to carry on her own work. That’s another story, though; not least because, according to this play, and unlike Daphne, Delia did decide to work with Paul McCartney! This new production from Glasgow-based ensemble Blood of the Young, part of Tron Theatre’s Mayfesto season, attempts to tell Daphne’s story with theatrical equivalents of the tape-manipulation techniques she helped pioneer during her time with the Workshop. The heightened, sometimes staggered choreography between scenes doesn’t always work, however; it’s at best distracting, at worst verging on the laughable, undermining the mood previous scenes have spent time and effort to build. Yet it does display the physical skills of the all-male ensemble who brilliantly play all the characters which Isobel McArthur’s prim Daphne Oram encounters during her story.There are laughs, if relatively few quiet moments, but with Daphne Oram presented as self-aware narrator of her own story, ready to deny her status as an originator, there’s an emotional distance which leaves us untouched by Daphne’s belief that “Life is a process of clarifying your own waveform.” There’s much to enjoy here, not least Anneke Kampman’s live sound score, but the final result verges on less than the sum of its parts. 

The London-born artist Joan Eardley, who settled in Scotland to study and whose artistic career was cut short when she died—aged 42—in 1963, is best known for two very different subjects of her painting: the extraordinarily candid—albeit, at times cartoonish—portraits of the “weans” (young children) in the long-since demolished Townhead area of Glasgow, and the landscapes and seascapes from the small fishing village of Catterline, just south of Aberdeen.Although critically acclaimed during her lifetime, it’s fair to say that Eardley herself would probably be surprised by the continued attention paid to her work; public interest in a recent exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art was such that opening hours and dates had to be extended. Not only that, but the exhibition also provided a “hook” to hang this new play from Heroica Theatre Company, celebrating Eardley’s life and work: a play that will, for the most part, be performed “promenade-style” in selected art galleries around Scotland, including the venue of the exhibition, “Modern Two”. However, with no two venues being the same—either in size, style or layout—there seems little point in focusing particularly on the promenade aspects of the production; not least because, on the evening of this review, the show had settled briefly in the Hawthornden Lecture Theatre within the bowels of the National Gallery of Scotland in the heart of Edinburgh—as near a traditional seated venue as you can get without being a theatre. So instead of the audience following the cast around, the cast ran around the audience, not least as happy-go-lucky kids singing naughty songs. Joan Eardley: A Private View is the latest of seven plays written by Anna Carlisle for Heroica Theatre Company, supporting the company’s goal to celebrate the lives of “maverick and unsung women”. Admittedly, the extent to which Eardley herself fits this bill is open to debate; she’s hardly “unsung”, while the only obvious “maverick” aspect of her life would be her sexuality, although the word “lesbian” is used only once, and in relation to her aunt. The title remains apt, however; you leave this production with a real sense of having met the woman, and glimpsing her life and soul.This is thanks to Carlisle’s restrained script and a nuanced performance by Alexandra Mathie; thanks to both we experience the modest yet passionate woman whose passion for painting was to “capture the moment of ecstasy”. Mathie is ably supported by John Kielty and Ashley Smith, who between them play the small group of life-long friends. The result is undoubtedly one private viewing which fully deserves to receive as wide a public audience as possible.

The 306: Day is the second of a three play trilogy instigated by the National Theatre of Scotland, inspired by the stories of the 306 British soldiers that we know were executed by their own side for “military crimes” during the First World War. Writer Oliver Emanuel’s focus, however, is this time on the home-front; specifically, the women who work in the munitions factories, militate for peace and cope as well as they can.Last year’s The 306: Dawn was set within the trenches which split France from north to south, and performed in a Perthshire barn to which the audience were taken by coach (with an initial through-the-night performance timed to end at dawn). The 306: Day—once again a co-production with Perth Theatre and Stellar Quines Theatre Company, with the support of contemporary musicians from Scotland’s Red Note Ensemble—is set in and around Glasgow, while performed “in the round” within one of the function rooms in Perth’s historic Station Hotel. Which, alas, doesn’t always help with sight-lines.“We will be heard,” the nigh-on all-female cast sing, as Emanuel tells the bigger story of the Home Front and the War through both the emotional and practical consequences of three executed soldiers’ deaths for their families. Not that it’s necessary to have seen the first play; the focus here is firmly on the women: Gertrude Farr, the widow who loses her war pension because of “the manner in which (her) husband died”; Nellie Murray, the sister inspired to campaign for peace; and her mother Mrs Byers, whose denial of her son’s death seems part of her dementia.Amanda Wilkin brings a desperate nobility to Gertrude, countered by the all-too-shrill Nellie Murray (Dani Heron), who moves from one munitions factory to the next in the hope of stirring up opposition to the War. Alas, by 1917, she finds that many ordinary people’s determination to win is so deeply ingrained as to deflect argument; she ends up briefly in prison like her husband, a conscientious objector forced to make coffins for the Army. In a joke hopefully at the expense of our war-loving media, then and now, he’s editing a prison newspaper written on toilet paper. Steven Miller is the sole male among the cast, playing without exaggeration an assortment of characters from strong upright soldier to shell-shocked survivor. Quite rightly, however, The 306: Day belongs to its cast of five women (the others being Angela Hardie, Fletcher Mathers and Wendy Somerville); both individually and together, their voices come loud and clear in what is a musical in all but name, while their characters’ stories certainly linger in the memory.

This is a homecoming, of sorts; the revival of a play, first performed at Glasgow's Citizens Theatre back in 1989, which subsequently enjoyed successful productions in the West End and off-Broadway. Adapted from Graham Greene's 1969 novel by Giles Havergal (who, alongside Philip Prowse and Robert David MacDonald, ran the Citizens between 1969 and 2003), it’s a work which inspires real emotional involvement despite relying on what could be dismissed as a theatrical "gimmick".Namely, the fact that all four of the cast play the central character Henry Pulling—frequently swapping mid-scene, while on several occasions doing so simultaneously. Despite this, and the speed at which it happens, there’s no confusion; each actor contributes some aspect to the otherwise bland figure of the 55-year-old bachelor, the retired (and retiring) bank manager whose only pleasure—at least until he's dragged into the bohemian maelstrom of Aunt Augusta and her adventures—was the cultivation of his dahlias. Only Ewan Somers, the youngest, draws the short straw in terms of having anything to say. What continuity there is comes from the other roles the four actors play; “Actor 1” Ian Redford, for example, successfully embodies Henry’s Aunt Augusta with little more than a lightness of voice and a certain delicacy in posture. Joshua Richards (“Actor 3”) seems to specialise in the “foreigners”, which unfortunately includes the African-born Wordsworth, Aunt Augusta’s devoted valet (and lover) whose clear-cut morality stands as a real contrast to the minor war criminal, smugglers and CIA operative which Henry encounters in his travels—the racial stereotyping of the “noble savage”, admittedly, probably being Greene rather than Havergal’s fault. The cast’s obvious versatility—Tony Cownie (“Actor 2”) successfully plays both a young American “gap year” student and her CIA-employed father, while Somers (“Actor 4”) at one point plays a randy Irish hound—supports a heightened theatricality reflected in Mark Bailey’s suitably indeterminate set, which is essentially a collection of necessary props rather than an attempt at defining a specific location. This works well with Tina Machugh’s lighting and Dylan Jones’ too-easily-underestimated sound design, which help ground the narrative in place and time. The cast’s choreography around the stage is also finely tuned by Kally Lloyd-Jones.Graham Greene is unlikely to be many people’s first suggestion if asked to name a comedy writer, but Havergal’s adaptation and Phillip Breen’s direction ensure sufficient laughs without sacrificing any of the play’s intrigue and the deeper moral issues which permeate the novel. Despite its post-Second World War setting, the ultimate success of this revival is showing the play’s continued relevance to today, both in terms of theatre and the world we live in.

“I used to be Shirley Valentine,” explains the focus of Willy Russell’s 1986 one-woman play; a 42 year old Liverpudlian woman who, now that the children have flown the nest, is fed up with life as Shirley Bradshaw, and frightened of life beyond the kitchen wall with which she frequently engages in conversation. However, there’s a possibility of escape: an all-paid, two week holiday on a Greek island. She’s genuinely tempted to go.Three decades on, this story of the put-upon housewife, who again “falls in love with the idea of living”, still resonates with audiences (especially female audiences of a certain age) as much as it makes them laugh. It’s also a brilliant—and sadly all too rare—role for a maturer woman, although not one without its challenges; throughout it’s near two-hour running time, there is no one else on stage to hold the audience’s attention. No wonder it has attracted actors from Pauline Collins (who played the role in the West End and on film) to Meera Syal.This 2017 tour stars Jodie Prenger—“the People’s Nancy” in Cameron McIntosh’s 2009 revival of Oliver!—who is undoubtedly a strong stage presence, easily grabbing her audience’s attention from the start. Her comedic timing is also very good; there are points during Russell’s sharp-as- nails script where Prenger genuinely excels. Yet genuine charisma, stage presence and comic timing are not necessarily enough; there’s still something lacking about this Shirley. Strangely enough, Prenger often feels more emotionally truthful when Shirley is re-enacting other people: her husband, her children, the competitive neighbour or the former classmate with the surprising career.There’s little unexpected about this production, however; Glen Walford’s direction is unobtrusive, while Amy Yardley’s naturalistic kitchen—all yellow and orange faded to nicotine-stained brown—is solid enough to let Prenger actually make egg and chips live on stage. In contrast, the post-interval Greek shore is an abstract 3D cartoon of make-believe rocks and flat yellow and ultramarine, worryingly suggesting that—far from rediscovering life—our Shirley has fallen into fantasy-land.

The comedic tone of David Weir's Confessional is clear from the start; as Schubert's beautiful Ave Marie fades into silence, "Good Catholic" Kevin—or, as he puts it, the "Oldest Alter Boy in Christendom"—is reluctantly about to confess his sins to Father Ignatius, who's also his uncle. A sudden lighting change, though, and Kevin is confessing to us—a Glaswegian Alfie who knows family is always stronger than the secrecy of the confessional.Edinburgh-born Weir’s first Scottish production is grounded on three comedic masterclass performances. Cameron Fulton is always ready with a cheeky grin, as we’re shown the ins and outs of Kevin’s growing pains and his struggles with the expectations of family and church. Yes, we’re supposed to love Kevin, but Fulton’s skill in encouraging certain audience members’ maternal instincts is undoubtedly genuine. Not that Fulton has it easy; there’s little time to relax, and not just because he’s centre-stage for nigh on the whole hour. No, he just happens to share that stage with Jonathan Watson and Sally Reid.Between them, Watson and Reid play a half-dozen characters, from Kevin’s parents and grandparents to various Priests and the girlfriend of his dreams who dumps him after just 56 hours. These characterisations can’t exactly be described as layered, but they’re full of energy and clarity and there are enough clever sharp lines to keep everyone happy. There’s even recognition of casting limitations–few “Play, A Pie and A Pint” productions have room for more than three actors—when Watson is momentarily faced with the horror of a potential scene featuring Kevin’s dad and granddad–both of whom he plays.However, Weir knows that the threat of such a scene is enough, and so relies instead on Kevin’s cheeky-chappy, smarter-than- he-appears comedic potential to keep the laughs coming. Some scenes—the son knowing more about contraceptives than the father, for example—are a tad predictable, but director Ryan Alexander Dewar has cast well, and ensures a tight ensemble on stage that successfully delivers a delightful essay on growing up, and finding yourself.

There’s much to admire, to even love, in Douglas Maxwell’s new play at Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum; a script full of humour and subtle characterisation, if not always clarity and sense, which director Matthew Lenton—Artistic Director of much-acclaimed Vanishing Point—has given a luminous staging, every character clearly delineated by casting and costume. Yet there are disappointments too: a script that’s too long, clunky in its metaphors, and guilty of “tell” rather than “show”.“Can this be right?”, our grey-suited narrator (Robbie Gordon) asks, as the titular Charlie Sonata wanders on-stage to start things off. Our narrator gets the last word too, albeit apparently providing audio-description for the hard of understanding, rather than adding any dramatic impact to what could’ve been a heart-rending moment. It’s not much of a role, admittedly; Gordon wanders on and off stage, often with a disappointed look in his eyes as if everyone has failed to make the grade, while that rhythmically repeated question—“Can this be right?”—loses more meaning every time it’s asked.While Lenton has gathered together an excellent ensemble cast, our eyes are necessarily drawn to lanky Sandy Grierson as our titular heroic drunk, Charlie Sonata—or “Chic” to his old university pals who, unlike him, have moved on from student days with careers and family. Seemingly always on the point of being about to lose his balance, or shit in his pants, Sonata’s the increasingly incoherent man you’d never want to speak to in a bar. Yet he’s fundamentally innocent in his outlook, at his happiest when dispensing shamanic advice about the best drinks to take for a perfect evening.With one of his best mate’s daughter in a coma after a road accident, “Uncle” Sonata is on an odyssey to bring her back, assisted by Meredith, the “tad manic” sister of one of the doctor, who is desperate to force life’s troubles into the fairytale template of Sleeping Beauty. Charlie’s journey is somewhat fluid, slipping between past and present, between university days and life as an alcoholic in a London graveyard. Ana Inés Jabares-Pita’s set, illuminated by Kai Fischer, is suitably abstract; filled with neon signs and a red telephone box pushed here and there across the stage.We’re promised an “apotheosis”—an elevation to divine status—but, while we do get one, it’s less impactful than it could be. For, while we’re told that Sonata was once a man of real poetry and potential, we’re never shown this to be the case. Even in the 1990s, Sonata is always the passive one, nodding at his pals’ ideas but never having the impact he could. A bit like the play itself, in fact.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s debut novel has become so iconic in Western culture that the word “Frankenstein” is now used pejoratively to describe any scientific or technological advance which either brings unforeseen dangers in its wake or breaks long-established taboos. Quite deliberately, though, there’s a strong sense of Mary’s original monster in Sandy Thomson’s new play, which she has both written and directed: powerful, lumbering but resolutely fascinating—if not always for the right reasons.Certainly, this is a production that aims for the epic while remaining resolutely grounded in the local, with Thomson leaping on the little-known fact that, in 1812, the then-14- year-old Mary was sent north by her widowed father (the philosopher and novelist William Godwin) to live with the Baxter family in Dundee; a family they had no obvious connections with beyond the fact that they were “wealthy enough to be considered eccentric”, especially concerning their radical ideas around the education and equality of women. However, this eccentricity proves to be a limited protection once society turns nasty.There is much in Mary’s story for Thomson to get her teeth into as both writer and director; it’s clear that she believes Mary’s two year Dundonian sojourn with the Baxters—and, in particular, the forthright Marianne (played by Irene Macdougall, with her usual fire and sensitivity)—was a life-enhancing experience, and a necessary eye-opener to the suffocating, potentially deadly excesses of 19th century patriarchy. When you add in a golden opportunity to quote the writings of Mary’s mother, the pioneering feminist and educationist Mary Wollstonecraft, there’s enough here for a genuinely emotive, thought-provoking piece of theatre. Yet this isn’t enough for Thomson, who contrasts 1812 with the fictional story of 21st century Dundee teenager Roxanne Walker (a taut Rebekah Lumsden). One of the “popular” boy in her class has taken a semi-naked photograph of her, unconscious after a vodka-fuelled party, and posted it on social media—the “Frankenstein” side of the internet, as you will. Thanks to support from pink-haired- don’t-care librarian Libby (the fourth-wall- breaking Elaine Stirrat), Roxanne finds the inner strength to stand up for herself, but this already feels like an important story that’s been done better, elsewhere.A truly impressive, buzzing cast (not least Eilidh McCormick as Mary) and beautifully-lit staging can’t distract from the occasionally glacially slow progression of both narratives, or the migraine-inducing soundscape and choreography employed to signify the shift from one to the other. Arguably, these are two thematically similar plays that, often with little subtly (not least Roxanne's realisation that “Maybe I need a monster.”), are unfortunately entwined to little obvious thematic benefit for either.

If the usual writerly advice is to always “show, not tell”, then biography is arguably one of the few artistic forms where a certain amount of direct author-to-audience explanation is permissible—even in a fictional biography such as Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. Edinburgh-based Some Kind of Theatre’s quirky, energetic production of Emily Ingram’s adaptation (which she also directs) arguably benefits from its audience being repeatedly addressed directly by Lucy Davidson’s bright-eyed “Writer”.Indeed, much of the texture of Woolf’s book is regularly hinted at thanks to the rest of the cast going well beyond their own dialogue, providing a degree of detailed audio-description to aspects of a scene beyond the capabilities of either set or performance space. This enables the company to instead concentrate their limited resources on a somewhat abstract tree, its branches heavy with pages from a printed book, and a giant wall covered by similar pages over which, in turn, childish drawings had been scrawled to give an impression of, among other things, the feel of industrial revolution. Woolf’s Orlando is essentially a literary critique of the past 300 years, its central conceit being the literary pretensions of the forever young Duke Orlando. Originally a favourite of Queen Elizabeth I—“the once great Queen” now “in the winter of her years”—Orlando survives into the early decades of the 20th century with barely a wrinkle. The only change regards gender; after falling into a deep “strange sleep” Orlando awakes to find he’s now a she. Elsa Van Der Wal provides a genuinely androgynous performance, shifting physicality from strutting young manhood to a more graceful womanhood without unnecessary exaggeration. Admittedly, while providing numerous opportunities to highlight the hypocrisies of society—then and now—when discriminating between men and women, the essential core character of Orlando remains unchanged, to the extent that you often wonder if it’s really that big a deal as everyone (bar Orlando herself) thinks it is. Nor is it entirely clear the extent to which Ingram believes Woolf’s Orlando is about sexual politics; the print-dominated set dressing emphasises the literary focus, but the frequent gender-flipped casting suggests otherwise. Then again, the latter might be less directorial flourish, more a case of limiting cast availability.Gerry Kielty, Cailla Makhmudova, John Spilsbury and James Sullivan provide some genuinely strong support in a succession of all-too-briefly glimpsed supporting characters, even if many—the male characters in particular—prove to be little more than pencil sketches at best, with an touch of pantomime exuberance. Otherwise, this is an entertaining, informed adaptation, which offers enough meat to satisfy the appetites of both those familiar with the book, and those who are not.

The Biblical narrative that is the foundation of the Christian faith has been described, on numerous occasions, as “The Greatest Story Ever Told.” Even if you accept this to be the case, however, it does’t automatically follow that it’s also bound to be the greatest piece of theatre ever performed, especially when done so by a largely amateur cast in the middle of some public gardens in the invariably breezy centre of the Scottish Capital.Admittedly, there’s a genuine sense of occasion, of “an event”, around this latest incarnation of what has become a regular Edinburgh tradition on Easter Saturday. With a cast of nearly 50, this annual single performance “Passion Play” would undoubtedly have a genuine sense of scale if it wasn’t dwarfed by both the openness of West Princes Street Gardens and the looming silhouette of Edinburgh Castle—a uniquely militaristic backdrop by any standards. In terms of the performers, admittedly, the heavy lifting is undoubtedly in the hands of professional actor Duncan Rennie as Jesus, who certainly shines with genuine self-belief. That said, many of the cast give sterling service, especially David McBeath as a burly Peter and Elaine Wallace as Jesus’s mother, Mary—who, in a change from previous years, is the principal narrator of the story in Kamala Jane Santos’s retelling of the story. In terms of the casting there are also some unexpected surprises: David Edie is a somewhat older than expected “doubting” Thomas, while Thomas Mugglestone proves (within the limited material he is given) to be a surprisingly young and almost sympathetic Judas, who at least is saved from being the universally despised traitor of some retellings. Producer and director Suzanne Lofthus wisely opted to have all speaking roles miked up to avoid the whole spectacle becoming a monotone shouting match. Admittedly, this led to some (potentially unavoidable) technical problems, ranging from unexpected signal cut-outs to the noise of the wind and mutterings from supporting cast members that we probably weren’t supposed to hear. Meantime, the show’s choice of incidental music—decidedly Celtic-tinged, albeit with often more of an Irish sensibility than the “pronounced Scottish accent” promised in the programme—was both atmospheric… and distracting, at least for a seasoned film soundtrack buff like myself.Theatrically speaking, though, this show’s main problems were inevitably linked to its outdoor, promenade nature; late to start, its two-hour running time proved decidedly lethargic. Nor did it make any notable use of its locations; the occasional shifts from one spot to another had little dramatic impact beyond undermining any narrative thrust that might have developed. As a retelling of the Greatest Story, this was a worthy effort, but certainly not life-changing theatre.

Children’s entertainer Jango Starr is a total clown, but that’s certainly not meant as a criticism; sans white-face, he instead relies on a pair of trousers just sufficiently baggy to be noticeable, a Chaplin-styled rolling gait, and an emotive face which slips between happy and sad without ever entirely losing the echo of the other. Still, he gets his laughs nonetheless—often from nothing more than the way he puts on a shoe.That’s before, of course, we discover that Starr’s also a master at juggling, magic tricks, and puppetry, all of which are used to great dramatic effect in this one man show. Starr initially appears as a somewhat shabby caretaker whose job is to make sure that, backstage, everything is ready for the next performance by the mysterious magician Fantastico. It’s clear, though, that there’s been some kind of dressing room party—it’s only much later that we realise the star attraction has left for a new life in Spain, leaving it to Starr to fill his top hat and tails. That Starr successfully takes on the role of the missing magician is all the more dramatically effective thanks to the emotional groundwork for this turn of events being established in a mildly disturbing (at least for the grown-ups, if not young children) dream sequence, during which the magician’s costume takes on a life of its own, dancing with Starr around the stage. It’s so simply and effectively performed; also, it’s deliberately unlike the earlier clumsy Starr, for whom life in general appears to be an unending struggle against inanimate objects such as hats, coat stands or his own shoes.For One Man Shoe, Starr has some great support, most obviously from director Gerry Mulgrew and his team: choreographer Janis Claxton, sound designer Philip Pinsky, and set designer Becky Minto. As a result, Starr is supported with a suitably effective, and yet thankfully non-distracting setting in which he is able to share his talents with an increasingly appreciative audience. Just be ready for the occasional discarded items which may be thrown into the audience!

Almost at the start, Gilchrist Muir—here inhabiting the tweed suit of our lecturer, Glasgow University-based Theoretical Zombiologist Dr Ken House—insists that Zombies are not real. This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be prepared, however; the following hour proves to be a speedy, entertaining and generally thought provoking exploration of how modern science identifies and deals with any disease outbreak. (As well as how brutal some kids in the front row can be.)Certainly, there’s the whiff of a Royal Institute’s Christmas Lecture here, especially when Muir invites a younger audience member onstage to show how dirty their visibly washed hands can be under UV light. (Admittedly, the Donald Trump references wouldn’t get past the BBC’s editorial gatekeepers.) Yet the audience participation certainly isn’t gratuitous. It’s all part of how this show, devised by Time-Tastical Productions to help explain difficult science to the general public, easily introduces the scientific methodology used to identify sources, the means by which outbreaks spread, and how we can now use DNA analysis to devise a cure. On several occasions, Muir gives the audience opportunities to decide the “official” approach to dealing with the titular Zombie outbreak. This is when some younger audience members betray a decided tendency to favour “kill” over “cure”, suggesting an overt familiarity with movies and TV shows which also favour a bullet in the head approach. Muir appears genuinely shocked by this; in retrospect, though, this may be a deliberate ploy on his part to make us choose the options which actually lead to the worst possible outcome—reminding us, if nothing else, that the best intentions don’t always turn out well! Zombie Science: Worst Case Scenario has actually been around for several years now (an earlier version ran as part of the 2014 Edinburgh Festival Fringe), which means that some of the videos used feature original lecturer “Doctor Austin”. This isn’t actually a problem, however, as it undoubtedly helps “sell” the idea of a wider scientific investigation into zombieism, and that the Zombie Institute for Theoretical Studies in Glasgow isn’t just a fictional one-man-band. Yes, there remains a definite comedic element to some of the videos, but they’re framed in such a way that our belief remains safely suspended.Muir hardly ever pauses for breath—he comes across as the very embodiment of the slightly nervous, but terribly enthusiastic, academic—but it’s fair to say he quickly forms a strong connection with his audience, especially its younger members, and the result is an informative, educational and entertaining hour which definitely never outstays its welcome. What more could you ask for? Apart from, perhaps, a slightly more positive outcome for the zombie outbreak, of course!

A young girl, annoyed by being made fun of by her seven older brothers, joins in the family’s evening game of throwing stones and unintentionally shatters the sun from the sky, with obviously global consequences. Six months later, with the world constantly dark, she decides it’s up to her to fix what she’s broken—and so starts out on a quest to find all the pieces and put the sun back up in the sky.This delightful show is simply and inventively presented, using a mixture of props, puppets and overhead projections to tell the girl’s fairy-tale adventures. An early example is the girl’s seven brothers being represented by a variety of objects you can buy in any supermarket, while she herself is a small satsuma; this echoes the bright orange coat which performers Isy Sharman and Hannah Jarrett-Scott take turns to wear as the character. Amazingly, this constant switching of the girl’s role between the two actors isn’t at all confusing; indeed, it helps keep the show lively for its younger audiences.Like any fairy tale, there are moral messages to be found: most obviously, about the need to take responsibility for our actions, and also to look after our environment. As the girl sails with a pirate, helps a sea monster and wanders into the jungle with an absent-minded wildlife documentary filmmaker, we see a variety of all-too-human reactions to the loss of the sun—from a Blitz-spirit “adapt or die” lighthouse keeper, who keeps her light going by running on a giant wheel, to the stockbroker who insists that fragments of the sun are highly profitable. With an enticing mixture of the seemingly mundane and the slightly scary, A Stone’s Throw is an ideal hour’s entertainment for under fives, and thankfully has at least some humour for the grown-ups too. Most importantly, however, the story’s resolution isn’t simply the wave of a magic wand; we’re reminded it will take a lot of work to put the world back together again afterwards, and that’s a lesson well worth us all remembering.

From the start of his exploration of the scientific method, through the prism of the 17th century rivalry between Isaac Newton and the now little-remembered Robert Hooke, playwright Lucas Hnath gets his retaliation in first. Just as Isaac Newton used the concept of an Ether-filled universe to explain how objects moved, despite (as we now know) there being no such thing, Hnath’s script purposely uses lies to “explain the things that are true”.The most theatrical “lie”, in this respect, is the meeting between a 20-year-old Newton, desperate for membership of the Royal Society (and all the social and scientific advancement that would bring) and Hooke, the rival who could help get him in. This face-to-face encounter takes up much of the play but, as we’re told on several occasions by the “Actor” (who introduces the play, announces scene numbers and becomes supporting characters as and when they’re required), it never actually happened. The men didn’t meet until much later, and their conflict was largely carried out via correspondence. So why does Hnath focus on a meeting that never happened, and the two men’s relationships with Catherine, the woman here who comes between them and yet never existed? Both highlight the contrast in approach between the two rivals; Newton’s rationalism, his conclusions largely based on reason alone, set up against Hooke’s empiricism, grounded in repeated—and repeatable—experimentation. Added to this is the presentation of Newton as almost autistic, contrasted with the drug-taking, womanising Hooke. One is disconnected from the world, the other dangerously involved—though each is certainly willing to “fight nasty” to get what they want.This production of Isaac’s Eye from the Edinburgh University Theatre Company, running as part of the Edinburgh International Science Festival, certainly has its plus points: Rob Younger is particularly engaging as the Actor, while Jacob Brown successfully embodies the gawky man-child whose self-belief—that his ideas are the ideas of God—has long-lost any innocent charm. Peter Morrison navigates us from initial antipathy towards Hooke to at least a better understanding of the man’s frailties. Sadly, Philippa Iles is given less to do; nor does she entirely convince us of someone who sees Newton as husband material. Hnath’s play comes with a swagger that Amy McMonagle’s production, directed by Carmen Macron, doesn’t always maintain, but it remains a fascinating exploration of how, ultimately, the universe inevitably outsmarts us all. The title comes from Newton’s idea of poking a needle into his tear duct to prove that light is made up of particles; that it is not, as Hooke believes, a wave. As the Actor points out, though, they were actually both right!

In one sense, this Lyceum revival of Caryl Churchill’s 2002 play is exactly the “dynamic two-hander” described in the programme: the only actors on stage are Peter Forbes, as regret-filled father Salter, and Brian Ferguson as his son Bernard. Yet, as we move from one scene to the next—with an audience jump-inducing flare of light—we come to realise that Ferguson is actually switching between three characters, Bernard and two clones.His challenge, therefore, is to show both the commonalities between three genetically identical men and the very real differences in temperament that have arisen out of their very different lives. Much of the groundwork for this is, of course, in Churchill’s script, first performed just a few years after scientists at the Roslin Institute near Edinburgh had pushed cloning from long-established science fiction trope into reality in the form of Dolly the Sheep. Nevertheless, while Bernard 1 and Bernard 2 are both angry—specifically at their father—it’s the subtle nuances of Ferguson’s performance that distinguishes them as individuals. The exact cloning process that creates Bernard 2 and Michael Black, one of “a number” of clones which the scientists had created—unknown to Salter—is left sufficiently vague beyond mention of a few scraped cells. The emphasis here, of course, is on consequences, not least the unravelling of parental lies and the undermining of their sense of self. Bernard 1, who was put into care by a drunken farther unable to cope, is understandably angry that he was essentially “replaced”. Bernard 2, cloned some four years later, now feels like a copy created for a second try at parenthood. Given the scope of the play, many of the more brutal consequences arising from the discovery of the cloning happen away from Fred Meller’s starkly empty set; director (and fellow playwright) Zinnie Harris opts for a minimalist environment—bare room, just two wooden chairs—where atmosphere is expressed as much through Ben Ormerod’s strong lighting as Churchill’s script. This is most clear in the final encounter, between a humbled, emotionally drained Salter and previously unknown clone Michael Black, a happily married father of three children whose optimism is underscored by the warm sunshine bathing a room full of children’s toys. Like many of science fiction’s most important female writers who have also explored themes around cloning, Churchill’s authorial view on “nature versus nurture” debate appears to fall on the side of the latter; that, while our genetic inheritance is an important part of who we are, it’s by no means the defining factor—as emphatically underscored in this genuinely engaging revival of an intelligently written, emotionally authentic drama that’s far from being a clone itself. 

The symbolism is hardly subtle; when we enter the Traverse Theatre’s principal performance space, we have to choose which side of a massive shipping container we sit next to. Impressively, this is then pulled to the side to reveal Neil Warmington’s minimalist set and the cast, Michael Dylan and Rosalind Sydney, frozen in an embrace as loving couple Owen and Polly. Our lives, we’re being told, are increasingly compartmentalised, contained and just like everyone else’s.But this happy contained world, in which the only furniture is four square seats which Dylan and Sydney leap upon and move about to represent different locations, is slowly but surely transforming, just like the Escher-like flooring and the three sophisticated light shades that close up into spheres. And the cause? A new digital “relaxation” device, “Black Box”, which Owen brings home from his work in a care home. He suggests it might help corporate lawyer Polly, ever-conscious of the ping of her work email, to lighten the stress that is clearly affecting her. And it does, noticeably.But… there is, of course, a “but”. Polly starts using Black Box more frequently, and it proves a slippery spiral down into addiction. Admittedly, we see that there are potential cracks in Polly and Owen’s relationship from the start: for example, she—unlike him—is absolutely fine with the microchips which everyone now must have embedded in their forearms, along with the legal requirement to keep their online records up-to-date. Owen, meantime, obviously feels out of his depth in Polly’s corporate world; he’s a care assistant who prefers dealing with the “body fluids” of sick and dying people. Staged as part of the Edinburgh International Science Festival, Stef Smith’s play is text-book science fiction, pushing an aspect of present-day life just that little bit further. She doesn’t give us a precise year, although director Orla O’Loughlin’s decision for Polly to use an iPad suggests it’s not too far ahead. (Strange how Apple’s iconic tablet can already look old-fashioned!) Yet the real concern here isn’t about “big data”, the loss of work-life balance. The big reveal is that Black Box can offer eternal life as a digital upload—an offer millions are willing to accept. If Smith’s reliance on stuttering, mechanistic dialogue is at times distracting, the “will she, won’t she” nature of Polly’s ultimate choice about the “Bliss” found in uploading herself nevertheless powers the narrative during its latter half, and encourages genuinely strong performances from the cast—including, it has to be said, the chilling tones of the unseen Victoria Liddelle as Black Box itself. Girl in the Machine is undoubtedly thought-provoking, emotionally haunting and genuinely revealing.

There’s always a risk attempting to present previously “unknown” stories as theatre. Especially when it takes time—the best part of a decade, in this case—for a show to reach the stage, there’s a risk those tales will have already spread through other means: documentaries, perhaps, or books. So any play must balance providing enough background details for the uninitiated in the audience with sufficient added value for those already knowledgeable about the subject.All this, ideally, without the heavy thud of the “info dump”, in which a cast end up telling us more than they show. Unfortunately, Francis Gallop’s new play for the Edinburgh International Science Festival doesn’t quite get this balance right; the cast of four actors here are required more often to declaim their lines to the audience than each other as characters, meaning that the human aspects of three entwined stories here are somewhat lost in a confusing melée of conspiracy theories, old-school state secrecy and references to Russian fairy tales. Less a drama, more a succession of speeches. The “unknown” stories Gallop aims to present here are about the “other side” in the space race between the USA and the USSR, whose respective rocketry programmes rose from the technological detritus of the German Third Reich. In particular, there’s the life of engineer and space pioneer Sergei Korolev, whose identity remained a state secret until after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Contrasting this are two young Italians, inspired by the launch of Sputnik 1 to create their own home-made radio tracking station and absolutely sure that they had detected several “lost cosmonauts” before Gagarin’s successful first orbit. Director Kate Nelson makes much of Ali Maclaurin’s set—essentially just a couple of stools, two tables moved around on castors (to suggest locations), and a huge circular screen on which a succession of visuals are projected to contextualise the scenes. She also uses the venue herself; younger male cast-member David Rankine is often found looking down on the others from a long balcony that stretches the length of this former veterinary school dissection room. This successfully underscores the emotional distance often existing between the characters, specially those played by Annabel Logan, with whom Rankine is most often paired. Rodney Matthew offers some real emotional value as Korolev; unfortunately, Gowan Calder is left with a succession of lightly sketched plot pushers; any impact she has is more down to the script’s deliberate repetitions than any individual characterisation. Which is arguably symbolic of the play as a whole; there’s definitely something of worth here, but it lacks sufficient emotional focus to build on a story that’s by no means as “unknown” as it once was.

I’m not a fan of promenade performances, especially those involving the audience being led in a group from one set piece to another. Partly, this is about laziness and sore knees, but mostly it’s a genuine difficulty in maintaining a theatrical suspension of disbelief when the narrative momentum is fundamentally dictated by the walking speed of the group’s slowest members. Plus there are all the distractions of the selected venue, in this case Edinburgh Zoo.That said, this new joint production—by Grid Iron (specialists in site-specific theatre), Lung Ha Theatre Company (Scotland’s leading theatre group for people with learning difficulties), the city’s Royal Lyceum Theatre, and the Edinburgh International Science Festival—definitely has its good points. It makes effective use of Lung Ha’s unusually large ensemble cast, while very sensibly not abusing any of the Zoo’s resident animals in the name of cheap entertainment. Plus, at the heart of Morna Pearson’s tale is both an examination of the scientific method and a genuine emotional story of a sibling rivalry with very believable consequences. Famous cryptozoologist Dr Vivienne Stirlingshire (a believably brittle characterisation from Nicola Tuxworth) has returned from her latest expedition with a previously undiscovered member of the animal kingdom, although descriptions of the “Something Or Other” vary depending on who you ask. The Zoo’s director, her brother Henry (a deliciously OTT Antony Strachan), is at best sceptical, and—thanks to a deep-rooted rivalry grounded in childhood jealousy—decides to sabotage her great unveiling by freeing the creature from its wooden crate. Much of the subsequent story is essentially a stressed-out Vivienne and the zoo’s staff desperately trying to find it.Unsurprisingly, it’s the youngest audience members who regularly point out the Something Or Other’s distinctive purple “faeces” left behind in bushes, flowerbeds and along the sides of pathways. Compared to such scatological details, the visible hierarchy of Vivienne, her “assistant”, her “assistant’s assistant”, and her “assistant’s assistant’s assistant” seems positively sophisticated in comparison, and that’s before we sight strange hen and stag parties parading around the Zoo like its world-famous penguins. That said, the most sophisticated laughs happen in the Members’ House, when we’re briefly dragged into make up the numbers at a retiring zoo-keeper's leaving do.There are, admittedly, a few slightly-clunky moments when it comes to plot exposition, and some people might well argue against one keeper’s suggestion that zoos remain a longterm solution to an ever-increasing rate of species extinctions. The ending, too, is just as sweet as you might expect, with the two siblings finally enjoying some kind of reconciliation. Yet, given its child-like innocence, it’s fair to say there’s little here not to like.

Science Fiction isn't the most common genre you find on stage; ironic, really, since it was Karel Čapek’s 1920 play R.U.R. which gave us the word “robot”, for example. Is it because we expect our “sci-fi” to come with spectacular (or, alternatively, laughably cheap) special effects difficult to produce (even now) live, on a nightly basis? Or that, somehow, most people believe that scientific speculation simply isn’t “serious” enough for “proper” theatre?By choosing to perform The Nether, Edinburgh-based Theatre Paradok capably remind us that science fiction doesn’t require the OTT visuals, and is perfectly capable of working with some really big and disturbing ideas. Set in an undetermined future, where trees appear to have largely died out—a detail that, while poetic, doesn’t quite feel ecologically believable—playwright Jennifer Haley’s focus is on a now-ubiquitous virtual reality, the Nether. Specifically, it’s on “the Hideaway”, a virtual pseudo-Victorian bordello in which, for example, a 65 year old university lecturer can anonymously “become” one of the young girls on offer.Our main narrative thread is a combative interview between Detective Morris (Eilidh Northridge) and the Hideaway’s creator Mr Sims (Bradley Butler). His performance is a good balance of smarmy confidence and feigned outrage, but Northridge arguably does better with the harder job; her character’s all-too-unhealthy emotional involvement in the case could be viewed wrongly as making her one-dimensional. Background is provided by flashbacks to both events inside the Hideaway and another interview with Doyle (a focused Angus Gavan McHarg), the above-mentioned university lecturer for whom the relationships inside the Hideaway matter more than even his family.Director Vlada Nebo stages The Nether down the middle of the venue, with audience seated on either side of Rui Zhang’s set; a plain desk and two chairs at either end for the interrogations, and a carpeted, more welcoming “virtual” space in between. For the most part this works, although the digital patterns on the floor are only clear to those sitting in the front rows. Admittedly scene changes, at least on the first night, take too long; it might have been better for cast members simply to remain motionless in the dark instead of noisily walking on and off.Haley’s script isn’t without genuine laughs, but these barely compensate for the disturbingly all-too-pertinent extrapolation of us fully interacting “without consequences”. Thanks to Brett McCarthy Harrop’s brilliant Iris, and Will Byam Shaw’s more hesitant “guest” Woodnut, we glimpse how “It’s OK to forget who you are and discover who you might be.” Unfortunately, all human behaviour still appears to be dominated by imbalances in social power, with consequences that can be genuinely fatal. 

Dominic Hill, artistic director of Glasgow’s Citizens Theatre, apparently doesn’t like to constrain any theatrical experience with the blunt instrument of a rising or falling curtain; he clearly prefers both audience and cast to enter the theatre space more or less simultaneously—with things apparently starting only once everyone has turned up. Stylistically, this can work brilliantly well, but his imposition of the approach on Noel Coward 1924 play feels the first of several missteps.Not least because, between the second and third acts of Hay Fever (which translates, in this new co-production between “the Citz” and Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum, to part way through the second half), Myra McFadyen—playing the much put-upon dresser and housekeeper Clara—emerges from behind a luxuriant dropped curtain in order to sing a medley of period songs. With no previous use of a curtain, however, this frumpy theatricality feels not so much a subtle means of indicating the change in tone for the finale, but simply a conspicuous way of hiding some necessary redressing of the set. Talking of which, Tom Piper’s set is an undoubted triumph; a solid-looking, albeit skeletal, wooden frame suggesting a country house, that’s dominated by an impressive curved staircase which is just perfect for making grand, theatrical entrances. And there are plenty of those; most, admittedly, made by the matriarch of this ironically named Bliss family, the faded actress Judith. If her sense of the theatrical is fundamentally annoying, it’s at least a characteristic shared by the rest of her family—her novelist husband David, “slapdash” artist son Charlie and self-obsessed (but at least slightly self-aware) daughter Sorel. This could be dismissed as, essentially, a story of comfortably well-off people with nothing better to do but play games with each other and their unfortunate house-guests. In that sense, the play certainly feel of its time, but it’s at least performed with some real physicality; in particular, Charlie Archer (as Simon) shows no fear when it comes to draping himself over the furniture or around the other actors on stage. And—on press night—there was also some impressive cast improvisation around a misbehaved item of furniture which arguably received the warmest audience reaction of the night.Yet that’s also rather indicative of a production not yet as funny (or as dramatically interesting) as it could be. There are undoubtedly great moments—one scene between Hywel Simons and Katie Barnet (as diplomat Richard Greatham and the cripplingly shy Jackie Coryton) is a comedy masterclass. Yet, with the exception of Pauline Knowles’ layered performance as the “disliked” Myra Arundel, there’s as yet little about this production that’s particularly memorable—the final curtain notwithstanding. 

Evan Placey’s Girls Like That (first performed at London’s Unicorn Theatre three years ago) came to Edinburgh’s Traverse Theatre—courtesy of the neighbouring Lyceum Theatre’s Youth wing—with added meaning. It can’t be coincidence that this new bold production, exploring gender inequality in young people’s online lives, opened on International Women’s Day. And, being Edinburgh, its “special” group of St Helen’s schoolgirls couldn’t help but echo the iconic Miss Jean Brodie’s “crème de la crème”.Except there is no Miss Brodie imposing her will on this group; that it’s up to the girls themselves—from preparatory class onwards—to work out their own hierarchies. And right at the bottom is Scarlett. So what happens—ironically enough, for the St Helen’s Girls, during a history lesson on the suffragettes—when a naked photo of Scarlett is leaked online? Will the “St Helen’s Girls” throw up a protective circle around her? No. Almost immediately, they’re bitching about her body, comparing breast sizes and body fat—and denouncing her as a slut deserving “everything that’s coming” to her.A succession of historical flashbacks notwithstanding—focused on times when Scarlett’s mother, grandmother and great-grandmother stood up for women’s emancipation—the play asks why “girls have become the arseholes the boys used to be”. But then, it appears that young people’s digital lives today are just as unequal as past generations: when a photo of Russell, the boy Scarlett is assumed to have slept with, appears online, he’s admired for his muscular nakedness and the size of his cock. The old cliche continues: a man who sleeps around is a stud, a woman who does so is a slut. Quite deliberately, Scarlett is the only one of the girls on stage that’s given a name; and, unlike the original production which necessarily restricted class numbers, here the Lyceum Youth Theatre can put up a cast of 20, crammed into the Lyceum’s smaller performance space and forming a brilliantly oppressive realisation of the mob mentality. Director/producer Rachael Esdale must be congratulated for successfully choreographing such a large cast, periodically called back to their old primary school playground rows by an ever-punctual school bell. Some notable performers notwithstanding, the strength of this production is in its near-perfect ensemble.Girls Like That touches on many issues: that said, its funnier than you might expect, and it’s a shame that not everyone in the cast manages to effectively land the more subtle punchlines. Overall, though, this production is a welcome reminder that today’s young women have somehow become so insecure and judgemental to become their own worst allies. Boys will be boys, we’re told, but do girls really now have to be like that too?

There’s much to love about this new touring production of La Cage Aux Folles; gloriously Technicolor™ sets, gorgeous costumes, tight choreography, clearly enunciated singing, and a cast who inspire tears of both laughter and sadness. Yet, like Marmite, not everyone is likely to be impressed by Martin Connor’s version; for all its professionalism, there’s a disappointing lack of narrative focus, and our suspended disbelief is regularly cut down for the sake of a quick laugh.This is most obvious during the first half, when we unexpectedly find ourselves playing the role of late-night audience in Saint-Tropez drag nightclub, La Cage Aux Folles. John Partridge, as sharp-tongued artiste Zaza (aka Albin, the longterm partner of owner Georges), goes full-on Pantomime in terms of audience participation. Whether or not he’s deliberately biding time for some complicated set change happening behind the dropped curtain, Partridge’s hard-edged sarcasm is likely to have you either wetting your seat in hysterics or checking your watch and wondering just when the promised “serious bit” will turn up.Dramatically speaking, too, there’s a question of focus; as an intrinsically French farce, giving Albin a working class, north of England accent—while an interesting cultural contrast with partner Georges—is nevertheless... distracting. And when, exactly, is all this supposed to be happening? Partridge revels in occasionally dropping the odd contemporary reference—they mostly get big laughs, but undermine how events are surely taking place in a time before (for example) any restaurant would be full of diners with mobile phones more than capable of photographing a compromised politician out of their comfort zone. Who needs the press pack now? Undoubtedly there's much to praise; this is a touring production that, for once, isn’t lost within a cavernous venue the size of Edinburgh Playhouse; it’s big, brassy and full of confidence from the word go. Gary McGann’s set and costumes, allied with Richard Mawbey’s wigs and make-up are astounding, while Ben Cracknell’s lighting design is little short of painterly. Bill Deamer’s choreography, meantime, ranges from the stylish to the amusing, while musical director Mark Crossland—with just six musicians—manages to provide a full-bodied, orchestral sound that keeps clear of the cheap electronic and doesn’t lose the emotion.Unfortunately, Marti Webb has few opportunities here to make any real impression as restaurant-owner Jacqueline, especially given she’s up against the towering Samon Ajewole as stage-struck “maid” Jacob. Thankfully Adrian Zmed brings much-needed vocal tenderness and heart to Georges which Partridge—for all his witty one-liners—frequently lacks as Albin. This is a bold, fun-filled show, but one that needs a tighter grip on the emotional story at its heart. 

The old showbiz adage that “the show must go on” is usually invoked—in the aftermath of some behind-the-scenes calamity—before curtain-up, but the point of The Play That Goes Wrong is that the cast of this “Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society” production literally keep going—increasingly frantically, though not without displaying physical and verbal dexterity—when things start going awry after the curtain goes up. They’ve started, so they’ll damn well finish!The Play That Goes Wrong certainly lives up to its name. Temperamental lighting and sound operator Trevor Watson (a brilliant Graeme Rooney) is forced to ask incoming audience members to check under their seats for a missing terrier answering to the name of Winston (along with his Duran Duran CD boxset which has also gone astray, probably coincidentally). The set—a country manor house sitting room, with raised platform stage left representing the library—isn’t finished either, much to the annoyance of stage manager Annie Twilloil (Katie Bernstein) who calls upon a tall member of the audience to help out. The play in question is a seriously minor country house mystery, “Murder at Haversham Manor”, the directorial debut of the Drama Society’s new guiding light Chris Bean (a tall, Basil Fawlty-esque performance by Patrick Warner). This so-called whodunnit has a remarkably small number of suspects, and a convoluted plot which necessarily relies on a lot of last minute explanations to make sense, but that hardly matters—it’s simply the foundation on which a laugh-out-loud succession of theatrical disasters play out, making Rowan Atkinson’s Mr Bean appear to be one of the luckiest men alive in comparison.Missed sound and lighting cues, malfunctioning sets, misplaced props, variable performances—the childishly stagestruck Max Bennett (Alastair Kirton) is a particular delight, in awe of the theatre space in which they’re performing)—and last minute cast-changes: The Play That Goes Wrong is a hilarious succession of mishaps, many all-too-easily anticipated consequences of earlier misfortunes. No sensible cast of professional actors would ever continue in such a situation, but the delight here is that these Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society players are sufficiently amateur not to know any better, and to keep on going to the bitter end. If there’s one slight disappointment, it’s that The Play That Goes Wrong includes an interval; some might argue this is a necessary pause for breath, but it comes across as an avoidable stutter which forces the show to restate its case a little too overtly. Like the festive BBC broadcast of this play’s “sequel” Peter Pan Goes Wrong, this particular Play would have benefited from having a straight-forward run from start to destructive finish. 

Three-quarters of a century on, there are still stories of the Second World War that aren’t as well known as they should, but Stuart Hepburn’s new play—while promoted as telling the untold story of Churchill’s politically-expedient “sacrifice” of the 51st Highland Division, which he ordered to remain in France post-Dunkirk in order to keep France in the fight against Nazi Germany—is in actual fact a relatable “coming of age” story.For Hepburn’s way into the story is Callum Chisholm, and a succession of 17 letters he apparently wrote—though he couldn’t possibly have sent—to his younger brother Fergus. Our introduction to Callum is as a young man, fresh out of school, helping build the new A9 between Perth and Inverness. Full of wonder at the natural world around him in the Scottish Highlands, he’s content working with his school mates. They sign up to the Territorials as a lark, but of course it’s a decision that ultimately leads to them facing the unstoppable horror of the Nazi German blitzkrieg.Chased to the blood-soaked beaches of St Valery, the worn-down survivors of the 51st are finally forced to surrender, but it’s during the early stages of their forced march to Poland that real life offers an escape no fiction could match; Callum is helped to freedom by an ex-pat Fife miner called McLean and his daughter Catriona. On the downside, we lose sight of those east-bound 51st Highlanders, but it is here—while helping maintain and repair the tunnels used to aid escaping Allied personnel—that we’re able to see Callum emotionally grow into a man.Though initially played by Ron Donachie, most of the emotional heavy lifting in Callum’s story is in the hands of James Rottger, who ably portrays the young man who ultimately returns to St Valerey as an officer to find Catriona (Ashley Smith, who like Donachie smoothly takes on other roles as and when required) and their son, whom she named Fergus. With little beyond a couple of chairs as “set”, much of the context for events is given through back-wall projections and song, but the heart and humour of the story is firmly down to the actors on stage. As with any history, Callum’s story is necessarily viewed from today’s perspective—we’re told that the German commander to whom the 51st surrendered to in 1940 is the “not yet famous” Rommel, for example. If one aspect of the story’s conclusion is perhaps somewhat trite to modern tastes, The Beaches of St Valerey nevertheless remains a touching story of love and courage in truly horrifying circumstances; one that’s told succinctly, unsentimentally, and—above all—memorably.

There’s one deliciously unique—sadly never repeatable—moment during the opening night of Allan Stewart’s Big Big Variety Show, when Stewart introduces the singer Susan Boyle as a surprise guest. Given the cardboard cut-outs and impersonations featured earlier on in the show, we briefly assume that this is just another sketch—until, like the Queen during the Olympics Opening Ceremony, the rug is pulled from under us… and we see it’s the real deal.The surprise works not least because one of the last times co-star Elaine C Smith performed in Edinburgh was as Boyle in I Dream A Dream—The Susan Boyle Musical. Expecting a joke, the audience clearly appreciate having the real thing—even if the musical accompaniment to I Dream A Dream sounds like it was made on a children’s toy, and the choice of song itself plays absolutely safe with audience expectations. In that sense, however, Boyle’s one-off appearance perfectly fits the formulaic nostalgia-fest that is Allan Stewart’s latest go at keeping old-school Variety theatre alive.Stewart—well loved as the Edinburgh King’s resident panto dame—opens the evening with a sparkly rendition of When You’re Smiling…, albeit with slightly altered lyrics suggesting that the best way to enjoy the show is to be ever-so-slightly tipsy. His opening Rat Pack skit, with added “Dean Martin” courtesy of long-standing panto-colleague Grant Stott, provides a lively (if hardly ground-breaking) start to a show that understands what its audience expects and competently delivers it. Although, to be honest, most of the “acts” do slightly outstay their welcome—a script editor wouldn’t have gone amiss.This is most obvious regarding the show’s big sketches—such as Stewart and Stott’s skit on still doing the King’s panto in 2037 (a depressing parade of jokes at the expense of older people), or the low farce of the “Macrobert Brothers” folk singers which proved nothing but an excuse to say “Big Boaby” and “Effin” as often as possible. Elaine C Smith’s flabby standup was only saved by a genuinely thought-provoking take on the misogynistic lyrics in 1950s romantic songs; sadly, she compares poorly with former Radio Forth DJ Stott, and his well-practiced skills as a raconteur. On the plus side, a lively four-song set by 1970s’ Edinburgh-born band Pilot kept this nostalgic audience happy, but Stewart’s drag act as Theresa May—singing a rewritten Bohemian Rhapsody—had little meat beyond the initial variation on his “Nicola Sturgeon as Wee Jimmy Krankie” panto routine. Stewart’s final musical medley proves where his real vocal talents lie; delivering entertainment that, if somewhat predictable, nevertheless proves to be a much needed winter warmer.

The writer and historian James Truslow Adams once defined the “American Dream” as the potential for life to be “better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement”. This remains an important part of America’s sense of its own exceptionalism from old Europe, with our hierarchies and class constraints. But there’s an obvious downside to that dream, the nightmare for those left behind by circumstances and ill-health.Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman takes a long, hard look at the American Dream, and finds it wanting. Titular travelling salesman, Willy Loman, firmly believes that success in life does indeed come through hard work, enterprise and being liked; it’s an ethos he’s attempted to personify, even though—as he admits to his long-supportive wife Linda—others seem to have found greater success with less effort. Living up to the Dream has also shaped him as a man and father, but it becomes clear that his two adult sons—Biff and Happy—are emotionally damaged as a result. This withering new production by Dundee Rep, sharply directed by Associate Artistic Director Joe Douglas, features a well-balanced ensemble cast who bring a real sense of truth to this troubled family. Nevertheless, the production’s ultimate success is down to Billy Mack as Willy Loman—and his full-on performance that’s layered and subtle enough to hold the balance between our sympathies and annoyance. For this is where a wider context comes to play: Willy Loman may be described as “exhausted”, as “only a little boat seeking a harbour”, but it’s clear to modern eyes that he’s living with dementia.Whether or not it’s Alzheimer's Disease, Miller uses dementia to show us not only better times in the salesman’s life (visits by his successful brother Ben, the younger Biff’s football success) but also his increasing inability to achieve his own ideal of material success and popular acclaim, and the all-too-real consequences of being left behind as a result. This downside to the American Dream is subtly given form in Neil Warmington’s set—especially in the chimney-smoking trashcans on either side that echo the “Hooverville” encampments of homeless people which grew in the aftermath of the Great Depression. There’s much to admire in this production: Irene Macdougall is particularly heart-felt in Linda’s stocking-mending devotion to her husband. Yet arguably the strongest directorial flourish is in Douglas’s casting of Ewan Donald and Laurie Scott as not just Biff and Happy, but also as two of their more successful peers. Unsubtly perhaps, we’re shown how in the American reality, success doesn’t just come from hard work and ability but also background and opportunity.

Shakespeare's The Winter’s Tale has all the characteristics of a Tragedy, as we speedily witness the horrendous consequences of King Leontes' groundless jealousy for pregnant wife Hermione and life-long friend Polixenes. A textbook case of “confirmation bias”, every counter-argument he hears is assumed false and further justification for his actions. By the close of Act Three (where the Lyceum slips in an interval), Leontes has lost his wife and son Mamillius, abandoned newly born daughter Perdita, and been seen as an unapologetic tyrant at home and untrustworthy friend internationally. If this was Tragedy, Leontes would be dead meat.But it’s not, so he isn’t. By this latter stage of his career, Shakespeare appears to have tired of simple genre expectations, keeping his source story’s 16 year gap between events in the third and fourth acts. As a result, The Winter’s Tale undergoes such a speedy tone change—from psychological tragedy into broad pastoral comedy—that you can hear the narrative’s tyres screeching. Or is that the roar from Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction?Thankfully, this new Royal Lyceum production, directed by Max Webster, knows when to be bold. Sharp-suited John Michie may be best remembered in Scotland for starring in a dozen series of Taggart, but proves himself here an utterly believable Leontes; his jealousy is deep-rooted, subtly-played and never less than shocking in its intensity. Secondly, Webster drops in the bear motif regularly (as, for example, a child’s “onesie”, in this modern-dressed version) without it being forced; this particular “Exit, pursued by a bear” works both in the moment and within the wider context of the whole play. Gender-flipping loyal nobleman Camillo into Camilla ensures that all the main characters initially aligned against Leontes’ male fury are female, a battle of the sexes underscored by the bold, colourful switch from Leontes’ court politics to Perdita’s music and dance festival. The odds may ultimately be stacked in the women’s favour, but it’s clear the extent to which Frances Grey’s noble Hermione and Maureen Beattie’s forthright Paulina are hurt being constrained by societal rules. Alasdair Macrae and other cast members provide a superb live electro-Celtic score which underscores this as a Scottish Winter’s Tale; thematically, its atmosphere is matched only by the strong east coast working class brogue gifted to the lowly Shepherds of Bohemia courtesy of James Robertson’s delightfully faithful Scots translation. Importantly, we’re already familiar with “soft” Scottish accents among the “nobility”, but Robertson’s dialogue provides more than just an opportunity for pantomime-styled comedy from Jimmy Chisholm, John Stahl and Brian James O’Sullivan. It adds a cultural layer to a production that would be genuinely the poorer for its loss.

“I’m so excited”—that iconic 1982 hit by the Pointer Sisters—is an apt intro to a show with a predominantly female audience that’s already wound up to have a good time. Certainly, there’s a strong whiff of the hen night, if only from the title—promising risqué sex-talk with a side-order of male mockery, rendered “safe” by it coming from an all-too-stereotypical, sex-obsessed gay man who references his sexual conquests numerically.For its Glasgow debut, 69 Shades of Gay has had something of a west of Scotland make-over, most notably in the casting of Gary Lamont, best known (locally at least) for playing hairdresser Robbie Fraser in BBC Scotland’s soap opera River City. This alone provides plenty of audience goodwill, but Lamont’s natural connection with his audience is instant; his 20-something Aiden really feels like a friend into whose flat we’ve all just arrived for a natter.“Funny story” is how Aiden always starts his anecdotes; certainly, they’re often laugh-out-loud material, even if the script—laden with one-liners—sails close to the rocks of misogyny when it comes to Aiden’s “best friend” Shelley, mocked for both her weight and emotional neediness. Yet Aiden’s not above bemoaning himself in similar terms; that he’s getting “older, fatter, bitter-er!” Thankfully, there are also moments when we see there’s more to him than just the hedonism. He really is looking for love—for “the One”—and it’s just a sign of the times that he’s willing to sleep with every man in Central Scotland until he succeeds.Except, of course, he apparently has—Aiden’s anticipating being asked to move into the “posh” North Kelvinside flat of current boyfriend Marcus (who is literally Mr Wright). In preparation, Aiden is cleaning his iPhone of all the gay apps, dick pics and phone numbers of his previous 68 sexual partners. But he can’t help but reminisce. We’re only told about the more obvious disasters, but while some are just a cheap punchline, it slowly becomes clear that “number 25”—a bow-tie-wearing, base clarinet player called Chad—is at least “the One” he hasn’t got over yet.That’s the dramatic core of the character, and the play. If the final resolution feels a tad ineffectual and undersold—more an excuse to karaoke It’s Raining Men while we all clap along—then 69 Shades of Gay more or less gets away with it, thanks to Lamont’s onstage presence and the script’s bravado in repeatedly breaking that theatrical fourth wall. (On numerous occasions, the house-lights are turned up so Lamont/Aiden can question us about our preferences in the bedroom.) This show can sometimes feel more like standup than theatre, although whether that’s just a way of papering over some less successful moments in the script, is not entirely clear. Overall, though, 69 Shades of Gay is sharp, knowing and certainly funnier than a certain erotic novel by E L James.

“Not a circus, it’s a Berserkus!” Cirque Berserk! boldly comes with two USPs. Firstly, in the name of “maximum thrills”, all-but-one of the acts perform without safety devices; and, yes, these days this may well raise some ethical concerns around people risking life and limb in the name of entertainment. Secondly, the show has forsaken the traditional circus Big Top to tour the nation’s theatres.This presumably offers some advantages, not least reaching audiences less willing to visit the muddy fields where traditional circuses have to set up home. Yet framing circus acts within a traditional prosceniumarch does has consequences, given that standard theatrical lighting rigs are generally designed to point down onto the stage. On the night of this review, the undoubted skills of strap acrobat Jackie would have likely inspired a more immediate and stronger audience reaction if smoke and poor illumination hadn’t left her almost invisible. Indeed, the lack of a roving spotlight left most of the show’s high-fliers in the gloom: a rare misstep in a production with an otherwise seemingly unstoppable momentum.There are no grand interruptions from one act to the next, or breaks in the pulsing music track, but within that context Cirque Berserk! nevertheless provides a wide variety of acts and tones: from the exuberant Timbuktu Tumblers to the characterful showmanship of Gabriel and Germaine (with their percussive use of Argentinian bolas); or from the contemporary vaudeville-styled clowning of Scotland’s own Tweedy to the balletic gymnastics of Columbia’s own Jose and Gaby. Oh, and it’s impossible to forget the testosterone-filled gymnastics by the Tropicana Troupe—seeing them, you’ll believe a man can have an eight-pack!While Cirque Berserk! is an excellent showcase for some truly talented performers—footjuggler Germaine Delbosq, for example—the show’s relentless pace nevertheless robs some acts of any impact: Zula, the “Mongolian master of the Tower of chairs”, for example, comes and goes in the blink of an eye. More stage time is devoted to a giant, sparks-shooting robot which crosses the stage for no obvious purpose beyond the initial “wow” factor of its appearance—or perhaps wonder at how Cirque Berserk! haven’t yet been sued by the makers of Transformers. Quite understandably, the climax of both halves of the show is the Motorcycle Globe of Death, a large metal sphere inside which up to four members of the Lucius Team reach speeds of up to 60mph. You’re unlikely to ever see anything else like this ever on a British stage; which, given the long-lingering aroma of motorbike exhaust, is perhaps just as well. Traditional British theatres are not, it would appear, quite as well ventilated as a Big Top!   

18 years after her death, “blue-eyed soul singer” Dusty Springfield remains many things to many people—not least a gay icon, thanks to her emotional fragility and memorable OTT “look”—the panda-eyed make-up, the big-wigs and flowing dresses—which has inspired generations of drag queens. Yet recognition—and indeed appreciation—of her gay fanbase notwithstanding, Dusty isn’t remembered for political activism. Dusty Doesn’t Play, however, reminds us that the singer—or rather London-born Mary Isobel Catherine (“with a ‘C’”) Bernadette O’Brien—did attempt something that, even if she saw it as just “small p” personal, proved to be “large P” Political.Back in December 1964, Dusty and “her” band, The Echoes, began a tour of South Africa; they were deported early, having broken Apartheid law by performing to mixed race audiences. This all-too-brief, one-hour show by the late Annie Caulfield is essentially the story of the truncated tour, told at some indeterminate point afterwards and interspersed with half a dozen of Dusty’s songs—not all of which, it needs to be said, quite fit chronologically. This isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a musical—only one song (Dusty’s debut-solo album cover of Lesley Gore’s You Don’t Own Me) is used as a character moment. The other songs are largely just reminders of the few multi-racial concerts Dusty was able to play before the authorities put her under house arrest and prepared to expel her. (There’s no small irony, of course, that this show’s Glasgow audience is predominantly white and middle-aged.)The main dramatic thread of Dusty Won’t Play comes from the increasingly threatening presence of the South African security personnel, which climaxes with a truly scary event which—to the credit of everyone involved—is only mildly undercut by the memory of the whole narrative being told as a flashback. If Frances Thorburn gets all the attention for her fulsome performance as Dusty, she’s nevertheless ably supported by Simon Donaldson and Kevin Lannon, who provide sterling support—both acoustically as the Echoes, and dramatically when playing other characters as required. Donaldson, in particular, is particularly impressive in how he can switch from open friendliness to clear menace simply through subtle changes of posture and the application of a pair of sunglasses. Given the brief running time—and the decision to include so many of Dusty’s songs—it’s disappointing that Caulfield has too little time to discuss the consequences of the tour, both in South Africa and to Dusty’s career. In the end we’re only really left with the suggestion—which, at worst, verges on the trite—that, in the longer perspective of history, the cumulative power of small individual actions can be just as important as the big ones. Caulfield doesn’t in any way suggest that Dusty Springfield brought down Apartheid, but she at least recognises that Dusty made her own stand against it—and who knows how that might have changed things in the long run? 

If politics is about people—specifically the ever-fluctuating power imbalances between people in different situations—then Federico García Lorca was right to focus his “political” work on the domestic: there are no “institutions” more prone to power-struggles and conflict than our own families. This lucid translation by Jo Clifford offers us a timely reappraisal of Lorca’s final play, but it’s also an opportunity to appreciate the depth and clarity given to the text by its all-female cast and director Jenny Sealey, in a stunning co-production between Graeae’s Deaf and disabled cast and Manchester’s Royal Exchange Theatre.According to Wikipedia, the venue is the largest “in the round” theatre-space in the UK, but the Graeae team have filled it easily, despite Liz Ascroft’s set consisting of just seven wooden chairs—placed at the corners of a heptagon, linked to their immediate neighbours by simple illuminated lines and individually designed to reflect the characters of the women who sit on them. There are also two very low stools on one side; for “the staff”, notably Alison Halstead as head maid Poncia, employed by the household for 30 years and almost—just almost–able to speak her mind. “I am in command here,” Bernarda Alba insists, but even the twice-widowed matriarch is later forced to ask: “Why can’t I kill you with the anger in my eyes?” That most of her daughters’ acts of rebellion are small and inconsequential isn’t the point: whether it’s wearing lipstick, a bright coloured dress or taking off a prosthetic leg, it’s the act itself that’s worrying. No wonder Poncia sees around her “a house at war”. Sealey has brought together a brilliant ensemble, with Kathryn Hunter’s riveting Bernarda as its core; wiry, fierce, sometimes cruel, and yet protective too, Hunter seems ideal in the role. What Graeae theatre company more generally brings to the production is an added depth; not just a seamless incorporation of British Sign Language interpretation and captioning for the benefit of Deaf and hard-of-hearing audiences, but in using BSL as a dramatic tool. There’s no simpler way for Bernarda to express her power than by turning away from her lip-reading daughters; it’s so simply done, and yet so effective.   

There is, ironically enough, a lot that’s incredibly old-fashioned about Thoroughly Modern Millie; it’s a feel-good, song and dance show about a young gold-digger who, while seeking the security that comes from bagging a wealthy husband, instead discovers (spoilers!) that love actually is all-important when it comes to marriage—and never mind what Vogue magazine says! It’s also, unfortunately, a world where single young women who won’t be missed are liable to be “Shanghaied” into a life of prostitution by a Chinese white slave gang led by the malicious Mrs Meers, who does crude yellow-face to avoid the police.Given the recent theatrical controversy around casting white actors in asian roles, it’s unfortunate that this production doesn’t make a speedier effort to explain why a white woman has been cast as a seemingly Chinese woman. Nor does it help that Michelle Collins, the big name performer dropped into this relatively small role, opts for a gravelly accent so crass as to be largely unintelligible. Collins has given many excellent performances in her time, but this definitely isn’t one of them—suggesting that the light comedic touch which would energise this production simply isn’t one of her things. As it happens, the only dialogue more unintelligible than her own is that of Mrs Meers’s two oppressed henchmen (played by Damian Buhagiar and Andy Yau). This is because—in a brave, if somewhat curious nod towards realism—they speak and sing in Chinese. Unfortunately, a tiny screen and lighting choices which turn everything on it totally beige means that the show’s surtitles are completely unreadable. (Frankly, by this stage of the tour, this is something that should’ve been sorted out!)On the plus side, this particular production benefits from having a genuine star in Joanne Clifton; as the titular Millie Dillmount, she proves she’s as good a singer as she is a dancer—although, Racky Plews’ direction and choreography appear determined to pull its punches in this regard at every opportunity. One particularly iconic scene from the original film—featuring a lift that only works if you tap-dance—is included, but is set behind a screen at the back of the stage… making you wonder why they bothered recreating it in the first place. Ably matching Clifton is this touring production’s genuine find, Sam Barrett; he has the charm, dramatic voice and honest good looks to believably carry the role of Jimmy Smith—and, given that this is his first big tour out of Arts Ed, ably repays the producers’ trust in casting him as the object of Millie’s affections. Admittedly, there’s one occasion when Barrett is understandably overshadowed by Graham MacDuff as Millie’s boss Mr Graydon, whose drunken antics in the second act are a textbook example of how to steal a show. Given that the whole cast appear to have suddenly found their groove (after a somewhat lack-lustre and by-the-numbers first half), that’s a real achievement on MacDuff’s part. 

Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland isn’t known for its plot; in fact, it’s essentially a succession of wonderfully fanciful sketches which happen to share some characters. Any theatrical adaptation must either attempt to embrace this episodic structure—as seen in the recent adaptation by Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre Company—or impose a new narrative on top of the main concepts. 2011 new musical Wonderland: A New Alice clearly opted for the latter, with the show by Jack Murphy (lyrics and book), Gregory Boyd (book) and Frank Wildhorn (music) now given a British makeover by Robert Hudson for this debut European tour.Alice is 40, divorced, and newly unemployed; she’s oblivious to the attentions of her forlorn neighbour Jack, and instead waits for her manipulative ex-husband to come back and save her. Wanting to give up the real world, she instead discovers Wonderland—not out of boredom or curiosity, but to rescue her young teenage daughter Ellie, who has unfortunately followed a judiciously mannered White Rabbit down the liftshaft. Sadly, though, this potentially powerful maternal motivation is almost immediately squandered by an immediate reunion with Ellie, leaving the show then to rely on self-described fortune cookie homilies about finding yourself and an agitprop narrative against the tyranny of the Queen of Hearts (“The Queen is just one person and we are everyone else,” Alice naively argues at one point) that would’ve made 1980s Militant activists blush at the unsubtly of it all. Not that the show even holds tightly onto this conflict; instead, there’s a big swerve into the consequences of the now-female Mad Hatter becoming a tyrant the equal of the Queen of Hearts. “That’s how Power works,” we’re told repeatedly. But only in Wonderland—as this is a show which avoids having any relevance to the outside world. All of which might rather suggest that Wonderland is a bad show; far from it. A clear advantage of ageing the character of Alice is that it enables the director to cast a highly experienced performer in the role, and Kerry Ellis hits all the notes, both vocally and dramatically. That said, she has no time to relax while sharing the stage with either Natalie McQueen’s strutting Queenie-like Mad Hatter or the rotund delights of Wendi Peters’ all-too-briefly seen Queen of Hearts. This is a bold, colourful production, bursting with an energetic, sharply-focused cast including several stand-out performances among its ensemble. (Keep an eye out for Toyan Thomas-Browne, whose balletic grace and lightness is a joy; as well as the guileless physicality which Ben Kerr brings to the March Hare.)All the same, when any show labours the point of character self-realisation with several songs—I Am My Own Invention, This is Who I Am, and Finding Wonderland for example—it’s either dramatic overkill or a desperate attempt to knock La Cage aux Folles’ I Am What I Am off the top of the gay anthem charts. And, sorry—that’s just not going to happen any time soon. 

You can always feel a particular kind of excitement in an auditorium, before “curtain up”, when a significant proportion of the audience are (a) less than five years old, and (b) waiting for quite possibly one of their favourite books to be recreated on stage. It’s an audience buzz that’s surely a gift for any cast, so it’s a slight disappointment that this touring production of Michael Rosen’s much-loved tale of exploration doesn’t quite seem to be able to make the most of it, even while relying on the kind of audience participation—Q&As, a lot of “It’s Behind you!” screaming, and some very big water pistols—not normally seen outside of the panto season.We’re going on a bear hunt.We’re going to catch a big one.What a beautiful day!We’re not scared.Admittedly, there’s plenty to enjoy. The sets and elements are bright and colourful; the songs and music lively and remarkably diverse in their cultural influences; and the successive barriers encountered in the family’s bear hunt—long grass, a stream, squelchy mud, a forest, a snowstorm, a cave—are recreated in ways that even the young audience can obviously relate to. The cast (who emerge from the back of the audience, supposedly looking for wildlife) are bright and friendly, especially Michael Jean-Marain as a particularly gangly, physically awkward Son, although the biggest audience sympathies are arguably given to musician Louis Gulliver King, who doubles as the family’s Dog, and a puppet baby shared among the cast. “Dad” Joseph Carey, while well-meaning, doesn’t quite seem “big” enough on stage to hold some of the audience’s attention, although Rebecca Newman comes across well as the Daughter who is sometimes determined to catch her father’s attention. We can’t go over it.We can’t go under it.Oh no!We’ve got to go through it!The script is careful enough not to add too much to the original narrative, although there’s a certain delight in concepts such as migrating moles. Quite rightly, the verbal repetitions at the heart of the original story are retained, forming reassuring links in an easily understood chain that is speedily reversed at the climax. The big reveal, while hardly surprising (given the title of the show) nevertheless has some real impact, although it can’t be said to be quite as scary as the characters’ own actions actually suggest. Thankfully, this definitely isn’t the kind of exit, pursued by bear, that William Shakespeare had in mind!Yes, this show could possibly be a bit broader and bolder, but there’s plenty of fun to be had here none the less.

As titles go, Picnic at Hanging Rock is a fine conflation of the innocent and disturbing, although the cultural impact of Joan Lindsay’s novel is arguably more down to Peter Weir’s 1975 film adaptation than the book itself. Focused on a 1900 Valentine’s Day outing by some privately-educated schoolgirls into the Australian Outback, during which they and a teacher vanish without a trace, both novel and film deliberately play with ideas of truth versus fiction, in the process creating a sense of the uncanny that’s genuinely disturbing.A half century on from the book’s publication (and three decades after Laura Annawyn Shamas’s 1987 stage version), Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre Company provides Scottish audiences with an opportunity to see playwright Tom Wright’s new telling of the story, directed by Matthew Lutton for Melbourne-based Malthouse Theatre and the Black Swan State Theatre Company. Significantly, the word here is “telling”—both the initial and final scenes are essentially monologues—shared among the cast of five women, dressed as schoolgirls and slowly making their way, step by step, towards the front of the stage. This may well be blatant “info-dumping” of the first order, but the energy, urgency and intensity of the performance—all present tense, leaping from one member of the ensemble to another—immediately holds the attention. Admittedly, there’s not much else that can; the set primarily consists of an otherwise empty space defined by plain, grey-wood panelled walls, with only Paul Jackson’s lighting, and J David Franzke’s increasingly repetitive soundscape to suggest the contrasts between these Victorian young ladies, in their stiff lace and corsets, and the ancient landscape into which they venture. Yet it’s generally enough; there are few theatrical achievements more praiseworthy than the ability to transform such an empty space inside an audience’s imagination.But there are also distractions, not least how cast members and props can effortlessly appear and disappear during the numerous black-outs which differentiate “chapters” in the story—the titles of which are displayed portentously above the stage. Alas, echoing the “all that is solid melts into air” aspect of the story, successive scenes often feel unfocused rather than mysterious, while a hard-earned sense of dread is occasionally sacrificed far too easily for the sake of the short-lived thrill of a gratuitous visual or aural “shock”.The ensemble cast are genuinely impressive, though Elizabeth Nabben and Amber McMahon are particularly memorable as (respectively) the snobbish headmistress Mrs Appleyard and the young Englishman who somehow manages to find one of the missing girls during his own search of Hanging Rock. Yet there is a sense that the script that these actors so powerfully bring to life is itself not quite focused enough. Picnic at Hanging Rock has potentially much to say about gender, budding sexuality, and the dangers from imposing one idea of “civilisation” onto an alien environment. That this adaptation opts to focus chiefly on a sense of dread is not, in itself, a problem; that it doesn’t always achieve it, though, is.

Pantomime, as we’re reminded by the Ambassador Theatre Group’s pre-show video (narrated by Brian Blessed), is a peculiarly British theatrical tradition, although it’s a shame that this somewhat generic introduction (unchanged since last year, and presumably shown across the UK) doesn’t recognise the particular Glaswegian accents of the long-established King’s Theatre pantomime. Or, indeed, what is surely the single-most important tradition for any panto—the fact that, for cast and family audiences alike, it is a personal tradition, an annual reunion under the pretext of some fairy tale.The shadow of the late, great Gerard Kelly—who headlined pantomimes at the Glasgow King’s for two decades—is slowly fading, as it must, with new traditions beginning to form. One obvious example of this is that Glasgow-born stand-up comedian and radio presenter Des Clarke—here in his fifth consecutive King’s Panto, once again playing Buttons—can now get genuine laughs simply from making overt references to previous shows, knowing that most of his audience will understand. Meantime, for a second year the show’s nominal headline act is Gregor Fisher, on this occasion teamed up with long-standing Rab C Nesbitt co-star Tony Roper as Cinderella’s “ugly sisters”, Euphemia and Lavinia. However, anyone thinking that this is the Gregor and Tony show is mistaken; while the audience laps up the pair (especially when they—inevitably—at one point slip into their Rab C personas), this new production of Cinderella is a surprisingly strong ensemble piece, with writer Eric Potts and director Morag Fullarton between them ensuring that the all-too-familiar story actually has some real dramatic cohesion and genuine characterisation. Gary Lamont, for example, has something to work with as Prince Charming’s slightly camp, list-ticking servant Dandini, a character that in other versions is often as thin as cardboard. Ian West’s choreography is of course full-on exuberance, but it isn’t just there for the sake of multi-coloured spectacle—the first meeting between Cinderella (a warm-voiced performance from Gilian Ford) and Prince Charming (Josh Tevendale) is the inevitable result of the choreography; it’s then up to the actors to utterly convince us about the reality of love at first sight, which (for once) they successfully do. Indeed, Gregor and Tony are used relatively sparingly—perhaps because of the time it takes them to get in and out of their increasingly OTT costumes—but while they clearly have the audience’s “warm” hostility whenever on stage, the show doesn’t “drop” in energy when they’re not. What helps the most, however, is that this production of Cinderella—unlike last year’s Snow White—doesn’t just feel like a generic show into which a few “local” references have been dropped in; this is a return, of sorts, to a genuinely Glaswegian panto not afraid to reference people and institutions close to home. The result is a genuinely heart-warming entertaining evening that you won’t find anywhere else—and that, surely, is the point. See you next year. 

“I can be pretty dim, sometimes,” says Sion Pritchard as Tom, an office-working film school graduate who doesn’t, initially, come across as particularly sympathetic. “I can really be a c*** sometimes,” he adds—just to emphasise the point—as he moans about work colleagues and the office Christmas Party. But there are other stresses causing him to come out in a sweat; it’s Christmas Eve, he’s about to miss his train from London back home to Swansea, and he can’t remember where he put the wrapped-up presents which his girlfriend Nat insisted he do back in the summer. The pair aren’t communicating very well; when she tells him that she’s pregnant, the news essentially makes him run out of the house. On first sight, Tom is a self-centred, commitment-phobic misanthrope—so, what’s to like?Pritchard’s lilting Welsh accent, for one—and the full humanity he brings to Matthew Bulgo’s expertly crafted monologue, for another. Admittedly, it’s just as well these elements are so strong: Kate Wasserberg’s revival (for Cardiff-based Dirty Protest) has no set whatsoever, barely changes the lighting except to indicate the end, and avoids any soundscape beyond a pre-show medley of lesser-heard Christmas songs as featured in some off-High Street Pound Shops. The whole show essentially rests on Pritchard’s efforts alone, so it’s just as well he has such strong material to mould an increasingly sympathetic character before our eyes.It helps, of course, that much of the script is very funny: not just the shared horrors of the Office Christmas Party but also his increasingly drunken reunion with a trinity of old friends—still in Swansea, still defined by their playground nicknames (“Blanky”, “Bins”, and “Spanner”). What keeps us listening, however, is the slowly uncovered human story underneath; that, the previous Christmas, Tom’s father died—and he quite clearly hasn’t come to terms with it. Suddenly, his reaction to the news of his own impending fatherhood makes so much more sense; not least because, since he’s grown a beard, everyone says he looks so much like his dad—the father he misses and clearly feels unworthy of succeeding. At one point Tom tells us how his father never shouted at him when he came back home late, drunk or high on drugs—he’s just give him a look that clearly said: “You’re better than this.” That is, of course, the look Tom is now so desperate to see one more time; but that’s impossible, and this tender, heart-felt work is essentially about Tom having to come to terms with that. Yes, there are points when it all becomes a bit James Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life—perfectly undercut by Tom then referencing… James Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life—but the result is a touching, heart-warming study of a man coming to terms with not just the past and the present, but also opening up to the future. An apt tale for any time of the year, but especially Christmas.

Scottish writer Stuart Paterson now has a back catalogue of sufficient scale to warrant a revival or two; his adaptation of Roald Dahl’s George’s Marvellous Medicine is currently doing good business at Dundee Rep while, here, Citizens Theatre artistic director Dominic Hill gives fresh life to Paterson’s stage adaptation of the old German fairytale, first performed at Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum in 1998.In most respects, Paterson’s script keeps close to the original, first published by the Brothers Grimm in 1812: a woodman’s son (Hansel) and daughter (Gretel) are left deep in the woods at the behest of their vindictive step-mother, and eventually fall into the clutches of a wicked witch in a sweetie-built cottage. Paterson’s version adds two things: firstly, a wider story arc concerning the escape a monstrous witch in ancient times; secondly, the idea that the child-eating witch is now the nominal head of a colourful circus, whose members search the woods for others to take their place in the witch’s oven. It’s this latter element that clearly most inspired Hill; the curtain is dominated by the huge face of a laughing clown, and the promise of “The Greatest Show on Earth” comes from the “Citizens Circus”! Also, given that Hill appears reluctant to start any show with a rising curtain, members of the circus troupe first appear, with baggy-trousered “Uncle Shoes” (a wonderful as ever Peter Collins) making mischief among the arriving audience. Quite apart from having genuine stage presence, Jack Dorning (as the acrobatic Rab) deserves praise for so effortlessly walking on stilts across the steeply ranked Citizens Theatre stage. The titular stars, meantime, are Shaun Miller (Hansel) and Karen Fishwick (Gretel), who effectively recreate the innocence and hot/cold emotions of childhood without ever feeling too sweet. Good value in terms of a boo-hiss villain is provided by Irene Allan who plays both the Stepmother and the child-munching La Stregamama, which we latterly understand to be different personifications of the ancient evil witch.Lizzie Powell’s painterly lighting, along with the harshly contrasting sets and costumes by Rachel Canning, combine with Nikola Kodhabashia’s score (largely performed live on stage, albeit always near the wings) to create a wonderfully strange world that’s as full of delights as it is fears. There are, of course, plenty of moral points made to: in some respects, this is a tale about growing up and coming to terms with loss—“Everyone leaves us,” says Hansel on more than one occasion, but equally Gretel finally embodies the belief “the courage and love that lives in your heart is the strongest magic in the world”. When a fleeing Gretel announces that she’s going to turn back and fight the witch, the audience can’t help but cheer. Full of incident and interest, this is a worthy revival of a show that just fits the Christmas period perfectly. 

It’s a brave show which starts with the words: “I don’t like it.” It’s requires even more courage for a production, advertised as being “inspired” by the best-selling equine novel Black Beauty, to not even mention the title until well into the first half. Brave or, more accurately, confident; for this particular co-production between the Traverse and Red Bridge Arts is definitely sure of what it’s doing, and—for the most part—doing it extremely well.This is hardly surprising; Andy Cannon, Andy Manley and Shona Reppe are among Scotland’s top theatre creators, especially when it comes to new work for children. Their particular take on Black Beauty begins with the story of the McCuddy brothers (played with exquisite timing and engaging freshness by Cannon and Manley), who are—like the performers—both named Andy. (“It’s a family thing,” we’re told.) Alas, “The Famous McCuddy Bros Equestrian Illusionists” are essentially on their last legs—having not found work for a year, the pair have already sold their car (which is why their petite horse box is now stuck by the side of the Maybury Roundabout, to the west of Edinburgh) and are trying to eke out a small box of cereal between them for a week. It’s not enough, though; further possessions have to be put on sale, including their late mother’s favourite novel—which is, of course, Black Beauty. Stuck with nothing else to do, while waiting in hope for the one job-offering telephone call that will change their lives—sadly unlikely, as seemingly every panto in the land is looking for a pantomime cow—“young” Andy (Manley) insists that they begin to tell the story of Black Beauty, utilising a host of ordinary objects (including boots) as puppets to represent the main characters. Inventively and powerfully achieved, the pair utilise the full space of the Traverse theatre (including one middle row of the audience). Admittedly, Anna Sewell purists might well feel that this particular introduction to “the world of a horse” sands down most of the spikier moments of human cruelty featured in the novel. But then the real drama here comes from the ongoing stresses and strains that threaten to tear these two brothers apart, not least when the elder Andy (Cannon) begins to accept that “Nobody wants horses any more,” and that perhaps they should shut up shop for good. The titular Black Beauty, in many respects, is just the sideshow.Given that the Traverse is a proper producing theatre, this show is definitely not a pantomime, but it nevertheless borrows many of its most successful elements, from a simple “Oh No It Isn’t/Oh Yes It Is” moment to much-anticipated repetition of actions—plus some full-on panto-horse dancing. This particular horse is apt, though; the real narrative here isn’t Sewell’s Black Beauty at all, but a touching, subtly performed tale of two brothers who are determined to keep going no matter what the world throws at them, and who should perhaps be given more room to tell that story instead.

Inside Out Theatre’s second pantomime for relatively news arts venue Websters (located in Glasgow’s Kelvinbridge area) is another self-consciously low-rent production which brilliantly manages to put a modern twist on a classic fairy tale while still delivering all the expected panto-thrills for its younger audience members—a combination of old and new that you arguably can only find on the panto “fringe” away from the city’s bigger, traditional venues.This Snow White lives in Pop Star Pantoland—a world where villainous step-mother, Spella Binding, chooses a decidedly Glaswegian personification of her iPhone’s Siri personal assistant to be her lackey. Later, Snow White is “done for” not with a poisoned apple but a virus downloaded onto an iPad (making you wonder why the producers didn’t try to get some sponsorship from the Apple Store on the city’s Buchanan Street); and that the only way her friends can bring Snow back to life is to “break her passcode” with the touch of true love. Yet there’s still a pantomime dame, with resident director Neil Thomas looking as if he fell into a cleaner’s cupboard as Mrs Marmite Muppet (and yes, Paul Harper-Swan’s script isn’t afraid to run with how people either love or hate the woman). Joanne McGuinness is precisely the kind of sweet heroine who’s suitable viewing for even people with diabetes, while Lee Reynolds gives the show great energy as Snow’s good-hearted best friend, Molly Muppet (who is seldom seen without one of the show’s few props, a shopping trolley). There’s still a villain to boo—the punk-goth splendour provided by the show’s dance captain Jamie McKillop, deliciously dismissive of “her” audience of “West End Weirdos”. The fact that the cast clearly get along well, at least on stage, is palpable. Then there are plenty of songs to clap and dance along to, arranged and often performed by musical director Alison Rona Cleland (who does sterling work as the show’s Siri-with-attitude). There’s even a wonderfully gratuitous “It’s Behind You!” scene set in nearby Kelvingrove Park, and of course a strong message of how friendship and goodness can make even the worst person see the error of their ways. Yet what is perhaps most innovative about Harper-Swan’s retelling of the Snow White story here is that there is no reliance on some manly prince to just turn up to save the day at the last moment; indeed, with the exception of two visible members of the Muppet family—both, due to cast limits, played by puppets—all the characters (if not the cast) are female. Presumably, this is the “twist” mentioned in the show’s publicity, but if that’s really the case then it genuinely feels inconsequential—the story works perfectly fine, and there’s no obvious sense of anything being missing. If you’re looking for a panto with a little touch of the fringe, then this is definitely the show for you. 

Reviewing Mamma Mia! almost feels like a lost cause; it’s an unstoppable global phenomenon and, if this touring production—setting up home in the Edinburgh Playhouse for Christmas and New Year—has any shortcomings, audiences love it none-the-less. This is despite this particular production not being best suited to such a large venue; regardless of the show’s reliance on Mediterranean blues and a bleached white set, it all feels a tad cold and small in what remains Scotland’s largest traditional theatre.Admittedly, when it comes to jukebox musicals, Mamma Mia! has a lot to apologise for, although it remains among best in breed—it at least has a genuine story, even if the central narrative thrust—20 year old Sophie wanting to find out which of three potential candidates is her father—could now be easily solved by a few DNA tests. (Mamma Mia!, it’s often forgotten, is set some time in the 1990s.) Thanks to a few tweaked lyrics here and there, most of the oh-so-well-known ABBA songs slot into their narrative roles effectively enough, although some remain slightly distracting while others are resolutely square pegs forced into round holes. (The Winner Takes It All is arguably the worst example.) In truth, Mamma Mia! demands a certain degree of forgiveness, but invariably gets it—partly down to nostalgia, but also because it remains a gloriously female-centric show.The scale of this particular touring production is best reflected in the live music, the “band” consisting of three keyboards, three guitars and some percussion. The overall sound of the show is closer to pop rather than full-blooded orchestra which, while fine for most of the songs, disappoints during the overture and other “orchestral” lead-ins. This also puts more pressure on the cast’s vocal talents which rest most strongly on Sara Poyzer as single mum Donna Sheridan and Lucy May Barker as her about-to-get-married daughter Sophie. Both have strong voices, although Barker’s has an unfortunate harsh edge on occasions; but they are, for the most part, stronger than the male performers surrounding them. Richard Standing, as Donna’s principal love interest Sam Carmichael, is arguably the strongest vocalist among the three “fathers”, but even he has few opportunities in which to flex his vocal chords. Given his ultimate role in proceedings, it’s unfortunate that we’re given little reason to believe in the chemistry between him and Donna. (In contrast, arguably the most believable relationships is that played between Donna and “impulsive” banking man Harry Bright—played by Tim Walton—during a playful take on Our Last Summer). The production’s habit of freezing certain characters in spotlights while another sings, doesn’t help build these connections.There are, of course, laughs to be had; not least from Jacqueline Braun and Emma Clifford as Donna’s old performing partners Rosie and Tanya, who are both seeking love in their own ways. Overall, though, this is a production that feels rather less than the sum of its parts; it hints at why Mamma Mia! is such a global hit, but doesn’t exactly explain how.

As a rule, the best children’s stories—be they novels, comics or TV shows—all inspire the same question: “What on Earth were they taking when they came up with that?” The granddaddy of this, of course, is Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland, a genuinely creepy children’s story in which author Lewis Carroll plays with the weirdest logics and ideas.With something of the air of a summer fairground, Anthony Neilson’s new version—created with composer Nick Powell—pretty much sticks to the episodic narrative of Lewis Carroll’s original, although the start differs in as much as having a sleepy Alice bored not by her sister but the lesson from “Mr Dodgson”—presumably meant to be the man behind the pen name of Lewis Carroll—before she accidentally falls down a rabbit hole.While definitely not a pantomime, elements of that particularly rowdy form of theatre nevertheless appear to have crept in, not least the casting of Alan Francis as the brutish pepper-loving Duchess and the scatological consequences of the White Rabbit getting nervous. Importantly, though, there’s plenty here that’s pure Carroll, and it’s reassuring to see that the source material still inspires genuine laughs more than 150 years after its first publication.Of course, there are some aspects which are genuinely problematic when keeping so close to the original narrative; arguably, to modern eyes, Alice does sail close to being pompous and prudish—and in danger of losing our sympathies. Thankfully, recent Royal Academy of Music graduate Jess Peet provides a genuinely solid centre for this production show, contrasted against the numerous weird and monstrous characters revolving around her—all played by the show’s ensemble cast. There’s not always much subtlety to be had here; by keeping to the style of the original, Neilson has produced what almost feels like succession of sketches, some of which are undoubtedly funnier than others, while a few rapidly outstay their welcome. “It’s at times like this I wish I had a purpose,” says Alice at one point, and it’s difficult not to agree with her. “It’s been too long since we last had a song,” the cast insist later on. And quite rightly too.There are delights none the less: David Carlyle’s Welsh-accented Gryphon is a wonderfully lugubrious creation, all the more remarkable for being so unlike his boxing-gloved Mad Hare seen on stage minutes earlier. Gabriel Quigley as Queen of Hearts gives us a wonderfully self-focused, unhinged creation—especially during the croquet game in which they use flamingos as mallets. Tam Dean Burn’s Mad Hatter, meantime, is superbly rounded and entrancing, not least during arguably the most deliciously off-key song of the evening: If You Find Yourself On Speaking Terms With Time.All of this takes place within the visual delight of Francis O’Connor’s bold, candy-coloured scenery; focused on a circular raised plinth, the staging playfully extrapolates from Tenniel’s original iconic illustrations without slavishly copying them—which is entirely appropriate for a suitably delirious production which pretty much does the same thing.

There’s no doubting the energy in Edinburgh’s King’s Theatre before this show starts; many kids are already singing along to a soundtrack of current chart hits. And when the curtain rises, we’re into the first song and dance number with barely a pause for breath. Grant Stott, as black-clad villainous henchman Fleshcreep, may dance like a dad during his rendition of “I’m Sexy and I Ken it” (especially when compared to the nubile performers around him) but that’s obviously the point!This frenetic pace continues throughout the first half of the show: potential character-establishing plotlines, such as how kind-hearted Jack Trot attracts the eye of beautiful Princess Apricot, are dismissed in the blink of an eye. Admittedly, Greg Barrowman has definitely found his feet as principal boy while Rachel Flynn brings some genuine spirit to what—even by pantomime standards—remains underwritten and dramatically passive. Experienced performer Lisa Lynch makes the most of her “good fairy” role, although she’s hardly my idea of the “Spirit of Edinburgh Castle”. Yet the true stars of the show are (of course) Stott, Allan Stewart (an outrageous but never OTT Dame Tott) and Andy Gray (Farmer Hector), the latter appearing on a motorised toilet. This team have been fixtures at the King’s for the best part of 20 years; they revel in the script’s word-play, and are willing to highlight the ridiculousness of what they’re doing in the name of a good laugh.With some really big musical numbers—a farm-yard tweaked “Dr Doolittle”, for example, filling the stage with some really cute animals—the show never seems to take its foot off the accelerator. However, the arrival of the titular Beanstalk actually feels underplayed and, in these Health and Safety conscious days, there’s little climbing action to be seen. Yes, the show does provides a suitably impressive “Wow!” moment just before the interval, but that Beanstalk heralds the slower action to come.There’s still plenty to enjoy, of course, but even the Stewart/Gray/Stott front-of-curtain routines—necessary to keep the show going while major set-changes happen out of sight—go on just that little bit too long. Plus, while there are plenty of topical references—to Nigel Farage, Donald Trump, Brexit, etc—there’s a tiredness at the heart of recasting Scotland’s First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, as one of the Krankies. With the main plot rather ineffectually dealt with, the saving grace of this show is the final sing-along, the full comedic potential of which is heightened by the brave decision to bring on four young members of the audience. It’s an old actors’ rule never to work with children, but Stewart and Gray are simply brilliant at making good-natured comedy gold from whatever the youngsters do—and, as a result, it’s pretty clear that everyone leaves Edinburgh’s King’s theatre having enjoyed themselves immensely.

“Small boys are not to be trusted,” says the titular George’s gleefully malevolent Grandma in this new production—by Dundee Rep’s Associate Artistic Director Joe Douglas—of Stuart Paterson’s Scottish-tinged adaptation of this Roald Dahl tale. She’s right, of course; frightened out of his wits by her scary talk of insect-eating and having witch-like powers, young George Killy-Kranky decides to get his revenge by concocting his own version of her brown medicine, using a plethora of household solutions which, to everyone’s surprise, ends up giving Grandma a really different perspective on the world.The main challenge facing anyone adapting George’s Marvellous Medicine for the stage is that the original book is among Dahl’s shortest works, with pretty much a linear plot which doesn’t offer much variety beyond its initial big reveal. Of course, that could also be said of most fairy-tale based pantomimes, and there’s certainly a whiff of the kid-friendly anarchy shared by the best of that breed; Douglas’s production is big, bold and full of bright colours. The somewhat abstract set, designed by Ana Inés Jabares-Pita, enables the different rooms in George’s farmhouse home—open plane and outlined in neon—to appear from either above or the wings, as and when required. Thanks to lighting designer Mark Doubleday, the plain backdrop shifts through a rainbow of bold colours, reflected by the illuminated candy-floss clouds which hang above both stage and audience. It may not glitter like some “traditional” pantomimes, but it’s certainly memorable.The titular role of George alternates between Dundee Rep Ensemble’s two Graduate interns: Rebekah Lumsden (on the night of this review) and Laurie Scott, with whoever isn’t playing the role instead featuring as one of the colourful body-stocking-ed figures representing aspects of George’s imagination. Lumsden certainly nails the physicality of a young boy; more, she manages to ensure that George doesn’t simply come across as cruelly vindictive. Admittedly, she’s helped by the undoubted star-turn of the show—Ann Louise Ross excels as the seemingly immobile Grandma, shrunk within her oversized armchair, a gnarled vision of purple-hair. Emily Winter, meantime, gets some good laughs as Mary, George’s mother, as she slowly cracks under the strain of it all. Alas Ewan Donald appears to have been gifted the short straw as George’s somewhat naive and overly-enthusiastic dad. Irene Macdougall, meantime, may not revel in having “Giant Chicken” on her CV, but her arrival is undoubtedly the biggest moment of the second half, and her choreography ensures some real laughs from the youngest members of the audience.Big, bold and modern, this production of George’s Marvellous Medicine benefits from a strong cast who definitely make the most of what they're given. Nevertheless, the overall result feels at times slightly laboured and all-to-singular in its narrative for anyone above the age of 10.

The master of the English ghost story, M R James, once described Irish author Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu as “absolutely in the first rank” among supernatural storytellers. His short story Green Tea is all the proof you need: a disturbing tale of an English cleric haunted by a dark, red-eyed monkey that only he can see, which goads him into carry out evil deeds. Le Fanu’s grounded approach means you can read the Monkey as either supernatural monster or the embodiment of personal psychosis. Either way, the story’s mounting sense of dread remains incredible.Sophie Good’s adaptation retains that feeling well enough, though most of the details have been changed. Our central character is now Edinburgh-based genomics researcher James Stevenson, who is working all-hours on what he believes could be a game-changing breakthrough. This alone puts strains on his relationship with boyfriend Andy, who is (for the most part) willing to support James in his career. But we’re told early on that this isn’t a love story, that “whatever he [James] got involved with consumed him completely”, and we—as audience—are put in the role of hearing their individual confessions as James’s deteriorating behaviour is matched by Andy’s increasing frustration at being unable to help the man he loves. While Good’s treatment of the Monkey veers towards the psychological explanation, the presence of an animalistic Sands Stirling in the room and sometimes scampering among the audience, plays sufficiently with the supernatural to stay unnerving. Not that there’s any time for us to relax; Joe Walsh, as Andy, is the first to appear and is already agitated and stressed out by what’s happened. This unfortunately means that neither the flashback to their first meeting nor their early bonding over banana-flavoured pancakes feel sufficiently tonally different from the anguish of the present. Calum Ferguson as James is a genuinely fragile figure who is emotionally collapsing into himself, his delicate frame contrasted with Stirling’s burly Monkey and even Walsh’s Andy, whose own emotional journey is somewhat truncated but none-the-less heartbreaking. Uncredited, producer Lara Wauchope has little to do beyond providing a succession of one-note, plot-advancing “characters”, but she imbues each with vocal distinction and the right level of energy. Good’s script still feels a tad loose—for example, there wasn’t sufficient thematic justification within the story for the spectral figure still being a monkey—did any of James’s genetic research involve primates, for example? Tonally, some scenes also felt too tonally the same, though director Jack Elliot deserves praise for utilising nursery rhymes and riffs on the “hear no evil” monkey to ensure an unsettling atmosphere. His use of sound and lighting, designed by James Renwick, (in a quite different space from the company’s usual home) was also highly effective. All in all, this proved to be a genuinely chilling hour—and I don’t just mean because of the freezing venue—and another success for this vibrant Edinburgh company.

First performed in 1775, Sheridan’s The Rivals remains surprisingly relevant, not least thanks to its inter-generational conflict. Director Dominic Hill’s tonal approach is most clearly seen in Lydia Languish; she may be dressed up in the finery of 18th century high society, but she acts like a 21st century 17-year-old, full of exaggerated “O-M-G!” posturing and a total belief in her own entitlement. Thanks to Lucy Briggs-Owen’s hard work, Hill is essentially guaranteed a huge laugh every time she appears on the stage.Lydia, we learn, is a voracious reader of romantic novels and therefore desperate to marry for love rather than money and status. She certainly has no intention of marrying the unseen Captain Jack Absolute, the preferred choice of her word-mangling guardian Mrs Malaprop and his father Sir Anthony Absolute. What neither Lydia, Mrs Malaprop nor Sir Anthony realise is that the aforementioned Jack (Rhys Rusbatch, with just the right level of twinkle in his eye) has already successfully wooed Lydia in the guise of the impoverished Ensign Beverley. Hill has opted to emphasise the artifice of the whole situation through Tom Rogers’ design; initially, the action takes place on an undressed stage with just a selection of tables and chairs, with wheeled racks of clothes that are moved around as required. As the play progresses, scenic drops descend, displaying the exteriors or the buildings in which the action takes place; plus, always, we view the action through a series of massive picture frames. As an audience, we can even see cast members wandering around the sides or rear of the stage; it’s deliberately unclear whether these are the characters keeping an eye on what's happening or just the cast waiting their next cue.Although this feels the right approach, given how the play is fundamentally about performance and deception, there’s nevertheless a sense of punches being pulled unnecessarily; that this “elegant comedy of manners” (at least, that’s how the production’s publicity describes The Rivals) is at its best when Hill’s choreography of the characters and actors feel more anarchic.If there’s a problem with The Rivals, it’s in its two subplots: yes, there is some thematic value in the troubling relationship between sensible Julia (a strong, nuanced performance from Jessica Hardwick) and her betrothed, Faulkland (a generally engaging Nicholas Bishop) who is constantly sabotaging the relationship by testing her devotion. Unfortunately the same can't be said for the other plotline involving Captain Jack’s bachelor friend Bob Acres—yes, Lee Mengo gives us an enjoyable performance, but his story never quite feels connected to the rest and its grinding inevitability ensures that The Rivals runs a real risk of outstaying its welcome, not least as it slowly engineers a happy ending for nigh on everyone on the stage. 

You get a strong sense of what Jumpy is going to be like from Jean Chan’s impressive set—two jumbled piles of household goods, surrounded by an off-kilter frame of plain wall. Tim Mascall’s lighting is also bold, colourful and dipping sufficiently to indicate scene changes while cast members enter and leave among the shadows. Nor does director Cora Bissett forget about our ears: with a soundtrack ranging from Janis Joplin and the B-52s to Neil Young and Gloria Gaynor, you can listen to the Jumpy playlist afterwards on Spotify. It’s big, bold and wonderfully self-aware. And trying just that little bit too hard.Jumpy is advertised as a comedy, and it’s certainly full of laughs, but all too many are resolutely rooted in sitcom cliché. Yes, April De Angelis must be praised for putting the fractious relationship between a mother and daughter—which you could easily imagine being at best a subplot in the likes of male-focused My Family—bang in the centre, but she employs too many aspects of the default sitcom which just feel unnatural; not least the “amusing” friend whose attempts at burlesque come with a demeaning desperation that’s hardly worth the one genuinely heartfelt line it inspires. Plus, surely in 2016, we can do better than mock the women of the Greenham Common protest camp for looking a tad masculine? Yes, Jumpy is a sharply directed, well performed piece; if Richard Conlon as divorcee Roland and Gail Watson as “best friend” Frances are occasionally a too big to be entirely believable, there are always the solid foundations provided by Pauline Knowles nuanced, unaffected performance as the stressed-out mother Hilary—reaching 50 and wondering what the hell happened to her hopes and dreams—and the understated support provided by Stephen McCole as her “chillaxed” husband Mark. The younger characters in the story are also served well; Molly Vevers gives real heart and depth to what could all too easily have been just another cliched angry teenager Lilly, while Keiran Gallagher (as monosyllabic goth boyfriend Josh) and Cameron Crighton (as the, relatively speaking, “maturer” Cam) hold the stage well. The young men aren’t really given that much to do, admittedly, but that’s because the genuine heart of the story is the troubled relationship between a mother inherently reluctant to let go of their child and the child increasingly desperate to be accepted as the young adult they’re in the process of becoming. It’s a story as old as time (or at least the 20th century), but that doesn’t automatically mean De Angelis is saying something profound by focusing on it. The script at times feels unfocused and tonally adrift, with only the director and her good ensemble cast holding things together. The downside is that, heartfelt laughs notwithstanding, this production can’t help but feels as if it’s just trying a bit too hard to be entirely successful.

It’s not every play that starts with a reaffirmation of one of the basic fundamentals of theatre: that things which aren’t true can be imagined, and that what can be imagined can also be true. Yet there’s a sense that this new play from Terra Incognita, written by Victoria Beesley and inspired by the experiences of young carers, is quite conscious of how many of its younger audience members might not be natural theatre goers. This is about sharing worlds and experiences, of reaching out, and of celebrating both the artificiality and power of live theatre.It is, we’re told at the start, also the story of a boy, Robbie, and a woman, his mother. She has always believed that imagination is the most important possession anyone can have, and so Robbie’s early childhood was one full of games, stories, and wondrous flights of imagination. We’re also told that its a habit he finds hard to break; he’s a bit of a daydreamer. This is despite the consequences of “the Incident”, his mother’s stroke which changed the balance of their lives. Robbie now essentially cares for her 24/7. The heart of the play is Robbie’s belief that he’s finally become invisible, whether it’s to friends or the classroom bully; and, while we’re never entirely sure of the reality of this—a talking ginger cat isn’t usually an indicator of reality—the emotional truth of his situation certainly feels all too real. Composer Dan Beesley, providing a nuanced musical ambiance with his electric guitar, arguably isn’t the greatest actor in the world, but he certainly shares the stage with two dazzling performers—Michael Abubakar and Rosalind Sydney—who inhabit their roles totally. Sydney, in particular, excels in giving life to a succession of sharply defined characters; both, however, switch smoothly between in-character dialogue and Brechtian direct-to-the-audience narration. Invisible Army, admittedly, isn’t always an easy watch; tonally, it switches constantly from light-hearted comedy to serious drama, fantasy to the mundane minutia of our everyday lives. There’s one scene in particular which is emotionally brutal; arguably, its power is in the fact that it’s by no means a relief to later learn that it was only imagined. Although the choreography by Tony Mills feels sometimes intrusive, it’s equally vital—a visual metaphor of Robbie being pulled in numerous directions by homework, bullies and his own worries about leaving his mother alone unnecessarily. Director Emily Reutlinger has brought together a show which utilises its performance space well, with effective use of sound and lighting to suggest shifts in location and the emotional shifts in Robbie’s life. If there’s one aspect that perhaps doesn’t entirely work, it’s two short attempts at audience participation, although the participant was certainly gently handled on the night of this review. The titular Invisible Army are all those people, especially young people, who are “doing things nobody sees”. It’s sometimes said that no good drama comes from being “issue-led”, but Terra Incognita would appear to have proved otherwise thanks to their approach to the subject and the way it’s told on stage. The result is a work of theatre that’s both entertaining and thought-provoking in the best way possible.

A risk when putting any historical figure on stage—let alone a writer and thinker of the calibre of Dr Samuel Johnson—is that using their own words makes them appear less a dramatic character and more a walking, talking Wikiquote. Writer James Runcie attempts to work with this, by having the story told by Johnson’s “biographer” James Boswell and initially using the infamous Johnson quotes as theatrical shorthand to set up their situation. Nevertheless, by first emphasising the dictionary compiler as the barrel-chested embodiment of certain negative attitudes, most notably regarding Scotland, Runcie’s script means Lewis Howden has to work hard to convince us that his Johnson is actually a three dimensional person behind that singularly one-dimensional bluster. That Howden also appears to be channelling Robbie Coltrane’s caricature of Johnson in Blackadder The Third doesn’t help matters.Boswell—intent on convincing his mentor that “the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees” ISN’T necessarily “the high road that leads him to England”—takes Johnson on a tour of Scotland and, in particular, the Highlands and Western Isles. With barely an hour’s running time, the play necessarily speeds through much of their journey, the verisimilitude of their depravations reduced to broad comedic effect. Johnson is painted initially as the clichéd English traveller abroad, who believes that “Everyone understands English if you speak loudly enough.” Yet, by dribs and drabs, the script does offer Howden and Simon Donaldson—a somewhat taut Boswell—real theatrical meat to bite into. “If you are so proud of Scotland, why do you live in London?” Dr Johnson asks at one point: whether its scripted or a decision by director Marilyn Imrie, Boswell’s response—that he wants “the best of both worlds”—seems deliberately undercut by self-doubt.For, whatever the laughs to be had in seeing this iconic Englishman in tartan drag or giving a hospitable woman the wrong idea about his intentions, Dr Johnson Goes To Scotland can’t help but come across as a post- (possibly pre-) Independence Referendum discussion of Scotland’s long-fractious relationship with its larger southern neighbour. “You make defeat sound romantic,” Johnson says to one of his hosts, increasingly confounded—as a self-identified Englishman—by the apparent willingness of the Scottish people to subsume themselves into a larger “nation”. And yet, the play also appears to accept that, while a dictionary can define a country or a language, it can’t define a people; inevitably, we all resist definition. Thanks to the play’s understandable emphasis on Johnson and Boswell, the obvious lack of quality roles for its two female cast is at least compensated for by their quantity—between them, Gerda Stevenson and Morna Young play 16 different characters, including the men’s two horses! When not landing some really funny moments, the pair provide some real emotional punch with their singing and musicianship. When Johnson says that “The melody can overpower the sense,” few in the audience are likely to disagree. 

“It’s quite comfortable being old,” 80 year old actor Tim Barlow tells us at the start of his latest one-man show, a work co-devised with the writer Sheila Hill. Apparently, our “senior” years can be a more peaceful period in our lives, although there’s always a downside—not least that memory and mind are no longer as sharp as they once were. Certainly, this seems to be Barlow’s experience; realising that it’s taking him longer now to memorise lines—yes, he’s still a working actor—he went to see his GP, which led to an appointment at an Older Persons’ Assessment Unit and the eventual diagnosis of Mild Cognitive Impairment. Which, for all we know, is simply a medical term for the anger and confusion felt by older patients forced to do increasingly annoying and difficult mental tasks!Him is simply staged; in an otherwise empty space, there’s a chair for Barlow to sit on, a large screen for some video elements, and a double-bass—played live by Sebastian Dessanay, sometimes to mark an interlude in proceedings, other times to accompany what’s being shown on the screen. The heart of the show, however, is simply Barlow chatting to us, speaking with the distinctive nuance of those with a hearing impairment. He has the air of some gentle grandfather, with stories to tell.From early childhood to his decade or so in the British Army, and then his return to Civvy Street bang in the middle of Swinging Sixties London, hindsight paints Barlow as one of those lucky actors—never a star, but always in work. Superficially, Him is about his love of big band music, Blackpool’s famous Winter Gardens, and learning to live—indeed, thrive—with hearing loss. Yet, although there are obvious gaps—there’s no mention of how he met his wife, for example, she’s just suddenly mentioned at one point—the constant thread linking all his stories remains the two constants none of us can avoid. Ageing and dying.Although warm and charming, Him unfortunately lacks a final knock-out punchline—the sort of clear conclusion which ensures its audience has something to really remember as they leave the auditorium. As a theatrical work, Him is arguably best suited to a more intimate performance space; for despite Barlow’s best efforts, it all felt a bit small and insignificant on the stage of Traverse One.

For at least some of its audience, it’s enough that Grain in the Blood reunites actors Blythe Duff and John Michie—long-time compatriots on STV’s Taggart. For the rest of us, this generally taut 90 minute tale by playwright Rob Drummond—previously responsible for experimental audience-participation works such as Fidelity and Bullet Catch, as well as the currently touring stage adaptation of iconic D C Thomson’s The Broons—is an engrossing drama successfully combining the deadpan humour of film noir with a whiff of rural folk mythology.Drummond certainly starts as he means to go on, the lights rising on Burt Mantle (Michie) scraping dung of his shoe: “That’s the problem with living out here,” says Sophia (Duff). “Shit everywhere.” It’s not just the obvious faeces, however; there’s plenty of emotional “shit” lurking under this failing livestock farm’s roof. Thankfully, Drummond isn’t shy of shading the serious issues with numerous grimly amusing one-liners, invariably delivered with deadpan faces by Duff and Michie—two performers totally relaxed and trusting in each other’s company. Veterinary Sophia lives on the farm with her 12 year old granddaughter Autumn and farmer “Aunt” Violet. The former is seriously ill with kidney failure; with her body having already rejected two previous transplants, Autumn’s only hope is that the father she’s never met—Sophie’s son Isaac—is willing to donate one of his own kidneys. Isaac, however, has been in prison for all Autumn’s life; when he does arrive at the farm on compassionate leave—albeit under Burt’s constant supervision—it’s really her last chance.Drummond dramatises the ethical problems well, not just in terms of the characters but also the wider culture in which they exist. Orla O’Loughlin’s direction is tight, ably supported by Simon Wilkinson’s emotive shadow-friendly lighting, a hauntingly distorted orchestral score and sound design from Michael John McCarthy and the contrast with Fred Meller’s solid but unadorned set.Duffy and Michie are the anchors of Grain in the Blood, full of subtle tiredness and determination; if Frances Thorburn (Violet) and Andrew Rothney (Isaac) have less emotional room in which to manoeuvre, they nevertheless feel real and convincing. However, it’s Sarah Miele (last seen in Edinburgh in Thon Man Moliere at the Royal Lyceum) who really lingers in the memory. Autumn is a mature-beyond-her-years child; one who swears like a trouper, knows when she’s being led up the garden path, and yet is still innocent enough to ignore the potential risks in a game of Truth or Dare.Grain in the Blood does, sadly, have one significant failing; a rushed conclusion which, while every element had been dutifully flagged up earlier on, nevertheless feels like an unearned authorial imposition—reliant too much on straight-to-audience tell-not-show. Nevertheless, strong performances from an excellently choreographed ensemble ensure that this is genuinely a production worth seeing.

There’s no hanging about with Morna Pearson’s Walking On Walls; when the lights come up, we see a bespectacled woman observing a man who’s bound on an office chair, tape across his mouth and traces of blood on his forehead. “Hi. Hello. So I phoned the police, just so you know,” she explains, which—understandably—doesn’t seem to reassure him. At the very least the situation is a tad bizarre; while there are two characters on stage, only one initially does the talking.Few writers now approach costumed vigilantes—be they Batman or not—without at least some recognition of their personal demons. So it’s hardly surprising that Claire (though we don’t learn her name till towards the end) is quickly presented as a clearly fragile loner, obsessed with statistics and proud of the fact that her colleagues no longer ask her to join them in the pub after work. Unfortunately, for what feels like at least 20 minutes, we’re simply told this, with all the subtlety of the brick she used to knock the man—Fraser—unconscious. Even Pearson seems to recognise the potential risk here; at one point, Claire wonders if she’s telling him so much simply because he’s gagged. Thankfully, the play changes gear significantly once Claire takes off Fraser’s gag and the monologue becomes a dialogue. As she insists that he knows who she is—despite his initial protestations otherwise—it gradually becomes clear that Claire, who has “learned to live with anxiety”, is a much more believable psychological being than the opening of the play suggested: a victim of classroom bullying who has come home to settle some scores with her tormentors.Fraser has “moved on” from those days in quite a different way from Claire: “Shite happens when you’re young,” he insists, clearly baffled by the extent “Square Claire with the four-eyed stare” still obsesses about “jokes” and “fun” that he’d likely forgotten about by the next morning. Our sympathies, however, can’t really be with him; we’re given little more than hints that he’s someone who doesn’t consider the consequences of his actions on others, whether it’s hiding Claire’s clothes after a swimming class or not picking up after his dog in the park. He’s never been a victim, Claire insists, but does she protest too much? Pearson’s script ensures that it’s Claire who has the last word, but nevertheless lets us make up our own minds about whether she’s right. Under Rosie Kellagher’s direction, Helen Mackay and Andy Clark offer two excellent performances, Mackay in particular almost making us accept that massive opening monologue. Clark, meantime, does a lot even while mute on his chair, and lands a few darkly comedic moments with real impact. If there’s one problem, though, it’s simply the slight difficulty in believing both characters were in the same class at school—Mackay simply looks several years younger than her fellow performer.

This one-man show, written and performed by Gary McNair, won lots of praise during its initial run as part of the 2015 Edinburgh Festival Fringe. This latest tour round Scotland and beyond has enabled many more people to enjoy a beautifully-written, deceptively simple work which—part coming-of-age tale, part reminiscence of family—so expertly examines our need to have heroes and to be at the centre of our own lives.The titular gambler is the narrator’s grandfather, a man who says he placed a winning accumulator bet on the final result of the 1966 World Cup, and was subsequently beaten up for his treachery in the Gorbals. He’s also the man who, after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, places a bet that he’ll outlive the doctors’ estimates and see the first day of January 2000. The show’s setting is a carpeted living room, empty apart from a single wooden chair and numerous cardboard boxes—a home, and the detritus of a life, being packed away. McNair, once again under Gareth Nicholls able direction, proves an engaging narrator, easily inhabiting not just his grandfather but also his 13 year old self. The script is at times wildly comedic and self-referential, but it also gives McNair plenty of opportunities to show how expertly he can pull at our heart-strings. Anyone who has lost an older family member will recognise the confusion and upset the narrator goes through as his grandfather nears the end of his life.This isn’t just the story of a habitual gambler; it’s equally a celebration of storytelling, and an exploration of how fiction, truth and memory can be hard to distinguish—how we can all too easily end up considering “a version of a version of a man” rather than remembering “the complicated man he was”. As a performance the play carries itself lightly, using uncomplicated language and a minimum of staging to impart some really thought-provoking ideas about how we all are, in our own ways, gambling with existence every day of our lives, and that perhaps we should think more kindly of those who “need a bet to have hope”.

It was the head-to-head that, even at the time, seemed almost unthinkable; a televised face-off between British chat-show host David Frost—certainly at the time not exactly known for delivering hard-hitting journalism—and the former US president Richard Nixon, who had been ultimately forced to resign from the White House thanks to his involvement in the Watergate scandal. Peter Morgan’s award-winning play about the interviews (later made into a film) is a political thriller that, at times, is surprisingly funny; that, in itself, is by no means an easy thing for any director and cast to pull off.However, on a largely empty stage (with just a few chairs and a small table to serve as successive studios and recording locations), that’s what EUTC director Nathaniel Brimmer-Beller and producer Patrick Beddow manage to achieve. Their principle foundation are the show’s two leads, Callum Pope and Paddy Echlin as (respectively), Frost and Nixon. That said, Macleod Stephen and Rob Younger give equally valuable service as the liberal Americans Jim Reston and Bob Zelnick – Frost’s principle researchers, out for a full no-holds-barred apology” — although Reston doesn’t always appear entirely comfortable when serving as the play’s narrator. While, on occasions, veering dangerously towards the Churchillian, Echilin’s Nixon is no shallow impersonation; he plays the man with some insight and sensitivity. Pope’s Frost, admittedly, comes across as a tad posher than the man himself, but Pope successfully hints at the fragility beneath the sad-eyed eligible bachelor happy to chat up the socialite Caroline Cushing (an excellent Bella Rogers in arguably the most unforgiving of roles) while flying to the US. An unexpected casting decision—perhaps simply down to limited availability—pays dividends, however; Sasha Briggs is truly centred as Nixon’s chief of staff, Jack Brennan, to Sasha Briggs. Morgan’s script quite intentionally frames the Frost/Nixon interviews as a boxing match, with the two combatants centre-stage, supported by their respective teams in opposite corners. The tension isn’t always what you might hope for, admittedly—sometimes, it’s more a case of tell rather than show—but then it’s always a challenge to give life to a conflict when the end result is so well known. And Nixon was never going to go for “a cascade of candour”. Director Brimmer-Beller nevertheless makes good use of the cast and stage; the pace never drops, with all the major dramatic moments landed with real impact, even if the script has that predictable final “knock-out punch” appear almost from nowhere.Admittedly, there were some technical disappointments in the production; while the decision to use cameras to project the “television image” on the rear wall was inherently a good one, the results—even ignoring some apparent technical hitches on the night of the review—were generally too dark to be truly impactful. Nevertheless, this was an entertaining and extremely promising production of a by no-means easy script.

We’re somewhere among the Western Isles, and at least a thousand years back in time. Ronnat and her daughter Brigid live a simple life on a small island, looking after the cows owned by the monastery across the water. The cows are old, however; their milk is poor and increasingly hard to turn into butter, regardless of the old pagan spells spoken (in Gaelic) during its churning. While the two women have a settled life, it quickly becomes clear that it’s an increasingly fragile one; not least because the women’s few resources are being increasingly consumed by the unseen monks’ grand plans to create a new, beautifully illustrated book.And then a man is washed ashore, an escapee from slavery called Fari. “If he dies I have him, if he lives you have him,” says the young bone-collecting Brigid, but once the recovered Fari becomes the monastery’s boatman, regularly visiting the women for their milk and butter, he soon enough “has” both of them—independently. Inevitably—and, admittedly, bordering on the cliché here—the less careful Brigid subsequently bears his child, a son. Women are, of course, banned from the unseen “Monks’ island”—a source of “mischief”, according to its inhabitants. Yet they’re all too interested in this baby boy; Mischief’s final crisis arises when the monks claim the boy as their own on the grounds that he’s the child of their late Abbot’s child with Ronnat. (And a boy, obviously.) There’s obvious hypocrisy here that reflects on our own times, but the meat of Stewart’s play is the question of who gets to sets the ethical rules in a community. This is emphasised by director Gerda Stevenson’s use of music, poetry and movement—the entwining of Gerda in white cloth to symbolise her pregnancy, for example—which strongly suggests that the women are much more “at one” with the natural world, and themselves, compared to the largely unseen men who are willing to exploit their neighbours and use limited food resources in order to create “a blue no one has seen before” for “the Book”—almost certainly the iconic Book of Kells. A disappointingly heteronormative conclusion notwithstanding, Stevenson draws out some fine performances from her cast. David Rankine has that dangerous naive charm which makes him a believable lover of both women. Alison McFarlane may at times be too overtly strident as the teenager desperate to escape her life on the island, but blossoms in the latter stages of the play. However, the star performance is undoubtedly Elspeth Turner’s far from showy Ronnat; full of life, vigour, humour and anguish, Turner gives us a wise woman in every sense of the word, who is nevertheless willing to give up the people she loves in order to ensure their safety.

Edinburgh-based Grid Iron Theatre Company has long specialised in creating immersive, site-specific theatre. On this occasion, Crude is housed in the corner of one of the vast Sheds in the Port of Dundee, to which the audience travels by coach, on the way passing within sight of three nearby-stationed oil platforms. It’s not quite the same as being helicoptered out to a North Sea platform, but it leaves the audience sufficiently out of their usual comfort zone to ensure that even the opening of the Shed’s shuttered entrance has some impact. As we’re led to our seats along a wide path marked out by seemingly hundreds of white safety hats, towards a stage of scaffold behind which huge screens project an ever-increasing number of “Barrels Of Oil Extracted Since 7.55PM Today”, it’s looks as if something special is definitely about to start.Except, it never quite gels; the set—full of scaffolding, pipes and chains—is arguably too large for any Scottish theatre and yet still feels dwarfed within the venue. So, as a result, do most of the performances—not even Neil John Gibson’s deliberately larger-than-life Texan, who provides us with the introductory info-dump about the political and economic history of the Oil Industry, feels believably human.Given the scale of the oil industry, and its global influence, writer/director Ben Harrison creates his “Exploration of Oil” out of a web of entwined personal stories. So we meet the increasingly disgruntled North Sea worker slowly losing any emotional connection with his wife and daughter, the Nigerian desperately fighting against the environmental devastation caused by the foreign oil companies cutting costs in the Niger Delta, the environmental campaigner who ends up arrested in Russia, and the female oil company executive who won’t even argue with environmentalists unless they’re Vegans. In this vast echoing shed, however, these stories appear all too small and indistinct; that may well be the intention, but on occasions the sound balance makes it difficult to understand what was being said, which hardly helps get the message across. The most emotionally effective strand, ironically enough, is a series of verbatim quotes from survivors of the Piper Alpha disaster—in which 167 men were killed. These are spoken by successive members of the cast, repeating what they hear on a set of headphones, while holding a white protective helmet. Immediately, there’s a new significance to those helmets we passed on our way to our seats.There’s no doubt that Crude is technically impressive: Paul Claydon’s lighting and the throbbing music/sound design by Pippa Murphy are on occasions as startling as the graphics designed by Lewis den Hertog. Yet, while the cast’s performances are solid enough, there’s an unfortunate chill (both physical and theatrical) created by the venue which only Tunji Lucas, as Nigerian fighter Joel, manages to overcome, bringing a real sense of humanity and passion to his character. Crude is undoubtedly an interesting theatrical experiment that’s definitely worth experiencing, but it’s not always “interesting” for the best of reasons. 

If you’re a student theatre company with somewhat limited resources, but still want to try your hand at a reasonably successful Broadway musical, then [title of show] is arguably your ideal choice. It requires a cast of four—five if you include the musical accompanist—and not much of a set. Nor do you have to work hard to suspend your audience’s disbelief; this particular musical is all about its own creation as a last minute (well, last three-weeks) entry to the New York Musical Theatre Festival. Its characters are the show’s writer Hunter Bell, composer/lyricist Jeff Bowen, and two actress friends Susan Blackwell and Heidi Blickenstaff. Arranger and musical director Larry Pressgrove also gets a few lines here and there.This “meta” self-referencing—at one point, the cast admit that a proposed dream sequence is “self-indulgent bullshit”—is the source of much of the show’s humour, but it’s also how its creators build up to their serious point. As we see the show on the increasingly rocky path towards Broadway, friendships are tested and the focuses is on the importance of artistic integrity in the face of “Change It/Don’t Change It” investors and focus groups. The conclusion is that Hunter and Jeff would prefer their show to be “nine people's favourite thing than a hundred people’s ninth-favorite thing”.Of course, this amateur production of [title of show] lacks the original’s USP; the cast on the Bedlam stage are not literally stuck in a show playing themselves. However, this doesn’t really matter; an energetic, bright-eyed Ewan McAdam immediately engages as Hunter, and is well-matched by a somewhat more restrained performance from James Strahan; the pair bed down easily as the double act the show needs. This isn’t to ignore the excellent performances from Lucy Evans and Eleanor Crowe as Susan and Heidi, both self-aware of their roles as supporting characters in the show, who only get one chance to “hijack this page of the script” when Hunter and Jeff are in the wings supposedly networking with potential producers. Will Briant, meantime, provides excellent keyboard support as Larry, stuck at the back of the stage unsure if he’ll even be allowed to speak without union permission. Director Charlie Ralph has successfully brought together a tight, compact team; if the show sags somewhat in the latter half, this isn’t because of those on stage, who are fully engaged with their characters and successfully “land” their punchlines with real impact. But—yes, there’s a “but”—they’re not helped by the sound balance. Briant on electric keyboard is amplified; the performers are not, meaning their vocals are often swamped by the accompaniment. Given the “intimate” proportions of the Bedlam Theatre, it might seem odd to mic up cast members barely 12 feet from the rear seats, but given the strength (or otherwise) of their vocal projection, it would have helped ensure some clarity to their vocals. 

Children are often said to be the most “difficult”—or, to put it another way, most honest—theatre audience performers are ever likely to face: they’re not “adult” enough to hide their boredom or loss of interest. Equally, though, they can be the most involved, if the show holds their attention. This is something Scottish company Starcatchers know very well, having spent most of the last decade creating performances specifically aimed at (arguably) the most challenging children’s audience imaginable–babies and toddlers.The Shape of Things, created by Starcatchers’ Ailie Cohen with Marc Mac Lochlainn of Irish children’s theatre company Branar Téatar, uses a mix of puppetry, music and staging to successfully hold the attention of an audience of children aged between six and 24 months (although those who seemed to enjoy the show most appeared to be around 12 months old). The audience is sat underneath a tree-like giant umbrella (which is actually made out of a parachute) from which hang strings of soft cubes and triangles. Our hosts—Saras Feijoo and Helen Gregg—are dressed like elves, the colours of their outfits matching those of their surroundings. Miguel Barcelo’s gentle music immediately creates a relaxing, curious atmosphere, in which the constantly smiling Feijoo and Gregg instantly form a connection with their young audience.The “story”, as such, is uncomplicated and gently repeated; squares and triangles are discovered, admired and then moved to one of three “homes” around the tent—the third becoming useful once an unexpected circle appears on the scene. However, any suggestion that this show is just about definition and difference is soon undermined by the genuinely attention-grabbing appearance of two puppets, Cubert the cube and Triantán the triangle who, while clearly different, end up playing and having a great time together. As performers, Feijoo and Gregg are relaxed and, while towering over their audience, remain friendly and welcoming, expertly ensuring that the necessary repetitions are unforced and grounded in the world of the show. And, of course, they are then the perfect hosts during the 10 minutes of interactive soft play that follows the half-hour performance, which enables many of the toddlers to finally touch, hold and explore the shapes they’d been keenly reaching out to for most of the duration!Undoubtedly a warm, well-balanced production with genuine appeal for its intended audience.

In ancient Greece, it was the practice before any theatrical performance to name those citizens who had financed it, and for a respected citizen to give “the libation” to the Gods. 2,500 years after Aeschylus wrote his now largely-lost Danaid trilogy—only this first play, and a scrap of the third, have survived—director Ramin Gray resurrects this civic tradition with (at least on opening night) Willie Rennie MSP giving thanks to the show’s funders (most notably the paying audience, who provide £5 out of every £10 spent on the production), before pouring a bottle of quality wine along the edge of the stage.This remembrance of theatre as a civic ceremony is underscored by Gray’s casting of local Edinburgh people in its large chorus (led by the truly impressive professional actor Gemma May); thankfully, they provide a far-from-amateurish mixture of vocals, dance and movement under choreographer Sasha Milavic Davies and vocal leader Stephen Deazley. They are almost constantly accompanied by a rhythmic, nuanced score by musical director John Browne. The script, adapted here by David Greig, is equally rhythmic and heightened—spoken words and percussive score constantly entwined and supportive of each other. The result is a heartfelt, impressive theatrical experience, though aspects of its ancient roots can’t help but jar in the translation. Who can hear the name “Argos” and not think of a certain catalogue retail chain?The titular Suppliant Women are 50 Egyptians who flee from arranged marriages, seeking sanctuary in Greece, the home of their ancestor. This causes a real headache for the King of the Greek city Argos (Oscar Batterham): as he puts it, “to bar them brings horror, to welcome them brings war”, the latter with angry husbands-to-be already chasing the women across the Mediterranean. The King’s solution is to put the decision to a public vote—The Suppliant Women, apparently being the first written appearance of the word “democracy”. Following some impressive—albeit off-stage—oratory, the people of Argos agree to let the women in. The play’s questions around how communities welcome asylum seekers, and the extent to which the latter are pressured to “respect” their hosts’ culture, feel just as pertinent today as they were two and a half millennia ago. Yet, by choosing The Suppliant Women as his title rather than the Wikipedia-favoured title The Suppliants, Greig’s emphasis is clearly on those fleeing specifically misogynistic regimes throughout time. This is an in “interesting” choice given that the women—willing to kill themselves rather than be forced into marriage with men they despise—are nevertheless constantly reliant on men—their ship’s captain Danaus (a fatherly Omar Ebrahim), the King and even that most sex-crazed of the Ancient Greek Gods, Zeus, to whom the women constantly call upon for protection. Overall, this is an impressive, instinctive piece of theatre, but there’s inevitably one specific context in which it must be viewed. A couple of guest shows notwithstanding—including Dundee Rep’s touring production of The Cheviot, the Stag and the Black, Black Oil—this co-production with Actors Touring Company is effectively Greig’s calling card as the Royal Lyceum Theatre’s new Artistic Director. If nothing else, The Suppliant Women certainly exemplifies his early promises to open the Lyceum up to the wider city in which it is based, and to innovate and forge new creative partnerships—all while ensuring a continued relevance in the work to the world we live in today. The Suppliant Women is undoubtedly an impressive, distinctive introduction to Greig’s tenure; an admittedly somewhat startling promise of things to come.

Among the gifts bestowed on the world by the Edinburgh Festival Fringe is the one-hour slot, into which everything—stand-up, spoken word, circus, dance or drama—has become squeezed by market forces. Nevertheless, the obvious constraints are something which talented writers can utilise well. While David Leddy’s The Course of True Love owes its origins to Óran Mór’s A Play, a Pie and a Pint, rather than the Fringe, this 55 minute drama is an excellent example of a one-act play that’s compact, layered and dramatically satisfying.Out from behind the audience stagger charity boss Celia (Irene Allan), a dark-haired “woman in red”, with her three-piece suited co-worker Oliver (Mark Jeary). They’re both high on champagne and their mutual horror concerning the couple with whom they’ve just had dinner—his dead eyes, her gratuitous jewellery and tendency to play with her phone during the meal. This initially comes across as just the bitchiness of a “tired” woman and her gay best friend, but the first layer that’s peeled away is the identity of their host—an unnamed “developing” country’s vicious dictator who wants their charity to provide computers and software. (Oh, and to give him an Award.) Celia’s all to aware that the aid will be used to line the pockets of the dictator and his cronies, and destroy the charity’s reputation in the process; their problem is that said dictator is unlikely to take “No” for an answer.Celia and Oliver are therefore in her hotel room, supposedly to touch base with the charity’s (somewhat corrupt) board of directors but actually to work out some way to escape the hotel alive. Their options aren’t good, and the conversation quickly turns to more personal matters as a means of ignoring the dictator and his vicious-looking bodyguards waiting for them in the lobby. And so we learn that neither Celia or Oliver have been particularly successful in love: Celia’s commitment to the charity has cost her a marriage and a relationship with her daughter, and she now eats far too many microwaved meals while doubting her own abilities; Oliver’s male partner, meantime, has returned to Brazil, unable to accept that Oliver is actually deeply in love with Celia.Full of brilliantly crafted dialogue that’s funny, sad and often both, Leddy (here directing his own script) gets two heart-felt, nuanced performances from Allan and Jeary, who never let the pace drop and yet give the necessary emotional pauses just the right time to sink in. The overall result is an emotionally intelligent exploration of the challenges we all face when it comes to finding genuine human connection in a world where all the old rules about gender, sexuality and even boss-employee relations are increasingly difficult to grasp. If this doesn’t quite connect with the wider geopolitical aspects of international aid, the human story is sufficiently satisfying, not least because Leddy’s ensures a finale which at least hints at the possibility of two people finally escaping the social pressures and public expectations that have kept them apart for so long.

R C Sherriff’s Journey’s End, inspired by his own experiences of life in the trenches during the First World War, stands as an authoritative exploration of men “in extremis”. As this measured touring production from Immersion Theatre shows, humans will find their own ways of coping in almost any situation. Nearly a century on from the play’s setting, Sherriff’s writing is a timeless appreciation of human bravery within the most horrendous of environments.That’s not to say the play doesn’t show its age; director James Tobias is arguably slightly too reverential towards a text which, by today’s standards, is sluggish and marred by a tendency to tell rather than show—not least when filling in the backgrounds of its main characters. This is particularly the case with Stanhope, the company commander who’s been on the Front for most of the War and continues to function psychologically only by drinking a bottle of whisky a day. “I’ve had my share of luck, more than my share,” he tells his second-in-command, the good-natured Osborne, at one point; it’s with an awareness that getting out the other side of the War looks increasingly unlikely. There’s little physical action in Journey’s End; a much-anticipated German attack is kept to the end and, even then, is played largely off-stage. The meat of Sherriff’s drama is therefore in the relationships between the five officers confined within the dug-out; not least Stanhope, arguably paranoid about the new young officer assigned to his company. Stanhope immediately assumes that Raleigh (who had previously looked up to him as a hero at school) is all-too-likely to write home to his sister—Stanhope’s unofficial fiancé—about his new commander’s tattered nerves and alcoholism. Stanhope is by no means an easy role to play, but there’s something about Tom Grace’s performance that initially lacks the depth to fully convince us of his tortured soul. Matt Ray Brown and Rory Fairbairn, in contrast—while having the seemingly easier task of bringing life to good-natured Osborne and young innocent Raleigh—both imbue their roles with a realism and understanding that’s genuinely moving. John Rayment as Trotter, who seems to measure his life in meals, lands his lighter comedic moments with real skill, while Alexander Tol gives a genuinely physical performance as Hibbert, the officer for whom everything is already too much.According to the programme notes, Journey’s End “was designed by Sherriff as an exposé of the senselessness of war – and as a warning against it.” The problem that any new production of this play now faces is that much of what it does has arguably been done better, and more speedily, in Blackadder Goes Forth. In comparison, Journey’s End feels at times ponderous, relying too much on the slow drip feed of small personal details to keep us interested. This is a fine production, but it occasionally fails to land its emotional punches with the full force they deserve.   

It’s fitting, in the weeks running up to the latest Arctic Circle Assembly (running from 7-9 October in Reykjavik, Iceland) that the team behind A Play, a Pie and a Pint opted for a new work focused on human exploitation of the Arctic. Instead of an issue-heavy drama, however, writer Kieran Lynn and director Tony Cownie clearly believe that people are more likely to take in something when they’re having a good time. The result is that Breaking the Ice is a sharp, if occasionally too obvious, political farce—as can be seen in Kenneth MacLeod’s set which, despite its limited scale, manages to include two doors enabling numerous entries and exits by the cast.Such a heightened dramatic form doesn’t necessarily make life easy for the actors, however; Steven McNicoll, as Frank, has to gain both our sympathy and understanding during the initial few minutes of direct-to-audience “tell not show”—it works, of course, when you have an actor of McNicoll’s standing on stage, but it’s still a risky shortcut. Frank, we’re told, is a geologist and last minute replacement for the UK’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office Chief Scientific Advisor. From the start there’s a sense he’s out of his depth; he’s still in his bathrobe, after having accidentally poured yogurt down his suit, and his speech—original draft left on the plane to Alaska—has yet to be re-written. A misguided expedition to find tea leads to a succession of encounters with local Alaskans—the burly shopkeeper desperate to see the local economy developed, an overly-keen green campaigner desperate to join the kidnap squad which snatches Frank off the street, the local sheriff, and the smooth PR woman clearly representing big business. Each offer him advice and suggestions about what he should say in his forthcoming speech at the international conference, although for most of the show it looks as if he’ll never get back to the conference in time.To describe Breaking the Ice as a fact-heavy farce unfortunately suggests it’s much less funny than it actually is, although the comedic energy is in part due to the sterling support McNicoll receives from Jimmy Chisholm and Nicola Roy who play all the other characters. It helps that all three have all worked together before—most recently in the Royal Lyceum’s production of Thon Man Molière—so seem totally relaxed in each other’s presence. Nevertheless, there’s a lingering query as to whether or not the production would have been improved if they could have afforded a larger cast. Lynn’s script is fast, funny and—to its credit—never sacrifices its serious intent for the sake of a quick laugh. The result is a comedy with something serious to say, but offering plenty of fun along the way to help the medicine go down.

Apparently, even circuses nowadays feel a need to satisfy the public’s desire to glimpse behind the scenes, to smell the greasepaint and discover how the magic happens. As an audience, we’re immediately addressed as the first lucky group to be invited – for a pre-curtain-up Q&A – into the private dressing room of Dame Nature, the Bearded Lady in Hannibal’s Travelling Palace. Unfortunately, the unseen Diego – who was going to field the questions, as Dame Nature isn’t supposed to utter a word – is a ‘no show’, forcing this somewhat nervous Bearded Lady to speak for herself.We quickly learn that she’s actually called Cheryl, and is married to the circus “owner, manager and head of HR”. We also learn that there’s more to a beard than just a mass of hair. It’s a state of mind; behind this particular beard isn’t just a woman but a bearded lady, one of a very select international sisterhood. This self-belief, however, is soon revealed to be more fragile than it first appears; a self-penned audition piece for RADA, for example, betrays a clear desire to be completely inconspicuous. And the more we learn about her relationship with her husband – “My biggest fan, and my harshest critic,” she says at one point – the more we’re left wondering whether Dame Nature is being “kept safe” from the world, or just being “kept”. Devised by dramaturg Laurence Cook and the company, including performer Tim Bell, this ‘one-woman’ show riffs off old Victorian music hall, but does so in some deliberately incongruous ways. Cheryl's hoard of magazines, through which she keeps on top of ever-changing fashion, are relatively recent; her chosen musical anthem is Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman”. The disconnect is presumably to emphasise just how out-of-step Cheryl is for a world she only glimpses from the safety of her dressing room. It also underscores the rootlessness of her itinerant existence, as Hannibal’s Travelling Palace constantly tours the country; her only rock-solid reference point, in time as much as space, is the countdown to her impending appearance on stage. Nevertheless the disparities between the Victorian ethos of the freakshow and the modern day references to motorway stop-offs does sometimes jar, like a rough change of gears, and perhaps it would’ve been simpler to focus more on one time period. On the plus side, the decision to gender-flip the actor playing Cheryl isn’t anywhere so problematic: Bell may initially appear to be exactly what he is, a hairy bearded man wearing a dress, but his full-hearted, unaffected performance and the range of emotions he draws out of the script quickly distracts us from the fact. Initially amusing, increasingly disturbing, Dame Nature is an intriguing and generally thought-provoking piece of theatre.

There's something wonderfully uncluttered and unpretentious about this particular wander down literary lane from the Mercators, one of Edinburgh’s oldest amateur drama clubs. Six performers, dressed up in an approximation of late Victorian/Edwardian dress, take it in turns to tell the biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, with some quotes from the man’s work to provide a little more ‘colour’. That’s it; arguably it should’ve been listed under ‘spoken word’ rather than theatre’ – for, notwithstanding the occasional attempts at conversation between some of the participants, this is definitely an example of ‘tell, not show’. There’s certainly no attempt to ‘try anything clever’; say, for example, imagining Doyle’s most famous literary creation – Sherlock Holmes – trying to investigate ‘the mystery’ of his own creator.Except… what mystery? Although Fringe show titles inevitably have to be chosen some six months ahead of time – often well before the actual productions have been written – the reality is that “Man of Mystery” hardly seems an appropriate label for Doyle. The only puzzle presented at the start is the surprising fact that the author capable of imagining the iconic “consulting detective” (a man who considered emotions to be a distraction and hindrance to proper observation and reasoning) also personally believed in the occult and fairies at the bottom of the garden. Admittedly, Doyle was far from alone in the latter – particularly following the carnage of the First World War – but there’s simply no theatrical ‘meat’ here to satisfy anyone wanting some kind of answer to that particular conundrum. (A reference to Doyle’s disagreement with arch-sceptic Harry Houdini is notable by its absence.)Thanks to John Kelly’s diligent research, and the generally clearly-spoken performance by the cast, you’re bound to learn something new about Doyle: perhaps that he studied at the University of Edinburgh at the same time JM Barrie, creator of Peter Pan, and Robert Louis Stevenson; or that he considered his historical novel Sir Nigel to be the “highpoint” of his literary career.This is a straight-forward enough story, simply told, with neither rancour nor particular fire. For Doyle enthusiasts it arguably offers little, but for those curious to learn something more about the man behind Sherlock Holmes, this is at least a more entertaining way to accomplish that than just reading a page on Wikipedia.

It’s apt, if a little predictable, that the pre-show music Doug Segal selects for his latest Fringe show is the classic James Brown track I Feel Good. On the plus side, that’s really about the only thing you can easily anticipate, as Segal – a warm, gentle giant of a Man in Tweed, easily mistakable for the lost son of Brian Blessed (minus the bellowing) – uses a combination of suggestion, psychology, misdirection and good old-fashioned showmanship to entertain and bamboozle his audience into genuinely feeling better about themselves.Certainly he’s not one to hold back from chatting with the crowd; indeed, much of Segal’s onstage success is based on how he (not-so-gently, on occasions) nudges any naturally reluctant audience members into relaxing and responding as he needs them to do. Audience participation is always a double-edged sword for everyone involved, but an undoubted joy in any Segal show – and a source of much of their humour – is how he reacts to the audience’s reactions to what he’s doing on stage. That’s whether we’re talking about a deceptively simple-looking mind-reading act based around cards which the audience are asked to fill in before the show (indicating what they think would make them happy), or a statistically highly improbably selection of cards suggesting that good things really do happen to people surrounded by good (rather than negative) thoughts. Derren Brown might, inevitably, get a name-check, in terms of what they both do, but Segal is undoubtedly a far less unsettling presence in the room – and also has a far more fulsome beard. You certainly don’t feel like pointing at him and shouting “Burn the Witch!” even when what he’s done seems frankly impossible without at least some supernatural technology.Between and during his various ‘tricks’ – to use the horrendously misappropriate phrase – Segal tells us about various aspects of happiness, including the results of decades of academic research into what makes us feel good – ensuring a show that’s “educational as well as ridiculous”. Feeling good, it would seem, ultimately comes down to being nice to – and making connections with – other people. Yes, winning the lottery might be a reasonably comfortable cushion on which to lay your head, but only materially. If you’re looking for a one-hour definition of feeling better about yourself, then you can’t go wrong with spending the time in Doug Segal’s company.

It’s clearly an uncomfortable time of life for Jo Caulfield; a succession of musical heroes have died, she’s moved from middle-class Morningside to somewhat more “cosmopolitan” Leith – a process which forced her to make a host of decisions about a new kitchen – and a majority of the British population voted for Brexit. She doesn’t dwell on the last of these for too long – perhaps because the aftershock is still too raw, or she fears another complete change of Government between now and next week – but the cumulative result of all these factors is a stand-up comedian who is significantly more caustic and profane than you might expect from previous Fringe appearances.Caulfield has clearly reached a stage of her life where she can no longer be bothered pretending to care about things she doesn’t actually care about; and it’s really, really funny. Much of the fire in this show’s belly comes from her increasing resentment of the ever-growing industry in pretending to give a cat’s arse – not least because, unlike most Americans who appear to have an innate talent for such things, us British are simply rubbish when it comes to giving a shit. Especially in M&S.So Caulfield’s had it with the friend she helped through a messy divorce, only to see her apparently lose all her brain cells following some romantic love with a new man. She’s also frequently fed up with her husband, the near-constant butt of her routines, although it’s clear that she loves him, of course. Nevertheless, she has good reasons to ban him from watching Dragons’ Den; while he’s undoubtedly full of new business ideas, perhaps most are genuinely best kept that way – in his head, and just ideas.The only slight disappointment is Caulfield’s final routine – highlighting the numerous distinctions between real-live versus Hollywood Rom-Com. It’s an amusing enough riff, and certainly doesn’t outstay its welcome, but it comes with a whiff of being pushed into a vacant climax slot in the show rather than organically growing from what had gone before. Which is a shame. This is an excellent show, otherwise, from a performer who’s clearly on the top of her game.

“Poggle’s not scared of climbing trees,” we’re told early on in this beautifully clear and uncluttered piece of vibrant dance theatre aimed at very young children. Set in a pine forest – the backdrop of which is made out of a wall of 19 big building blocks – we are first entranced by the lyrical music played by composer Daniel Padden, who’s sitting on the set like some wandering minstrel as we come in. Then we’re introduced to the welcoming Vince Virr, initially rushing around the audience with his duster, before leaping head-first into the small box which represents his home. He has a slice of bread, but no honey to spread on it; when he sees a bee, he’s determined to follow it into the woods. There, he meets the mischievous woodland creature Poggle – a delightful Jade Adamson – who not only helps him find the honey but also overcome his fear of climbing trees, squelching in mud, playing and making new friends.Choreographed and directed by Natasha Gilmore, the two dancers’ movements are expansive, bold and capture perfectly those of small children; the pair appear perfectly balanced in a routine full of rhythmic, percussive patterns which, in Padden’s case, are enhanced by Alison Brown's cleverly-textured pine cone costume for Poggle which is augmented with small bells. Both Virr and Adamson take full advantage of the space available to them, and their physical exuberance is undoubtedly contagious if some of the bobbing toddlers in the front row are anything to go by. It is quite a loud show, however; very young babies might well find that a bit scary.That’s not to underestimate the impressiveness of the overall production; the set of building blocks, for example, are constantly moved and stacked in new patterns, and many are revealed to be filled with animals and items from the forest. Indeed, the audience – especially the children – are invited to explore the nooks and crannies of these blocks at the close of the show, encouraging them to overcome their own doubts and fears of “climbing the tree”. Talk about “immersive” theatre!Overall, Poggle is an exciting piece of theatre for toddlers and young children which doesn’t stretch youngsters’ attention spans too far.

Some stupid adults, having forgotten what it’s actually like to be children, are often surprised, disturbed and horrified by the serious issues lurking in the heart of the most successful children’s stories. Fraxi Queen of the Forest is a prime example of this; a delightful child-friendly show which combines dance, bright costumes and an easily comprehensible fairytale plot in order to talk about life, death and how change is the only constant. That it does so in an engaging, life-affirming way is all to the credit of the team at Asylon Theatre and its artistic director Marta Mari.Writer Jack Dickson has created a simple story focused on a good-natured Ash tree – the titular Fraxi – whose life we follow from a small seed in the soil: "Without roots, it's hard to grow," we're told by our unseen narrator, nine-year-old Ashley. Nevertheless, through some lithe, light choreography, we see Fraxi rise and grow, until – crowned Queen – she eventually towers over, and protects, the rest of the forest. In particular, this includes an always-hungry caterpillar (the modestly named, eager-to-be-on-stage Mr HB Caterpillar, Esquire) and a young man – Woody – whose parents first met and fell in love beneath Fraxi’s branches, and whose love of trees ensures he becomes a forester. The story is performed partly through dialogue, and partly choreography; the latter, created in consultation with Monica D Ioanni, is often used to symbolically reflects the passage of time and the seasons. Agathe Girard here plays Fraxi with a genuine grace and humour, while Melanie Jordan switches smoothly between “HB” and other roles as required; the lone male in the company, Robin Hellier, provides a lithe strength to proceedings – primarily as Woody but also the seasons and the darker contribution to the plot; finally Amelia Szypczynska is the voice of Ashley, telling the story of her father, Woody. That this sometimes includes a plethora of facts, figures and explanations of the process of photosynthesis might seem odd or gratuitously “educational”, but then what child doesn’t want to share any facts that they have learned? It adds some real character to the otherwise unseen Ashley.Annie Hiner has created a range of lightweight, suitably colourful costumes for the cast, which simply and effectively reflecting both the passing seasons and their own changing nature. This is particularly notable after a dance sequence in which Fraxi struggles with – and is mortally wounded by – the dark, harsh personification of a disease affecting ash trees across Europe. Genuinely affecting, the story’s conclusion is softened by Dickson’s repeated references to the cycles of life: HB turns into a butterfly, Woody becomes a forester. “Nothing stays the same for long in the forest,” we're reminded more than once; it’s an ideal lesson for children that, sadly, too many alleged grown-ups seem to deliberately forget.

It’s pretty clear what kind of show we’re about to see when – as it becomes obvious that there isn’t actually a sufficient number of seats for all of the audience that’s turned up – an additional seat suddenly appears from behind the black curtain, with an expressive, otherwise disembodied hand pointing at it and giving a thumbs up.Barely has the audience then had time to settle down before Anna Larkin bursts out onto the “stage grass”. Flustered, she introduces herself as Ophelia – though, to be honest, she’s looking for another name. As the youngest daughter and least brave in her family, she’s now her ill father’s last hope, sent on a quest to find a magical golden feather from a magical golden bird which will apparently cure him. The problem is that she’s doesn’t think she’s brave enough to do the job and so needs some help. That’s when she conveniently meets the sock-washing Jack Stark who “modestly” claims to be the Man Who Knows Everything and can therefore help her find her prize. Both performers ensure that this is a children’s show bursting with wit, energy and a gentle self-mockery of the production’s somewhat limited special effects budget, and the occasionally necessary overacting. Larkin and Stark are a perfectly matched team, ensuring that there’s no chance of boredom setting in. Almost every line of dialogue inspires a laugh of some kind; those that don’t are usually covered with some kind of physical comedy. Much of the story is a succession of retellings of several classic folk stories, from Aesop to the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen; each retelling is filled with “business” utilising their limited range of props and costumes to the best of their ability. Arguably the show’s biggest production number – after Ophelia’s initial quest is over – is a dramatisation of The Emperor's New Clothes, although this isn’t to overlook the success of the regular side-steps into some of the fascinating facts known by The Man Who Knows Everything – with the disgusting subjects of bogies and rhino poo invariably getting the children’s vote.This show is so smoothly performed at what appears like break-neck speed that it’s surely choreographed to within an inch of its life – no mean feat given the small size of the room. But there’s a freshness, an honest exuberance which is undeniable; Larkin and Stark are brilliant at turning what is essentially a nondescript function room into a magical playground filled with regal queens, foolish emperors and castle guards played by boggle-eyed sock puppets. It’s a genuine disappointment when the show comes to an end.

Trust me, Fringe magic still happens. Just when you least expect it, you stumble upon a rough little diamond of a show, lurking within the depths of an old church, even early in the day. Pittsburgh-based Grandview Theatre Group's version of Dani Girl may be legally designated as an ‘amateur’ one, but it’s a production bursting with vitality (despite its undoubtedly morbid subject), exuding compassion and performed with speed, economy and a determination to never shirk from the cathartic.Starting as it means to go on, with nine year old Dani leading the funeral ceremony for the latest of her soft toys that she’s diagnosed with some form of cancer, Dani Girl speedily introduces us to Ralph – either an imaginary friend, a genuine guardian angel, or Dani’s imaginary and friendly guardian angel. She’s had leukaemia, on and off, since infancy; her fairytale-loving father couldn’t cope with the stress of it and left, while her mother clings with increasing desperation to her faith in both God and in “the Lord helping those who help themselves”. A depressing opening? Far from it: Michael Kooman’s sharp music and Christopher Dimond's take-no-prisoners lyrics ensure that, at least initially, Dani Girl is a remarkably playful, hope-filled story.It’s clear that Dani is an imaginative girl – inherited from her now-absent father, rather than a mother who insists that her daughter needs to take things seriously if she's ever to beat the illness and get back her hair. Luckily for Dani, she is suddenly forced to share her hospital room with Marty, a resentful boy with Hodgkins Disease who hides his deep-seated fears of the world behind a love of screen heroes ranging from Superman and Indiana Jones to Star Trek's Captain Jean-Luc Picard.Natalie Hatcher is perfectly cast as Dani; vocally and physically she has the movements and attitudes of a rather ‘young’ nine year old, and yet a strong voice capable of matching every lyrical challenge given to her. Cynthia Dougherty initially has less emotional distance to go as Mother; indeed, she only really has one song to call her own – “The Sun Still Rose” – but she delivers it with heart-breaking power. Conner Gillooly as Marty proves to be an excellent foil to Hatcher’s Dani – a tad curmudgeonly, yet still with that innocence shining through the cracks in his armour. The most exuberant performance, though, comes from Rob James, who plays Ralph and all of the other characters Dani and Marty's adventures require – a casting restriction that’s cleverly referenced in the script.Bursting with singalong melodies, witty lyrics and some surprisingly timeless cultural references (Star Trek, Star Wars and Ghostbusters to name but a few), Dani Girl is a surprisingly overlooked musical. Let's just hope that’s not the case with this particular production, which, despite its location and time slot, deserves really big audiences. Producer/director Stephen Santa and his team are doing great work that really should be seen.  

There are two ways to reach the small room where UK-based American character comedian Will Franken is performing. The easiest route – albeit usually reserved for a quick exit – is to descend the stone steps from the pavement into the basement. The slightly more complex alternative is to descend from within the building. The latter, to be honest, feels much more appropriate. Attending a Will Franken show is like spiralling down the rabbit hole: it’s a trifle absurd, a tad confusing, and undoubtedly hovering somewhere between the justly confusing and laugh-out-loud genius.From the sound-effects-laden opening – filled with self-identified invisible people who aren’t really in the room – there’s barely a pause for breath, with a succession of sketches and characters inevitably slipping into each other, sometimes within seconds rather than minutes. There are repetitions, verbal gymnastics and repeated loops back to dialogue from earlier scenes; there are moments of strange, ethereal calm, almost immediately followed by behaviour that could almost be termed manic. It’s disconcerting but - for whatever reason - also really, really funny.In Franken’s world, troubled banks start sending out suicide notes to their customers; US fighter pilots are no longer sure who the enemy is, and there are mortifying results when a jetliner unexpectedly collides with a rainbow. Talking of crashing airliners, Franken offers possibly the most inventive 9/11 sketch ever – admittedly not a hugely varied competition, but none-the-less a sign that this particular writer/performer isn’t one to shy away from any topic. The titular Little Joe, incidentally, is either a rather disturbing Yorkshireman or some half-pig-half-rabbit abomination constantly spinning away in a nearby river. Or both. Time and space here are constantly mucked about with, not least during several sequences where Franken essentially puts himself on trial because of the very same sketch that’s actually taking place at the time.The best option for such a show is arguably to sit back and not think too much; to let it flow over you, including the limited audience participation section early on. “Where can a man go to be sexist?” might not be the best song ever written, but you’ll be laughing along – perhaps more in amazement than anything else, but laughing all the same.

"Every woman is a riot," is roughly painted on the wall behind the stage area of this hidden-away New Town bar’s seldom used attic space. What we’re actually shown on a large TV screen is a group of women on a march who, after being stopped by the police, decide instead to do some impromptu sunbathing on Edinburgh's High Street setts. What’s the point? Well, all the women on this particular street march are topless.The inspiration behind the march, stand-up Samantha Pressede, is firmly of the opinion that women's breasts and nipples are nothing sexual – or at least no more inherently sexual than, say, hands. Women, she believes, should have as much right to go topless in public as men do; that it’s only the Patriarchy that sexualised women in such a way to keep their tops covered. To make this clear, after she arrives on stage like a gothic cheerleader, she performs a brief burlesque strip tease, and then carries on for much of her set topless – apart from those earlier minutes when she opts to cover her own nipples with life-size photographs of a man's. Oh, and just to make the point, written on her naked torso is written a simple, clear message: “Still not asking for it”. Samantha’s proudly from the Black Country, and so spends a few minutes explaining about where she comes from, as well as offering some translating services when it comes to local expressions. But soon the subject turns back to her own political journey to “here”: explaining how this particular anarcho-feminist isn’t against men per se, but is all for fighting the Patriarchy and the attitudes to the female body it perpetuates. Indeed, she clearly likes men; she feels sorry that cultural stereotypes mean that they're not allowed to show their emotions. During her 20s, Samantha's appreciation of men focused specifically on members of a succession of rock bands – few of which would appear to have bothered the national charts. But she wasn’t just another groupie, willing to do anything for a brief suggestion of approval. She genuinely likes sex, which perhaps is why she later opted for some therapy about her sex and love addiction.It may be because I'm a gay man, but the USP of Samantha Pressede isn’t that she tells jokes with her top off; that she’s some envelope-ripping, boundary breaking Sextremist. Actually, it’s that, regardless of the the bare flesh, she’s an “endearing” stage presence, happy to share her realisation that she can make and live by her own rules rather than anyone else’s. If that means she can actually get away with some material which a man never could – well, she’s not going to complain.

Aidan Goatley’s stand-up show isn’t, despite its title, about ELO; indeed, there’s no obvious guarantee that he will get round to telling us why he chose one of that band’s biggest hits as his title. What he does promise, however, is to talk about “the stuff you have to go through to get to where you are”; in other words, this is very much about the personal.Goatley, as he quickly points out, is not a youngster; stand-up comedy, arguably, was the only mid-life crisis that his wife would allow him to have. Given that he’s the epitome of a Brighton-living, socially responsible middle-class Englishman – who gets posher-sounding the further north he travels in mainland Britain – that mid-life crisis also reveals itself in the number of tattoos on his arms – still a work in progress, it would appear, given the protective cling wrap round one forearm on the night of the review. While admitting to a deep hatred of Bon Jovi, Goatley is hardly rock ’n’ roll – he’s a comic books geek who has somehow managed – in a relatively short time – to make something of a career for himself on the comedy circuit. There’s nothing particularly radical about his material, certainly in terms of subject – foreign travel experiences, an intimate medical procedure involving his reproductive organ, his problems when it comes to facing up to the Alpha Males of the world – but he tells each story with a real sense of freshness, bouncing well off audience feedback and even successfully incorporating the nightly sound of fireworks from the nearby Edinburgh Military Tattoo into his routine. He’s responsible too, checking the ages of some younger audience members to make sure he isn’t crossing some dangerous line.Goatley came to stand-up via scriptwriting, so you definitely know that, in his company, you’re in a pair of safe hands at least as far as the writing is concerned. His onstage persona is also well honed; for the audience, that’s happily reassuring and conducive to having a good time.

“Orthodox”, according to the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, is an adjective that suggests “following or conforming to the traditional or generally accepted rules or beliefs of a religion, philosophy, or practice”; when specifically applied to people, it implies they are “not independent-minded; conventional and unoriginal”, “of the ordinary or usual type; normal”. So it at first glance it seems to be a brave choice of adjective in the title of a debut solo show. In an Edinburgh Festival Fringe where everyone’s trying to out-outrage the outrageous (or at least come across as a tad outré), is attempting to be “normal” actually the most radical approach possible?Except, Joe Jacobs – coming to Edinburgh with the phrase “award winning comedian” already attached to his name – isn’t quite as “normal” as you might think. There can’t be that many middle-class, white Jewish rappers from Middle England among the Fringe’s thousands of performers, but arguably Jacobs’ act is sufficiently unusual to be – at least within the context of the Fringe – an absolutely typical example of what you can expect to find in Edinburgh during August. Indeed, it’s all too clear how “normal” – in terms of the Fringe – his act is; he opens with some recollections absolutely dependent on the well-worn cliches of angry locals encountered while handing out flyers, and his experiences of the unfriendly members of US Homeland Security.Jacobs is young, attractive, and comes with a certain degree of self-deprecation and knowing mockery – again, hardly rare concepts within Fringe Programme’s comedy section. So any hope for something different actually rests in his raps, most of which are quite deliberately unsuccessful – deliberate signposts in his personal journey towards the big time. Or not, as his Vanessa Feltz-inspired album tends to prove; given his background and passions, rap has proved somewhat challenging.Some of his tracks are more sharply realised than others; somehow, though, we don’t quite get to feel the depth of conflict going on inside his head between “the glamour of rap” and “the reality of life”, even though he goes into some detail about the crap jobs he’s undertaken of late – including some spreadsheets intensive office job from which he was eventually made redundant. Again, this kind of thing is pretty “orthodox” on the Fringe; Jacobs hasn’t quite yet found his comedic USP quite yet, at least when he’s not rapping.Joe Jacobs is funny, entertaining and ready to stir up some audience interaction, so he’s certainly worth putting some paper money into the bucket by the exit. As yet, though, he lacks that difficult-to-describe, but so obvious when it’s there, “something” that would make him a must-see stand-up. He may well get there but, ironically, it’s likely to require him to offer something much more unorthodox for the Fringe.

Theatre audiences are, for the most part, quite comfortable with their self-assigned role of secret voyeurs of the people on stage who go about their lives with no apparent knowledge that they’re being observed. In this female four-hander, however, which is bubbling with energy and, at times, barely suppressed anger, theatre writer and director Adura Onashile makes us much more complicit.Designer Karen Tennent’s set is a simple framework which means, as an audience, we can’t not be aware of supposedly watching what’s happening through an invisible fourth wall or, given the makeup repairs the cast soon start making towards us, imaginary one-way mirrors. It’s only later that we realise that we’ve actually been cast as a different kind of audience.Expensive Shit is set in two locations: a generic present-day nightclub (which the faded posters suggest is in Glasgow) and the Shrine club in 1970s’ Lagos, where women came to stay under the protection of pioneering Nigerian musician and political activist Fela Kuti. The switches between the two are indicated chiefly through Simon Hayes’ lighting design and Matt Padden’s soundscape – subdued bass beats for the nightclub contrasted with Fela’s full-on Afrobeats. The common connection between these two locations is Tolu (a forthright Sabina Cameron) who in the present day is the self-mocking ‘Queen of the Toilets’, scraping a living from tips and selling cheap makeup essentials. Cameron’s three fellow cast members, meantime, switch from being young “women” desperate for the alleged life-chances arising from becoming some of Fela’s dancers, to supposedly independent modern “ladies” looking for a good time at the weekend. Back at the Shrine club, Tolu dreamed of becoming Africa’s first female band leader. It’s obvious that she doesn’t achieve this although Onashile’s script holds back on why until near the close in a pivotal scene in which Tolu essentially dares to raise her head in what – for all its supposed political and creative radicalism – remains very much a patriarchal community.Given the relatively brief running time, it’s inevitable that most of the characterisation is somewhat limited despite the best efforts of the cast to breathe life into them. Like some manufactured girl group (which is not an entirely inappropriate metaphor) during the Lagos scenes Teri Ann Bobb Baxter comes across as the gutsy one, Diana Yekinni as the bolshy one, and Jamie Marie Leary as the poor innocent who’s horrified to find “her name on the door” and therefore expected to trade her virginity for an improved social position within Fela’s commune.This misuse of women is contrasted in the modern-day club scenes with the implied voyeurism and the use of date rape drugs. There is obviously anger at the heart of Expensive Shit but while we are given a real sense of outraged women at last taking control of their own image, there’s nevertheless a sense that such anger isn’t enough, and the realisation that we haven’t progressed, as a society, anywhere as far as we might think we have done.

Alistair Williams is a bit of a lad. Among what appears to be a generation of young male stand-ups struggling to work out what it means to be a modern man in the 21st century, his pre-show music is the unashamed 1980s hokum of Guns ’n’ Roses and Welcome to the Jungle. Early on, it’s also clear that Williams isn’t afraid to repeat the misogynistic language of rap performers – until he twists and suggests that such vocabulary might be why women don’t like them. It’s a courageous example of attempting to have your comedic cake and still eat it, but not an approach guaranteed to quickly endear a female-filled audience to like him. He’s lucky, though, if only genetically; lean limbs, smooth tanned skin, luxuriant hair, and a brilliant smile – Williams is the comedy circuit’s answer to Tom Hiddleston.Williams comedy style has been described as “the ramblings of a moron”. Certainly, there’s no obvious structure here; his set is a game of joke tag as he moves from one subject to the next, often with only the most tenuous of connections. Living with drugged-up Australians in Croydon, the hidden flight costs charged by EasyJet, the problems he has with job interviews, and attempting to find a genuine career use for his history degree – to be honest, there’s nothing particularly outstanding or different to see here. Williams delivers his jokes at a steady pace; and if the show runs quicker than expected, he continues into his “extra material” to ensure he professionally fills his allocated time on stage. Some of his observations are amusing; a few are really funny. Alas, he doesn’t yet have enough of the latter to totally distract us from the less successful material. “Usually that jokes does better” might be a genuinely self-effacing throw-away line, but does he really want that to get a bigger laugh than his (presumably) long-worked-on joke? (Arguably, he should; the sense of truth and reality in that single comment was noticeable.)Occasionally, there are flashes of genuine brilliance here – not least when he explains how the ongoing Middle East crisis unexpectedly became the subject of discussion in the Bookies’ shop where he previously worked. Yes, Williams does occasionally dip his toe into more political areas, but he never dives in, and there’s seldom a sufficiently satisfactory pay-off in many of his observations to act as a genuinely dramatic punchline.Williams clearly has it in him to go far in comedy, but, at the moment seems reluctant to fully commit himself; there’s always the sense of some distance between himself as performer and us as his audience. The most successful stand-ups are the people we know – or at least think we know. At the moment, Williams is just a pretty boy who still seems to be playing at being a stand-up rather than being one: yes, he’s often funny, but he could be so much more.

Andrew Doyle has now brought five solo shows to Edinburgh, each noticeably different in style and tone; even Doyle’s on-stage persona has shifted somewhat from one year to the next – although you could never accuse him of sliding all the way along the attitude spectrum to reach dewy-eyed optimism. Which is supposedly why, this time round, Doyle tells us he’s trying to “gee up” his set – as symbolised in the pre-show music selection (some upbeat 1980s pop rock courtesy of Huey Lewis and the News), the occasional Biblical quote, and his somewhat calculated attempts to crack a certain Edinburgh Fringe Award.Yet, as the near-finished tall bottle of cheap vodka on the small table suggests, Doyle is ever-so-slightly a bit of a pessimist, and there hasn’t been much to alter that in the news of late. The heart of Future Tense isn't the day after tomorrow; it’s the constant tension between Doyle’s repeated attempts to satisfy audiences which he thinks “just want to be cheered up”, and his involuntary slipping back into cynicism about the state of the world. Doyle has never shied away from referencing contemporary culture in past shows, but he’s seldom before been quite as focused on the current political situation as now. Frankly, he’s very good at it, even if you might hear an echo of a certain spoof news reporter whose debut Fringe show has been co-written by Doyle. Doyle is, of course, an excellent, original writer; his shows – even something as seemingly free-flowing as this – are very... considered. Also, his take on arguably orthodox, even predictable, subjects for comedy at the Fringe – the privately-educated 7% of the population who dominate our cultural and political elites, the family members you love but don’t necessarily like, etc – are memorable and highly original. (There’s one particular diatribe here which concludes with Doyle brilliantly pulling the proverbial rug from under his audience; you definitely need to pay attention at one of Doyle’s shows.)Yet never doubt that Doyle’s talent as a writer is equalled by his onstage presence; his acerbic, take-control approach which inevitably leads him to flirt with any man who happens to be sitting in the front row – ideally if they’re sat next to a female partner. Like some hard-eyed child, he’ll ask audience members those questions you’re really not supposed to, with an intensity that’s frankly difficult to resist – and chances are you’ll laugh precisely because he’s not asking you.Thought-provoking, laugh-inducing, and weirdly celebratory (despite everything), Doyle is very much on top comedic form.

Several years ago, a couple of wannabe stand-ups decided to do a Free Fringe show based around some of the odd things their respective fathers had said and done down the years. Joanna Griffin, on the other hand, decided to bring her dad – 73-year-old Irish builder Pat – to the Fringe. The nominal “excuse” is that, in the name of finding some quality time together following the death of his wife and her mother, they decided to swap jobs – Pat learning to be a comedian while Joanna tried to learn how to build a brick wall.As ideas go, it’s as wonderfully weird and wacky as any you might find in Edinburgh during August. There’s no doubt they go with it, not least with the set and props – bricks and cement included – but also by offering cups of “builders tea” to the audience as they come in. As an idea, this “feel the fear and do it anyway” show – Pat does love his motivational quotes, you see – definitely has genuine potential. It’s just a shame that it’s not quite yet fully realised. Simply put, Joanna is rubbish at building brick walls; while Pat might have some potential as a storyteller, but definitely has no sense of timing when it comes to rattling off one-liners. Which, unfortunately, is what he really wants to do.The pair undoubtedly have a real chemistry, and it’s genuinely quite emotional when Pat, in particular, reminisces about a recent holiday they shared together. It’s clear that both, in their own ways, are still very much re-assembling their lives following the loss of the wife and mother who had been at the heart of their family. A woman who, undoubtedly, would have been horrified by the pair doing a show on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. While the show clearly has something it wants to say about the right and wrong times in life to make plans – and whether the idea of making plans is ultimately more reassuring than the actual plans themselves – there must be ways in which such concepts can be more effectively scripted into the piece. Also, when it come to the basics, both Joanna and her dad should really be miked up, as too often what they were saying was nearly lost beneath the loud music and cheering bleeding in from other performances in the building.On occasions charming, at times touching, this is an enjoyable enough way to spend an hour – if only to get a free cup of tea. Nevertheless, it still has a work-in-progress feel to it; proof, if nothing else, that it sometimes takes more than just nine months to put a Fringe show together. Especially when half of the act is effectively a newbie.

The word “fabulous” is defined as being extraordinary and wonderful, and having no basis in reality. However, it’s a genuine stretch to describe Australian Wayne Carter as mythical – even if he’s a burly guy in a dress, ready to lip-sync and do some burlesque – given he’s performing in the basement of one of Edinburgh’s less notable bars.There’s a ramshackle air to proceedings, not least because – being a lone performer on PBH’s Free Fringe – Carter’s also his own sound mixer and techie. Lip-synching convincingly to an eclectic jumble of tracks – from Tom Jones’ She’s A Lady to Celine Dion’s All By Myself – is far harder than it looks, but as an opening number the routine lacks impact, relying too much on predictable sexual innuendo. “It’s a free show – you get what you pay for,” Carter adds soon afterwards: it gets a laugh, but you do wonder if such honesty on his part is actually a good idea in the longer term. Especially when Carter goes into fairly specific spiel about exactly how much it’s costing him to be part of Edinburgh’s 'free' Fringe – with the implication being that everyone should be digging really deep into the pockets as they leave the room.In an attempt to keep things fluid, Carter regularly takes a folded strip of paper from a bucket, on which is written a “never have I ever…” action or event which triggers some reminiscence from him or a story or two from the more willing members of his audience. His decision to mix these questions up from one show to the next is allegedly to help maintain his own interest, but when a few fairly low key stories come one after the other it does rather feels like Carter is losing control of his own show – which is never really a good sign. Even worse, though, is when he opts to invite on stage an audience member to lip-synch to Gloria Gainer’s I Will Survive – that universal gay anthem – and realises too late that, at least on the night of this review, the young guy is another Fringe performer who’s all too capable of totally upstaging him.Occasionally slightly bizarre, but for the most part fair-to-middling, Wayne Carter isn’t likely to set the comedy world alight. Not yet, anyway. As for being a lesson in how to be fabulous, it’s an absolute failure.

Despite the commanding tone of his show’s title, John Gordillo doesn’t actually come across as a fan of Capitalism as an economic and social system. Especially given the post-industrial-stage which Capitalism appears to have now reached, during this first quarter of the 21st century. This is, allegedly, the age when we’re expected to feel good about things – such as the numerous near-monopolies in our public transport infrastructure – that we have no choice about using. A sign of this is how we’re now – constantly – harassed by companies wanting us to feel good, and checking up on our experience in the name of caring when (of course) what they’re really up to is undertaking simple data-mining in order to sell on our details to advertisers. You know things have gone too far, Gordillo suggests, when you’re even asked to rate your “security experience” at Heathrow. Who in their right mind, he asks, would ever consider selecting the oh-so-positive smiley face after getting through security alive before boarding their flight?Gordillo comes across as a respectable, thoughtful middle-class Englishman, probably because he is one – a self-declared former pornography and escort addiction adding a little shade and colour. He’s not the cliche of some feel-good Guardian reader, however; nor is he someone who suggests violent revolution against the multinational corporations whose brands and dreams are pitched at us numerous times every day. With the earnest keenness of the recently inspired, he certainly wants to open our eyes to the ethical limits of capitalism; that once you commodify something within a consumer framework, value goes out the window. He resists using the cliché of “knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing”, but mines some real comedy out of the basic idea. That, for example, the Grand Canyon isn’t really something that should be judged on “convenience”; that such an awe-inspiring wonder of the natural world shouldn’t be reduced to star rating on TripAdvisor.Gordillo’s campaigning response to this particular symptom of Capitalism – seen in a closing video – is certainly amusing, although even in 2016 any stand-up still risks the malicious attention of gremlins when introducing any audio-visual aids to the stage. (This is particularly the case in any multi-show venue where the set-up/take-down period between shows is barely 10 minutes.) Luckily, though, the video display is a useful add-on rather than an absolutely vital feature of the show; the heart of the show is Gordillo’s intelligent, if not always laugh-a-minute pronouncements.

There’s an anarchic edge to the Trash Test Dummies – as might be expected from a circus troupe who go on to perform a succession of tricks and humorous gymnastics using that most utilitarian of urban objects, the wheelie bin. So it’s no surprise that the three Australian performers – burly Jamie Bretman, wiry Jack Coleman, and somewhat gangly Simon Wright – are prone to start clearing up the seats as audience members are still piling in. On the day of this review, they even “borrow” someone’s sweets and a woman’s mobile phone, taking a few audience shots and selfies before returning it to her. Later, when they have a serious falling out over some unintended injury, the by-then sweating cast take to hiding among the audience.The show proper starts with a routine based on the idea of throwing an empty plastic bottle into a black bin-bag, although a series of misses and misunderstandings ensures that it takes several attempts before a younger audience member is assisted to get the job done. Following this, the focus shifts to three of the numerous wheelie bins on stage; each becomes a partner of one of the performers in an at-times almost balletic choreography of human bodies moving in, out and on top of the bins as they’re dragged, pushed and otherwise lifted around the stage. Performed with a minimum of speech – this is a physical comedy show – there’s no doubt about the circus skills each man brings to the stage, although I do wonder just how many accidents are going to occur now as kids attempt to climb into their own bins. For the duration of the show, though, the “dummies” certainly offer a playful way of looking at even the most boring household objects. Throw in some juggling, some physical comedy (which thankfully errs on the side of gymnastic rather than physical assault), easily identifiable movie references and lots – and I do mean lots – of coloured plastic balls, and the result is a show that barely pauses to catch its breath; a dynamic and fun show suitable for all the family.I don’t usually reference anything said by my fellow audience members in my reviews, but the grey-haired lady sitting next to me was enamoured by the show as much as the young girl by her side. Though not perhaps for the same reason; she admitted to me that she wished her local bin-men were quite as active and good-looking at the Trash Test Dummies!

While categorised in the Fringe programme under theatre, this work – created and directed by Kai Fischer with contributions from its cast – is certainly not a play, at least in the conventional sense. Rather, it’s a soundscape, an aural collage performed live by two musicians and three actors sat in a row across the stage. Most of the show – percussion notwithstanding – is only accessible through headphones; certainly its most subtle nuances (as breaths merge into the sound of waves, for example) would be otherwise lost. This places the audience in an unusual situation; listening together, and yet listening alone, isolated.[Line change, does this work for you?] The creation of this feeling of isolation appears deliberate as Last Dream (On Earth) focuses on people who are alone and preparing for an incredibly dangerous journey in the hope of reaching some wonderful new future. Fischer combines reportage of the experiences of African migrants attempting to cross the 20 miles of sea to Spain, with the communications between the head of the USSR’s space programme, Sergei Korolev, and the man who became the first ever human to see our planet from space, cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin.It is by no means an obvious fusion, which is presumably why Fischer focuses on the sharp end of life in extremis, as Gagarin is thrust into orbit and the migrants attempt to cross the busiest shipping route in the world overnight in a small toy dinghy. Nevertheless, the connection feels a tad forced. Gagarin was a military pilot serving the Motherland (during arguably the greatest proxy war in human history) while the migrants, given false names to protect their identities, are desperately fleeing poverty, oppression, and violence. The only thing they all seem to share is a belief that, when facing the great unknown, doing something is better than doing nothing. Actors Michelle Cornelius, Kimisha Lewis, and Edward Nkom give voice to the participants alongside musicians Tyler Collins and Gameli Tordzro, who provide a remarkable range of sounds through guitar, percussion, and voice – all choreographed and augmented by sound designer Matt Padden. And yet, the most memorable point is an almost painful silence, representative of a five minute period when all communications between mission control and Gagarin were lost – when, despite being among an audience of more than a hundred people, we feel terribly alone, cocooned in our headphones with only the sound of our own breathing in our ears.This is also really the only moment in the performance when Fischer offers a genuine reason why this needs to be a work that’s performed live, rather than broadcast on BBC Radio 3. Despite some fairly effective back-projection and mood lighting on the performers, it is the silence – during which the performers simply stare, frozen, out to the audience – which underscores the need for us all to be in the same room, together, in order for it to make any sense.

Underbelly’s largest venue is the huge tent – shaped like an purple cow tipped onto its back – that this year has been transplanted into the western half of George Square Gardens. Given its size, it’s initially surprising (at least to the uninitiated) that it’s the selected venue for a children’s show which is essentially about blowing soap bubbles. But it is, and just as well; a near sell-out, by the looks of it. The ‘room’ is full of kids, one of whom later reveals that he’s already seen the show more than once, so there’s clearly some repeat business here. That may well explain the level of excitement even before Louis Pearl – self-described as one of the world’s leading bubble-ologists – walks on stage.Louis Pearl blows bubbles. He blows big bubbles. He blows huge long bubbles, rippling with every colour of the rainbow. He blows bubbles with bubbles inside them. He blows bubbles with smoke inside them. He blows bubbles with, clearly, a gas inside that’s lighter than air so that they float slowly to the ceiling. He blows towers of bubbles on volunteers’ heads; he juggles bubbles and karate-chops them in two. Written down, it doesn’t actually sound like much, but with the cabaret-styled musical accompaniment of the talented Jet Black Pearl, this is a show that’s definitely much more than the sum of its parts. Or its bubbles. “I love bubbles more than you do,” Louis insists at one point. Many of the younger audience members fervently disagree, although it’s obvious to any outside observer that what most of the kids – particularly those sitting in the first few rows – really enjoy is bursting them. But there’s nevertheless a simple, wondrous simplicity to the proceedings; it’s spectacle, yes, but with just a hint of possibility. After all, who hasn’t blown bubbles at some point in their lives and wondered just how big they could possibly make them if only they had the right “equipment”?For this reviewer, arguably the most impressive example of the bubble science on display here is a smoke filled bubble which – somehow – Louis manages “to burst in slow motion”, the escaping smoke inside pushing down and out like a rocket exhaust. He points this out, but doesn’t go into any explanation of how; he’s more interested in the bubbles and ensuring as many children as possible have their moment of bubble triumph in the spotlight.Definitely a well-spent hour in the morning, and one that – apologies – won’t burst that fragile bubble of childhood wonder any time soon. Just be prepared to buy bubble bath on the way home!

Scott Agnew is looking good, these days; whether that’s down to him drinking less is unclear, though it’s clearly a bit of a culture shock on the night of this review as it’s his first experience of doing a late Sunday night show at least several drinks behind most of his audience. But he’s certainly honest about it; open too about just how quickly he’s spiralling off-script, riffing with some of the more excitable members of a small but attentive audience. Not least the American who admits to understanding perhaps just 5-10% of what Scott’s says in his fairly broad Glaswegian accent.During some – though not all – of his past shows Scott has held back on “dropping the G-bomb”, i.e. coming out as gay, until well into the set. He’s well aware that, as a gruff six-foot-five Glaswegian, he’s not the stereotypical image of a homosexual Scotsman – and doesn’t like to waste any impact that delivering that small piece of information can have on an audience. Not on this occasion, though; he starts his routine by checking that everyone in his audience – especially the three men sat in the front row – know that they’re in for “a bit of a poof show” and not something to do with folk music. Though he’s not, to his mother’s alleged disappointment, one of those useful, stylish “decorating poofs”. This is just the first in a succession of tales and asides that cast him in a bleak light, ranging from the trials and tribulations of finding breakfast in early morning Glasgow to trying not to be a sex tourist in Prague. Another thread through this set is how Scott has been diagnosed with a succession of addictions which – he now realises – were more likely symptoms of a more fundamental condition, rather than isolated problems on their own. He still has a “bomb” of sorts, which delivers towards the end of the show, and it’s arguably the most thought-provoking moment of the hour. Overall, this holds together reasonably well as a stand-up show, but the real pleasure is seeing Scott surf on whatever unexpected waves his audience provides – and, on the night of this review, these range from seemingly unstoppable drunken hysteria in the back row to one man having to pop out to sort out his wife’s accommodation problems. Scott’s constantly on the ball, though; the older man’s heterosexuality is confirmed through his decades-plus Nokia phone being simply incapable of running Grindr.If you’re looking for smooth, word-perfect comedy, then this probably isn’t for you; if you’re looking for an honest good laugh, though, Scott’s definitely your man.

When life gives you lemons, those with an optimistic, can-do attitude invariably suggest you make lemonade. Bright-eyed, eager-to-please Johnny Cochrane certainly embodies this positive approach to life, not least by capitalising on how his name sounds the same as O J Simpson’s famous lawyer Jonnie Cochran. Closer to home, this particular Johnny also opts to focus his debut Edinburgh Fringe Show (a genuine challenge, and now a vital stage in any stand-up performer’s career) on what makes a Hit Debut Edinburgh Fringe Show.To ensure he doesn’t wander off-subject – an apparent weakness that we sadly never experience – Johnny has prompt cards in his hands and a pre-prepared PowerPoint presentation which he asks an audience member to operate on his behalf. The point of both is to ensure he keeps to what he believes are the five vital ingredients for any Hit Debut Edinburgh Fringe Show. Namely: to be diverse, relatable, recognisable, political and sexy. He has diversity nailed, of course, being a mixed-race lad from Essex; there’s also little doubting his inoffensive “salt of the Earth” everyman persona. As for recognisability, presenting some of his previous on-screen appearances – which are not quite what you might expect – inspire many of the biggest laughs in the show.Yet, if Johnny is making lemonade, he’s still a tad too keen to dazzle us with cooking utensils; a few potentially interesting verbal flights of fancy are pinned down by PowerPoint like a butterfly collection. Also, though the screen is physically behind him, there’s a sense that Johnny’s actually hiding behind the technology; as if he doesn’t yet have full confidence in his own material. Another example is how gets members of the audience to read out positive comments about himself and the show; amusing once, perhaps twice (depending on the lack of performance skills being employed) but the repetition doesn’t hit the mark in terms of being funny.An unexpected feature of the PowerPoint, incidentally, is the occasional switch to an alleged live feed from a backstage CCTV camera; initially, this just seems to be an unusual way for Johnny to introduce himself before he actually emerges from behind the curtain – we get a glimpse of someone getting the adrenalin going, telling himself that it’s “time to shine”. But, as the show progresses, a backstage narrative builds up that brings the show to a somewhat unexpected conclusion. Alas, Johnny isn’t quite a sufficiently natural actor to totally hit the emotional mark with this, but credit for at least attempting something genuinely different.The more Johnny Cochrane relaxes into his material, and the less he relies on comedic crutches to support his humour, the greater his Appeal is likely to be. One to watch, definitely, but preferably not in PowerPoint. 

Pretend news reporter Jonathan Pie – the creation of actor Tom Walker – has risen to public attention, during the last year, thanks to a succession of videos on YouTube which allegedly reveal what happens in-between the regular “in the field” reports to camera that have become the basic vocabulary of television news. If you haven’t seen any of the Pie videos, the idea is pretty simple: invariably, what happens “off-camera” is that Jonathan Pie goes into an explosive rant about either the subjects he’s reporting on or the way it’s being reported by the mainstream media – of which he is, ironically, a part.Few of these videos have run for longer than five minutes, however, so the obvious challenge for Walker – along with co-writer Andrew Doyle – is how to expand the basic premise into a full hour for the Fringe without ruining it. The method they opt for is perfect; Jonathan Pie is brought into the studio as the last minute replacement for John Barrowman during an Edinburgh Fringe-based segment of the BBC’s annual Children in Need appeal. Given that most of the action in this live telethon is happening elsewhere, however, it becomes all too obvious that the man will have plenty of time “off-air” in which to get enraged.In part goaded by his unseen producer “and director, on this occasion” Tim (who I imagine to be about 21 and straight out of Oxbridge), and also by his ex-wife’s refusal to pass over their son for the weekend, Jonathan Pie is soon tearing into the need for charities, the ever-widening rich/poor divide in Britain, and why he really misses David Cameron and his supposedly “Green” government policies. The audience lap it up, though that doesn’t actually go down that well with the reporter – the more we applaud, he points out, the less he’ll be able to tell us in the time available to him.The big danger with Jonathan Pie is that it’s sometimes too easy to comprehend the sound and fury but not the intelligence behind it; for this news reporter is well aware of his own foibles – not least his weakness for “Ad hominem” attacks on people’s characters and attributes rather than their policies. That such “arguments” don’t actually lead to the kind of reasoned political debate that we so desperately need. And, as he’s all too willing to point out, of late it’s actually been those on the Left of British politics who have been most guilty of the bigotry they accuse of in others. “Just because you’re offended doesn’t mean you’re right,” he eventually shouts at us, after being forced to apologise for saying nasty things about his ex-wife on BBC premises. Arguably, it’s his attacks on those who are all too willing to be offended and outraged that is Jonathan Pie at his most powerful, insisting that genuine debate is at the heart of democracy. Bad, negative ideas should be shot down by good argument, he insists, not just banned. Unfortunately, democracy is just one of those wonderful ideas which always gets ruined once people – and, in particular, the Great British Public – get involved.Or a producer with a really naff idea about how to present the show which, ever the professional, Jonathan Pie feels obliged to carry out. Brilliant, funny, angry, and above all intelligent. 

Male stand up comedians from certain parts of Glasgow often face a significant impediment; they can’t help but sound like Billy Connolly, and so inevitably find themselves compared with “the Big Yin” – especially when performing in old rival city Edinburgh. Larry Dean, however, doesn’t suffer unduly from any such comparison; he’s just as happy to play with the stereotypes of the “scary friendly” Glaswegian, just as self-effacing when it comes to his own foibles and failings, and perfectly willing to revisit a prostate check for the sake of a big laugh. Larry's a natural raconteur, which is all the more impressive when he “comes out” as being dyslexic and having a stammer.Arguably, though, Larry has two distinguishing features as a performer: one, he is arguably easier on the eye than Connolly ever was; and two, he’s gay – a fact he deliberately “just” drops into his set via the use of a personal pronoun. Thankfully, it appears that we’ve reached the stage of human civilisation where, at least to a keen Edinburgh Festival Fringe audience, the sexual orientation of the performer simply isn’t an issue. Perhaps it helps that he “can’t do camp”; that he comes across as just a funny, generally inoffensive young man who might make fun of his Mum’s accent but definitely loved his Gran. What’s not to love?Except, of course, being a homosexual Glaswegian does inevitably colour his experience of the world, especially since he’s once again single and so experiencing the new dating reality of mobile Apps like Grindr. You could argue that his material about “dating etiquette” in this brave new 21st century world isn’t that radical – even straights use the likes of Tinder now – but Larry shares his stories with a glint in the eye and uses them as compelling evidence of how different the world is now that everyone is apparently aware that sex happens. If there’s any point Larry appears to be making, it’s how he needs to get over his fear of emotions in general, and to better control his habit of ruining all those “nice” moments in life by involuntarily making jokes. Farcissist feels pretty free, flexible and relaxed – as well it should – but his return to an earlier story some 40 minutes later is a perfect example of how smoothly honed this show actually is.On the night of this review, Larry Dean wore long denim shorts and a white T-shirt with “Like It” written in large red letters. Like this show? I loved it!

Geoff Norcott, as he points out quite early on in his set, has not been seen on television. On the face of it, this is a real shame; he's photogenic enough, and has the kind of sharp-witted jokes that would go down well on screen. Except… Showing remarkable restraint (or assuming that his audiences are intelligent enough to work it out for themselves) he resists labouring the join-the-dots – that the reason he’s not made it onto any of the panel games brimming with stand-up comedians is because his politics are considered “wrong”. For Norcott is a self-declared Conservative voter; he does insist, though, that he’s not a Tory.Regarding ‘the Tories’ he makes just as damning comments about Theresa May’s “Cabinet of James Bond Villains” as any so-called left-leaning comedian you might find on the Fringe. You sense this isn’t just out of some precautionary form of self-defence; he actually means it. Norcott is like many a politically-minded stand-up at the moment, desperately forced to tear up his script given the speed of political changes in the last few months, though Norcott admits to voting Leave himself. If he’s tough on the Conservative Government, though, it’s not because he thinks much of the alternatives. He’s quick enough to mock goody-two-shoe liberals and lovers of Owen Jones (the Guardian columnist). Yet a significant proportion of the show isn’t about such Westminster Bubble tittle-tattle; he instead tries to explain how the experiences of his life influenced his politics. Norcott makes something out of how he grew up on an estate – though not one which employed a gamekeeper – and is the progeny of a long line of Labour supporters. (His dad was a lifelong trade unionist.) He, himself, was a teacher and JobCentre staffer. Sweating away at the coalface of education and employment, however, has given him a significantly different point of view, on the balance between charity and tough love, than you might expect. There’s absolutely no doubting that Norcott is a funny guy; he’s good at setting up and delivering punchlines. If he occasionally asks – without a tinge of sarcasm – for his 'safe space', he’s equally open to feedback, designating the last quarter of the show with a Heckle Amnesty. In this respect, Fringe word-of-mouth is clearly spreading; while some early reviews noted a lack of audience come-backs; that’s shifting, not least because the show is beginning to attract people willing enough to publicly declare that they voted Conservative in 2015. It appears that even Norcott finds that somewhat disconcerting; but he’s clever enough to roll with it for some serious comedic results.

Some things never change; despite more than a decade performing stand-up, Laurence Clark still opens his set by drawing attention to his cerebral palsy: “This is just how I talk. I’m not pissed,” he explains, before the screen behind him reveals an image of him allegedly in an inebriated state. In an ideal world, you might hope that attempting to explain – even excuse – his impairment should be unnecessary; then again, it does get his first big laugh of the show, and relaxes the audience in for the next hour. So all power to him.Which, arguably, is precisely what Clark’s latest show is about: “independence”. He’s the first to point out that the word is slightly more loaded now politically than when he chose it back in January. However, Clark is being political only in the sense of “the personal being political”. Personal independence and his own limitations as a disabled person are now something he takes pride in, he tells us. Yet this wasn’t always the case; not least when he was growing up and a succession of well-meaning people (particularly the social worker he nicknames “Canadian Vicky”) forced him to practice for hours simple tasks – like drinking out of a glass – supposedly to help prepare him for living independently. No wonder “independence” seemed a scary thing.No one, Clark points out, is totally independent – presumably even Bear Grylls opts to buy bread from the supermarket most weeks rather than bake his own. The difference for Clark is that he has to regularly prove to the authorities the extent to which he needs support in order to live as independently as possible. This, arguably, gives him a viewpoint on the subject that most of his audiences will hopefully never experience, but Clark as usual is brilliant when laying out his experiences before us in a readily comprehensible, good-natured manner. Unlike many a stand-up who uses PowerPoint and videos as a crutch, Clark’s shows are still genuinely multi-media, with him frequently using visuals to land a succession of punchlines. (He also interacts this year with his “tech”, who manages to get a couple of lines. Stardom beckons. Not.)Clark continues to have plenty of hard things to talk about – from non-disabled actors “cripping up” and “stealing his act” to some slightly disconcerting experiences he had while gigging in New Delhi during the 70th anniversary commemorations for Indian Independence. Yet he remains, for the most part, a far from intimidating presence on stage, full of warmth and humour. This doesn’t mean that he’ll never risk making any of his non-disabled audience members feel slightly uncomfortable, but when he does it’s done with precision and just cause. 

There’s surely no better sign that mental health issues – and depression in particular – are becoming more openly discussed than for the likes of Colin Hoult to come along and start taking the piss. Admittedly he does so through a particularly spectacular vehicle, the musical theatre performer Anna Mann, whose allegedly fulsome CV appears to be dominated by a succession of productions with preternaturally short runs – Aliens the Musical, Einstein’s Folly, Chairman Mao the Musical…Mann is not herself immune to the “black dog” of depression – not least because she’s a woman over the age of 25 (ahem!) in a profession that increasingly focuses on the young. So, she tells us, she joined a therapy group; as is her way, though, she quickly took it over and subsequently decided to turn some of the other attendees’ life stories into a series of potentially educational sketches and vignettes. Here, though, there comes a necessary health warning: despite what it says on the thousand t-shirts she had printed up before arrival, Mann has to admit that this particular one-woman show (if you don’t count her two black leotard-wearing assistants, played by Tom Greaves and Andrew Bridge) won’t actually cure you of depression.What follows is a succession of tightly-written character sketches, introduced with a costume change and some on-stage business – a dance perhaps, or some audience interaction. In hindsight, the show as a whole feels slightly jagged, stylistically speaking; in the moment, however, Hoult’s judgement is absolutely sound. Each of the characters is succinctly introduced and performed – the tightly wound-up PE teacher, the German documentary filmmaker who turns people’s anguish into comedy, and quite possibly the most cringe-inducing parody of a self-described 57 year-old white man looking for election to local government. At the same time, Mann herself is never far from a cursory interaction with an audience member: whatever their answer to her question, her response of “Fuck off! I Love It!” is the catchphrase we all quickly learn to love. A Sketch Show For Depressives has no easy answers, and mocks the idea that exercise alone can make you feel better. On the plus side, though, both it and Mann in particular are sure to make you laugh.

The sharp-suited David Mills is already seated on stage when his audience comes in, chatting with us, riffing along to a Barry Manilow hit; while he later insists that the role in life he wants to play is that of a 1950s US TV sitcom husband, there’s also a sense of him being one of those cool easy-listening singers who survived into the early 1970s. Mills doesn’t sing, but his barely-pausing-for-breath monologue – he doesn’t share the stage with anyone, people – is undoubtedly melodic, entrancing us as much with its deliberate aural repetitions, sweeps and flows as the dark wit and intelligence in what he says.As an American in London who’s now – to his clear horror – still trying to make people laugh in a dark room called the “Wee Coo” in Edinburgh – he is undoubtedly an outsider of sorts, a life role he often uses to comedic advantage, not least when displaying his own apparent lack of empathy with either his Muslim neighbour or the partner. He doesn’t like the word "boyfriend," though; he insists he's "not one of the good gays" and, aged – no, surely not! – 48, is old enough to remember when "gay used to be rock 'n' roll". Being the respectable homosexual with the excitable hand clapping just isn't him – although there’s a real irony in that he spends a reasonable proportion of the show telling us about the “learning experience” of being in Meryl Streep's latest film, playing – you guessed it – the “gay best friend” in "Florence Foster Jenkins", alongside Hugh Grant and Rebecca Ferguson. This is when he is at last able to move among the special people, the sons and daughters of the rich and powerful – his people, he believes, even if they don't immediately recognise the fact.With David Mills there's always an enticing whiff of irritation and disdain, that's ready to erupt should someone have the audacity to slip out for a toilet break halfway through the show – though it's nothing compared to the reaction when they return to their seat afterwards. Whether or not it's an affectation, his sharp-tongued delivery confirms just how at ease he is on stage, ready to deal with whatever his audience provides. Though, to be honest, he clearly believes that attack is the best form of defence, even offering some less responsive people in the front row the opportunity to leave the show without criticism. (He appears mildly disappointed that they stay.)Despite the show's title, David Mills doesn't appear to be the type of man to do shame; he remains a sharp player in the comedy arena, and well worth your time.

Tom Neenan appears to be making his way through the genres with his one-man/many characters shows: Edwardian ghost story in 2014, and 1950s-styled British science fiction thriller last year. In 2016, with Vaudeville, Neenan shifts back to horror, but specifically the portmanteau horror films in which several tales were linked together for a greater effect, a format made famous by the likes of Dead by Night and Tales from the Crypt.Entering the room, which has been plunged into total darkness, Neenan – allegedly celebrating his birthday all on his lonesome – is the security guard working in the old Vaudeville Theatre. He’s somewhat startled to suddenly find himself with an audience, and once it becomes clear that we’ve paid money (well, except for us reviewers) and are not intending to leave, Neenan decides to share some of the more famous stories about the place. The first focuses on a “magician, ventriloquist and weirdo” who’s dummy Mr Nibbles appears to have a murderous mind of its own, especially when it comes to getting rid of a rival for the affections of a beautiful singer called Doreen. This is followed by the tale of the celebrated actor who murders a horrendous theatre critic in order to safely perform his one-man production of Hamlet without fear of her scorn and ridicule. Finally, there’s the tale of young wannabe ballet dancer Kelly, who unwittingly makes a deal with the devil, which of course doesn’t end well for her. On their own, each of the stories works well, although the final one is arguably lower-key than you might expect, in terms of its wit and twist. But Neenan knows his subject well – in the best portmanteau horror films, the true climax is actually the final twist in the wrap-around narrative which, on this occasion, puts the audience – us – in a very different light.Once again Neenan performs all of the characters in the stories, each precisely focused around a particular accent, posture, character quirk or even their location on the stage. He impressively switches from one character to another, having conversations with himself that even on occasions include off-hand discussions about mistakes he’s made in performing his own script.Talking of the script, while there are still plenty of laughs to be had in Neenan’s much-loved wordplay and self-conscious recognition of the limits of the staging, the use of this kind of material is much more restrained – and, therefore, all the more effective. Even with Noonan, you can have too much of a good thing; it’s great to see his writing mature, with a greater focus on characters which – though not exactly drawn in three dimensions – are increasingly more than just flat jokes.

Mikey and Addie is a story about two pre-teen kids who couldn't be more different – Mikey’s life is all about imagination and play, while Addie’s is focused on enforcing rules and regulations with a determination to be “the best playground monitor... ever!” Yet the first surprise is how Robert Alan Evans’ script – brilliantly performed here, solo, by Andy Manley (who initially comes across as some enthusiastic curator intent on creating a narrative from “small bits and connections”) – sets the scene within the significantly wider perspective of the solar system, before coming back down to Earth and Mikey and Addie's very different morning routines.The storytelling here is supported by a series of objects displayed on plain black stands, each slowly revolving like object d'art in ultra-chic art gallery: a glass bowl, initially full of crumpled tinfoil, that momentarily represents the Earth; metal flowers sprouting out of a metal pot; a NASA mug and a large spoon, the latter taking on the role of an astronaut out by Jupiter; a simple tinfoil plate; an oven glove. Under Andy Cannon's skilful direction, Shona Reppe's deceptively simple design remains sufficiently abstract to not distract our own imaginations as Manley creates a world for us along with its clearly delineated inhabitants.Categorised as being for age 9+, this show admittedly requires a reasonable attention span, plus a willingness to take on a bittersweet coming of age story. This loss of childhood innocence – the realisation that his mother had been lying to him for years – is purposely balanced by Addie's own journey towards being slightly less fixated on rules, and more open to the wonders of the world around her. This may not be the greatest dramatic journey in the history of theatre, but Manley's commitment to its telling ensures we really care. In some respects, this is down to the small, oh-so-human details in Evans’s script: Mikey’s mum keeping the important memorabilia of her life, including his birth certificate, in an old Quality Street tin; Addie loving underlining things, and being easily distracted display cases of dictaphones; that Mikey, on the day he bunks off school to get the bus to Glasgow, checks himself in the mirror before leaving and “tries to look older”.Immeasurably aided by a perfectly timed soundscape created by Danny Krass and the effective use of lighting (originally designed by Fred Pommerehn), Manley's performance is full of physical nuance and genuine childlike intensity. The result is a show that’s perceptively written, brilliantly performed, and definitely an hour well-spent – however grown up you might think you are.

Making a musical out of poetic animal stories aimed at children is nothing new but, while Andrew Lloyd Webber opted to turn T S Eliot’s Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats into the somewhat plot-free, dance and song-dominated Cats, Matthew Brown has instead lifted the simple adventures of a scruffy long-haired dog and his pals into a brilliantly clear, constantly engaging show which, despite its hour-long running time, manages to incorporate the main plots of six of Lynley Dodd’s iconic children’s books.OK: with the Hairy Maclary series we’re hardly talking books the length of War and Peace, but there’s arguably still more “things happening” here than in the entirety of Cats. If that’s not enough to hold the attention, though, there’s also the bright, expertly designed set that’s a marvel of compactness, with numerous features folded in and pulled out as and when they’re required. While the musical accompaniment may appear pre-recorded, the speaking and singing cast are nevertheless bold in their performances and expert at holding the audience’s attention – no mean feet when many of the latter are under the age of three.Admittedly, the approach of Hairy Maclary and Friends is distinctly different from Cats, in which many of the on-stage characters “speak” directly to the audience. Despite their billing, the dogs – titular star included – are dogs which only move and bark. This new touring production of the musical safely rests on the shoulders of Carrie Mancini as the good-natured Miss Plum and Steven Hogan as the friendliest butcher shop owner imaginable. If Hogan can come across as a tad too saccharine on occasions, this is more than compensated by the genuine connection between Mancini and the audience – not just the children, but also all us “older children” (ie, adults) hiding in the back. Right from the off, she has everyone – and I do mean everyone – singing along, clapping hands and stamping feet in specific ways in order to indicate each of the books’ distinctive canine characters. The musical’s younger target audience can be clearly seen in its reliance on repetition and speed – though, of course, that’s also properly representative of the original books with their wildly memorable illustrations. If the performers performing the dogs (in full costumes and masks – no picnic when the weather’s as warm as it was on the day of this review!) have little opportunity to go beyond some basic doggie movements and barking, they at least have a few opportunities to quick-change into other roles – although the highlight must be three rather tall, skinny and disconcerted bees who are part of the supporting cast when Hairy Maclary encounters the busy-busy duck Zachary Quack. Big, bright and busy, this is definitely a show worth catching as it continues to tour Scotland.

If theatre is all about holding a mirror up to ourselves, then Tales From the Hanging Captain certainly makes the grade – it's the first performance piece arising from the three-year Leith Moves project which, thanks to Heritage Lottery Fund support, aims to explore the history of the Port of Leith (officially part of Edinburgh since only 1920) and share it – through a mixture of theatrical and community arts projects – with the people who now live in the area.Admittedly, this first play has a somewhat rough and ready feel, not least because it is formatted as a presentation by members of the Leith Historical Reenactment Society to regulars at the (fictional) Hanging Captain pub – and there's no obvious stage to distinguish performers from audience. The 12-strong cast, incidentally belong to two of Edinburgh's most respected non-professional theatre groups – ACTive INquiry and Strange Town. Early on the show makes a very good point about the missing voices of women in history – including these histories – by deliberately casting female performers in most of the male roles – "That's theatre, go with it!" being the response to one complainer among the cast. A cynic might suggest this was director Gavin Crichton (of ACTive Inquiry) and Associate director Steve Small (of Strange Town) making the best of some necessarily limited casting opportunities but, even if that was the case, it really works and enables some cast members – Lucy Hale, Gwen Currie and Megan Travers, to name just three – to shine. The roughness is also partly down to the script by Crichton, Paul Hughes and dramaturg Duncan Kidd; unfortunately it lacks a clear, strong narrative linking the three "forgotten histories" that are re-enacted for our entertainment – the seven-week Dockers strike in 1913, the port's whole-hearted involvement in the 19th century whaling industry, and the brazen hanging (less than two years after the Union of the Scottish and English Parliaments) of an English sea captain, partly in revenge for the alleged England-contrived failure of Scotland’s ill-conceived and near-bankrupting grasp for empire.Still, this is only the beginning; audience members were all handed a Hanging Captain-styled beer mat, on which to write details of their own Leith stories, along with contact details for the Leith Moves project. Leith is undoubtedly a town of stories and, from this limited run, ACTive Inquiry and Strange Town appear to be the best people to share them.

The Wee One starts with a scenario familiar enough from numerous television sitcoms – a couple well into middle-age who appear to be stuck with an adult child who has failed to fly the nest. Admittedly, it’s understandable why Danny (Alexander Staniforth) hasn’t yet moved out; his mum Marie (Catriona Joss) is still happy to iron his shirts, cook his meals and pick up after him – simply because he’s their youngest child. Dad John (Philip Rainford), meantime, has the habit of pointing out that this particular “wee one” is now a 33 year-old banker who thinks nothing of spending £200 on an meal, owns a BMW (parked next to John’s own nine-year-old, second-hand Nissan Micra) and believes that the occasional present (invariably bracelets for her and cuff-links for him – all “9 carat gold”) are sufficient compensation for treating the place like a hotel.John’s frustration, however, lacks the oh-so-clever-clever spite of some sitcoms; Rainford, Joss and Staniforth present a family unit who clearly love each other despite everything. Arguably, the only extreme action that writer Philip Rainford provides is when John and Marie decided – on a whim – to rush away for a weekend at York Races, leaving Danny and his best friend Jenny (Emma McKenna) to fend for themselves with an uncooked steak and the realisation that the only phone number Danny has for his parents is their landline. (Regarding the former, their solution is to simply eat out; however, in “revenge” for leaving him in the lurch, Danny devises a way to kidnap his dad’s “ironic” garden gnomes – who then proceed to “send” John taunting postcards from around the world.Admittedy, this subplot doesn’t appear to go anywhere; yet, when one of the garden gnomes is unceremoniously returned, The Wee One takes a more serious turn, with an event that alters the family dynamic forever. Danny – who we’ve been led to believe is the titular “Wee One” in this story – suddenly faces the inevitable switch in parent-child relationships.The switch in tone is by no means an easy one, and the cast carry it off well, although the fact that Rainford suddenly starts addressing the audience in order to tell us about his early experiments in online dating and using “TubeFace”, while amusing enough, is still a slightly unfortunate exercise in tell-not-show. There’s some compensation, though, in seeing the growing relationship between John and Jenny’s widowed Aunt Geraldine (Wendy Barrett), which climaxes in a final scene set at the Glastonbury festival.Rainford’s script, while arguably verging more towards “page 3 of the Women’s Realm” than anything more extreme, is witty, warm and provides director Adam Tomkins with a firm foundation for an engaging production which, despite its low-rent realities, still has something to say about old punks not wanting to fade away entirely.   

There’s a definite shift in the second play in this double bill from Edinburgh-based theatre company Strange Town. This time round playwright Alan Gordon has worked with some of the company’s oldest, most experienced performers; surely this explains why the focus has moved on from the school days seen in What Next? to the heady delights of a pre-university/pre-adulthood gap year trip.“This is a story about people who make choices,” we’re told, somewhat ominously, as a cast of 20 delineate themselves into the 11 main characters and a chorus who frequently double up as supporting characters – while also helping keep the narrative going at a fair pace while explaining why certain dramatic choices have been made. (We’re told, for example, that cast members will not attempt any East European accents, as they would verge on being xenophobic.)There is a brusque confidence in both the script and the performances, in which numerous relationships – familial, social and sexual – are stretched and twisted into new forms. Arguably, you could make a list of the issues being raised here – not least what it means to be men and women in the 21st century, and how we’re supposed to relate to each other now that the “traditional” gender role models are breaking down. “We don’t just have to be one thing any more,” one character insists, on revealing that he’s slept with a guy as well as girls. “I don’t know how to be a man anymore,” his best friend says in return. All of this comes with a caveat, of course: “Change is scary,” we’re told – and that, perhaps, is the clearest thematic link with What Next?Importantly, there’s a real sense that these issues arise from the interactions of the all-too-believable characters on stage, rather than being imposed on proceedings by the writer. The cast also have a real commitment to their characters; yes, a few members still need to better project their voices against the production’s soundscape, but overall this was a remarkably professional production. Director Amy Watt should be congratulated for using the minimal resources at her disposal – the “set” is no more than some foldable chairs and some luggage – to choreograph her large cast to create a show with real clarity and energy.What Now? is not without its moments of preaching, but then that could be one of the points it’s trying to make – sometimes, like the “Smash the Patriarchy” slogans of protest girls band Kitty Punk, the next generation really have to make some noise to make their point.

Strange Town is an Edinburgh-based company which offers opportunities for young people between the ages of five and 25 to fulfil their creative potential though drama and performance. Now well-established within Edinburgh’s theatre community, this includes the opportunity to perform on the stage of the Traverse, the city’s self-declared theatre of new writing.What Next? is the first of a double bill of one-act plays created by the playwright Alan Gordon for – and with contributions from – Strange Town’s older performers. Gordon himself is one of the Traverse 50 – a group of 50 playwrights mentored by the Traverse theatre during its 50th anniversary year in 2013. So there’s definitely a lot of potential here. Yet, despite some thematic similarities, What Next? proves to be a somewhat lesser work compared with the following play, What Now?For starters, What Next? is an all-too-unsubtle play about the issue of immigration, viewed through the prism of a school which has recently been forced to take in a significant number of pupils from one of their neighbours. While the newbies try to make friends, and negotiate existing relationships, the tensions caused by the perceived stretching of the school’s resources, are growing. “We have our ways, and you have to fit in,” one of the new arrivals is told by the charismatic (though increasingly tarnished) head boy Ziggy (Lucas McGregor). The metaphor is obvious. Perhaps too obvious.The play begins, however, with a scream – and the apparent death of new boy Nathan; what follows is an increasingly strained succession of flash-backs – each introduced by the dead boy (a focused Marcus Calderon, who need only to work on his voice projection to really be something special) as a means to highlight a different suspect. The problem with this is that Nathan knows full well who killed him – he was there, after all. Holding back this “final reveal” only gives the killer’s identity more prominence than it dramatically deserves, given that the play’s focus is clearly on the issues, not the people.Admittedly, there’s much to enjoy – many of the characterisations are sharply written and performed, and there were plenty of laughs, not least for the girl stressed out by being expected to do all her exams revision while still maintaining her online presence. It’s rare indeed to see any show with a cast of 27 (!) and director Debs Hahn does a good job of choreographing this ensemble from one scene to the next. Nevertheless, not everyone can have their time in the spotlight and even those who do have essentially just a short cameo in which to make any impression. As a result, What Next? feels more like a succession of scenes than a honed narrative with a firm sense of direction, which alas robs its final moments of the real impact they could have had.

Part of the attraction of seeing magic tricks performed well – beyond the sheer spectacle – is trying to work out how they’re done. So The Great Illusionist, from Dutch company Het Filial theatermakers, initially draws us in by allegedly showing us “behind the scenes” of a magic show, albeit it with the unexpected sight of a magician’s white rabbit sitting on a dressing room table, carefully completing its make-up. It’s a puppet, of course, clearly operated – Avenue Q style – by cast member Ramses Graus; but then, isn’t turning a cloth puppet into what appears to be the show’s living, breathing fourth performer the greatest theatrical magic trick of them all? The Great Illusionist, however, is not the white rabbit; it’s the stage name applied to a magician who, from when he was a little boy, we’re told wanted to learn the trick of disappearing. Ironically enough, in order to achieve this, he has to spend his life learning the craft of magic and eventually becomes the world’s most famous magician – wowing audiences from London to Las Vegas with all the showbiz glitter and acumen he can muster. His story is delivered by Graus, director Monique Corver and musican/composer Gábor Tarján through a mixture of music, songs and magic tricks – some primarily there as a spectacle in their own right (with, in one case, effective lighting to recreate the look of early cinema), others just simple small parlour tricks used as an inventive narrative tool to help tell the story of the little boy who wanted to disappear. Darkly humorous, Het Filiaal’s production is an engaging, entertaining and never-ostentatious production which nevertheless offers moments of eerie ambiguity. Perhaps most impressively, though, while the show makes some effort to remind us that stage magic is all about psychology and “brain science”, it also reminds us all that – despite us wanting to know how the tricks are done – at some level we also want to be deceived, so that we can still believe in the magic.

“The here and the now is wow!” we’re told at the start of Broken Dreams. Yet, while it’s often suggested (not least in child-friendly theatre) that there are genuine benefits in reclaiming a child-like joy of “living in the moment”, this somewhat bizarre, intentionally shambolic and ultimately thought-provoking show from Belgian companies Kopergietery and Mambocito Mio suggests that doing so while ignoring our own pasts is ultimately a recipe for unhappiness.Things start oddly enough, though, with some form-filling and a not-always-clearly-sign-posted system by which audience members are encouraged to record their unfulfilled wishes onto a silicon chip attached to a small plastic duck, which is then swooshed along a long perspex tube of water into the performance space, which is focused on a decrepit Bedford van surrounded by mountains of cardboard boxes. The ducks continue to swim round the van in a metal conduit, the ornate means by which three audience members are subsequently selected – seemingly at random – to have their dreams come (sort of) true courtesy of the show’s six performers. Initially, this is very much done for laughs; on the day of the review, a young girl’s transformation for the day into “Beyonce, formerly known as Jessica”, is ably achieved through low-rent puppetry and a video camera. A boy’s desire to fly, meantime, becomes a slightly more serious point of contention between the romantics who dream it possible (and attempt to work out the mathematics to prove it) and the realist who believes she has a firmer understanding of the laws of aerodynamics and the difference between flying and falling.Given that the multiple-choice questions of the forms are fairly specific, it is clearly not too difficult for the cast to ensure that the final dream under consideration is about a young audience member’s first romantic kiss, the re-enactment of which brings to the fore the supposed underlying tension between the two main cast members: sole female performer Anna – nicknamed “the Mistake” by her mother, and forever missing her absentee father, whom she was told was a lost astronaut – and the childhood friend Hermé who has long adored her. Aimed at older primary school children, Broken Dreams is an energetic show full of chat, engaging audience participation, and some genuine moments of spectacle. However, what arguably makes the show more memorable is its bitter-sweet exploration of how we can’t always get what we want; that the glorious “anything’s possible” potential of childhood sooner or later runs into the growing realisation of the restraints and heartbreaks of approaching adulthood – and how we must necessarily find what happiness we can in whatever life brings our way. As a result, Broken Dreams is a far more mature and targeted theatrical work than the plastic ducks might initially suggest. Which, presumably, is the point.

There’s a simple idea at the heart of Australian company cre8ion’s show Fluff; rescuing and giving a new home to lost and abandoned toys. It’s wrapped up in a brightly-coloured Play-School-esque world of animal-shaped lamps and toy boxes. Bizarrely, the main characters emerge almost like extrusions from the set walls – they’re dressed in exactly the same chessboard pattern, you see. Some grown-ups might find that a tad creepy, but the kids in the audience – this is a show aimed at four-to-eight year olds – seem to accept it with no problem, not least because with just a few physical contortions and sampled sounds, musician Peter Nelson has them genuinely laughing out loud. The other two performers – the show’s creator and designer Christine Johnston, along with choreographer Lisa O’Neill – are initially heralded by a series of pictures, posed with their small pram of toys, in various global beauty spots. They prove to be an effective double-act; tall, prim and proper Johnston with her very precise speech and inventive vocal gymnastics is ideally contrasted with the shorter, somewhat more truculent O’Neill who communicates chiefly through dance. After some play around lost and found shoes, the pair begin making up 10 tiny wooden beds that have been placed in a line in front of the stage. It is onto these beds that, one by one, a succession of rescued toys are placed, with an opportunity to see their sad tale projected onto a big screen via a succession of still images.One by one, 10 toys of various sizes, materials and designs are introduced, assigned a name, given an appropriate sound-effect, and put to bed. To avoid too much repetition at this stage, Johnston occasionally encourages younger audience members to provide appropriate sound effects, which Nelson samples and loops for added rhythmic effect during each toy’s “moment”. The toys, incidentally, include the titular Fluff (so named because it was sufficiently small to be sucked up by a vacuum cleaner), the always leaping-about Disco Frog, the anarchic head-banging Scary Cheeks, and the farting Humpty Hot Pants. The audience has to remember all their names, given that during a latter scene – when, one by one, the toys start waking up – the audience have to direct Johnston to the right toy at the right time.“Enough fun and games,” Johnston says at one point, but of course that’s not true and there are further shenanigans for everyone to enjoy. The result is an an energetic, theatrically clever show which offers Imaginate Festival audiences the delightful juxtaposition of cutting edge media technology with the genuinely timeless charms of hand-made, bespoke toys.

On 4th July 1845 – Independence Day, suitably enough – the young Henry David Thoreau went into the woods at Walden Pond, near the town of Concord, Massachusetts, and lived there for two years, two months and two days. He built his own home – a hut measuring 3m x 4.5m (10 x 15 feet) – growing his own food and generally trying to live, as he put it, “not… cheaply or dearly,” but “deliberately”.He certainly wasn’t a hermit; Thoreau welcomed visitors of all kinds to his woodland home, as well as the discussions they inspired. Nor was he completely beyond the noises of human civilisation; he regularly visited Concord and was well within earshot of a nearby railway line. Nevertheless, Thoreau believed that we needed to simplify our lives in order to better understand ourselves and grow, spiritually; that our days – and this was back in the mid-19th century, remember – had become too focused on the noise of business and geographical expansion. Unsurprisingly, his words still resonate with many people today.Nicholas Bone’s stage adaptation of Thoreau’s book, for his own Magnetic North theatre company, remains a timely work – seven years after its first Edinburgh performances. Bone’s chosen setting – designed in conjunction with the artist and architect duo known as Sans façon – is simple enough; an oval formed from two curved bench seats, defining a performance space empty apart from a small pile of fine sand. It is into this space that Cameron Mowat enters – having previously sat down with the audience. This is a back-to-basics idea of theatre; there’s little in theatrical props or “business” to detract from the spoken words, while the audience are all clearly visible to each other as well as the actor.And what words; you might not necessarily agree with either Thoreau’s observations or logic – his innate distrust of continent-spanning industry and commerce doesn’t necessarily chime with the mass-produced books without which he believed no “cottage” would be complete. Thoreau’s approach is an almost instinctual intertwining of detailed observations of the world around him, his own personal memories and experiences, and an awareness of history and symbolic meanings. Thanks to Cameron Mowat’s gentle, unforced performance and delivery, we get a real sense of Thoreau’s oh-so-American idealism as he rolls up his shirt sleeves to get started.On the whole the production works very well, although the hard wood seating for the audience grows more uncomfortable with every passing minute – though perhaps that’s deliberate. Significantly, Bone’s adaptation of Thoreau doesn’t linger too much on the man’s eventual reasons for leaving his lake-side hut and returning to sojourn among civilisation; instead, the final emphasis is on the value of living much more in the moment, and looking for the potential in ourselves rather than elsewhere.

Sometimes words feel unworthy of the task when it comes to describing and reviewing a performance, especially a dance-piece as vibrant, colourful and joyous as this. Until direct mind-transfer is invented, however, we’re stuck with words… so here we go!Aracaladanza are a Spanish contemporary dance company which specialises in show for younger audiences and their families. Constellations – arguably among the biggest shows at this year’s Imaginate Edinburgh Children’s Theatre Festival – is largely inspired by the surreal dream-like aspects of the 20th century painter, sculptor and ceramicist Joan Miró. It starts with the show’s five performers hidden behind a black drape, each holding a torch pointed at the audience like new-born stars against the stellar darkness; from this low-key beginning, the show slowly but surely bursts into spots and waves of vivid colour – purple, red, yellow, green, blue – and movement, occasionally slipping from live performer to cartoon projection on the rear screen, and then back again. There is a frenetic explosive feel to the whole thing: knitted balls grow in size; huge swathes of fabric move like the sea and are then pulled away like a never-ending dress. A trio of red balls of string become a charming puppet animal. There’s a dance sequence with what look like shuffling towels. Costumes stretch and alter the very shape of the human body in memorable and exciting ways. And, yes, some of the cast take turns to – seemingly randomly, though obviously not – ride a bicycle across the stage from time to time, although 21st century health concerns presumably stop them from smoking a fish while doing so for the full surrealistic touch.The uninhibited athleticism of the performers is ideally matched by a deceptively simple – and at times deliberately repetitive – choreography, while the whole package is wrapped up with some excellent use of lighting and a bold, rhythmic score that barely pauses for breath from one scenario to the next. There’s no real narrative as such; just an overriding sense of joyous play that young and old can understand, regularly punctuated by the kind of “wow” moments that must surely stay with children for all their lives. And yet there is still enough room for a genuinely explosive climax of colour and movement – though perhaps I’m betraying my age when I thought, leaving the auditorium, that Constellations must be a very time-consuming show to tidy up and pack away afterwards!

Traces is a theatre show with no obviously clear-cut beginning or end; if there’s a start at all, it might be when the two principal performers – Marko Werner and Michael Lurse of Berlin-based Helios Theater – walk among the waiting audience of children and adults outside the studio space, gaining our attention with the chime of a bell, then silently interacting with some of the younger children – making small patterns in sand on the table-tops, dropping a trail of small scraps of paper, or drawing chalk outlines round people’s feet on the floor. Yet, before that, one of the team had gone round recording some of the children saying their own names – sound samples which are later incorporated into the piece – so was that also part of Traces?Following the arrows we see drawn on the floor, we’re brought into the performance space, where a sometimes literally fascinating – if at times mildly peculiar – theatrical experience unfolds. Werner and Lurse (with constant, albeit generally low-key, musical accompaniment from Roman D Metzner, on the worn remnants of a piano) begin by scattering a trail of cut up papers on the floor, and then appear to start searching for commonalities, patterns and connections, drawing lines and circles between them.It’s when the pair start pouring fine sand on the floor, and begin highlighting – and then adding to – the patterns they see, that things get particularly interesting; here, Traces becomes much more obviously about the many ways in which we leave a mark in the world, as Werner and Lurse scribble out the sampled children’s names both in the sand and within a deliberately poorly drawn outline of a human figure against the rear wall. There’s something quite instinctual about the whole process, even when it is shaded through the pair’s changing role-games as Werner and Lurse exchange mimed characters just as quickly as they swap numerous hats. Finally, as they fully begin to interact with the audience, the pair invite some of the children to join in the fun; hesitantly at first, a few of the youngest do, making patterns as best they can in the sand and generally bringing the “official” performance to a close. This is a charming, inventive, even haunting example of physical theatre – and, like much of the Imaginate festival, ideal as a young child’s first theatrical experience. But it also has something for the grown-ups too, not least as those patterns in the sand continue to be made even as some of us begin to leave the building.

There is much more to history than just learning dates and facts. Actually, that’s just learning dates and facts; history is about putting those dates and facts into some kind of story, albeit sprinkled with a good dose of “perhaps”, “maybe”, and “possibly” when trying to work out what may have happened thousands of years ago. So it’s absolutely apt that stories are at the heart of this enchanting hour during which an engaging Andy Cannon covers the essentials of Scottish history from before the Romans to (relatively speaking) the present, via the prism of an oh-so-special weekend back in 1976 when he stayed alone with his grandparents just outside Edinburgh.Cannon manages to embody his boyhood self without sickly affectation, in a show with just the right balance of speech, simple props and physical movement – a washing line of Scottish-themed tea-towels here, an interpretative dance by the president of the Morningside Historical Society there – as he shares his childhood interest in ruined castles and learning about the past. Cannon’s helped in this by the deceptively simple but highly effective musical accompaniment from Wendy Weatherby, her score supportive and never a distraction from Cannon’s tale. Cannon’s a lively – but never overbearing – performer who encourages sufficient audience participation to keep even its youngest members paying attention without turning the show into a pantomime. Nor does he forget the grown-ups, not least by including few nostalgic nods to Creamola Foam and Sunday-night BBC2 documentary series The World About Us. Interestingly, given the abundance of tartan on stage, he doesn’t ignore the so-called “Scottish cringe”; admitting that, as a kid, he believed everything big and exciting was happening somewhere else in the world. Except for Nessie, of course; Scotland at least had the Loch Ness Monster!“There’s no rush. History isn’t going anywhere,” Cannon’s grandfather told him, and there’s an obvious intention with this show to encourage us all to discover our own place in the great washing-line – sorry, timeline – of Scotland’s history. Yet, what’s perhaps most interesting, is how Cannon often plays with the malleability of memory. For example, he feels obliged (ironically, perhaps) to explain his childhood viewing of Doctor Who to the younger audience members (who might not remember the show from last year). Significantly, as any Doctor Who geek of a certain age (Hello!) will tell you, the episodes to which he refers – featuring an Earth-bound Doctor battling animated shop-window mannequins – were actually broadcast some six years before the supposed summer weekend he’s been talking about. History, like any other story, is clearly malleable in our imaginations; that doesn’t mean it can’t be still truthful. And, with Cannon in charge, also an engaging, exciting way to spend your time.

The physical core of the The Little Gentleman is a large wooden crate, addressed to the show’s venue, which is slowly revealed to include numerous small doors and openings from which unexpected balloons, dusters and a small cup of coffee initially appear. (Full praise to designer Karen Tennent for making this a reality.) Eventually, the titular Little Gentleman (Pete Collins) makes his first appearance, all smiles and out to make friends. However, in this adaptation of Swedish author Barbro Lindgren’s story (by Scotland’s award-winning Catherine Wheels Theatre Company), it soon becomes clear that making new friends isn’t going to be easy for him.Collins is an endearing performer, successfully using face and body to express his growing sadness and desperation as his various schemes to make new friends all fail. Then, just as he’s dozing, the Dog (Isabelle Joss) appears – excited by everything around it, and constantly on the lookout for biscuits. The Little Gentleman, while initially rather scared of this furry ball of enthusiasm – cue cartoon chase round and round the crate – has plenty of biscuits and gradually begins to realise that the Dog just might be the friend he’s been looking for. Yes, it might essentially be cupboard love as far as the Dog is concerned – at least initially – but the pair truly begin to bond through sharing some of the simpler pleasures of life, whether it’s throwing sticks in the park or sharing an ice cream.Aimed at four-to-eight year olds (primary one to three), this production is full of energy, but remarkably light on dialogue – unless you count Joss’s truly impressive range of dogged yells and yaps. Despite this, under Gill Robertson’s expert direction, the narrative makes its main points simply and without fuss, although the final breaking of the “fourth wall” – as the Little Gentleman begins to realise the friends he can make through sharing the Dog with others – does feel a mildly disconcerting given the previous opportunities to do so. Overall, though, this is another strong show from a company with a well-deserved international reputation in children’s theatre – and an excellent, if all-too-brief, addition to this year’s Imaginate Festival.

Touring stand-up George Egg has spent – and, presumably, continues to spend – a lot of his life in hotels the length and breadth of the UK. As a result he has quite understandably developed a genuine dislike of what he considers to be over-priced, under-whelming hotel food. His solution, however, betrays an anarchic, can-do attitude; he simply opts to cook his own food instead, utilising just the available tools found in within most mid-market hotel rooms.If that seems just the hook for a joke, Egg spends the next hour demonstrating a basic level of hotel room cooking using irons, trouser press and kettle to produce a three course meal (Entreé, Principal et Dessert) which he then offers to the audience to sample afterwards. “This is actually happening, by the way,” he says. You have to agree with Egg that this isn’t so much a comedy show as a lecture; that said, it’s a remarkably amusing, deceptively simple demonstration, with Egg ably keeping on top of not just his subject but also those younger audience members who seemingly think they can carry on talking as if they’re watching television at home, rather than a live performance. Even though, on occasions, Egg has to resort to using some tools cunningly made from coat-hangers (for example, a basket to hold the fish meat when it’s boiled in a kettle), Egg’s real talent is in making it all look so remarkable easy. Occasionally you might wonder how many hotel rooms actually include more than one iron, or the actual effectiveness of using a hairdryer to make pop corn, but for the most part this all appears to be bang-on perfect for an hour-long show. The only possible exception is when it appears he really needs to get down to some serious food preparation, during which he distracts the audience with a short monochrome film, “The Artist”. It gets plenty of laughs, but it nevertheless feels a slight distraction – if you pardon the pun – from the main course of the show. The one issue that Egg doesn’t really address concerns the level of wreckage he potentially leaves in his wake – presumably he makes a genuine effort to clean up afterwards, but surely some hotels will have noticed at least the vestiges of butter on their irons after he’s left, or the remnants of a gutted fish in the rubbish bin? Especially given that he’s now touring a show about cooking in hotel rooms! 

Never, ever underestimate the stupidity of the rich and powerful; that’s certainly one of the obvious lessons you can get from Liz Lochhead’s brilliantly funny take on the scandalous life and times of 17th century French playwright Jean-Baptiste Poquelin de Molière. It’s a view which arguably connects with a decidedly Scottish love of the roguish underdog, which in turn can occasionally twist into a determination to drag down anyone considered to be “a wee bit showy”. No wonder overtly Scottish (rather than British or English) writers, such as Lochhead, appear to have a genuine affinity with Molière’s writing.Written in Scots – frequently poetic, often brusque, and occasionally both – Lochhead’s approach – while very much her own – can’t exactly be called subtle; a point that’s fulsomely embraced by director Tony Cownie. Neil Murray’s monochrome set – all greys and line illustrations – only emphasises the Technicolor™ brilliance of his voluminous costumes. In addition, by casting Jimmy Chisholm as the overblown playwright, and Siobhan Redmond as the calming influence of his on/off lover Madeleine Béjart, Cownie guarantees that he has two brilliantly powerful, well-matched acting talents dominating the stage. Except that this is much more of an ensemble than the advertising – which emphasises Chisholm and Redmond – suggests. In particular, Sarah Miele – who amazingly hasn’t yet graduated from the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland – brings a genuine, natural depth to Molière’s somewhat emotionally fragile young wife Menou (who also happens to be Madeleine’s secret daughter). Molly Innes, meantime, expertly mines every bit of comedy out of her role as Madeleine’s servant Toinette, wiser than most to what’s going on around her. Her repeated – and soon eagerly awaited – catchphrase “I’ll no say it…” deserves to be on a t-shirt at once. Last, but by no means least, the ever-reliable Steven McNicoll, James Anthony Pearson and Nicola Roy provide invaluable support as Molière’s entourage of actors, ever hopeful of getting the better roles they feel they deserve – or, failing that, a shag. Subtitled “Whit got him intae aw that bother”, Thon Man Molière is laugh-out -loud funny, but it does lacks a certain dramatic depth; Madeleine constantly refers to Molière’s enemies and the risks he runs, but we never see them on stage – meaning we never have the opportunity to feel what’s actually at stake. Plus, on occasions, Lochhead blatantly cheats her audience; an arguably shocking, and potentially significant, pre-interval revelation is immediately dismissed at the start of the second half, which – at best – is disrespecting the audience. While, on occasions, the staging has the air of music hall on occasions, with cast-members temporarily acting near the stage lights as – behind the curtain – necessary set changes are made.Nevertheless, if you’re looking for a well-crafted script, brilliantly-performed, there’s little better around to beat Thon Man Molière. This is the final production in the Lyceum Theatre Company’s 50th anniversary year season, and is an undoubtedly fitting conclusion, not least for departing artistic director Mark Thomson. 

There are some incredible strengths in this latest production from Edinburgh’s most inspiring new theatre company. The cast are really good: James Boal (Mr N Pattie) offers a layered portrayal of masculine vulnerability, well matched by the pleasing sweetness of Kate Foley-Scott’s red-cheeked Ms Runes; Rosie Milner is the personification of cool and dismissive arrogance as Ms C Rotum, while Lara Wauchope’s focused vitality ensures she’s the vital driving motor for the whole production. Beyond this astute casting, director Jack Elliot also very successfully makes the most effective use of Blazing Hyena’s regular venue (the Wee Red Bar in Edinburgh College of Art) including the on-site furniture, and must be praised for the apparently late-in-the-day decision (going by the company’s early promotional images) to have all the cast made up with white faces. Above all else, there’s an intoxicating air of uncertainty and menace – personified most clearly in Conor Mainwaring’s baseball-bat holding Nio Fectin – which holds the attention from start to finish.But – and, yes, there’s always a but – there are undoubted weaknesses too, nearly all of which can be laid at the door of playwright Sean Dennis Langtree. Living Like A Moth comes across as a wannabe Beckett-esque allegory of one man’s battle against cancer, written by a writer with really good taste but not yet the creative abilities to match them. The cancer allegory is most obviously seen in the characters’ names, which are not-at-all-subtle anagrams: N Pattie = patient, Hemco = chemo, Runes = nurse, Rotum = tumor, Nio Fectin = infection. There’s also an at-times almost unbearable earnestness in the attempted philosophising within this “cell-driven world”; a few moments which would have been risible without the heartfelt seriousness with which all of the cast approached the script. Over the course of some 80-odd minutes, we see our central character Mr Pattie knocked too and fro (occasionally literally) between the main aspects of cancer and its treatment – from the general weakening of muscle tissue to the loss of hair. There’s obviously some authorial wish to build a wider metaphor for life in general: “Nothing is easy; not least a rocky chair,” is a line given great import by the characters and yet remains – if you think about it – a remarkably strange thing for anyone to say.So, while Langtree’s script is genuinely thought-provoking, it’s unfortunately not necessarily in the best way. Giving artistic creativity to the embodiment of cancer, for example, feels an odd choice, while Ms C Rotum’s final interactions with “chemo” and “infection” do seem rather simplistic. The result is that Living Like A Moth, while clearly a very considered script, is unfortunately nowhere near as good as it thinks it is. Which is a shame, not least because of the energy and dedication the Blazing Hyena team have devoted to bringing it to life.

I must admit to feeling a tad confused after experiencing Dirty Dusting. Had I just watched a bold, empowering piece of feminist theatre, a searing indictment of ageism in the 21st century, or a comedy which felt like it had been written in the 1970s? Or, indeed, all three? Perhaps my confusion was partly down to the audience; predominantly made up of women aged between 35 and 60, there was a definite Hens’ Night “We’re here to enjoy ourselves, whatever happens” vibe, even before The Cure's “Friday I’m in Love” launched proceedings.Olive (Dolores Porretta), Elsie (Crissy Rock) and Gladys (Leah Bell) are three senior citizen topping up their meagre pensions with cleaning work in a large office block. Mocked as “the Jurassic Park Shift”, one Friday they learn that they’re about to be let go – to the obvious glee of their manager, vindictive Mummy’s Boy David (Lee Brannigan). While from slightly different classes, the three women have known each other for most of their lives – not least from their time together in the Girl Guides – and are always ready to watch each others’ backs. When they mistakenly receive a call intended for a local sex line, they're inspired to set themselves up as the “Telephone Belles”, in order to “clean up” some cash during their final weekend on the premises.Technically, it’s difficult to fault the script by Ed Waugh and Trevor Wood, even as it regularly totters from one well-flagged punchline to the next. The characters are strongly drawn, albeit largely two-dimensional. The ground work for every important plot point and supposed twist is clearly sign-posted; a faulty vacuum cleaner which becomes significant towards the end of the second half, for example, is prominent at the start of the first.And yet… for a show that’s largely about sex, there’s little or no rude language – bar a few occasions when it’s left to the audience’s dirty minds. More, the writers clearly believe that the very idea of old people having wild, injury-inducing sex is intrinsically, laugh-out-loud hilarious. Which, on this occasion at least, it would appear to be – although one guesses that’s down to the hard work of the cast rather than the script itself. Bell, in particular, excels in turning her cut-out character into a living, breathing person, while there’s real sympathy for Porretta’s Olive as she recounts her largely sexless marriage and the fleeting romance she enjoyed with a Scout Master called Arthur.It’s in showing what these women – and, by implication, most – have had to put up from belligerent, boring or unfaithful men, that the play offers any depth or meaning. It’s a shame that it so nearly hides this beneath the kind of kinky-dressed low-rent cabaret that Les Dawson and The Two Ronnies would have immediately dismissed out of hand.

Glasgow-based Birds of Paradise Theatre Company continues to lead the way in producing theatre that’s fully accessible to people with physical and/or sensory impairments, both as creators and audiences. From delightfully rude comedy Wendy Hoose to the explosive choreography of Crazy Jane, and the assumptions-challenging Purposeless Movements, the company has shown how British Sign Language interpretation, surtitles and audio-description are theatrical tools in their own right, not just legal requirements.Ally (Robert Softley Gale, in a welcome return to the stage as a performer) and Bernie (Louise McCarthy) are on a luxury cruise liner, two apparent lost souls losing themselves within the thrills of the roulette wheel and drunken flirting with numerous sexy Mediterranean men. Initially on the side-lines of the stage, stuck on a box to raise her height, is Role Shift’s designated BSL signer Carrie (Natalie MacDonald). The first “role shift” in Lesley Hart’s honed script is seemingly small, yet fundamentally huge; Carrie – who, while interpreting, effectively becomes “everyone and no-one” on stage, translating without any inclusion of “he/she said” – finds herself central stage, thinking for herself and looking to influence the plot. It soon becomes clear, however, that she’s completely out of her depth, as Ally and Bernie start behaving in ways neither they nor she expects – with the two cruise passengers ending up having rampant sex, and then noticing not just Carrie but also the audience! Horrified by the idea that they’ve unknowingly become the on-board entertainment, Ally and Bernie undergo a final role-shift – they switch bodies. There’s no particular surprise that this is initially done for laughs, but the Birds of Paradise team are never fearful of following the inherent logic of any situation; both Ally and Bernie then revel in the experience of feeling their own bodies from the perspective of the other’s. Underneath the laughs and ribaldry, though, are more serious concerns; Bernie’s fears about her future are perfectly contrasted with Ally’s life-affirming sense of identity as a man with cerebral palsy – for, like Softly Gale, Ally has a speech impediment and uses a wheelchair. In its final few minutes Role Shift proves itself to be an unashamed call to arms on making the best of our lives, whatever numbers the roulette wheel of life throws up. The symbolism may be obvious – not least with Jonathan Scott’s roulette wheel-inspired set – but there’s little doubt that, with Role Shift, director Garry Robson has created a sparkling diamond of a show that’s as bold and brash as it needs to be, without forgetting to treat the issues of gender, sexuality and disability with both the seriousness and frivolity that they deserve. 

All theatre requires some degree of “suspension of disbelief”. Avenue Q’s biggest “ask” of audiences isn’t just to accept that a majority of the show’s characters are puppets; it’s that these puppets’ operators are clearly visible beside them on stage. It helps, of course, that Avenue Q provides a really solid foundation on which to base any musical: a witty, acerbic and – above all – intelligent script, fused with a quality score and catchy songs by Jeff Marx and Robert Lopez – the man responsible for the vocal heart of Disney’s Frozen, and co-creator of The Book of Mormon. This second UK national tour by Sell a Door – directed and choreographed by Cressida Carré – is also well served by a great ensemble cast. Nevertheless there are several stand-out performances from Richard Lowe, Stephen Arden and Sarah Harlington, who between them carry off with real aplomb the show’s “tradition” of each performing two or more quite distinct characters. In Harlington’s case, she easily switches from the nasal tones of shy teaching assistant Kate Monster to the husky promise of the all-too-literally named Lucy the Slut; Lowe, meantime, hits exactly the right tones for naive young graduate Princeton and repressed gay Republican banker Rod; Arden’s strong voice covers not just Rod’s room mate Nicky, but also the porn-mad Trekkie Monster, and one of the chaotic Bad Idea Bears which cause so much trouble during the show. This cast’s clear talent, energy and enthusiasm are not without an obvious danger, though; given that they mirror the puppets’ expressions and movements, it’s all to easy to start watching the actors rather than the puppet characters that we’re suppose to be keeping our eyes on. Perhaps if the puppets were larger, this might not be quite such a problem; but this does feel like a show that needs to be physically bigger in some respects to fill a venue even on the scale of Edinburgh’s King’s Theatre. For example, the Sesame Street-styled graphics are uncomplicated enough, but the two screens on which they’re seen, hanging from above the stage, nevertheless feel somewhat small in proportion to the rest of the set, especially when you’re at the back of the Circle.The whole show is, of course, heavily influenced by iconic American educational children’s TV show Sesame Street; Marx and Lopez undoubtedly extract real musical theatre gold from its sweetly positive view of the world, as well as utilising its trademark interweaving of puppets, real people and actors as pretend characters. Yet, I still wonder just how much of this genuinely resonates with British audiences, especially those generations for whom Sesame Street wasn’t a regular aspect of their television viewing as children. Perhaps it’s time for a properly grown-up British musical inspired by Camberwick Green and Trumpton?

During the 2008 Spring Season of “A Play, A Pie and A Pint” at Glasgow’s Òran Mór, writer and director Selma Dimitrijevic presented audiences with a delicate, poignant exploration of the complex emotional dance between a mother and a daughter, not least the “panic desolation” which affects most of us when we realise that our parents “do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgements are not always wise, their thinking true” – what John Steinbeck described as the “fall of gods” in East of Eden, a line from which also provided Dimitrijevic with her title.Eight years on, and Dimitrijevic’s play is back on the road following a successful run during last year’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe. But there’s one noticeable difference from that original Òran Mór run; that featured two female actors – Selina Boyack and Anne Lacey – but this new tour deliberately casts men in the roles, while a real-life mother and daughter from the local area sit watching silently from the sidelines. However, that “noticeable difference” isn’t really noticeable for long; such is the low-key strength of Joe Caffrey's and Max Dunham’s performances (as mother and daughter Alice respectively), the gender switch actually helps underscore the universality of this particular situation, and is soon forgotten. Roughly the first half of the play is pretty much the same scene – mother and daughter discussing the weather, hot water, tea and an unseen aunt – reiterated with both subtle and not so subtle differences; by the third occasion, it’s clear that the daughter is irritated and frustrated by her mother, not least because she has the audacity to be less than perfect. The fourth and final scene, however, is quite different, not least because of mother and daughter actually have a proper, grown up conversation where few words are spoken, the pauses are long and yet so much is clearly said and understood. This is a sparse, minimalist production; a black, almost empty performance space within which Caffrey and Runham pace around between scenes, on occasions almost limbering up for a physical representation of their characters’ verbal and emotional dance. But that is as it should be; with no set or props (beyond a couple of mugs of tea), there’s nothing to distract us from a lean, sinewy script in which Dimitrijevic manages to transform everyday banalities into a deeply touching and layered meditation on love, loss and why we should all remember that, when it comes to family, there isn’t “always a next time”.

It’s not immediately obvious where Second Hand is located; Jonathan Scott’s set for this latest production in the Spring 2016 season of “A Play, a Pie and a Pint”, at Glasgow’s Òran Mór, feels like a bedsit – cramped, dull and worn round the edges. Yet it’s only through hints in the dialogue that we realise this is actually meant to be the back room of a small antique shop, albeit one that we’re told now holds more “second hand crap” than antiques.Its owner, 71 year old Jim (a twinkly-enough Finlay McLean), would probably include himself among that second hand rubbish now. However, much to his annoyance, his quiet morning is soon interrupted. There’s the annoying – but very much expected – arrival of home-help Alison (Elaine Mackenzie Ellis,who initially has little to do but is able to build up some pathos later on). However, the play effectively starts with the unexpected, through-the-roof arrival of an previously unknown squatter in the attic – 19 year old neighbour Ash (Cameron Cunningham) who, having nowhere else to go after being thrown out by his aunt further up the street, has been lurking among the street’s eaves ever since.The heart of Paul Charlton’s short play is how this odd couple – opposites in terms of attitude, understanding of the modern world, and (of course) age – eventually start to find ways to communicate, both in terms of emotions and their very different perspectives of a world in which – according to Jim – "people are not interested in beauty any more”. Especially when it’s old. For the most part Charlton's script is fairly light-hearted: it has fun with Jim’s dismissal of Ash’s “BBC Three-style comedy” which he insists requires a lobotomy, but there’s a tinge of sadness too in his assertion that he doesn’t believe in hope, “full stop”. But the pair eventually open up somewhat: Jim about how he still misses his wife of 45 years; Ash’s thoughts on the father he’s never known. Occasional confusions arise as they enter a kind of role-play for each other’s benefit; just enough, it seems, to help turn this wannabe Scrooge into someone willing to employ “the echo effect” – what you get back in life depends on what you put in – and meet the OAP across the road for a cup of tea. Director Mark Saunders keeps everything moving speedily along, and he’s certainly cast the roles well: McLean and Cunningham in particular gel well together. All the same, while entertaining enough, it’s lacking something to make it truly memorable. 

It says something about us as a species that one of our oldest myths, crystallised in the form of Homer’s epic poem Iliad, is about war – specifically the bloody climax of the Greek’s 10 year siege of the city of Troy. It’s also apt that this latest retelling, by writer Chris Hannan and the Royal Lyceum’s outgoing Artistic Director Mark Thomson, begins with the sounds of sobbing, and then a mournful lament as the cast slip from the almost timeless rags of modern-day refugees into the martial dress of 3,000 years ago. This, against Karen Tennent’s impressive set that’s half classical temple, half steel-frame – half-demolished by conflict.“We gods are jealous and petty and vengeful forever,” we’re told early on, as the Olympian deities are reimagined as uber-rich, self-fixated celebrities, all suntan lotion and gold-coloured bikinis as they sip their drinks on the beach, moan that “no one understands how hard it is to be us”, and gleefully interfere with the affairs of mortal men. Emmanuella Coles is so stunning as Zeus’s often betrayed (and invariably furious) wife Hera that Richard Conlon’s capricious man-child Father of the Gods comes across as little more than comedy relief. Yet this appears quite deliberate: Hannan deftly balances an expected emphasis on the dehumanising brutality of combat – excellently choreographed by Raymond Short, with blood literally flung across the participants by other cast members – with a clear expression of how women, regardless of their position, become little more than collateral damage in times of war.We’re also told, at the start of the second half, that “this isn’t about the Trojan Horse”; while robbed of a gratuitous spectacle arguably impossible to fit on the stage, this also means Hannan can end his near three-hour retelling of the Iliad before the all-too-bloody destruction of Troy and its inhabitants. Importantly, this shifts the emphasis onto an event that surprises even Hera; when the Trojan King Priam – undoubtedly Ron Donachie best moment on stage – turns his unimaginable grief and anger at Greek warrior Achilles (who has killed 16 of his sons) – into a genuine desire for peace and an end to the violence. There is much to enjoy about this production; Simon Wilkinson’s lighting design sets time and mood through brilliant use of colour, while Claire McKenzie’s vocal score – performed by the cast – is dramatically impactful. In terms of the rest of the cast, Ben Turner is a suitably testy Achilles (even if it seems a shame Hannan opts to ignore the homosexual overtones of Achilles’s relationship with Patroclus), while Benjamin Dilloway gives a real sense of nobility to Achilles’s opposite number, the ultimately doomed Hector. Yet, while the rest of the cast are at least adequate in their roles, there’s little sense of an effective ensemble pulling in one direction; this early in the run at least, it’s like watching a football team that’s unbalanced by several star players and only starts scoring goals during the second half. 

Theatrical serendipity currently means that, after some masculine brutality set during the latter stages of the ancient siege of Troy (in the Royal Lyceum’s new adaptation of Homer’s Iliad), a determined audience member need travel just an hour or so west to the Citizens Theatre to find out what happened next to at least some of the victors when they returned home.In outline at least, Zinnie Harris’s This Restless House follows Aeschylus’s 2,500 year old template – the three play Oresteia – clearly enough: in Agamemnon’s Return, the titular King of Argos comes home victorious from Troy to face the murderous wrath of his wife Clytemnestra, who has never forgiven him for sacrificing their eldest daughter Iphigenia to the gods in order to ensure victory. In The Bough Breaks, Clytemnestra’s bloody murder of Agamemnon is revenged by their surviving children – son Orestes, after whom the original trilogy of plays are named, and youngest daughter Electra. Finally, in Electra And Her Shadow, the pair must escape the Furies aroused by such matricide and face a judgement in which justice ends an otherwise endless cycle of revenge.Harris retains and reworks much of this – not least the traditional chorus, initially reimagined here as three reprobate “gentlemen of the street” all too willing to address the audience directly and throw in some local jokes as they “info-dump” the back story. Yet Harris’s authorial focus is starkly different from Aeschylus’s; her’s is on the women, not the men. In Part 1, the centre of attention is Pauline Knowles’s astounding Clytemnestra – furious, maternal, glamorous, sultry and often drunk. In Part 2, she shares the spotlight with Olivia Morgan’s Electra – a wiry, old-before-her-time survivor. In Part 3, our focus is chiefly on Electra, not least when she ends up hiding in a somewhat worn down psychiatric hospital.This is not to deny the importance of the men in the story: George Anton is a powerfully grizzly Agamemnon – a worn, tired and openly flawed giant in Part 1, reduced to a lonely, bloodied and unseen ghost in the later plays. Cliff Burnett and George Costigan have the right comedic edge as members of the chorus, although particular praise must go to Lorn MacDonald, whose switch from chorus member to the itch-wracked Orestes is so startling it’s hard to believe the two are performed by the same actor.Even during the first two plays, set in the years following the destruction of Troy, there is no real attempt here at period verisimilitude; director Dominic Hill opts for a worn jumble-sale approach to costumes, as the cast perform within Colin Richmond’s garage-like set which proves remarkably adaptable during the course of the three plays. Ben Ormerod’s lighting design, meantime, is superb; atmospheric and not afraid to paint with the brightest colours as we move from ancient Greek palace to forest dreamscape to psychological hospital ward. Combined with Niloa Kodjabashia’s inventive, live-performed sound design, this is an enveloping world which balances despair with optimisim, horror with laughter, and a real glimpse of justice and hope. A startlingly bold, inventive, and heartfelt production.

As a playwright, David Edgar long ago sped past the number of plays written by Shakespeare, but it’s fair to say that – while often making a big impact at the time – not many of his works have since entered the national repertory. This production of his 1979 play Mary Barnes is the first – amateur or otherwise – in many years, and not without good reason. Not only does the play’s focus on mental health issues make it a “difficult sell” to audiences even now, but its somewhat rambling, stuttered nature – as it strings together episodes from a six year period – makes it difficult to care about what’s happening. (Also, when it’s increasingly costly to put on any show, Mary Barnes’s Baker’s Dozen cast list is also, presumably a prohibitive factor, at least for commercial theatre.)The titular character is, of course, Mary Barnes; a middle-aged nurse who, for six years during the 1960s, moved into Kingsley Hall, a controversial residence/therapy facility in London where people were encouraged to work through their mental illness – in Mary’s case, schizophrenia – within a non-restraining, non-drug based environment, living alongside other patients and their therapists. Despite repeated references to this “community”, however – and the numerous opportunities to see the cast sitting around table for supper – the focus of this play is undoubtedly on Mary Barnes, and her journey from madness to creative artist. This somewhat reduces nigh on all the rest of the characters – arguably with the exception of her favourite therapist Eddie – to little more than bit parts, satellites orbiting and often eclipsed by the main centre of dramatic gravity. This aspect of the script is emphasised most obviously here by Caitlin McLean’s physically and emotionally fearless performance as Mary, which in turn is enhanced by director Daniel Omnes repeatedly ensuring that she’s nearly always the focus of our attention in terms of staging, framing and lighting. The nearest to her in importance is Rufus Love as Eddie, who manages to imbue his seemingly glass-half-full character with greater depths than his initial late-night entrance on stage suggests.The rest of the ensemble cast make the best of what they’re given in the circumstances – especially Verity Brown as the somewhat world-weary Kelly, Harry Whitehead as the “wired” Zimmerman, and Martha Myers as fellow mental health survivor Angie frankly an overt example of Edgar’s tendency here to “tell not show”). For the rest of the cast, alas, they generally fail to breathe full life into the light character sketches they’ve been given, in some cases appearing and vanishing after a few minutes, while leaving barely a trace. The multilevel staging used here is useful in delineating the characters, but the setting also distracts in its cluttered, all-too-literal representation of the suggested need to demolish something before rebuilding. This literalness also features in a video montage of wars and political protests that is used, primarily, to show the passage of the years – even though it’s difficult to connect any of those events to the seemingly insular lives of those living in Kingsley Hall, especially Mary. While there are moments of genuinely memorable theatre in this production, unfortunately they are few and far between; there’s also a slightly ponderous, all-too-earnest feel to the whole production which, unfortunately, means that you’re all-too-aware of every minute of its two-and-a-half hours running time. 

First lines are important; as attention grabbers, but also as indicators of what’s to come, tonally at least. In Chris Campbell’s translation of Catherine-Anne Toupin’s A Présent, we have the seemingly innocuous “Have you been up long?” asked of Ben (Sean Biggerstaff) by his wife Alice (Lyndsey Campbell). True, there’s potential for mild innuendo, but initially this appears to be a serious play about a relationship heading for the rocks: a husband, working long hours and still bringing work home; a wife going stir-crazy in their apartment with only a crying (offstage) baby for company. We later learn that, while married for three years, the pair have known each other for seven – a dangerous time, it’s said, for relationships in which either one or the other partner might discover they have an insatiable itch to scratch.After two short scenes, however, Right Now makes its first apparent 90˚ turn in tone, with the sudden arrival of Ben and Alice’s previously absent neighbours from across the hallway; Juliette (Maureen Beattie), armed with pot-plant gift, and her barefoot, socially awkward (and still-living-at-home) son François (Dyfan Dwyfor). Beattie, from the word go, expertly milks the humour for all its worth, but with a deliciously troubling edge. When Juliette says to her son that he’d be “very comfy” in Alice’s home, it’s a sign of just how invasive these all-too-sociable neighbours are going to be. Yet no sooner do we expect Ben to reject these invaders when they come round for Friday night drinks, than we see him coming to like them, all the more odd given how not just François but Juliette’s husband Gilles (Guy Williams) are clearly eyeing up Alice. This is how Right Now continues, spending just enough time to lull us into some idea of what’s going on before the metaphorical rug is pulled out from under us. There are, of course, laughs in how disconcertingly honest Juliette and Gilles are about their own fading romance, but their open contempt for François and idolisation of his younger brother Benny – the perfect child who died in infancy – is telling. But as the tidiness of both flat and Ben and Alice’s relationship slip into chaos, it’s clear that their neighbours are simply revealing the unsatisfied desires and deep emotional fragilities that are already genuinely there.Unsettling, unnerving and yet totally engrossing, this menage a cinq is a theatrical car-crash only in the sense that it’s incredibly difficult not to keep watching; sharply directed by Michael Boyd and making full use of Madeline Girling’s uncluttered set and Oliver Fenwick’s emotive lighting design, the result is a brilliantly choreographed, emotional rollercoaster with a cast that can’t be faulted; and a narrative that provides just one surprise after another. It may be almost impossible to discern what is real and what is not by the end of the play, but that hardly lessens its impact. 

Ring roads are not usually places you go to; they’re a means of avoiding congestion, of giving a wide berth to somewhere. Or something. All of which are apt metaphors for Anita Vettesse’s new play; a sharply written, energetically performed story of three relationships that collide in a nondescript hotel room, by the garage, just off the ring road.The relationship that dominates is between primary school teacher Lisa and plumber Mark, the only two characters who appear on stage. She’s married to his brother Paul but there’s always been some undercurrent of attraction between them. Approaching her 41st birthday, all-too-aware that her biological clock is slowing down and that her husband’s sperm are not up to the job, Lisa has decided on Mark as the cause of a “spontaneous pregnancy”.The two other relationships are initially off-stage, and seen only from one point of view; not least the usual brotherly rivalry which comes with the added weight of Paul also being Mark’s boss. Much more troubling is Linda’s relationship with a husband she has “grown to love”, but now seems on the point of losing in her overwhelming need to have a baby.For most of the play’s running time, however, the focus is on Angela Darcy as Lisa and Martin Donachy as Mark; under Johnny McKnight’s expert direction, both are a real delight, throwing themselves (sometimes literally) into what appears to be a sharply written sex comedy with just a touch (as in McKnight’s own play for Random Accomplice/Birds of Paradise Theatre Company, Wendy Hoose) of underlying class conflict between a “snooty” middle class woman and a sticks-his-chewing-gum-on-the-bed working class man. Full comedic value comes from the all-too-mechanical gymnastics of sex, not least when a transfer from one single bed to the other – the hotel only had a twin room available – is required to avoid some annoying squeaking.What makes Ring Road so much more satisfying is when those two other relationships crash into this nondescript hotel room. It’s rare enough for any contemporary writer to get their head around how mobile phones really have changed our world – how, with only landlines, we used to phone places in the hope that the people we wanted to speak to were there. Vettesse, however, makes full use of how mobiles enable us to call people, no matter where they are – and, indeed, also use GPS-based apps to find out where they are. Best of all, while Paul’s first call arguably confirms our view of the character, the second lets Robbie Jack turn the tables, as Paul unexpectedly reveals his fears that Linda might be having an affair. It is here that the more serious, full dramatic impact of these characters’ lives is felt, and again it is performed with real heart and conviction. A poignant, remarkably grown-up conclusion to an entertaining comedy.

On 10 January 1992, the container ship Ever Laurel, several days out from Hong Kong en route to Tacoma, Washington, hit a storm in the North Pacific Ocean. A dozen containers were washed overboard, one of which contained 28,800 “Friendly Floatee” children’s bath toys that came in the forms of red beavers, blue turtles, green frogs and yellow ducks. For some unknown reason the container cracked open and the toys escaped, with the plastic ducks – their shape apparently offering the most water and wind resistance – ending up being washed ashore not only around the Pacific Ocean, but even eventually as far away as Ireland and the UK. For oceanographers it proved to be an invaluable opportunity to study and model ocean currents on a global scale.Those ducks are a significant inspiration behind this beautiful, endearing and fun show from Catherine Wheels Theatre Company, which underscores not just the fact that some 70% of the planet we arrogantly call “Earth” is, in fact, covered by water (in places far deeper than Everest is high), but that we’re all connected by it. This heart of this production – played out on designer Karen Tennant’s vast global map (onto which audience members are initially requested to place a small yellow plastic duck handed to them earlier before sitting around its edge) are the stories of just one connection between two people: the young man following his itinerant engineer father around the globe, who briefly becomes famous as “Duck Boy” after collecting almost 100 of the Friendly Floatee ducks from an Alaskan beach; and a similarly-aged girl living on Harris, Scotland, who becomes fixated on finding one of the ducks before they’re predicted to arrive on British shores.The first rule of beach-combing, we’re told, is that everything has a story; but arguably a far more important message comes later, that we shouldn’t take our troubles out on the ocean. The sea may not be the most instantaneous of communications – we hear of a message in a bottle which takes 11 years to be found – but it one that connects us as much historically as geographically. Under Gill Robertson’s uncluttered direction, performers Ashley Smith and Laurie Brown easily hold the audience’s attention, as we constantly flip between the two tales (each rooted in a small part of the set at either end of the performance space). It helps that there’s plenty of audience participation within the brightly-lit space, not least a game of Pass the Parcel which is used to reveal the fate of many of those plastic ducks during their years in the oceans of the world. Yet just as importantly, Morna Pearson’s sharply observed script is willing to pause for some quieter character moments, giving some depth and reality not just for the interest of the older members of the audience, but also to underscore the serious points that can, perhaps, only be so openly made in theatre supposedly aimed at children. 

There’s are plenty of laughs in this imaginary conversation between King James VI of Scotland – preparing in March 1603 to make his stately progress south from the Palace of Holyroodhouse to Westminster and the English throne – and a gawky servant boy called William. But – yes, there’s a “but” – it’s a shame that Tim Barrow relies too often on not just the highest in the land using the lowest vernacular, but also an increasingly clichéd self-image of Scotland as some proudly uncivilised and ungovernable-from-England nation. Whether self-mockery or self-congratulation, it’s really past its sell-by date.Jimmy Chisholm does a great job humanising the self-centred man hiding behind the monarch’s at-times-literal posturing, alcoholism, and innate sense of entitlement – a man used to getting whatever he wants even though it appears he’s never genuinely happy with what he receives. Chisholm is matched well by Gavin Wright as the former servant with nothing-to-lose, who ends up becoming the king’s lone drinking companion on that long night before the monarch’s departure for London. While clearly written to gain our sympathies, Wright ensures that a figure “too sweet for regicide, too green for blackmail” becomes more than just a gawky commentator on the unfairness of life.For every gratuitous example of “The final couplet is always a bitch”, Barrow’s script at least offers a more chilling reference to there being “ghosts here tonight, in your face”. And while few today surely fail to dismiss, as self-egotism, James’ insistence that he’s monarch “by Divine Right, not a whim of Westminster”, and that “King’s are born, not made”, we can surely still sympathise with a man who has feared assassins all his life, and is well aware of the personal price paid by whoever wears the crown. Like any effective “historical” play, Neither God Nor Angel may be set in the 17th century, but it’s very much a contemporary piece – and not just because of the anachronistic carpet on the floor of Jonathan Scott’s simple but suggestive set. (Chris Reilly’s lighting design, incidentally, excellently suggests a dark night illuminated only by a fading fire.) James refers to the bankers that have apparently sucked England dry during the latter years of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign as “devious bastards”. Discussing the planned union of his two kingdoms, James talks of finding “a Middle Way” to wealth and security. William, meantime, dismisses as “pish” his monarch’s “trickle down” theory of wealth redistribution from the richest to the poorest in society. All of which resonate with our present where, of course, another Elizabeth has sat on the throne for a very long time. This James is no Charles, however; while, as a critique of power and responsibility, Neither God Nor Angel sadly lacks both the hard wit and depth of Liz Lochead's Mary Queen of Scots Got Her Head Chopped Off – scarily, a work first performed some three decades ago.

It has become traditional for Lung Ha Theatre Company – Scotland’s principal theatre group for people with learning disabilities – to present at least one large show every year that gives a role of some importance to every member of the ensemble. This is by no means an easy task, requiring both a script and a performance space capable of supporting nearly 20 performers of varying abilities and mobility. Nevertheless, such has been the quality of Lung Ha’s recent work, under the nuanced guidance of Artistic Director Maria Oller, that the company now finds itself welcomed on some of Scotland’s most important stages, including Glasgow’s Tron Theatre and Edinburgh’s Traverse.The quality of Lung Ha’s work also attracts some of the most innovative and exciting theatre talent in Scotland; in the case of The Silent Treatment, this is playwright Douglas Maxwell, whose recent successes include Yer Granny – an adaptation of Robert Cossa’s La Nona – for the National Theatre of Scotland, and the innovative Fever Dream: Southside for Glasgow’s Citizens Theatre. With Lung Ha, Maxwell appears to have taken on the challenge of writing a play with, for the most part, little or no dialogue; for some of Lung Ha’s most experienced performers, this takes their seemingly innate talent for comedy into a far more physical realm than ever before.Set within a sponsored silence in a school hall, in a remarkably realistic set designed by Jessica Brettle, the action launches with Nicola Tuxworth’s Billie being ejected after six minutes for unthinkingly saying “Bless You” when her boyfriend Arthur [Lung Ha stalwart Stephan Tate] sneezed. She decides, in anger, to undermine the whole endeavour – despite the fact that the sponsored silence is actually intended to raise funds for her own ill mother.What follows is essentially an hour of physical escapades in which Tuxworth and a lone accomplice attempt to ruin friendships and frustrate relationships by stealing people’s hats, lottery-winning scratch cards, and packets of biscuits. Further confusion is caused by the repeatedly unexpected arrival of four workmen [led by Mark Howie, sadly denied his usual opportunity to land a few verbal punchlines], distinctive in their high visibility jackets and bowler hats. Their presence in the room at first appears somewhat arbitrary and sometimes meandering, though (of course) this proves not to be the case later on.While a few performers’ movements are somewhat stilted, Janis Claxton’s choreography overall is effective, with several cast members excelling in their own little character-defining moments. Everyone, however, is aided by M J McCarthy’s almost hypnotic score, with its continuous, clock-based rhythms and overt tonal shifts to denote characters and mood. The result is an entertaining hour that, while not necessarily crystal clear in its dramatic intent, at least avoids the innate cruelty of slapstick and concludes with an upbeat moment that leaves a smile on everyone’s faces. 

In the near-century since Czech writer Karel Capek first gave us the word “robot” (in his play R.U.R.) to describe a manufactured human being, robotics and artificial intelligence have stepped from the most cliched science fiction into the world around us. So congratulations to Rob Drummond of Borderland Theatre Company, the Ayr Gaiety Theatre and the Edinburgh International Science Festival for providing a highly engaging, child-friendly exploration of what AI actually means – after all, given the rate computer technology continues to advance, it’s the next generation who’ll most likely have to deal with all its consequences!The term “uncanny valley” usually refers to how most people are quite happy with artificial beings that are either “barely human” (e.g. cartoons) or “fully human”; it’s when something “isn’t quite right” (eg, shop window mannequins, for example) that there’s a sense of “uncanniness” that leads to discomfort and even hostility. In Drummond’s new production, however, Uncanny Valley becomes a town, whose Mayor (a bang-on-the-mark Kirsty Stuart) decided that all artificial intelligence devices – “arties” – are dangerous and therefore has had them crushed and buried outside town. This is bad news for the new girl at school, Ada (a focused Pamela Reid); abandoned by both parents, she now only communicates with other people through her own self-programmed “artie” OKAY (Outstandingly Knowledgeable Android Youth). When this comes to the attention of the Mayor, a compromise of sorts is reached, thanks to the kindly teacher (played by Drummond) who is also our guide to the story. OKAY will not be destroyed if it can successfully pass for human in a Turing Test; unfortunately, Ada has just the weekend to program OKAY sufficiently well that it can prove it is “alive”. Performed with wit and élan on Fergus Dunnet’s minimalistic set (all darkness and neon blue panels) with easily understood character switches and plenty of audience interaction, this intelligent three-hander proves to be a surprisingly thought-provoking tale that nevertheless holds the attention of even its youngest audience members. While quite deliberately “about” some pretty important issues, Drummond never forgets the drama; arguably the most emotive scene occurs when a distraught Ada finds herself on the edge of town, among the half-buried wreckage of the other “arties”. Not all of them were totally destroyed; when Drummond can hold our attention with a conversation between two “arties”, he’s clearly doing something right.Of course, science fiction writers have long used robots and aliens as metaphors to explore the human condition; initially, it’s slightly worrying that this play suggests it might just be our ability to “make mistakes and be mean”. It’s more heartfelt conclusion, however, is that “the Category of Human is unstable” – that is, humans are the continuing result of our interactions with other people. At the very least, though, it’s hoped that the younger audience members will remember – as the play makes clear early on – that being human requires more than just reading and processing a tiny fraction of the internet!

Most of us come to fairy tales – folk tales in general – courtesy of their so-called “traditional” retellings by Disney or the local panto. So praise be to Dundee Rep and Noisemaker for offering a positively contemporary and wonderfully life-affirming take on the story of Little Red Riding Hood.In Little Red and the Wolf, writer and director Scott Gilmour initially plays this contemporary approach for laughs – post “huffing and puffing” wolf, the Three Little Pigs went into property investment, for example. Yet in the history class referencing other Wolf-related tales, we’re immediately introduced to one dissenting voice: young Red (Marli Siu, excellent when expressing bravery and fear simultaneously) is admonished by her teacher because she dares suggest that the grizzly fate of the Boy Who Cried Wolf “wasn’t the wolf’s fault”. In Fayble, though, wolves are always in the wrong.As are humans when they step into the wolves’ domain, but Wolf Mother's black and white perspective puzzles “weird” young cub Lyca (a touchingly sugar-free performance by Cristian Ortega). Given their mutual outsider status, it’s no surprise that Red and Lyca meet. Initially, they flee in panic but, by doing so, confound each other’s expectations. Despite the bigotries and prejudices on both sides – personified in Ann Louise Ross’s crossbow-carrying, sudoku-loving Granny – the two youngsters become friends. Nevertheless this newfound relationship seems doomed; the Big Bad Wolf is back – feared by humans and Wolf Mother alike.Bursting with energy, but not afraid to slow down for the darker, scarier moments – and yes, those are well achieved, even if you're not five years old – Gilmour’s script is always clear regarding action, location and the need for understanding over prejudice. Granny’s insistence that Red should always listen to her instincts might appear somewhat maudlin, but the story’s dramatic heart is what Red decides to dow when her instincts go against the perceived wisdom of her community. Possibly above the heads of its younger audience members, the show is also happy to revel in its own theatricality: whether it’s Billy Mack's self-conscious on-stage costume changes (primarily between the roles of Mayor and the teacher Dandy) or Granny’s admonition to Red: “What do you think I was whispering for? Dramatic effect?” Tyler Collins, Ewan Sommers and Rep stalwart Irene Macdougall round off the ensemble, each adept at switching between characters both emotionally and physically – with Darragh O'Leary's movement direction particularly effective for the wolves. The Rep's reconfigured stage – for this show, an empty square performance space surrounded on three sides by seating – becomes both a welcoming and emotive place, thanks in no small part to Richard Evans' effective design, Grant Anderson's subtle lighting and a truly immersive soundscape from composer Claire McKenzie, who provides a range of emotive, dramatic songs that drive the story along. Given that the cast take time to chat with the younger members of their audience before the show begins, and offer plenty of reassuring eye-contact during the scarier moments, this is undoubtedly an entertaining introduction to – and a reminder, for us oldies, of – the magic of theatre. 

It is a tad ironic that, initially, the most overpowering element in this new show from Stellar Quines Theatre Company – established in 1993 to “celebrates the energy, experience and perspective of women” – is the work of the lone male listed in the show’s creative team. It’s the set; a beautifully decrepit cottage interior, filled with detail and a touch of wistful fairytale – Grimm, not Disney – surrounded by skeletal trees rising out of a water-like blackness. It speaks fluently of both past and present, of the relentlessness of nature and the obstinate lingering of humanity – and so, arguably, perfectly encapsulates the heart and soul of Rebecca Sharp’s poetic script. Admittedly, this shouldn’t come as a surprise; you don’t get second best when you employ the acclaimed artist and writer John Byrne.Even the best set in the world can be ruined by poor lighting, though; thankfully, Byrne and director Muriel Romanes are well-served by Byrne’s partner Jeanine (neé Davies). Different areas of the house come into focus as and when required, while the simplest effect suggests the turning path of a car’s headlights. Appropriately, too, the walls are on occasions illuminated with a succession of symbols – from the assured reliability of an Ordnance Survey map to the more runes of ancient civilisations; layers of reality revealed and subsequently hidden in symbols.Sharp’s play focuses on three women: the first to speak is Isobel, played with emotional clarity by Melody Grove. Isobel has been left the “awkward” to reach Argyle home of her childhood friend Yvonne; her annoyance at this for the most part masking her own grief at the apparent inevitability of Yvonne choosing to end her own life one Halloween evening.Pauline Lockhart as Yvonne retains a certain ethereal quality throughout, which is balanced by Stellar Quines stalwart Alexandra Mathie who brings a warmth to the third woman in the house, its former owner Marion Campbell. She wrote of the spirit world and ancient civilisations in both fact and fiction; and, it’s suggested, became a spiritual guide of sorts for Yvonne in her final days.What is not initially clear from Rebecca Sharp’s script is that Campbell was a real person, who died at the age of 80 in June 2000; the only obvious clue, for those unfamiliar with her work as an author and archaeologist, is a picture projected on the rear wall. Building a fictional world from her life and work is appropriate, given her own work, but not making her historic existence explicit is arguably a weakness none-the-less. Another is a lack of dramatic impact; for most of the time, the three women on stage address the audience rather than each other and, if this is thought of as a ghost story, it’s one without scares or even overt consequences. Engrossing and beautiful though this Stellar Quines production is, that’s not always enough to hold even the most vigilant audience’s attention for long.

David Leddy’s apocalyptic fable International Waters certainly starts as it means to go on; loud and bold, with the memorable image of four gas-masked figures performing a tabletop fight to the death between Barbie dolls.These, we quickly realise, represent the struggle of the main characters to escape economic and societal meltdown on the “last boat out of London”. The four – a financier’s trophy wife (Claire Dargo), self-obsessed singer (Robin Laing), secretive senior civil servant (Selina Boyack), and conspiracy-fixated journalist (Lesley Hart) – are then confined, Big Brother House style, in the ship’s Caliban Room, ready to drink champagne and kick back while they sail to safety. Except… the four soon realise that they are far from safe. The boat is sailing in the wrong direction out to sea, dangerous wild animals have escaped from the cargo hold, and their foreign-sounding captain is demanding millions of dollars before taking them to safety in Mumbai.The dramatic meat of International Water is the constantly alternating power-struggles between these four members of the global elite as they attempt to work out what’s happening while also retaining some sense of control over events, whether that’s with money, charm, or a blinding sense of entitlement. The overall time-span of the events we see is less than 24 hours, but it is condensed with overt theatricality; not least through the repeated use of sudden, noisy black-outs and staggered flashes of frozen character tableaus reminiscent of some tightly-cut BBC Three drama. Meantime the characters’ brutal Lord of the Flies-styled collapse is startling, not least because Leddy delights in putting his characters through hell, physically as much as psychologically. Bodily fluids of all kinds are soon splashing across the luxurious suite – I’d hate to be whoever has to clean the cast’s costumes after each performance!An excellent cast give full life to a script that is full of deliciously ironic lines (“They can look up diarrhoea on Wikipedia while dying of it,”), the effective use of sitcom repetition (“Isn’t human psychology interesting?” the well-healed journalist keeps saying over the course of the play, with varying degrees of irony), and a high concentration of literary references ranging from Shakespeare to Ayn Rand. Yet this isn’t just some masturbatory exercise in literary appropriation. The inspired use of music – from old-time Southern USA to the Sugarcanes – adds to the overall sense of Leddy, as both writer and director, drawing together seemingly disparate aspects of our world for real dramatic effect.Ably supported by Becky Minto’s decadent set, Nich Smith’s lighting design and the almost overwhelming soundscape created by Danny Krass, International Waters is a stark tale, boldly told. It may initially feel like some darkly delicious rewriting of the drawing room comedy, but Leddy ensures that it ends up being something altogether much more serious and memorable. 

Phil Differ is not someone you’d immediately recognise. Certainly Joan Collins didn’t, back in the day, assuming that – given he was standing next to Robbie Coltrane at some BAFTA ceremony in the 1980s – he just must be Billy Connolly. She wasn’t completely off the mark; the Glasgow accent’s certainly similar, and his range of comedic subjects is just as personally scatological. Differ is just as amazed as Connolly by the peculiarities of life, especially once you reach middle age. He’s just nowhere near as in-your-face; the speech is slower, more measured. He’s funny, yes, but there’s little of the Big Yin’s risqué sense of danger.This is, by no means, a bad thing, and suits Differ’s generally middle-aged audience well. You relax in his company, reassured that – whatever else may happen – he’s not going to deliver a comedic road crash. While Differ may be relatively new to stand-up comedy, his whole career – barring a few early years lost being demoted within the then-telecommunications section of the Post Office (later British Telecom, later still BT) – has been making people laugh. As a writer, producer and director working on many of Scotland’s most famous and popular TV shows – from Scotch & Wry and Naked Video to City Lights and Rab C Nesbitt – Differ has clearly picked up some tips from performers as distinctive as Rikki Fulton and Gregor Fisher.Admittedly, initially hooking a standup routine on how Glaswegians are “chuffed they didn’t make an arse of the Commonwealth Games” does seem a bit out of date, even though it’s just two years ago. A reference to the discovery of Gravitational Wave proves Differ’s keeping up on recent events, but he disappointingly doesn’t really do much with it beyond asking “So What?” On this occasion, performing in Musselburgh (rather than in nearby Edinburgh), he also seemed slightly lost without the easy fall-back crutch of the deep cultural rivalry between the Scottish capital and its western neighbour.Although promoted as a show of two halves – 45 minutes of stand up, followed by reminisces from his 35 years working in television – there was less of a change of comedic tack than might be expected; the unhurried delivery remained, and the peculiarities of his world view not that different either. Differ’s approach to life, as much as his work, appears to be summed up as: “Never try hard at something you’re not interested in.” Differ is amusing, certainly, but there are a few brief moments when you do wonder just how interested he really is in stand up comedy.That said, he does deliver some genuine laugh-out loud moments; some well-placed, well-timed and delivered punchlines. He may never be recognised as one of Scotland’s comedic legends, but he’s certainly worth catching if you can.

Most theatre audiences have an anonymous – some might even suggest voyeuristic – role, viewing the action on stage from the safety of a darkened auditorium. Not so with this latest touring production by Moray-based Right Lines Productions. The lights never go down, and the audience is very much a part of the action. Indeed, if you’re sitting in the front row, there’s a good chance you’ll be taking part!Despite having walked (on the occasion of this review) into an upstairs space at the Brunton theatre in Musselburgh, I and the rest of the audience suddenly become Boganlochan villagers sheltering in the local Village Hall – designated the local Emergency Rest Centre – from rising flood-water. The man nominally in charge is Eric (a suitably morose Ross Allan), an assistant grass cutter (seasonal) employed by the local council. It’s clear he’s not particularly keen on the responsibilities that fate (or “the Cooncil”) has placed on his shoulders; he’d much rather be at his dinner-date with Flora (an energetic Romana Abercromby), who runs local canoeing business “Go with the Flo”. However, with the Riverside Restaurant now effectively on the river bed, his job is to keep everyone safe and well, a clear challenge given the shortage of clean drinking water in the hall and the obvious limits of the DIY soup-making kit dropped down by a privatised Air Sea Rescue helicopter. So it’s up to retired (though hardly retiring) volunteers Gloria and Albert (two audience-engaging performances from Estrid Barton and James Bryce) to keep everyone’s spirits up – as well as helping Eric find the confidence to propose marriage to Flo. With the help of some audience-members, mail is received, food distributed and jumble-filled sandbags passed in a chain from one end of the hall to the other. A few attempted sing-alongs – including “The Muckle Spate of ’63” – add to the fun, as well as being a welcome distraction from Albert's impromptu lecture (number 17 in an ongoing series) about protecting water aquifers beneath the Sahara. Notwithstanding several overlapping romantic liaisons (plus the rivalry between Eric and self-consciously macho global traveller Connal, played by David Rankine), environmental issues are at Rapid Departure's heart. During the course of the show the dialogue touches on global warming, re-wilding policies, the development of renewable energy sources and the need for flood alleviation schemes (rather than just defence barriers which merely shift flooding problem elsewhere). It's a tad overtly educational on occasions; yet, equally, there's arguably no more more effective a demonstration of the consequences of increased flood waters than seeing cast and audience members play a game of musical chairs in which only the chairs are removed. All in all, this is an energetic, entertaining and thought-provoking story that never forgets where its dramatic heart should be.

In one sense this latest production from Edinburgh-based Blazing Hyena Theatre Company is nothing more than a theatrical game in which writer Jack Elliot creates a succession of clearly outlined characters and throws them one by one into the pressure cooker of a single room to see how they bounce off each other. However, even if you adopt such a mechanistic view, the result is undoubtedly sharp, funny, and all-too-believable – with an energy that’s never allowed to slump, not least thanks to the staggered introductions that keeps changing the mix of players “in the room”.Seven of the play’s 10 characters are biologically related, the titular cousins (including two pairs of siblings), with their life-long gripes and rivalries. (The remaining three characters are the partner of one cousin, and two “plus ones” whose unexpected presence ratchets up the tension.) Director Catherine Expósito expertly handles this large ensemble cast – a distinctive hallmark of the company’s productions – making full use of the venue’s space, and keeping things uncluttered and easily understood.With the characters all stuck in their Gran’s front room on the day of her funeral, Elliot’s script is grounded in the subtle – and not-so-subtle – power-struggles you find within most families. As a writer, though, he isn’t afraid to push his more gratuitous misunderstandings towards – and arguably beyond – their comedic limits. For example; uptight PE student Dana (a believably defensive character from Rosie Milne) is accompanied by her “best friend” Rachel. It’s immediately clear that Rachel is the partner of the not-yet-out-as-a-lesbian Dana. (Kate Foley-Scott, incidentally, makes the most of Rachel, willing to hide in general company but nevertheless ready to physically defend the woman she loves.) The joke, though, comes from the cack-handed attempt by youngest cousin Teddy (Nathan Dunn) to chat Rachel up, which leads to him naively pretending he’s a regular at her favourite bar, “CC’s”. Once the penny drops that this is, in fact, CC Blooms – one of Edinburgh’s oldest gay bars – Teddy grabs every subsequent opportunity to insist that he’s not gay. This is a running joke that arguably becomes tiresome very quickly, unless you choose to believe that, in fact, “he doth protest too much” and just actually might be.Unlike previous production One, Two, Three, Yippee! – which was formatted as a narrative being told to the audience – For the Love of Cousins isn’t particularly helped by its Art College bar venue; it’s simply distracting when cast-members bleed into an audience sat on the array of seats, sofas and stools dotted around the main performance area. Overall, though, this is an energetically-delivered production of a tightly written script – and the strongest indication yet of a young theatre company with an increasingly distinctive voice and definitely something to say.

In Greek mythology, princess Iphigenia is the eldest daughter of King Agamemnon, sacrificed to the goddess Artemis in order to allow her father’s warships to sail off to Troy. Admittedly, some versions include a last-minute rescue by Artemis herself, but Iphigenia symbolises a young woman sacrificed for the supposed greater good of her community.In this sharply-written, powerfully-delivered monologue from Gary Owen, a pitch-perfect Sophie Melville becomes our modern Welsh equivalent. Effie is more than happy to live up to her “stupid slag, nasty skank” self-description, not least with her unending cycle of three-day hangovers that are as much a badge of honour as a perverse survival technique to get through the week. She believes that we owe her, however; she’s here to collect. Yet the only actual payment Effie appears to want is our attention. The story she tells starts one Monday morning at 11.35am when, against all expectation, she wakes up sober. A few altercations on the dog-shit covered street soon get her fired up for an afternoon’s smoking and shagging with her “prick” of a boyfriend Kev. So far, so chav-spotting; but it’s that evening on the town which ensures Effie’s story gets more interesting.Essentially, she goes home with ex-soldier Lee, who’s been invalided out of the Army after an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) blew away his lower leg. Suddenly, for the first time, Effie feels that she is genuinely not alone; more, that she has a purpose in life, to make Lee better. Afterwards, back in her flat and waiting days, then weeks for him to text or call, she’s absolutely sober. This is no fairy tale; that said, many a woman in a Greek myth, she does end up pregnant. This is where we begin to get some genuine dramatic conflict, as Effie starts to pull herself out from her old world of drugs and alcohol – albeit not without complaints about losing control of her own body to the baby inside. Sadly, while it’s already been a bit of a rough ride, there’s little surprise that life’s going to get even rougher.Against Hayley Grindle’s plain black set, with only a “broken venetian blind” (made of white neon tubes) and three chairs, our focus is always on Melville’s eyes-to-the-audience performance. Sam Jones’s soundscape is so subtle that it’s barely noticeable, but always ready to support and guide us emotionally through Effie’s journey. Without a doubt, director Rachel O’Riordan has expertly brought the show together compactly and effectively. Of course, there’s a serious point to Effie’s story, with no attempt made to dress its blatant politics in ancient Greek myth; people like Effie feel that – willingly or not – they’re sacrificing themselves on the alter of austerity for the benefit of the rest of society. But, as life continues to bite what, she asks, will happen when the likes of her can’t take any more? 

There’s a beautiful symmetry to this new production from Glasgow-based Birds of Paradise Theatre Company; the start and end deliberately remind us that the four disabled men on stage are professional actors. Yet they bring a personal reality to the work; each has cerebral palsy, what Wikipedia describes as a “group of permanent movement disorders”, symptoms of which “include poor coordination, stiff muscles, weak muscles, and tremors”. Or, to put it another way, what medical practitioners have long termed “purposeless movements”.Their uniquely individual ways of moving are emphasised from the start, as they each make their way from the distant rear of the stage up to the illuminated microphones at the front; Colin Young and Jim Fish on their feet, Laurence Clark and Pete Edwards in their wheelchairs. There’s no hiding from what this show is about. Admittedly, writer/director Robert Softley Gale certainly makes it clear: at one point Laurence – best known to many as a comedian – explains that people with CP often try to make non-disabled people laugh in order to deflect any unease about their “jerky movements”. Which, of course, is exactly what the whole show has been doing from the start, when the four performers – given their varying levels of clear diction – initially asked: “Are they having a laugh?” Yes, but in a good way. Purposeless Movements is a surprisingly funny show, albeit with a serious intent: to focus on the “honesty of this body” and how none of us should attempt to look “past” impairments to find the “man inside” but rather accept that those impairments are an integral part of who they are. “I am what you see” is one of the prominent “chapter headlines” – or potential campaign slogans, take your pick – projected onto the rear wall. (That’s in addition to the words spoken by the cast, of course; Birds of Paradise are always keen to integrate accessibility fully into their productions. This also explains the delightful presence of Amy Cheskin, officially on stage as a British Sign Language Interpreter, but who frequently joins in with the action and choreography.)Much of the show is drawn from the cast’s own experiences, which gives everything a firm grounding: Colin explaining his meeting with a patronising Equalities Minister; Laurence on how his second child, as a baby, found the jerky movements of someone with CP far more soothing than the gentle motions from a non-disabled babysitter; Pete – arguably with the most extreme CP, which requires him to be strapped into his wheelchair – wondering if it was perhaps time he stopped asking why his male partner of four years wanted to be with him.Beautifully lit by Neil Foulis, Purposeless Movements also benefits from having a live soundtrack – composed and performed live by Scott Twynholm, with Kim Moore – that ably supports, focuses and underpins the physical and emotional actions presented on stage. Overall, this is a genuinely engaging, touching and amusing production providing an honest, eye-openingnight to remember.

At the risk of sounding ageist, an immediate concern with any student theatre company taking on Shakespeare’s tragedy of tragedies, King Lear, is that it is in many respects a play about old age. Thankfully, despite its youthful cast, this particular production by the Edinburgh University Shakespeare Co. has an absolutely solid foundation: Will Fairhead, as Lear, embodies the shrinking posture and gentle trembling of a man worn down by time and mental anguish. Also, Ben Schofield and Tom Stuchfield as the Earls of Gloucester and Kent respectively – the former a courtier betrayed by his conniving illegitimate son Edmund, the latter a loyal soldier who disguises himself in order to stay at Lear’s side – also bring an authentic air of old age, embodying their characters with real sympathy and understanding.Director Henry Conklin provides us with a visually clean, unfussy production. The set is stark and simple, dominated by angular doors, raised platforms, and a plain metal throne – all silver-grey and light sky blue. The cast, meantime, spend much of their time standing still, a minimalistic choreography that turns each scene into a clearly defined tableau. This simplicity is carried into the costumes; the women are all dressed in black, the men in black trousers and white tops. Lear is distinguished from the rest by being dressed in increasingly grubby white, wrapped in grey; the Fool – Pedro Leandro, who brings a stand-up comedian smirk to the role – is dressed oppositely from the rest, with black top, white trousers and small blue hat.This visual clarity is obviously intended to help focus our attention on the characters, and – more importantly – what they say. It’s an entirely appropriate approach, except that – despite projecting their voices well – many of the cast’s diction is far from clear. There are exceptions, of course: Fairhead as Lear, and an incredible Marina Windsor as his loyal, but spurned, youngest daughter Cordelia, both clearly emote the poetry and emotion in what their characters say. It’s a shame, though; arguably the saving grace of this darkest of Shakespearian tragedy – its beautiful poetry – is too often sacrificed for the sake of speed and action.And this includes, somewhat strangely, the assumed big scene in the play; when the usurped king is left ranting and raving into the thunderstorm on the moor. Arguably, it’s the one time when Fairhead’s diction is lost in the fury of his performance, while Leandro also seems somewhat upstaged, especially once Macleod Stephen as Mad Tom – Gloucester’s legitimate heir, in disguise – leaps onto the stage with just shorts and dirt-paint to preserve his modesty. Overall, though, this version of King Lear is an impressive production, which clearly ensures that we don’t miss the main themes of the play – the fear that comes from growing old, and the inherent problems involved when it comes to any question of succession.

I’ve long been a fan of Howard Phillips Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness, in which an Antarctica exhibition uncovers the still-living legacy of a previously unknown non-terrestrial civilisation. Time magazine once described the 1931 novella (which comes in at around 40,000 words) as ranking “high among the horror stories of the English language”, although – if I’m being honest – my own particular interest has always been grounded on Lovecraft’s ideas about ancient alien civilisations rather than his sometimes turgid, adjective-heavy writing style.So immediate praise for director Max Lewendel and star Tim Hardy (who co-adapted Lovecraft’s work for the stage) for performing a reasonable editing job which reduces the verbiage without sacrificing either significant plot details or the narrative’s overall tone. Hardy’s performance – this is, essentially, a one-man show with only a few occasional pre-recorded inserts from two other characters – is impressive technically, even if his character’s dramatic journey is necessarily muted by the decision to follow Lovecraft’s first-person-in-hindsight structure to the letter.The staging is simple and effective enough, with a few items dotted around the stage: a lecturn, a chair, a chest, a table on which sits an old radio receiver/transmitter. Hardy moves between these as required – the chest, for example, playing a role in one of the story’s most gruesome discoveries – while the words of other named characters are heard via the radio, most obviously the initial radio transmissions from the leader of the expedition’s advance group. A subtle touch is the formation of a pentagon – which becomes a significant feature in the plot – from the laying down of rugs on the floor.Significant contributions to the overall atmosphere come from Theo Holloway’s unsettling musical soundscape and Declan Randall’s lighting, which ably support both Lovecraft’s words and Hardy’s performance. Yet there are disappointments; while Lovecraft is famous for often not describing things, even the inclusion of some shadowy silhouettes might have aided the verbal descriptions of the monstrous creatures described here. (Though not, arguably, the giant blind albino penguins which have to rank among Mr Lovecraft’s less successful ideas.)The overall result is certainly gripping – and, yes, disturbing. Yet, while watching this Icarus Theatre Collective production of At the Mountains of Madness, there was one niggling question that was never entirely answered. The original novella is very much a tale that’s “told not shown” and, by following that format as closely as they do, you do wonder why Lewendel and Hardy are performing this on a stage rather than on radio. (A point rather underlined by the fact they were selling CDs of the soundtrack at the venue.) This is, undoubtedly, an impressive piece of storytelling, but it still strikes me more as performed reading rather than a genuinely dramatic adaptation.   

With typical modesty (not), Glasgow-based Vanishing Point describe themselves as “Scotland’s foremost artist-led independent theatre company, internationally recognised and acclaimed for its distinctive, ground-breaking and visionary work”. This doesn’t mean they can’t be populist; their 2014 collaboration with Eden Court Theatre and the National Theatre of Scotland, The Beautiful Cosmos of Ivor Cutler, was a delightfully self-conscious work full of wit, pathos and humour. But they also produce more unorthodox works, of which The Destroyed Room is definitely an example. Sadly, a poor example.Three Vanishing Point veteran performers – Elicia Daly, Pauline Goldsmith, and Barnaby Power – step onto a set that has the air of a slightly abstract sitting room: sparse furniture, white walls and a small but significant collection of wine bottles. There are also two video cameramen, who capture the images of the cast that the audience can see on a large screen above them. We’re told that what follows will be an improvised discussion, triggered by a question that only one of the cast knows in advance: on the night of this review, “Do you think that we are happier nowadays?”Yet only the most naive viewer can believe that the following hour is largely improvised; almost immediately the conversation swerves, with all the subtlety of an ice-skating elephant, onto social media – specifically Facebook – and how “we see a lot of people’s lives” compared to previous generations. Then as the wine flows and the arguments get louder, it becomes clear from the anticipatory choreography of the cameramen that much of what the cast do is just as preplanned. Frankly, though, it’s difficult to see what point an ill-framed close-up makes, beyond poorly reproducing the experience of any live audience watching the recording of a television programme.To their credit, all three of the “cast” come across as distinctive characters. Goldsmith is all too ready to excuse her aggression as “passion” inspired by climate change, “the free movement of capital”, and the ongoing refugee crisis. Daly comes across as a self-pitying control-freak who really should keep off the vino. Power, meantime, is the “family man” – a term which raises the hackles of both childless women – with a “motorway car crash” inability to turn away from online execution videos.On it goes. Gradually, Mark Melville’s rumbling background score grows louder, as a reflective skin of water slowly begins to creep across the dark floor – presumably in an attempt to create some dream-like vision, but proving largely distracting for anyone wondering how thorough the risk assessment was beforehand.The actors, with some obvious relief, finally leave the stage, where-upon a sequence of the previously mentioned refugee images are projected on the paper-thin walls, before these tear and melt in a manner that’s almost visually interesting. The Destroyed Room is portentous, pretentious and pious. Worst of all, having left us contemplating those harrowing images of desperate refugees in the sea, the cast then have the audacity to come back to get their applause.

Arguably, the most important part of any Agatha Christie play doesn’t happen on the stage at all; it takes place in the rest of the theatre during the interval, when there’s plenty of fun to be had eavesdropping on an audience’s theories about the murder. Christie’s 1953 play, Witness for the Prosecution, is no different in this respect; Leonard Vole, the man in the dock for the brutal killing of an “elderly” spinster, is so clearly innocent – essentially a “friendly sort of chap”, according to his defence lawyers – that there just must be some underhand scheme going on.Having relatively recently served on a jury (albeit not relating to a murder case), I’m well aware of the inherent theatre that builds up in a courtroom; and how that’s partly down to the rhythm of interest switching repeatedly from prosecution and defence lawyers to the gadfly-like witnesses who appear briefly on the stand to give their evidence and then are never seen again. Christie presents this legal process well enough, not least utilising the old legal trick of a barrister “withdrawing” a controversial question while clearly hoping that its implications will linger in the jurists’ minds. Director and designer Kenny Miller holds the overall action together well enough, building resolutely to the final judgement. Yet he seems less inclined to prevent his cast – especially those who have the essentially small roles – from making them as big as possible; in some cases, such as Darren Brownlie’s nerdish scientist Mr Clegg, playing them outright for laughs. Of course, even though some of the cast double up in the minor roles (which has a relevance later on), it can work really well: Ann Louise Ross excels as both frosty Dr Wyatt and vindictive housekeeper Janet MacKenzie. Yet there are some queries about the staging, none-the-less, not least the slight confusion of having members of “the Dundee Rep Community” playing the jury at the rear while the witnesses look to the audience when giving their evidence. Also, having the barrister’s office set in front of the court – it’s drawn apart to either side when not required – is a tad ponderous as well as unsettling – what would happen if the mechanism broke?Tony Flynn is noble and sufficiently intense as defence barrister Sir Wilfrid Robarts, and the production actually makes something of his misogynistic attitude to Vole’s German “wife” Romaine (a finely judged performance, as ever, from Irene Macdougall). Yet, arguably, Robarts has little more depth than some of the characters who are on stage for a few minutes; a failing, arguably, more of Christie’s writing than the efforts of the actor. The play’s conclusion and its final revelations are both surprising and – arguably – too rushed, leaving little or no time to feel that justice has actually been done after all. Which is a shame; while an entertaining production, Miller seems more interested in presenting Christie’s criminal puzzle than trying to find any current relevance to the world today.

The Village Pub Theatre’s second evening of short new dramas at the Traverse, in celebration of LGBT History Month, came with a wonderfully louche vibe, thanks to the easy MC-ing style of Miss Annabel Sings (and, yes, she does) of Edinburgh-based Dive Cabaret. It’s fair to say that she successfully used humour and song to ease the audience into six theatrical experiences which – typical of VPT – proved to be a wide-ranging and diverse collection.The evening started off, for example, with Sylvia Dow’s Initial Moves which, in pure Sesame Street-style, added some cultural flesh and bones to the initials LGBT. (“G”, for example, was a re-enactment of a scene from Basil Bearden’s 1961 British film Victim, in which Dirk Bogarde played an in-the-closet and married lawyer who goes after a blackmailer – apparently it’s the first film to use the word “homosexual”.) Next came Jonathan Holt’s Question 6, a glimpse into a form-filling future where homosexuality is once again the cause of official censor; while arguably saddled with an obvious “twist”, Holt nevertheless manages to end things on a more optimistic note than you might expect. Finally, Deb Jones Opium Den took us back to 1920s Paris where two madly-in-love women repeatedly contradicted and confirmed the explosive joy of their relationship. Following the interval, Sophie Good’s Are you a boy or are you a girl? gamely mixed verbatim quotes from LGBT people with the heteronormative boundaries of a primary school classroom where the word of the day was “normal”. In contrast, Ellie Stewart’s Burds in Space proved a touching exploration of the relationship between Sally Ride – who, in June 1983, became the first female American astronaut – and her partner Tam Elizabeth O’Shaughnessy. (Host Miss Annabel Sings voiced the concerns of many about this piece’s use of a stepladder, but a risk assessment had indeed been carried out beforehand.) Lastly, Louise E Knowles’s Meeting People is Easy showed us one man’s introduction to geosocial networking app Grindr, and how – despite what you might think – “It’s not just about sex”, but helping gay and bisexual men find some kind of community, however they wish to define it. Again ably directed by Caitlin Skinner, the six shorts relied upon a slightly bigger cast than the night before; Michael Dylan, Ikram Gilani, Louise Ludgate, Gilchrist Muir, and Vari Sylvester again proved they could deliver rounded and believable performances despite limited rehearsal time. So, if you’re looking for genuine theatrical talent of all kinds – except (obviously) set, costume, and lighting design – then keep an eye out for the Village Pub Theatre. And for the Traverse – which has long described itself as “Scotland’s New Writing Theatre” – which has given this talented collective an invaluable additional platform.

The playwrights, directors, and actors who constitute the loose confederation that is the Village Pub Theatre once again moved in to the more upmarket, city central Traverse Theatre café-bar for this first of two nights of new short dramas – performed scripts-in-hand – celebrating LGBT History Month. Themed around the topic of LGBT Innovators, this first night offered some excellent – and admittedly also a tad disappointing – theatre and spoken word.Following a roaming drag-inspired bar performance to Eurythmics’ pulsing “I Need A Man” by the deliciously rude-sounding Jen Der Fuc and Dick Le Dyke, the evening kicked off with two short dramas ably performed by Karen Fishwick and Vari Sylvester. In Where Are We Now?, writer Helen Shutt explored how innovators like David Bowie and Malcolm McLaren influenced other people’s lives; in Sugar, Giles Conisbee questioned why some people feel the need hold onto things as much as others feel the need to challenge them. Given their limited rehearsal time with both scripts, Fishwick and Sylvester’s talent as performers were clear, creating fully-rounded characters from the scripts in their hands. But in addition to sharing the same cast, both works – ably directed by VPT co-founder Caitlin Skinner – interestingly approached the theme of the evening through the meeting of different generations, and the passing on of experience from one to the other. The first half concluded with a spoken word performance by “special guest” Jo Clifford. Unlike the previous works which – given some of their references – had clearly been written in the previous few weeks, the Edinburgh-based writer’s poetic The Night Journey had its origins in a play – originally rejected by the Traverse Theatre decades earlier – about an updated vision of Danté’s Circles of Hell. Clifford is certainly an innovator, not least through her contribution to a body of theatrical work grounded in trans experiences. However, despite her own apparent renewed enjoyment of performing, she has numerous limitations in that role, not least an inability to project her voice to the back of even a relatively small performance venue. That her audience at one point burst into applause – when she had simply paused to take a sip of water – rather obviously suggested that she had lost their attention sufficiently for any silence to be taken as signifying the end.James Ley’s new “play to be read in bookshops”, Love Song to Lavender Menace, is well-named; enchantingly performed by Laurie Brown and Matthew McVarish, it may still be a work in progress, but it’s positive approach to the story of the innovative LGBT bookshop in Edinburgh during the 1980s proved to be a witty, energetic experience that promises much for its eventual full performance later in the year. The evening concluded with a brief, yet insightful, panel discussion featuring the evening’s writers and also – to many’s genuine pleasure – Bob Orr and Sigrid Neilson, the two founders of the Lavender Menace bookshop. Clearly startled by seeing themselves portrayed on the stage just minutes earlier, the pair were modest enough to insist that – if they were innovators back in 1982 – there are still plenty of LGBT innovators around today. Not least with the Village Pub Theatre.

Outside of the almost factory-like default setting of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe’s one hour time-slot (long-since exported around the world), it actually feels somewhat odd to leave an Edinburgh theatre space after slightly less than 60 minutes. Even more so, when it doesn’t in any way feel like an hour has past; which, arguably, is the first praise writer and performer Eva O’Connor’s deserves to receive – time genuinely flies in her company and the characters she’s created.First we have the somewhat lonely Saoirse, who lives with her farmer father and elder brother Brendan; her mother having died giving birth to her, Saoirse is beginning to realise that her dad is finding her physical similarity to his late wife almost impossible to bear. Second is her best friend and neighbour Siobhan – considered by many a bad influence and “Always a bit of a sore loser.” But she is Saoirse’s only escape from an increasingly distant male household; she is, suitable or not, a very-much-needed older sister.Writer O’Connor portrays both girls at various stages of their lives, growing up in 1980s’ rural Ireland. She imbues Saoirse, our narrator, with a steady – at times almost-elegiac – tone; Siobhan, in contrast, is defined through explosive bursts verging on wild-child caricature. O’Connor’s vocal control is excellent; even a brief cameo of a nurse from Northern Ireland is given a distinctive, believable accent which grounds the character in our minds.Much of O’Connor’s plot could be easily dismissed as nothing more than a rather predictable coming-of-age story in which, predictably enough, the more innocent Saoirse ends up taking a short trip to England for an abortion following a drunken one night stand with one of Siobhan’s “gentlemen” friends. Yet, O’Connor’s remarkably lyrical script deliberately chooses not to focus on any anguish that this good Catholic girl might have felt about choosing such an option. (That said, it’s all to easy to imagine the whole thing being immediately suggested and arranged by Siobhan.) Rather, our attention is kept on its longer-term affect on Saoirse as a young woman who, understandably, is desperate for her late mother’s approval, and must reach an important acceptance of her life.Very much like the patchwork quilt O’Connor/Saoirse is sewing together at the start of the play, My Name is Saoirse is much more than the sum of its parts; it’s a beautiful, fascinating theatrical experience which will linger in your thoughts – and it takes just under an hour of your time.

In the face of something terrible, we can either laugh or cry. For the audience watching John Dove’s new production of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, the apparent choice is – more often than not – to laugh. Not least as the simplest and most logical defences against accusations of witchcraft are twisted into proof of guilt and murderous condemnation. But is the audience laughing from a “Horrible Histories” sense of moral superiority over simpler folk in simpler times? Or is it because – despite the play’s 17th century setting and the McCarthyism under which it was written – this remains a consistently contemporary work? Sadly, it’s not entirely clear.That this is a big show, though, there’s no doubt; arguably, it’s the pinnacle in the Royal Lyceum’s celebratory 50th anniversary season – with a cast of 19 on stage to prove it. Yet, while most scenes require Dove to choreograph no more than half-a-dozen characters at a time, he repeatedly acts like some Renaissance painter, placing his cast in relatively static poses within Michael Taylor’s bare-boned set. While this tableaux approach helps focus our attention on Miller’s words, that carries its own risk. It’s a slight exaggeration to say that the cast offer more American accents than there were British colonies in the Americas during the times the play is set, but it’s sufficiently true to nevertheless prove distracting.The casting is also somewhat unbalanced; although something of an ensemble piece, the role of “good man” John Proctor nevertheless does require a level of charisma and inner strength that Philip Cairns just seems to lack. In scene after scene, he is overshadowed by either the quiet dignity of Irene Allan as his wife Elizabeth, or the suppressed fury of Maghan Tyler as spurned lover Abigail Williams. Just like Nature, any drama abhors a vacuum, which is why this production’s attention consequently shifts onto, firstly, the excellent Richard Conlon as the Reverend John Hale – the minister from outside town whose evidence-based approach to witchcraft is fascinating for all the wrong reasons. Conlon fully grasps the dramatic opportunities arising from his character’s own belated awakening to the folly of what’s happening as the number of hangings rises – and creates a fuller, rounder human being than might first be expected of the man. Secondly, there’s Ron Donachie as Deputy Governor Danforth; he only appears in the second half, but is a huge presence, both physically and dramatically. It’s difficult not to take your eyes off Donachie as a performer; it’s equally hard not to be horrified by the certainty of Danforth’s statement that “who is not with us is against us”. There’s little doubt that The Crucible is a play that still has a lot to tell us about ourselves, and how we must constantly guard against fear, anger and the abuse of power by those who find themselves in authority. It’s a shame, however, that the motor of this particular production is, for the most part, barely ticking over.

In the run-up to Mike Bartlett’s play Cock opening at the Tron Theatre, a lot of people – myself included – clearly couldn’t help have some innocent adolescent fun with its potentially rude-sounding title. Frankly, the idea of respectable Glaswegian theatre goers having to call the box-office to buy “tickets for Cock” left a warm feeling inside during these cold winter nights; no wonder the theatre pushed for its own “wink-wink” hashtag #notaboutchickens.Arguably Bartlett’s choice of title is a double-edged sword; this is no sensationalist shocker, but rather a sharply written character drama that’s far funnier than you might expect. OK, it does include a quite graphic sex scene, but it’s one that’s described to us by two of the cast, who are fully dressed and not even looking at each other throughout. And yet, the title also feels right; for words are important – not least because Bartlett places his cast of four on an otherwise empty stage, with no set, no props, no costumes. With their stage limits defined by patterns of light on the floor (nothing too flashy from lighting designer Dave Shea), words are about the only theatrical tool any of the cast have. Three of the characters don’t even have names: only John, ironically enough, the one character who’s paralysing indecision – about whether to stick with longterm gay partner M or to set up home with female teaching assistant W – means he doesn’t know who he really is.Director Andy Arnold has assembled an excellent cast for this revival: James Anthony Pearson is outstanding as John, the character’s helplessness shining not just in what he says, but physically. Given his own body of work as a writer and director, it’s little surprise that Johnny McKnight manages to wring out the humour in the script. Yet he also quite subtly reveals the depths beneath M’s surface bitchiness, clearly a defence strategy within a relationship that appears increasingly lopsided and ultimately doomed to fail.In what’s otherwise a man’s world, Isobel McArthur delivers a heartfelt portrayal of an independent – yet somewhat lonely – woman who thinks she might, against all expectations, have found “the one”. The short straw, at least in terms of time on stage, is ably taken by Vincent Friell who provides some well-meaning foot-in-mouth support as F, M’s father, during what is surely one of the most unsuccessful dinner parties of all time.Some critics have taken badly to F’s essential insistence that John must either be gay or straight, assuming that’s the position Bartlett himself holds; and, of course, John himself denies that he’s bisexual. LGBT rights have, of course, changed significantly in the UK since 2009 when Cock was first performed, but that doesn’t actually alter what seems to be the real point being made here: that, for John, relationships are not a matter of gender, but who they are. And, equally, who he is with them. A valid point, surely.

All theatre requires a certain suspension of disbelief, musical theatre even more so. Yet ironically, nearly 30 years on from its original production, the thing that continues to initially trip me up about Willy Russell's Blood Brothers is the apparently appalling state of post-natal health and social care in 1960s’ Liverpool. Was it really so easy for a poor working class mother like Mrs Johnstone to claim that one of her new-born babies had died? Was it equally that simple for respectable middle-class Mrs Lyons to suddenly have a son despite a stated medical history of being unable to carry a baby to full term?Of course, the separation of two baby boys, destined to grow up in different social classes is the necessary core of Russell's take on the old "nature versus nurture" argument. The life-chances of Mickey (the twin Mrs Johnstone kept) and Eddie (the baby she gave away) are shown most clearly in the reaction of the authorities when both boys are discovered throwing stones at someone's window. (Despite the best efforts of both mothers, but especially Mrs Lyons, Mickey and Eddie have met and become best friends.) With Mrs Johnstone, the policeman is full of threats of court summons and her children being taken into care; with respectable businessman Mr Lyons, it's just a polite drink and a joke about docking Eddie's pocket money. This latest touring production sees the triumphant return of Lyn Paul as Mrs Johnstone, a fine vocal performance that exudes the character’s fundamental warmth and determination to make the best life she can for her family. She is ably supported by Sean Jones, who brilliantly carries Micky’s fateful journey from energy-exploding seven year old to the numb ex-con who has lost his way. Joel Benedict makes his professional debut as Eddie, but carries himself extremely well – even if his character's life journey is nowhere as extreme as Mickey's. Danielle Corlass is initially somewhat light as the Blood Brothers' best friend Linda, who – from the off – is attracted to Mickey while not unaware of Eddie's own feelings for her. She comes into her own, though, during the second half, when essentially she becomes a second Mrs Johnstone, desperate to do her best for the man she still loves – even though he's hiding from her in his addiction to anti-depressants. Paula Tappenden, as the fragile Mrs Lyons, carries what is a somewhat unsympathetic role well, even if her final act in the drama is poorly-choreographed, requires the audience to be told about it. Interestingly, Kristofer Harding is ideal as the sharp-suited narrator, seldom off stage and yet only acknowledged by some characters at moments of highest stress.Bereft of big musical and/or dance numbers, Willy Russell's Blood Brothers is a remarkably intimate work that nevertheless doesn't feel dwarfed in a venue the size of the Edinburgh Playhouse. Which, possibly, is the least important reason why it continues to resonate and entertain audiences today. 

“Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished.” Not, the words you generally expect to hear at the start of a play, but arguably the first proof of the dark, gallows humour which Samuel Beckett’s “a play in one act” provides – although it’s fair to say that on the occasion Chris Gascoyne, as the put-upon servant Clov, has already engendered quite a few laughs before he first speaks, thanks to his unbalanced, heavy-footed lumbering across the stage, and his gratuitously repetitive use of a stepladder to reach and pull back the curtains from the small windows above the action.Nearly 60 years after its first performance, Citizens Theatre artistic director Dominic Hill successfully shows that Samuel Beckett Endgame is as fresh and disturbing as ever; and, arguably, the most condensed situation comedy ever written – concentrated Steptoe and Son, just add water. Its four characters – Clov, his disabled “master” Hamm, and Hamm’s two elderly parents Nagg and Nell, who live their lives in two dustbins – are all trapped: physically, symbolically, emotionally, and even in what they say. Repetitions of actions or phrases are often what brings comfort and pleasure in most situation comedies – not least through an audience’s anticipation of them. Nevertheless, while quickly established by Beckett, the repetitions here prove a dry pleasure at best; as dry as the dust that falls, on cue, from the roof of Tom Piper’s grey-blue set, a near empty room worn down by time and the elements. Beckett’s Endgame is by no means an easy night out, but this production benefits from an excellent cast: David Neilson (on sabbatical from Coronation Street) is strong and hard as Hamm, a man whose sense of entitlement cuts like a knife. Peter Kelly and Barbara Rafferty, meantime, provide an all-too-brief double-act as the bin-bound Nagg and Nell, wringing the humour from their time on stage and yet not losing the sadness of their being lost in a present from which death would appear the only escape. And the shaven-headed Chris Gascoyne, of course, excels as Clov, owning the stage as he alone clunks around it, on occasions his glare challenging the audience through that supposed fourth wall. At one point Nell accepts that “Nothing is funnier than unhappiness,” and its fair to say that this production isn’t afraid to make us laugh, not least through some unscripted play with Hamm’s three-legged toy dog. But perhaps the biggest laugh, and the most hurtful, comes when Clov asks what keeps him there. “The dialogue,” Hamm replies.   

Coming to a “classic” Agatha Christie whodunnit after a full day’s binging on the latest series of the BBC’s Silent Witness – oh, the life of a reviewer! – is, frankly, a culture shock. To see a crime committed and then solved primarily just through observation and reasoning – without any obvious call on even basic forensic evidence, modern surveillance techniques or immediate access to numerous law enforcement databases – actually feels rather quaint.It still works, of course; Christie’s talent as an author wasn't so much in her characterisations, dialogue or descriptive style – which, quite naturally, reflect the times in which she was writing – but her timeless ability to create puzzles grounded in an emotional reality which ensures they’re never complicated just for the sake of it. This means that, even if you’re already familiar with the solution, there’s still much to enjoy as you see Christie expertly and subtly put her puzzle box together before it’s pulled apart by her central detective character.In the case of A Murder Is Announced, Christie nominally assigns that role to her mild-mannered septuagenarian sleuth Miss Joan Marple. Yet, while this stage adaptation by Leslie Darbon (itself nearing its 40th birthday) significantly beefs up Miss Marple’s involvement in the plot – indeed, she’s gifted the final portentous moments in each scene during the first half – most of the on-stage detective work is shouldered by Tom Butcher (a former regular in The Bill), who appears to be transmitting Jim Broadbent as the typical no-nonsense Inspector Craddock.Now it’s fair to say that Miss Marple – except when reimagined into Margaret Rutherford – was never meant to be a domineering presence, but it’s still somewhat strange that in a production that’s deliberately labeled “A Miss Marple Mystery”, the least memorable link in an otherwise reliable ensemble is Judy Cornwell. While certainly not without stage presence, Cornwell frankly gives us few signs of Miss Marple’s sharp-witted and acutely lively mind; and, while she does flower briefly when delivering a few well-placed punchlines, those are too few and far between to balance things out. In any case, she’s also up against Sarah Thomas (as the somewhat absent-minded, live-in companion Dora “Bunny” Bunner) who proves far better at that sort of thing – as you might expect from a 25 years veteran of Last of the Summer Wine.It’s when Cornwell is up against Diane Fletcher, as the no-nonsense lady of the murder house Letitia Blacklock, that she seems most lost; Fletcher, in contrast, proves to be a rock-steady core for the entire production, and without doubt is this touring production’s principal saving grace. Among a cast who generally have to do the best with what they're given – the younger male actors, in particular, don’t really have that much to go on – she’s the real star. A shame, actually, that she wasn’t given a chance to play Miss Marple herself. Now that would’ve been interesting…

“A dastardly attempt was made in the early hours of yesterday morning by suffragists to fire and blow up Burns’s Cottage, Alloway, the birthplace of the national poet,” reported the Glasgow Herald on 9 July 1914. “The attempted outrage … to destroy a shrine that Scotsmen in all parts of the world regard as sacred has roused in the locality the most intense indignation.”Victoria Bianchi’s CauseWay is an active reimagining of that failed plot, the wider campaign for women’s equality which inspired it, and more general questions about the aims and methods utilised by civil rights campaigners down the decades. Quite deliberately, the play is given added poignancy by its scheduling – launching the spring 2016 season of A Play, A Pie and Pint (at Glasgow’s Òran Mór) on the birthdate of Robert Burns, during a year in which the commemorations of the First World War are likely to rise given as we approach the centenaries of some of its bloodiest battles. First on stage is the energetic Stephanie McGregor who primarily plays Ethel Moorhead; it’s her emotional journey, from bumptious ignorance to determined survivor of prison mistreatment, which forms the spine of the play. Beth Marshall, meantime, has the subtler task of giving life to Frances Parks, the more seasoned suffragette campaigner who devises the proposed arson on Burns’s Cottage. Not as an attack of the man himself, it’s made clear – even if he wasn’t exactly a feminist. It was an attack on a monument of the patriarchal Establishment that had deliberately twisted Burns’s words into a patriotism that she knows will lead thousands of young men to their deaths.This is one aspect of the play where hindsight clearly informs what’s going on, although CauseWay is never explicit about when it’s supposedly being “told”. Indeed, it’s intrinsic; Ethel’s grandstanding defiance in court, quoting Burns and imagining a “people of tomorrow” who will live “in a world of equality”, is clearly meant as a reminder of the numerous inequalities between genders, classes and races that still characterise our society, a century later. “A storm of change is coming,” we’re told, but given the need for ongoing campaigns for equal pay and equal representation in the major institutions of our lives, it’s a storm hasn’t left us yet.Director Debbie Hannan keeps things plain and simple, wooing us with old Music Hall numbers before the start, and later cheekily employing the audience in the role of – well – an audience at a public meeting against women’s suffrage, where some contemporary justifications against giving women the vote are rightly held up to 21st century ridicule. As performers, Marshall and McGregor work well together, also giving some “real welly” to a couple of Burns’s songs, but there remains the problem of the script’s all-too-strident call-to-arms at the close, which unfortunately risks the very danger that the script itself had raised earlier – of the message being lost in the way it’s delivered.

If there’s one moment in this new production of Conor McPherson’s The Weir that encapsulates the quality of its cast and director, it’s towards the close when a moment of genuine emotional tension is deliberately punctured by what, in other hands, could be nothing more than a crass joke. Yet here, the moment is held just long enough to be effective, while the comment – in some respects coming as a genuine relief – remains grounded in the humanity of the character in question.At first this play might seem nothing more than a collection of mildly supernatural stories, told by a set of frustrated men out to impress a lone woman suddenly in their midst. Yet the tales, invariably, reveal more about the tellers than about the supernatural, and it’s clear that The Weir is a meditation on some pretty universal concerns: it’s “about” solitude, grief and the communities and relationships we make for ourselves as a consequence.Gaughan’s production, on the whole, is grounded in Francis O’Connor’s realistic set, although the choice to have the walls semi-transparent (depending on Simon Wilkinson’s lighting design, half revealing the wind and rain “outside”) is an excellent visual metaphor for the layers of reality that appear to break down in the ghost stories that are told.Gary Lydon excels here as garage-owner Jack, first on stage and making the journey from superficial grumpiness to a more subtle regret when admitting his decision to remain a relatively big fish in the small local pond. This puts him in immediate conflict with Frank Mccosker’s earnest Finbar, who made it all the way to Dublin and is now the most obviously successful among them – married, relatively well-off, and yet still clearly looking for some kind of validation. Despite everything, the pair are almost like brothers. Brian Gleeson as bar owner Brendan is a relatively quiet soul, but he effectively suggests the younger man’s frustration in his situation. In contrast, Darragh Kelly rises to the challenge of playing the kind-hearted Jim; the older man, brought down by caring for an elderly mother, could have been little more than a lost cast member from Last of the Summer Wine, but Kelly gives him real heart and depth. Yet it’s Lucian McEvoy, arguably, who has the most difficult role as the “down from Dublin” Valerie, given relatively little to do while the men talk around her – at least until she hits them and the audience for six with her own backstory.It’s not always easy approaching a play that’s already been described as a modern classic, but director Amanda Gaughan and her all-Irish cast offer a compelling justification of its status. With an innate understanding of the natural rhythms of the dialogue, the cast bring nuanced life to what at first might appear to be a collection of somewhat archetypal characters. And they come together effortlessly in a work that, while appearing simple to understand, has depths which linger in the memory long afterwards.

Strange Town is a theatre company based in Edinburgh which aims to “enable young people to fulfil their creative potential”, by providing five to 25 year olds with the opportunity to participate in the creation of new theatre. This particular production was by the company’s eight to 10 year olds group and… well, here’s the thing, it was rather good!Not that it particularly mattered; the audience on the afternoon of the review appeared to consist almost totally of proud parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and family friends of the 19 performers on stage. (No wonder it was a sell-out.) It was an easy room, in other words; one that would probably have accepted anything presented to them. (To paraphrase Doctor Johnson, they were the kind of audience who would have applauded a dog walking on its hind legs – not because it did it well, but because it did it at all.)The point here, though, is that things were done well. Of course, the children’s performances were basic – but they were word-perfect, clearly audible and landed all the necessary plot points and big jokes with some real impact. Flying solo, they also kept the show rattling along on stage with seldom a hitch; I’ve seen supposedly professional productions that have dealt with scene changes far worse than here. The 19 children in the cast were undoubtedly helped by Tim Primrose’s script. Sharply written, and sticking tightly to the main plot, not only did it actually make dramatic sense – unlike some professional pantomimes out there – it was also a solid foundation on which director Hazel Darwin-Edwards could hang simple, effective lighting changes, and the deceptively simple use of sound effects and repeated musical cues to indicate characters and get the laughs. Primrose also ensured that simple jokes – for example, the fact that everyone constantly pronounced the villain’s name wrongly, much to their annoyance – eventually led to an effective payoff before the close.All in all, the kids on stage were clearly enjoying themselves, and their happiness filled the small theatre and ensured a real sense of festive joy that no glitter-covered set alone could provide. 

At a time of year when most theatres across the land are bursting with colour, raucous laughter and the panto spirit, it’s typical of Edinburgh’s Traverse Theatre, long-established as the Scottish capital’s home of new writing, to instead present a pair of one-act plays in which winter is a time to withdraw from the world and hibernate, a half-way-through-the-dark time best slept through.While playwrights Stephen Greenhorn and Rona Munro wrote their works separately, there are certainly common themes and imagery to be found on Kai Fischer’s simple transverse set which, viewed through fine gauze, splits its audience in two. Greenhorn’s first act begins with lovers Shula and Avril on the top of Edinburgh’s dead volcano, Arthur’s Seat, waiting for the first transformative snow to fall; Munro’s second act eventually shifts its action to an Edinburgh street made alien by its drifting whiteness. Both writers also reference the Regent, the city’s LGBT-friendly real ale bar, though it’s somewhat distracting that both writers believe it’s the kind of place that has regular karaoke.Greenhorn’s tale is essentially focused on two sides of a love triangle; old school friends Shula (an earnest Deborah Arnott) and Avril (a bright ’n’ breezy Karen Bartke) who have become secret lovers, not least because the latter is married to an unseen Craig. It soon becomes obvious, however, that Avril has, in fact, died; that, in an intelligent dramatic decision, Greenhorn shows us the story of this relationship backwards, possibly as Shula attempts to work through her grief and resist the temptation to just hide herself away from the world of “normal things”.Munro’s second act is also about how we survive the loss of a partner – the difference being that an echo of the dead man survives, briefly, in the body of a polar bear that ate him. Munro’s script is both more overtly humorous than Greenhorn’s and, arguably, more thought-provoking. The bear (a white-fur draped Caroline Deyga, all expressive body moves and subtle facial expression) processes experiences and emotions as tastes and smells – surprise is lemon and vinegar, guilt is mint, while home is shortbread made by someone who loves you. This bear of few words is matched by brash, self-centred seasonal worker Jackie (an excellent Kathryn Howden, who absolutely inhabits Munro’s jumpy dialogue); she’s just as out of her depth, far from the city lights, as the Bear is among human civilisation.Arguably, Greenhorn’s piece is a tad too episodic and right on in its social realism; aspects of the “love that dare not speak its name” plot, and references to lost benefits, feel more 1990s’ EastEnders than the Traverse Theatre in 2015. Munro’s magic realism, by contrast, feels far more fitting for the time of year – and even feels faster. Deep down, though, both works share an introspective regret that, while fascinating to watch, remain a tad depressing. 

When it comes to retelling Cinderella, two of the three most important roles in terms of plot and audience participation are Cinders’ best pal Buttons and her Fairy Godmother. Thankfully, this new show from Insideout Productions is blessed with a belter of a loveable Buttons, Dario Cacioppo, and a heart-of-gold Weegie “Fairy G Mother”, aka Jamie McKillop. The pair have “got” in spades the fearless performance style needed for panto, and are full of a contagious enthusiasm as they sing, dance (Cacioppo admittedly the better mover) and “land” those all-important narrative points.The third requirement is a suitably boo-hiss-able villain which, in Cinderella, is a role assigned to her “ugly” stepsisters. Full marks here for writer and director Paul Harper-Swan’s decision to go with the high-booted, leather-clad goth step-sister Whitney, performed by the show’s musical director Alison Rona Cleland with a pitch-perfect disdain at an audience she considers full of “West End Weirdos” and losers. With those three in place, the interesting decision to “cast” boggle-eyed puppets as two minor characters – other stepsister Brittney, and personal assistant Dandini – means that it’s not difficult for the titular Cinderella and her Prince Charming to be somewhat overshadowed. Shiny stars, therefore, to Joanne McGuinness who skilfully stays on the non-sickly side of sweetness as the good-hearted, bespectacled Cinderella. However, given that this particular production is laying the foundations for a panto “tradition” at a relatively new arts venue, the decision to cast any kind of “name” as the Prince is understandable. Gerard Miller is only likely to be familiar to regular viewers of BBC Scotland’s weekly soap River City (which he joined earlier this year), and he comes across on stage as being slightly bemused by the whole affair. The chemistry with his Cinderella is also more in the plot than between the two performers, meaning that it’s more difficult for older audience members to take this particular P Charming – the most fabulous prince in Panto Partick, apparently – as the object of Cinderella’s infatuation. As a whole this show is slightly too loud given the size of the venue – some small children were covering their ears when in direct line of the amps. The musical score – heavily influenced by rap and house – is performed with real commitment, but does lean on a somewhat eclectic mix of songs. Michael Jackson's “Thriller” is spot on for the necessary “Behind You” scene set in a spooky wood at night, but using the theme song of the most recent Bond film as a big romance number does – despite the mildly tweaked lyrics – feel somewhat disconcerting. Disappointly, there are no particularly big “wow” moments; even the transformation of Cinderella’s dress is upstaged by her fairy godmother’s wardrobe. Also, the decision to put the audience messages, birthday wishes and sing-along competition after all of the main plot has been tidied up does rather give it a “tacked on” feel, robbing us of a sufficiently happy-ever-after ending.

Like most of Scotland’s producing theatres, the Citizens Theatre does not, as a matter of principle, “do” panto. Yet magic acorns, audience participation and a plot-significant singalong are still on the menu this Festive season thanks to this impressive and at-times genuinely unnerving presentation of the story of Rapunzel by playwright Annie Siddons, directed by Lu Kemp.Rapunzel begins with an abandoned baby, discovered and raised by the herbalist Mother Gothel. Life is happy until a male visitor notes that Rapunzel is becoming an attractive young woman. In response Mother Gothel imprisons her daughter in a tower only accessible by climbing her increasingly long hair. Yet this isn’t the end of the matter; the tower is discovered by a wondering young Tuscan Prince named Patrizio. The pair immediately fall in love, a romance that both declare neither deliberate machinations nor simple misunderstandings can destroy.While, on this occasion, decked out in flowers, the Citizens Theatre is nevertheless adept at presenting both physical and emotional darkness on stage – all praise to lighting designer Lizzie Powell. This is entirely appropriate; as in all the best fairy tales, there are genuinely nasty aspects to this story – not least Gothel’s blinding of Patrizio. Siddons’ own particular take on Rapunzel is clearly that it’s a story about obsession: specifically, how a mother’s protective desire can turn her into a monster. Yet there are other obsessions on show here too: Rapunzel’s own preoccupation with romantic love, which almost kills her; a Tuscan Duke’s determination to find his lost son that near bankrupts his Dukedom; and even the desire for political power by Patrizio’s brother, Paulo.Kemp’s staging on Rachel Canning’s deceptively rough and ready set, full of nooks, crannies and access down below, is effective without being distracting; placing Rapunzel (an excellent Jessica Hardwick, last seen in the epic Citizens Theatre production, Lanark: A Life in Three Acts) on a swing raised up above the stage is a brilliantly simple way to represent her tower prison without building one.Ewan Somers – one of the Citizens’ current actor interns – is an excellent young lead as Patricio, albeit necessarily denied the audience appreciation directed towards kind-hearted criminal Ambrosi, played by an engaging Peter Collins. Yet the real plaudits must go to Wendy Seager; a seasoned performer in Scottish theatre for many years, here she excels as both the increasingly monstrous Mother Gothel and the endearingly obnoxious Tuscan Prince Paulo. It’s only fair that she’s gifted with the biggest Wow-moment of the production.For all its moments of darkness, however, there’s still plenty to laugh at here too – not least the blind Patrizio’s reliance at one point on a “Glasgow Kiss” to get him out of trouble, or the occasional “assistance” provided by a stony-faced stage manager. Nevertheless, when compared to most of the shows on in Glasgow this Christmas, the Citizens’ Rapunzel definitely offers a satisfyingly fuller festive experience. 

Pantomime is arguably the most self-aware and self-mocking of theatrical forms, with the most successful shows seeing cast and audience mutually shattering any metaphorical fourth wall with what was once called gay abandon. This latest example of “A Panto, a Pie and a Pint” at Glasgow’s Òran Mór is a prime example of when it works brilliantly.Woodcutter Ali (an at times literally sparking performance by Frances Thorburn, in a Gerard Kelly-esque black wig) is financially-challenged – unlike brother Frank (Anita Vettesse), who married well and now considers Ali an unsophisticated bawbag – a Scots word for scrotum, generally used as a slang term for an annoying or irritating person (or, in 2011, a hurricane). Late one night Ali discovers the secret “Open Sesame” code for a lock-up used by a gang of robbers. He starts helping himself to the cash and valuables but his and his wife’s sudden good fortune doesn’t go unnoticed… The script by Dave Anderson (who does drag as Ali’s wife) and Gary McNair is sharp, makes narrative sense and is more than happy to draw attention to the production’s limitations – the 40-strong gang of robbers staying, quite understandably (given the cast of four), off-stage. It underscores those moments when characters gratuitously start providing the audience with necessary backstory, and revels in a villain (a delightfully leering George Drennan, who also doubles as Ali’s sexually-frustrated sister-in-law) who loves his overtly-complicated “theatrical” plans. And, of course, it drops in numerous opportunities for audience responses – which are repeated, with just a right level of disdain, until the audience remembers its role in the proceedings. Importantly, of course, given a writer and composer of Anderson’s talents, there’s a point being made here – as the audience singalong underscores, “Money is the root of all evil”. But it does so with lightness and humour, taking pot-shots at not just the aspirations of the nouveau rich – “This is what happens when poor people get rich quickly; they buy shite things” – but also the innate blindness of those who inherit money and yet still believe “You make your own luck” through hard work.The expectedly gaudy and cartoonish set by Jonathan Scott and OTT costumes by Sooz Glen are visually effective while ensuring no unfortunate pauses between scenes; this is an hour-and-a-bit show that rattles along at a fantastic pace, never letting a moment’s boredom set in while still giving the audience time to catch their breath between laughs. Rude rather than lewd, the fun comes as much from mathematical puns as it does nob jokes and contemporary references to the Krankies, the Chilcot Enquiry and local institution the Western Baths Club. All in all, a sharp, tightly-produced panto that’s definitely worth your time.

To Breathe starts with its six performers standing in a circle, staring at the audience, just breathing. Physically, they’re all quite different – five young women of various ethnic backgrounds and physicalities, and the lone muscular maleness provided by Lewis McDonald. It is an appropriately somewhat unnerving beginning for the show that follows, but it also underscores how the simplest of things – a breath – can actually encapsulate a wide range of different emotions, from calm wonder to primal anguish. Yet while each is singular, they also share enough to be a whole.That simple realisation, however, doesn’t mean that Theatre Paradok make things easy for their audiences; this is by no means an easy show to discribe, and the introductory blurb found on the website and advertising material is suitably vague – albeit verging on the egregiously pretentious. But that’s often the case when words are employed to describe something as uniquely physical and transient as movement and posture, where narrative is based not so much on events but passions and impressions. Nominally, the show is a somewhat alchemical exploration of the four elements, the changing seasons of the year, and the emotional growth of us all through our lives – at least, I think that’s what it’s “about”. This is achieved by a progression of set pieces, during which the cast often split into three pairs; while the choreography is often repeated between them, it’s seldom exactly the same, not least because of the unique aspects of the individual performers. Talking of the cast, these six dancers have a grace, physical control and innate trust in each other as performers which holds the attention; and they are working with a choreography that is always confident in its control of where we, as an audience, are looking.There are certain aspects of repetition, but such are the rhythms of life; humour too, although one duet between McDonald and Tiffany Soirat is a surprisingly lustful example of close-body choreography and the application of body-paint. Later, the stressful rush of modern life, and how it can all too easily lead to some of us being lost underfoot, is effectively realised within the spartan performance space; a stark contrast to Maddie Flint’s almost prehistoric-feeling grasping for fire in the near-darkness. Anna Elisabeth Tomsen effectively embodies moments of unnerving rapture, as she plucks light from above, while literally standing on the backs of her peers. That said, the choreography is good enough to give everyone in the cast their turn as the centre of attention: Adela Briansó and Erin Whalley are just as dynamic and emotive as the rest of the cast.Fast, powerful and ever-ready to surprise, To Breathe is a show that demands its audience pays attention; if it has a problem, however, it’s perhaps too abstract on occasions and it’s not impossible for the mind to wander. On the plus side, it’s also a show which doesn’t outstay its welcome, and leaves some truly startling images and sensations to remember it by.

“Smells like Seton Sands” is precisely the kind of line you expect in a pantomime at The Brunton theatre in Musselburgh; it’s hooked on local rivalries, and grounds the ubiquitous fairytale of Cinderella in a somewhat Technicolor™ version of the East Lothian town. Indeed writer and director Mark Cox – best known to the wider world as tight-fisted Tam Mullen in the sitcom Still Game – shamelessly locates the whole story in a somewhat paradoxical version of Musselburgh with a Castle that’s home to Baron Dougall of Scoughall (a wide-eyed Sean Hay). Impoverished by the frenzied online shopping habits of his voracious step-daughters Dougaleena and Grizelda (a well-matched Richard Conlon and Mark McDonnell), he’s desperate to get one or both off his hands, so the arrival of Prince Jamie of Joppa (Blair Robertson), intent on finding a wife, is an ideal opportunity.Almost in passing, however, the Prince – Robertson giving “JJ” just the right degree of awareness at his own designer-stubbled, gleaming-toothed fabulousness – is almost immediately smitten by a passing Cinderella (a noble and prim Kirsty Halliday). Alas, the Baron’s own daughter has become her step-sisters’ skivvy, getting her to do everything from repairing their clothes to backing up their iPads. And they ensure that she soon “loses” her invite to the Ball where the Prince will choose his bride-to-be.You don’t expect subtle characterisation or narratives in panto; Cox’s Cinderella for the Brunton is cheeky, locally-rooted and broadly painted. A ghost-filled scene in the Sisters’ bedroom, for example, has absolutely no narrative point at all; it’s there simply to ensure some “look behind you” moments. As for the cast, they hit the right note for the most part; mind you, experienced panto-performer Derek McGhie as Cinderella’s best-friend Buttons (full name Buttons Buttons Buttons) is so up-front and in-your-face with his good-natured banter that even those sitting at the back of the auditorium probably have skin-cuts from when he shatters the fourth wall. Talking of which, some of the sets do wobble, but that’s hardly a criticism in this situation – the show’s unpretentious vibe is definitely part of its overall charm. And importantly, the production still delivers genuine “Wow!” moments when required – not least with the transformation from pumpkin into coach which ends the first half of the show on a definite high. The Brunton’s Cinderella isn’t subtle, but it isn’t supposed to be; this is big, boldly painted theatre for children of all ages; it doesn’t hang about and gets from initial set-up to happy ending with as many laughs, surprises and clap-alongs as possible. What else do you need at this time of year?

There is an intrinsic roughness to this latest production from Edinburgh-based Blazing Hyena productions: performed "in the round" in a student bar within city's Art College, the set is minimal while the only exit off stage is through the door from the building's vestibule. The audience are seated on a mixture of leather sofas, armchairs and plastic chairs, with some of the cast amongst them. Yet this soon doesn't matter; thanks to Jack Elliot's somewhat brutal script, and generally excellent performances from its cast.One, Two, Three, Yippee is the tale of the Gordon family; specifically three siblings – eldest brother Jonny (played by writer Elliot), and twins Andy and Anna. Introduced to us by a chorus of three "gossips" – allegedly waiting for a bus out of town that never comes – the Gordon kids are barely surviving in the impoverished small Midlothian town of Woodburn. Jonny earns a little cash selling cigarettes and drugs at the local high school – to staff if not the kids. Andy and Anna, meantime, aren't above nicking old women's bags in the hope of finding enough pennies to get drunk and pay the bills. Their mother is dead, their father out of the picture, though Jonny's hatred of the latter proves to be more prescient than it first appears.Cocky Jonny might appear a selfish wind-up-merchant who finds himself out of his depth with the local crime family – led by Kirsty Findlay's seductive "lady in red" Tracey – but Elliot (an excellent "Sailor" in Liam Rudden's Thief during this year's Edinburgh Festival Fringe) ensures that our opinion of Jonny's hostility shifts once we're introduced to James Gordon. Chillingly performed by James Boal, Gordon Snr is a Belfast hard man who soon sets himself up as the new crime king in town, brutally following up any threat he makes – even to his own children. Cassie Gaughan as Anna and Ross Donnachie as Andy both cope well with their characters arcs, although Donnachie arguably has the clearer journey to work on, from youthful innocent to the "dead behind the eyes" son so desperate to be like his father that he even starts dressing like him. Gaughan, meantime, has to work harder with less detailed and subtle material, but that could be said of the female cast in general. As a writer, Elliot does seem to be more interested in the men. Catherine Exposito’s direction is sharp and to the point, all the more necessary given how close the audience is to the action. She's cast well, and ensures a real sense of momentum throughout its running time. That the downbeat conclusion lacks a certain impact is thanks principally to having the whole story effectively told in flashback, but there are certainly moments throughout where cast, direction and script are touching on five-stars brilliance. A flawed, but promising work from a theatre company bursting with talent, energy and a genuine voice that's determined to be heard. 

“A truce is a truce, but war is war,” we’re told early on in Ben Blow’s history play focusing on the all-too-forgotten consequences of Robert the Bruce’s victory over the English army at Bannockburn. Yes, “Proud Edward’s Army” was sent “homeward to think again,” and the two monarchs agreed not to cross into either’s territory during the next 12 months. But there was another Edward to consider – the young brother of Robert the Bruce.Like the best Shakespearian villain, Gerry Kielty as Edward Bruce is someone you can’t not look at while he’s on stage, which is for most of this new production by Edinburgh-based Black Dingo Productions. Kielty has the swagger, the energy, the mojo. His philosophy is simple, though: the only reality is power – and you either take it or live under it. Given his early sniping at the new King of Scots, this Edward clearly has no intention of living under the power of his brother.So, in the name of opening up another front in the momentarily paused war against England, Robert agrees for Edward and his troops to “liberate” Ireland from English rule. There’s just one problem; Ireland is “a land with more kings than counties,” some of whom clearly prefer the English Edward in faraway London to the Scottish Edward who’s soon burning Ulster to the ground and slaying its people. His decision to claim the (“fairy-tale”) title of “High King of Ireland” goes down almost as badly as Edward’s plain assertion that “Your war is mine now.”One by one, we see Edward’s closest soldiers and allies injured and killed, though it is left to the singing milkmaid Failtrail, who becomes Edward’s consort, to underscore the point: that every form of violence and torture the Irish had taught themselves to fear from the English have instead come from their so-called Scottish “deliverer”. A totally believable Kirsty Eila McIntyre as Failtrail offers a deliberately lone female voice of reason in this otherwise testosterone world, with most of the cast (bar Kielty) doubling up as required. Director Kolbrun Bjort Sigfusdottir is clearly out to highlight the contemporary relevances of these medieval events; we see guns rather than swords, and relatively modern military uniforms while “off-stage” battles are suggested through a montage of Pathé-style newsreels. Tom Oakes’ immersive soundscape harshly underscores the action, although arguably the most effective aspect of the production is having the stage covered in straw and mud. It’s a bog through which all of the cast constantly have to squelch their way; arguably, the sound is a more effective underscore to the action than any of the rear projections of dead crows covered in flies.The unsubtle elements notwithstanding, this was an effective presentation of a thought-provoking work, from a company that clearly’s developing its own distinctive theatrical voice.

Leicester-born David Campton, who died in in 2006, was a prolific British dramatist, especially adept at writing thought-provoking one act plays that make us laugh as much as we might shiver in fear. So, while not an obvious choice, there’s some merit in the Bedlam Theatre opting to run the Cagebirds up to Halloween.The play opens in what appears to be an office; with desks, telephones, a filing cabinet and loads of paperwork. Yet the six women in the room are somewhat birdlike, thanks to their make-up, posture and the feathers in their clothes. Indeed, before the lights went up, all six were standing on their chairs, asleep like birds in a cage. Room, cage, people and birds – it’s not entirely clear what’s what. What does become obvious is that they’re not even communicating with each other, each engrossed in a particular passion – food, make-up, illness, gossip, reactionary conservatism or just avoiding having any opinion at all. Yet despite all the preoccupation on display, there’s balance within the overall group – represented here by the smooth choreography of paperwork continuously passed between them. What brings this clockwork ecosystem to a juddering halt is the unseen Mistress’s introduction of the “Wild One”; from the start, the newcomer’s talking about breaking out of the cage and finding freedom again in the outside world. The others are not listening; they are “content”, according to the Mistress. To the Wild One, they’re so oppressed that they don’t even realise it.Director Marina Johnson delivers an extremely tight, and beautifully choreographed production in which a spot-on cast make Campton’s points without fuss or gratuitous exaggeration. Agnes Kenig is particularly good as “the Great Guzzler”, worried by the idea of smoked salmon becoming “a nightmare” through excessive repetition, and genuinely terrified by her glimpse of an outside world that’s “Too much, too many, too big, too far.” Much of our focus, of course, falls on the rebellious Wild One; Sandra Hoegl attacks the role with an almost palpable frustration, her distinctive accent marking her out as different as much as her clothes. The Wild One does, indeed, break open the cage door, but she makes the mistake of returning to help the others. They don’t want to follow, and the play remains ambivalent about why – the Wild One thinks they’re afraid, but what she sees as their prison, the Long-Tongued Gossip (an elegant Esme Allman) insists is their home. “Must I be caged because you lack willpower?” the Wild One asks. Her eventual answer is certainly not what she expected; a sign of what communities are capable of doing in order to survive.This is certainly sharp, powerful theatre which doesn’t linger or outstay its welcome.

“Juke-box musicals”, which essentially use existing songs as their musical score, may strike you as a relatively modern theatrical phenomena – think Mamma Mia! or We Will Rock You, which premiered in 1999 and 2002 respectively – but the idea goes back much further. Wikipedia suggests that the term dates back to at least 1962, especially when describing Hollywood film musicals. Take, for example, 1938 film Alexander’s Ragtime Band; it features 26 pre-existing songs by iconic American composer Irving Berlin. The only difference from more recent juke-box musicals is that the adaptor of those songs and melodies happened to be… well, Irving Berlin.So, The Smallest Show on Earth – a new musical with old songs by Irving Berlin – has precedents, and proves to be disarmingly romantic – if not exactly more than the sum of its parts. It really shouldn’t work, of course; director and co-writer Thom Southerland merrily brings together a narrative based on a 1957 Ealing-styled British film comedy with some of Berlin’s extensive back catalogue. If, on occasions, Berlin’s smooth lyrics sound a tad off-kilter in provincial 1950s England, their vintage air at least matches the “triumph of the underdog” plot so beloved of post-war British cinema comedy.The story focuses on newly-weds Matthew Spenser – a struggling screenwriter – and Jean, who unexpectedly inherit a down-at-heals local cinema, “The Bijou Kinema”. They initially relaunch it as a ploy to raise the neighbouring Hardcastles’ offer to buy them out but – of course – they soon succumb to its charms and those of the eccentric “family” who work there.Haydn Oakley and Laura Pitt-Pulford are suitably likeable as the Spensers, and imbue their songs with real character and feeling. The show is undoubtedly helped by Southerland’s choice of material – the chosen songs work well in terms of both plot and character. Nor is he afraid to follow in Berlin’s own footsteps by quite radically reshaping the back catalogue for the good of the show. Liza Goddard may lack the bumptious eccentricity of the film’s obstreperous ticket collector Mrs Fazackalee (Margaret Rutherford) but, like the rest of the cast, she imbues her role with heart and feeling, using the limits of her voice as an intrinsic part of her character. Philip Rham and Ricky Butt revel as the pantomime-esque Hardcastles, but the show’s star turn is undoubtedly the lithe Matthew Crowe as the delightful show-business-fixated young lawyer Robin Carter.Like many a Berlin musical before it, The Smallest Show on Earth is determined to leave you with a smile on your face with its good hearted happy ending. In that sense, it does feel somewhat of its time, even if it’s not clear whether that’s the late 1950s or the 1920s/30s heyday of Berlin’s work. It’s an endearing production that’s undoubtedly worth seeing, yet it somehow lacks the level of dramatic clout to seriously make us care about the characters and the fate of the Bijou Kinema, which is a shame. 

Panopticon, written and directed by second year University of Edinburgh student Liam Rees, is set in a women’s prison, into which well-meaning dramatist Julia comes to run a series of workshops involving six selected inmates. They’re a genuinely disparate bunch, including an unrepentant serial killer, a former female soldier, a journalist, and a religious zealot. Julia wants to help them reintegrate into the community and, also try to understand women otherwise out of society’s sight and mind. Although initially suspicious of Julia’s motives, the women come to rely on her workshops and occasional one-to-one sessions, if only to relieve the everyday monotony of prison life.In the cold, compact space of the Bedlam Theatre, their world was effectively presented in a semi-circle platform, a cage constructed out of scaffolding. Clearly, this echoes the 18th century idea of a “Panopticon” – a prison, devised by the philosopher Jeremy Bentham, in which every cell would be visible from a central point. Bentham’s idea was that, given how the inmates would have no idea whether or not they were being observed, they would always err on the side of caution and so moderate their behaviour accordingly. And, to underline this point, the cast do remain on stage all the time.Yet Julia’s initially fractious entry into this enclosed world – and her promise of creating “a safe place” for them to share and explore their emotions – is simply a trigger for a series of interrupted interactions which gradually crank up emotional tensions and conflict among the prisoners – except, quite deliberately, we’re denied an actual release – rather, male authority is simply reimposed.Incarceration, especially when linked with gender power politics and wider issues of mental health, is a potentially strong hook on which to explore characters and/or tell a story, but Rees often appears more interested in getting laughs from mocking academically portentous drama theory – “Nobody understands Shakespeare when they read him,” for example. Admittedly, these clearly appealed to quite a few members of this largely student-filled audience, but they did become slight distracting from a script that gradually lost its initial momentum. The cast, it should be said, were invariably spot on in their roles: Jess Haygarth, in particular, had a wonderfully controlled menace for Catherine Shaw, the serial killer who sees herself “a cat in a mouse’s world” and believes that, while patience may indeed be a virtue, “impatience gets things done”. Yet there are equally the quieter roles performed with restraint and understanding; not least Vincente Ochoa, as the put-upon, over-stressed doctor who somehow became more than just a cypher bemoaning lack of funding for the prison service.It’s a shame, though, that all this effort went into simply a one-off performance. Yes, it helped give the performance a sense of occasion, and guaranteed a sell-out, but that arguably should have been down to the drama on stage, not simply the rarity of its performance.

One of the strengths of the Royal Lyceum Theatre Company during the last half-century has been its ongoing commitment to providing quality drama education and performance opportunities for generations of children from Edinburgh and beyond. This latest production from the Lyceum Youth Theatre is a valiant attempt to both celebrate the company’s 50th anniversary celebrations, and also showcase the talents of its current youthful participants.Given that the Lyceum theatre, like most 19th century venues, is said to be haunted – by the ghost of its first leading lady, and also some shadowy figure reported within the lighting rig high above the stage – it’s probably inevitable that energetic young minds – provided with all of the 19th century theatre building as their stage – would be inspired to create a Penny Dreadful-esque parade of white-faced, hollow-eyed Victoriana and supernatural goings on. As a piece of theatre, Hidden is literally meandering and, at first, seemingly piecemeal; the audience are led up and down through the warren of the building’s rooms, corridors and stairwells to various “set pieces” located within dressing rooms, on and beneath the stage, and in the now un-used upper circle high above the stalls. While some of the younger cast-members had only to stand still and expressionless while looking spooky in white makeup, others provided heart-felt performances with real power. Among the spooky onesies, flashing lights and malicious-looking Victorian ghosts, there are clearly some genuinely talented young adult actors within the company. Admittedly, there were some problems of access – as there are with any promenade performances; while the final climb, from street level all the way to the upper circle was deliberately stopped on each flight – if only to provide older audience members with an opportunity to get their breath back – the physical dimensions of the stairwell along with a relative lack of coordination among our nominal guides, meant that only those at the front of the queue were in a position to then see what was going on up ahead. Stragglers had to do with just what they heard.The ongoing importance of the Lyceum Youth Company to the theatre’s main operation can be clearly seen in the involvement, in Hidden, of the Lyceum’s soon-to-depart Artistic Director Mark Thomson, Christie O’Carroll (formerly of the Lyceum, now Associate Director at Reading Rep), and award-winning director Amanda Gaughan. Working with the young theatre company, they provided a somewhat more atmospheric tour of the Lyceum than that available during the annual “Doors Open” weekend; a reminder, if nothing else, of how there are stories to be told both on and off the stage. 

“One day every company will fear a geek in a garage,” we’re told early on in Elliot Davis and James Bourne’s Loserville. This show’s been described as “a Grease for the 21st century”, albeit with its typical US High School tale – of rich, beautiful and cool kids who humiliate the clever, nerdy uncool kids – shifted to 1971. Arguably, the most important point of Loserville is that it’s the “uncool” kids who ultimately come out on top, finding love and success by not only remaining true to themselves but also inventing Star Wars – oh, and the internet – along the way!Edinburgh-based Allegro are an amateur musical theatre society which aims to present “lesser known musicals to Edinburgh audiences”; a noble ambition, albeit not always a guarantee of sold-out performances. Yet this particular production deserves good crowds; it’s bright, energetic and spirited, a production which sparkles with energy and some real talent. While many of the characters are overt stereotypes, this cast brings them to life with some real panache.Matt McDonagh excels as computer-nerd hero Michael Dork, attempting to find the means of enabling a network of computers to communicate with each other; physically and vocally, you feel that his shyness (particularly around girls) is physically painful. Tim Pearson as best friend Lucas Lloyd – whose novel “Galaxy Battles” might just sound a tad familiar – successfully never loses our sympathies despite the hurtful consequences of his character’s jealousy. And Rachel Aedy as new girl Holly Mason – sadly “cursed with brains and looks” – brings both stage presence and a powerful voice to proceedings. Admittedly, this production isn’t perfect; it’s difficult not to smirk at the costumes and choreography during a scene set in a planetarium. Also, some of the casting seems slightly awry; the likes of Cameron Kirby (as arrogant jock Eddie Arch), and Andrew Halley and Matthew Cleator (as Michael’s nerdish friends Francis and Marvin) appear almost cast against type; they’re good in their roles, but something doesn’t feel quite right. On the plus side, Andrew Knox as rather dim jock Wayne and Alison Wood as über top girl Leia excel during those relatively rare moments when they’re given the audience’s attention. To be honest, the Allegro staging is fairly basic, with abstract props and indicative flats rolled on and off in an occasionally distracting manner. When it comes to telling the story, a lot of the heavy lifting is actually down to Ross Imlach’s excellent lighting design. His bold choices when it comes to colour and layering light – for example, us seeing action further back on stage through silhouetted characters front of stage – ensure that what we see is never boring, always eye-catching and an active aspect of the narrative. Nevertheless, with a sharp live band in the pit, some excellent singing and effective dancing on stage, you won’t be wanting a “Ticket Outta Loserville” – you’ll be wanting one to see this excellent amateur production.

The first thing that strikes you about this new stage adaptation of William Golding’s classic dystopian novel is Jon Bausor’s astounding set: the huge section of a passenger jet, shorn in half and dropped onto a jungle-edged beach that extends right to the front row of the audience. Given recent images in our news bulletins, having luggage spilled around the wreckage like the guts of a pig is a sobering and unsettling sight, which composer Nick Powell’s discordant clash of rhythmic drumming and boys’ choir does little to ease.And then we’re off with a leap, with the introduction of two of the story’s main characters: sensible-headed Ralph (a likeable Luke Ward-Wilkinson), always keen to do the decent thing; and the overweight, poor-sighted, asthmatic bully-magnet Piggy (a deliciously annoying Anthony Roberts). Then more survivals turn up; all boys from a variety of different schools, but with the priggish, upper-class Jack Merridew at their head. He’s already so hyper that you’d think Freddie Watkins has nowhere to go emotionally with the character. Chillingly, though, he does; his portrayal of Jack’s descent into sweaty animalistic violence is the focal point of this production.In small ways this adaptation updates Golding’s tale – the inclusion of a selfie-stick here, a mention of jungle-based TV show “I’m a Celebrity…” there. The only jarring reminder of the book’s 1950s origins is the all-male nature of the schools and a later assertion that the boys should have put on “a better show” because they were British. Except, this is arguably an aspect of Golding’s tale that this production deliberately emphasises – the innate violence barely contained within the British class system. Ralph is the middle-class boy stuck between working-class Piggy – not afraid of demanding his dues – and upper-class Frank, who believes he’s entitled to be leader as he was a prefect at his school (as opposed to Ralph, who was elected democratically by all the boys). When the “blooded” hunters head off into the jungle, leaving Ralph and a few others on the beach, it’s primarily because of Jack’s disappointment in middle-class mediation. “I thought you were a decent chap,” he says. “We had a good gang.”Tightly directed by Timothy Sheader, his cast ably portray the boys’ initial optimism at having a fun time together in the sunshine, but almost immediately we’re shown warning signs – they tear up a book to help start a fire and, when that gets out of control, their “stamping it out” is choreographed and lit as an aboriginal dance. Yet arguably the most startling aspect of the cast’s performance remains at the close, when – spoiler alert! – in an instant, they switch from animalistic violence to guilty-children in the face of grown up authority and civilisation. Undoubtedly a stunning, exuberant production.

“I must learn to keep my mouth shut when there’s an angel in the room.” So says Lot in Howard Barker’s sexually-charged reimagining of the Old Testament tale of the last days of Sodom. To Lot’s anguish, the aforementioned angel – who has taken the name of Drogheda – has just rendered a rude waiter consecutively blind, dumb and deaf because Lot felt sorry for him. It’s not torture, though; Drogheda insists that it’s punishment for the filthy sins of the people of Sodom, the city from this angel has instructed Lot and his wife to leave…Lot and his God is not an often-performed play – in part thanks to its frequently challenging theological, philosophical and sexual aspects – so it provides an excellent launchpad for the Citizens Theatre’s “Up Close” season commemorating – during the theatre’s own 70th anniversary celebrations – the 50th anniversary of its taboo-busting offshoot, the Close Theatre Club which (until the early 1970s) enabled the company to perform plays otherwise deemed unsuitable for the general public at the time.While neither the first to appear nor speak – those accolades are given to the slovenly waiter (Ewan Somers), and the bullish Drogheda in his dusty, old long-tailed suit – the heart of Barker’s play is Sverdlovsk. We seldom if ever hear her name, though; even she accepts that her place and role in life is as “Lot’s Wife”. Pauline Knowles wonderfully exudes this cool and collected femme fatale who gets her kicks by challenging this particularly earthy angel, all the time in a tightly cut dress that’s just revealing enough to betray her black underwear. Little wonder then that Daniel Cahill’s Drogheda, glowering and moving with the muscular grace and brutal intent of a boxer, so quickly succumbs to her erotic charms. No wonder Lot himself – a lean, gad-fly Cliff Burnett providing a quite different style of explosive, contorted energy – builds himself up into a tizzy while imagining his wife’s liaison with an angel in his much-loved library.This is by no means a naturalistic piece of theatre; the setting is fairly timeless, albeit with a deliberately faded 1930s’ Hollywood vibe. In the Citizens Theatre’s stripped back Circle studio space, director Debbie Hannan successfully creates a deliciously seedy cafe with little more than a few tables and chairs, strewn with near-dead flowers. Part of the challenge given to the directors in this Up Close season was to only use props, furnitures and costumes already within the Citizens Theatre’s stock – and in such a way that they could be subsequently recycled again afterwards. Financial restraints notwithstanding, this minimalist approach works wonders here, helping emphasise how, when so little of civilisation is left, there is still human language and argument. Which, not to give away any spoilers, can even leave God speechless. 

The family at the heart of Nina Raine’s Tribes is liable, at least initially, to make you yearn for the exit. Parents Christopher and Beth are both writers; he a pedantic academic never short of a criticism, she working on her “marriage-breakdown detective novel.” Son Daniel is on his 12th attempt at a dissertation while daughter Ruth sings arias in bars in an attempt to launch a musical career. You can’t help but think they deserve each other, though: loud, opinionated and constantly arguing, they duel with words as their weapon of choice.Except… when we first see them around the dinner table that doubles as their battlefield, there’s one obvious still-point: youngest son and brother Billy, newly returned from university and never quite a part of all the constant argy-bargy as he finishes his meal. There’s a simple reason for this; he’s deaf. Not that the rest of Billy’s family appear to recognise how potentially lonely this leaves him; deaf from birth, Billy was deliberately raised to use hearing aids and taught to lipread. The consequences of which will threaten to split the family permanently once Billy begins to assert his BSL-using “Deaf” identity with new girlfriend Sylvia – who, while born hearing to Deaf parents, now has a foot in both camps as she slowly but surely loses her own sense of hearing. It’s understandable why Solar Bear, a Glasgow-based company which aims to make theatre accessible for deaf people as both audience and performer, has resurrected this play. Nominated for both Olivier and Evening Standard Awards for best play, Tribes is very much about deaf people’s position within a hearing society. Indeed, Raine touches on numerous interconnected issues, from the limitations of a spatial, visual language to the seemingly inevitable hierarchies that have grown up within the deaf “community” itself. This production certainly has a strong cast: Richard Addison is consummately pig-headed as Christopher, while Janette Foggo offers a real sense of maternal instinct as Beth. Ben Clifford and Kirsty McDuff give us a believable pair of siblings, with Clifford effectively underplaying Ben’s drugs-suppressed schizophrenia. Stephanie McGregor, meantime, navigates the difficult role of Sylvia, who finds herself both outsider and mediator within this dysfunctional family. The focus of the production, however, remains on up and coming actor Alex Nowak as Billy; this young deaf actor is definitely one to keep an eye on.The play isn’t without problems; Raine’s script does saddle Billy’s siblings with more problems than is entirely believable, while the ending is undoubtedly more positive than seems sensible. This particular production, too, also opts for an overtly-realistic set for the family’s living room, which requires a pace-sapping restructuring between scenes, not least at the point when the action momentarily shifts to another location. Tribes nevertheless remains an example of perceptive, thought-provoking and instructive theatre worthy of all our attention.   

A criticism sometimes made about Edinburgh – especially by Glaswegians – is that, while the city appears sophisticated and morally upstanding, this is just a facade hiding a far more vulgar and immoral reality – that the Scottish capital is “all fur coat and nae knickers”. Fur Coat & Magic Knickers, therefore, is a play about outward and inward realities, and how they don’t always tally, with writer Rona Munro focusing on three Edinburgh women and how the disparate layers of their lives overlap.Which, if nothing else, makes this one actor-three characters show sound much more serious than it actually is; for not only does Fiona Knowles inhabit three women of disparate ages with heart, emotion and genuine delight, Munro’s script is chock-full of humour nevertheless grounded in situation and character.We’re first introduced to Rose, a sixty-never-you-mind mother so keen on recycling that even she refers to herself as Second-Hand-Rose. However, we find her in a posh department store changing room, awaiting the return of her always-smiling personal shopper Jenny, who is desperately trying to find an ideal outfit for what Rose keeps referring to a “hot date” – with taxi driver Tony – but is actually her daughter Libby’s wedding. As the pair go onto the shop floor, each with their own bespoke desperation, to find anything Rose might consider buying, the changing room is occupied by an elderly shoplifter, who always wanted to be Robin Hood rather than Maid Marion in childhood games and now realises that her appearance as “a respectable old person” is her best protection from store detectives and CCTV cameras.In addition to the artificiality of having one woman playing all three roles – so obviously any interaction between them is reported second-hand – there’s the added theatricality of each woman speaking directly and knowingly to the audience, even during a high-speed chase that takes the main characters from an out-of-town shopping mall to Edinburgh Castle rock during the height of the annual Military Tattoo. This can, on occasions, lead to a slippery grasp on our suspension of disbelief – not least the idea that any vehicles can move faster than 5mph in the centre of Edinburgh during the Festival – but Knowles is a consummate performer who pulls us into this world despite its innate artificiality. In many respects, the increasingly ludicrous nature of the unfolding plot helps.Fur Coat & Magic Knickers touches on many issues, not least about judging by appearances and finding worth in yourself. Unfortunately, on a few occasions, it does come across as an unsubtle public information film on behalf of Citizen’s Advice for anyone in denial about their credit card debt; nor does Munro avoid a succession of happy endings that could be too sugary for anyone with diabetes in the audience. Yet that’s a thought for after the show; while in their company, these three women – courtesy of Knowles – are definitely good company.

There are many good reasons for launching the celebratory 50th anniversary season of Edinburgh’s Royal Lyceum Theatre Company with a new production of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. The still-controversial work was barely more than a decade old when the building's current incarnation launched with A Servant o’ ‘Twa Maisters, a Scottish adaptation of Carlo Goldoni’s famous play. More importantly (at least in terms of the box-office), it proved a sufficient lure to bring award-winning stage and screen actors Brian Cox (a founding member of the company in 1965) and Bill Patterson back to the Lyceum’s stage.As down-at-heals Vladimir and Estragon – waiting by a tree in the middle of nowhere for the never seen Godot – Cox and Paterson are undoubtedly a well-matched odd-couple. Burly Cox is full of energy and enthusiasm, albeit with the gait of a small boy fearful of having been caught scrumping apples; in contrast, the more lugubrious Paterson inspires genuine sympathy for this worn down man with ill-fitting boots who wants nothing more than to curl up and hide from the world, and yet can’t keep away from his bumptious friend of some 50 years. To their credit, Cox and Paterson ensure that these down-at-heal tramps are no abstracted Laurel and Hardy, holding back sufficiently on the more overt vaudeville aspects of the work to remind us of the humanity found in these two old men.Importantly, director Mark Thomson – for whom this celebratory season marks his swan song as the company’s Artistic Director – doesn’t simply let this production slip into a star vehicle. Yes, Cox and Patterson dominate the posters currently plastered around Edinburgh, and have been doing most of the media interviews, but this Waiting for Godot is much more of an ensemble piece than you’d expect. As soon as he appears – riding crop in hand, dressed head-to-toe in expensively tailored black –John Bett simply dominates the stage as the itinerant Pozzo, the upper class master of the ill-named Lucky (played with a sufficiently restrained rigidity by Benny Young). Bett’s Pozzo is, without doubt, the character who most thinks the entire play is about him, and even Vladimir and Estragon fade somewhat in the glare of his sense of entitlement.Who or what Waiting for Godot is about has been the question on many people’s lips since the play was first performed. You can argue that Beckett is good with post-modern answers: “Nobody comes. Nobody goes. Nothing happens. It’s awful,” says Estragon, not-at-all about the play he’s in. “I’ve been better entertained,” admits Vladimir. What’s gratifying is that Thomson’s clean take on Beckett’s most infamous play makes at least one thing abundantly clear: “One is what one is.” Michael Taylor’s brilliantly simple set, which successfully utilises the deceptive depth of the Lyceum’s stage, underscores the wilderness in which these characters find themselves. Combined with Mark Doubleday’s unfussy lighting, the result is a production that certainly gets the Lyceum’s 50th anniversary off to a flying start.

Arguably the most significant work of new theatre from “north of the border” in recent years is the National Theatre of Scotland’s Black Watch, an excellent example of inventive docu-drama and fourth-wall-breaking storytelling which justifiably garnered acclaim and numerous awards around the world. Yet, in many respects, John McGrath’s The Cheviot, The Stag and the Black, Black Oil got there first by about three decades, becoming the ancestor cell for a whole new style of indigenous Scottish theatre when first presented by 7:84 (a “left-wing agitprop theatre group”, if you ask Wikikpedia) in 1973.What is most startling about The Cheviot today is just how relevant, bold and enjoyable a piece of theatre it remains; if it was devised as a “State of the Nation” play in 1973, this vibrant, ceilidh-styled resurrection by Dundee Rep Ensemble proves its still very much on-the-money in 2015. Of course, Scotland and the wider world have changed significantly in that time, but the team at Dundee Rep have only needed to tweak the script – a Rab C Nesbitt reference here, a nod to last year’s Independence Referendum there – because, equally, so much about Western capitalism hasn’t changed at all.Nominally, The Cheviot focuses on how economic forces affected the Scottish Highlands and Western Isles from the late 18th century to the present day: a story, we’re told, that “has a middle, a beginning, but not yet an end”. It’s also a tale from which we’ve apparently failed to recognise past mistakes, and so continue to repeat them. “Have we learned anything from the Clearances?” we’re asked towards the close. Not just the 18th and 19th century removal – often violent – of the Highlands’supposed “redundant population” to make way for the “technological leap” of the Cheviot (a breed of sheep hardy enough to survive in the hills), but also the late 20th century’s Oil industry-inspired rises in house prices that forced yet more people to leave. There’s anger here, but also hope in those – mostly women – who protested and fought back. Nor is The Cheviot just about making fun of people with posh English accents; we’re reminded that the ruling class, whatever their nationality, are “not just figures of fun”. Yet there’s certainly fun to be had with director Joe Douglas’s production. With a bagpiper welcoming everyone outside the theatre (at least on the night of this review), the audience then discovers, as they come in to find their seats, that the nine-strong ensemble cast have already kicked off the party. This is a show that starts before it starts; seldom have you felt such a buzz from the word go. (Mind you, the free nip of whisky probably helps!) Additionally, and reflecting its original touring roots in some of Scotland’s tiniest venues, some of the audience are seated on the enlarged stage area throughout, albeit risking being dragged out for a dance or to help in the model recreation of a Highland glen. Other audience members are also invited out at the close to help read out the final lines of the play. That they don’t always do so very well – proving a need for professional actors – isn’t the point; it aptly underscores McGrath’s point that unless economic power is in the hands of the people, no culture is secure – be it Gaelic or English-speaking. 

Barry Bonaparte’s Travelling Circus is in trouble. Its last surviving animals – the magician’s doves – have ended up in a pie. The memory man is repeatedly forgetting how to find his way home. The aerialist has vertigo. Destitution seems inevitable; and then, in the best fairy tale tradition, salvation appears in the unlikely form of a talking pig called Edmund. Never one to wallow in the mud like his siblings, the young Edmund taught himself to read and write and has now come to London on a “sacred mission” to find his missing brothers and sisters.This is the core of Edmund the Learned Pig, a delightfully vaudevillian floorshow for the older children among us. Featuring an atmospheric accordion-heavy score by Martyn Jacques – founder of alternative cabaret troupe the Tiger Lillies – and a no-nonsense script by experienced children’s writer Mike Kenny, the show successfully evokes the feel of this shabby troupe of 19th century travelling players. More, it offers a sufficiently understandable morality tale which touches not just on the corrupting allure of success (especially in show business) but also the need for each of us to be genuinely comfortable in our own skins. There is, for example, real poignancy at the point when Edmund, while recognising that he’s always been different, momentarily insists that he doesn’t want to be different.All this, of course, is somewhat ironic. The ensemble cast – Garry Robson as the Boss, Kinny Gardner as Mr Mesmo, Caroline Parker as The Missus, Annette Walker as Aeriella and Sally Clay as the “stage left” bearded lady providing most of the musical accompaniment – account themselves well in their clearly defined roles. Yet the heart of the show is, of course, a puppet. Thanks to Anthony Cairns’ superb manipulation of this suitably non-Disney-esque Edmund, however, there’s little doubt that the titular star becomes – at least for the duration of the show – a living, breathing character.Originally supported through the Unlimited programme supporting new work by disabled artists, Edmund the Learned Pig comes with British Sign Language incorporated into the action, with both Parker and Gardner taking turns to translate what’s being said. Such commitment to accessibility is, of course, to be praised; that said, there’s at least one moment when what can only be described as gratuitous “audio description” of some silent action jars with the integrity of the theatrical world created before us.Also, while the cast have all been involved with this show for several years, and so know it inside-out, there was a sense on the day of the review that they were still finding their way within yet another new theatre space; the choreography of movement felt a bit rough and ready during this early performance. Overall, though, this remains a stylish, warm-hearted show for all the family, told with real bravado. 

Vesper Walk describe themselves as a “quirky five to eight piece band performing art-pop music in a gothic style.” Founders and core performers Catherine Cowan and Lisa-Marie Baker have brought their latest project to Edinburgh, a narrative sequence of their songs which tells the modern fairy tale of a young pianist called Sarah, who is taken from a world where “beauty is known as kindness” to an appearance-fixated Hollywood in which beauty is simply “something to be bought and sold”.There is little or no preamble here: as the lights, unusually, rise on the audience, the group begins their first song and there is little or no pause from then on, each song introduced with the minimum of narrative and illustrated by a single projected image behind the band. There’s a strong whiff of cabaret here, but without the luxury of the lounge; the clock is ticking.Sisters Cowan and Baker are accomplished pianists and vocalists, who are ably supported by singers Gracie Falls, Amie Robertson and Joyce Griffiths on what, unfairly, must be termed “backing vocals” despite their intrinsic necessity. The ethereal atmosphere of many of the songs is enhanced by Lucy Charnock’s sensitive cello while Alex Staples on bass guitar provides not so much rhythmic power – that’s ultimately down to Edward Simpson on percussion and sound-samples – but invaluable, subtle “colour”. (Alas, he’s not the strongest of vocalists, but his contribution in that sphere is kept to a minimum.) A couple of songs inventively use clapping as percussion, although the band’s attempts to include the audience don’t really work.As with most fairy tales, we’re not talking about the most subtle of moral points being made here – though one does wonder if the uncredited statistics about women and beauty, which are projected on the screen at one point, come from America – not least because we’re told that “54% of women would rather be hit by a truck [my italics] than be fat”. Don’t we have lorries in Britain?So our notional heroine Sarah does become a plastic ghost of her younger self, forever striving to keep her youth and looks in the name of continued popularity and success in show business. Yet there’s little doubt that her true love won’t ultimately save her, meaning that the overall story arc linking the songs lacks sufficient drama – especially given that she has to rely on the advice of a narratively convenient fortune teller to point out what she must do. That Cowan and Baker are unable to resist having the climax happen “one stormy night” is just mildly disappointing. Still, fairy tales are where many of our most fundamental clichés come from!

Theatre is, for the most part, about telling stories with the aids of actors, scenery and props; in contrast, stand-up comedy is usually about a single person sharing their perspective of the world – or at least giving us a heightened version of that perspective. While The Misfit Analysis is classified under Theatre in the Fringe programme, this show is arguably much closer in format to stand-up. “A live art exploration into the mind and experience of Cian Binchy” is the no-holds-barred introduction projected onto a screen. Binchy’s goal here isn’t to make some point through a fictitious narrative; instead, he uses a mixture of live action, audience interaction, props, animated films and videos to offer us some sense of what the world is actually like for someone with autism.It’s unfortunate, of course, that this requires him to spend quite a lot of his time highlighting and then undercutting the most commonly held – and inaccurate – ideas that most of us have about people on “the Autistic Spectrum”. Society, we’re told in no uncertain terms, has got the wrong end of the stick; it’s not that those with autism lack empathy or feelings, they just experience and express them differently. This means that The Misfit Analysis can be an uneasy experience for the audience, and not just those in the front rows who are “invited” on stage to participate in plate-spinning or a fake game-show highlighting the complexities of this particular learning difficulty.The sad reality is that, unless we know someone in our family or wider social circle who has autism, our most likely source of knowledge will be films like Rain Man and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? – on occasions, the show is even “interrupted” by clips of Dustin Hoffman and Leonardo DiCaprio “doing” autism. For the more literary among us, of course, it might be Mark Haddon’s best-selling novel, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, or Simon Stephens’ stage adaptation of the book for the National Theatre, on which Binchy became an unpaid consultant. If nothing else, this show makes it clear – quite forcefully, on occasions – that none of this makes us experts. There’s only one expert about autism in the room, and we’re looking at him.It’s fair to say that the edge of Binchy’s satire feels like it draws blood, not least the short film in which we see how ill-suited he was to the gardening course that some well-meaning support workers recommended – when what he really wanted to do was get into the performing arts. There’s plenty of anger here too, not least at the many life opportunities denied to him, which the rest of us take for granted. But this isn’t simply a rant; this may be a “magical spinning journey” into how he experiences the “angry” world around him, but there’s also fun to be had and the undoubted conclusion of this show is that we are all outsiders in some way. Oh, and that having a learning difficulty is certainly no bar to being able to create genuine and effective art.

Recent cinematic reboots notwithstanding, there’s arguably at least one generation of television viewers for whom Star Trek’s starship captain of choice is not James Tiberius Kirk, but rather the noble, philosophical Frenchman Jean-Luc Picard, played for seven seasons and four feature films by Sir Patrick Stewart.This is certainly the case for Ellen Waddell, who first started watching – and fell in love with – Star Trek: The Next Generation at the age of seven. There were many reasons for this: it was set in space; some of the men’s costumes were (she later realises) pretty revealing; and at its centre is the fair, strong and commanding presence of Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Most importantly, though, as Ellen makes clear from the start, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation was one of the few things she was able to share with her dad. For, despite its title, this show isn’t just about how a fictional character from one of the world’s biggest media properties potentially helped shape a woman’s emotional relationships with a succession of “Romulans disguised as men”. There is a third, unseen on screen figure in Ellen’s biographical TED-style talk: her father. He worked away from home a lot when she was young, becoming an almost mythical figure in the process. When he was home, however, she tells us that he was a somewhat authoritarian presence; a man who, she later realised, viewed children as little adults and was annoyed when they didn’t behave accordingly. Watching Star Trek together was the nearest they had to a bonding experience.This is the emotional heart of Ellen’s story, which is amusingly wrapped up in how she contextualised her parents’ messy divorce through the prism of the Star Trek universe. She explains enough about certain characters for the non-Trek fans in the audience to clearly understand what she’s talking about, without ending up with some kind of kindergarten-level Star Trek ABC. That said, despite promising to do so, she doesn’t actually get around to suggesting why Star Trek: The Next Generation in particular is “the pinnacle of human civilisation”.Ellen’s story also takes in her time at university, where she admits she was a moderately successful student; then she reflects on her seven years on the road with Los Campesinos! (she played bass guitar) and how, back in Cardiff, she risked meeting up with one of her heroes, the author Neil Gaiman, who as it turns out gave her some very good advice about growing up – advice she’s happy to pass on. Oh, and there’s also something about how she tried to stop being angry at her dad, arguably her most serious moment in the show as she lets the penny drop in her audience’s minds.This is a well written monologue, though it’s not quite so perfectly performed. Ellen is certainly an engaging enough speaker but you are made aware of the script on the few occasions she stumbles over her words, and – at least on the day of this review – momentarily loses her thread of thought after being distracted by a passing emergency vehicle. On the whole, though, this is an entertaining and delightful way to spend an hour.

Matt Abbott admits that poetry is a hard sell on the Fringe, impossible to talk about without coming across as pretentious – which may well explain why one of his bespoke marketing strategies involves offering free meat pies to those who tweet positively about his show. (Vegetarian options are also available, apparently.) He’s also aware that those people who do like poetry tend not to like football, and vice versa, so accepts that starting his set with a poem about football is rather shooting himself in the foot. Except, of course, that poem is an excellent example of why Abbott’s kind of poetry deserves to be heard.It’s a poetry of the streets. Quite literally; in many cases, as he reels off their names, you could probably follow his characters’ progress down the roads of Sheffield, Wakefield and other northern towns on Streetview. Abbott’s stories and narratives are very much grounded in real times, places like pubs and launderettes, and people. Hopefully, the name of “Barbara from Scarborough” has been changed, if not for rhyming reasons, to protect a worn-down woman merely guilty of a little extramarital one night stand. Abbott, who arrives on stage with a pint in his hand, is unpretentious, grounded and, at times, self-effacing – although his assertion that he doesn’t let negative reviews get to him does come across too obviously as a framing device for one of his lesser poems. That he is a talented writer is undeniable; he sees, in the smallest of ordinary details, those common aspects of our lives that speak to everyone. His surprisingly lyrical expression of those commonalities crosses both gender and age; possibly his most moving poem is focused on “John from Sheffield”, bewildered by the physical and social changes in his city whilst left emotionally blank as his – well, his late wife’s – possessions are auctioned off with little or no care.While there are relatively few glimpses of happiness in the show, it’s nevertheless strangely life-affirming. Abbott may well be ‘skint’ and ‘demoralised’ about the way the world is going under our current Conservative Government, but the nearest he gets to a party political broadcast is a poem linked with Labour leadership contender Jeremy Corbyn. It’s fair to say that Abbott is a political poet, at least in the sense that “the political is personal”; his first poem, after all, was a direct attack on the inherent absurdity of BNP-style nationalism. Sadly, given the rise of UKIP, it’s still as relevant as ever.Offers of meat pies (or vegetarian alternatives) notwithstanding, Abbott is a sharp, intelligent writer and an energetic performer; if you were seriously put off poetry at school, he is the man who might just change your mind.

Donald Torr was, apparently, the best big brother any little girl could have, especially growing up on the outskirts of 1960s’ Aberdeen. Unlike the other slightly older children on their street, Donald didn’t simply ignore and endure the young Diane Torr; conspiratorially, he relished her presence, sensing a kindred spirit. He also roped her into becoming audience, judge and jury for his carefully studied impersonations of Britain’s Queen of Soul, Dusty Springfield. As the years progressed, the “outrageous” Donald instructed his hockey-playing younger sister on the correct way to walk in high heels and be “a sophisticated lady” like his idol. In return he became her confidante and, thanks to his “keen sense of the perverse”, arguably a better male role model than their alcoholic father.Donald enjoyed a mildly successful career as a singer and dancer, notably with television dance-troupe “The Young Generation” into the early 1970s. From the photographic evidence, he was certainly an attractive young man. Yet despite roles in West End shows including Anthony Newley’s Stop the World, I Want to Get Off, fame and fortune didn’t knock on Donald's dressing room door. Nevertheless, he did fulfil his childhood dream of becoming a millionaire – thanks to previously unrecognised talents as an antique dealer and property investor during the 1980s.All of which is potentially quite interesting, if only from a historical context. Unfortunately, Donald’s not the person on stage; he died of “AIDS-related causes” in 1992, and we are even shown a glimpse of his funeral, or at least his coffin being carried in and out of the venue. It is left to Diane, who for more than 30 years has been a significant performer in New York’s downtown arts scene, to attempt to evoke his spirit. Apparently, they once considered doing a show together in which they played each other; unfortunately, circumstances mean we only get to see her play, celebrating him - and his idol, Dusty Springfield. This, though, is the main problem with Donald Does Dusty; it’s an uneasy mix of live performance and archive footage, some general to the times, the rest more specific to the Torr family or Dusty Springfield: family photos, publicity shots and clips from BBC variety shows (now with added description of the downfall of host Rolf Harris). We're shown newspaper and magazine cuttings; Donald's old Boy Scouts blanket, badges sewn carefully by hand, is held like some sacred relic. But these are all just hints, evidence of a life long gone, and their impact is curiously weakened rather than strengthened by some pretentious physical theatre and Diane’s initial drag-king appearance. There's a lack of context, not least the late 1960s decriminalisation of homosexual relationships in England and Wales, the shadow of which is surely a better explain for Donald's public presentation of himself as straight, rather than some delight in messing with people’s minds.All of this is uncomfortably interspaced by Diane miming to a few of Dusty’s 18 UK hit singles and a supposed interview with the star; it’s far from clear if she's performing as Dusty or performing as her brother performing as Dusty. Yet the least appealing aspects of this show are the erratic, uncomfortable attempts at audience interaction – the passing of high heeled shoes around the audience, the encouragement of us to write down messages to departed loved ones, the call to “dance like Dusty” at the rather lame conclusion – which drove several audience members away on the day of this review. As a performance piece, this show's pacing staggers like someone wearing heels for the first time, and that’s surely no way to celebrate the life of anyone.

Every successful show needs a Unique Selling Point – or, put simply, a gimmick. Regular London-based event Rhymes with Orange – “a monthly spoken word night ... a place for stuck creatives and seasoned professionals to get on stage and show their poetic skills in front of a noisy, energetic & supportive audience”, it says on their website – hands out small, used orange juice bottles containing some granules – Salt? Rice? It was too dark to see clearly – which audience members are encouraged to shake noisily to show their appreciation. Weirdly, it does seem to work; there’s a real buzz in the room which Thomas Muirhead – the first performer officially on stage – manages to build upon with some skill.Muirhead is not the MC, though; this is essentially a tag event, with each performer introducing the next. No sooner has Daniel Piper started things off with the forceful lament of a man who realises he’s made a terrible mistake becoming vegetarian, then he’s introducing another “opportunity to see a little too much of ourselves in someone else”, courtesy of Rachel Malham's poetical letter to “her face twin”, the actor Maggie Gyllenhaal. (Malham is clearly something of a celebrity watcher; she later discusses kebabs and being friends with Kerry Katona, although we’re intended to realise that’s more in a “Facebook friends” sort of way which hasn’t been reciprocated by Ms Katona.)The flux of people onstage, and the shifting range of styles and subjects, is balanced by a clear structure to this show; each performed poem relates to the one before, if only as an opposite. Kim Pryor's lament about the lost simplicities of low-tech childhoods – “Do kids even sit on kerbs now?” – is immediately contrasted with Stevie Tyler’s more grown-up desire to find some "time to breathe" and relax within “an absence of noise”. Sam Wong – slightly confused by everyone suddenly going all formal and calling him “Samuel” – then relates the previously unrecognised contribution of one of Sir Isaac Newton’s university mates. Then follows a “special guest” spot by co-founder Chris Wolfe in which he explains why he was pleased one girlfriend left him for another woman. Kym Pryor and Ellie Dawes then highlight the conflict between astronomy and astrology, along with what both views of the universe unexpectedly share in common.There is plenty of humour here, along with literary allusions – such as a modern-day Peter Pan, whose “eat, sleep, rave, repeat” mantra hides darker longings – and a sometimes playful approach to the truth. Undoubtedly, these writers and poets perform with verve, energy and real commitment – the only shame is that there’s little or no time, underneath the spotlights and the shaking percussion, for any of these poems to linger in the mind.

Glasgow-based Birds of Paradise Theatre Company is arguably Scotland’s most innovative and ground-breaking theatre company when it comes to exploring disability and producing fully-integrated performances. This can be experienced clearly enough in Johnny McKnight’s Wendy Hoose, a delightfully rude sex comedy in which Jake from Paisley (James Young) arrives at the Cumbernauld flat of Laura (Amy Conachan) in the hope of some no-strings sex – which, of course, doesn’t quite go according to either’s plans.Unlike most productions, where attempts to meet the needs of audience members with physical or sensory impairments are obvious add-ons, accessibility is built into this co-production, with Glasgow-based Random Accomplice, from the ground up. Indeed, it forms a vital part of the whole presentation. Having ‘surtitles’ above the set may not be that uncommon these days, but this show’s use of emoticons, animated symbols and font-changes to underscore particular points certainly is. Meanwhile, a British Sign Language interpreter is suitably incorporated into the scene, visible on Laura’s sound-turned-down bedroom television. The undoubted masterstroke, however, is the decision to let everyone hear the somewhat snobbish Audio-Describer, who essentially becomes an unseen third character begrudgingly describing what’s happening on stage, even though she clearly finds it all generally unbecoming for someone who was privately educated.This slightly edited version of the show – for obvious Fringe reasons, it comes in at under an hour – has never a wasted moment: the humour is razor-sharp, but McKnight is also willing to seriously examine the realities of first impressions, the vocabulary of class (particularly within Scottish society) and the ephemeral, ‘smoke but no fire’ context of so-called dating apps and text conversations. Obviously, too, it doesn’t shy away from the realities of disabled people’s lives, and the fact that most disabled adults want to – and do – have sex, with all the likely consequences shared by non-disabled people.Conachan and Young have now been with this show for quite a while, which is both an advantage and disadvantage; yes, they know these characters inside out and share an obvious chemistry on stage, which certainly helps sell the idea that Laura and Jake could have something special if they only tried. Yet the actors’ familiarity with each other also slightly undercuts those initial scenes where it’s all about nerves and the inherent ridiculousness of dirty talk – he with that notable bulge in his £120 skinny jeans, she with several bottles of red wine in the fridge.“Nobody knows what they want any more,” complains Jake, during one of those touching, intimate moments with Laura as he waits for his taxi back to Paisley. Well, I know at least one thing I want: lots more of this kind of vibrant, optimistic theatre!

For those of you not lucky enough to live in Edinburgh all year round, Village Pub Theatre (VPT) is a regular “let’s put the show on here” brand of new theatre based in the function room of the Village Pub on South Fort Street, Leith. Their (usually) monthly shows offer new short works from local writers, performed by professional actors with scripts in hand and a bare minimum of props and rehearsals. It's all incredibly rough ’n’ ready, but when it works, it really does work – and, yes, that’s despite the juke-box music, chatter and general noise coming from the main bar next door. For this year’s Fringe, the VPT team have put together a programme of individually-themed events featuring a different roster of writers, actors and scripts each evening. Admittedly, the first night was unique in one respect: the performances were co-directed by Mark Thomson, whose normal business card identifies him as Artistic Director of the Royal Lyceum Theatre. Just for context: the following day, Thomson was due to start rehearsals with Brian Cox and Bill Paterson for his forthcoming production of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. His willingness to be involved with VPT is proof of how seriously Edinburgh’s indigenous theatre folk already take what’s happening here. As themes go, The Village Pub Theatre Will See You Now was not among their strongest, with most writers taking from it some aspect of ‘new beginnings’, either in terms of situations or characters. Jonathan Holt’s Singing Set Me Free was a humorous take on how men can find happiness by being in touch with their emotions, while Belongings by Belle Jones underscored the different levels of possession in our property-fixated world. Tim Primrose’s Pussywhipped, meantime, focused instead on a new beginning for a relationship between two women, one of whom clearly considers the other to be a social and emotional “doormat” – until the tables are turned, quite spectacularly. After a short interval, The Consecration of the Bishop by the acclaimed theatre maker Tim Crouch certainly grabbed the attention by disturbingly mixing the imagery of the anointment of a female bishop with the preparations for a suicide bomber – all in five minutes! In contrast, Sylvia Dow’s Annus Mirabilis was much more grounded in the everyday; a dinner date for two older people, Rose and Peter, who are each looking for some “agreeable company” to distract themselves from their post-divorce, post-bereavement loneliness.Initially, at least, Medio Pollito and the Jesus of Leith appeared to have the least connection with the theme of “new beginnings”, being essentially two boys telling different stories about their homes: one, a Mexican fairy tale about a one-eyed, one-legged “half chicken”, the other a version of Leith filled with bus shelter zombies, piss-smelling “superhero” Majestic Man, and the shaggy Jesus who stands outside a local pub with his dog.Together and separately, actors Jamie Scott Gordon, Jonathan Holt, Belle Jones, and Sarah MacGillivray gave energy and focus to their roles. All in all, this was an excellent taster for the season of work yet to come. Which is appropriate enough; by a show of hands, a majority of the audience had never been to a VPT event before. They will surely have been impressed by what they saw.

Dr Niamh Shaw is that relatively rare thing – a skilled and engaging stage performer who also happens to be a scientist and engineer, with both a degree and PhD to her name. Clearly, she’s keen on spreading a greater understanding of science and the wonderful universe around us, though always with what could be termed a dose of scientific realism: for example, pointing out that the more we study the universe, the more complicated it appears to become. And that the more we look at the skies, the smaller we become as the universe just keeps getting bigger.To Space is an autobiographically grounded work with a touch of the Royal Institute Christmas Lectures, chemical experiment included – though there’s nothing that goes “Bang!”. She looks back at various moments in her life, providing documentary evidence with a host of old family photographs and extracts from her childhood and teenage diaries, projected on the wall behind her. Early on, she shares her memories of when her eight-year-old self watched Star Wars for the first time, and how the launch of the Millennium Falcon captured her imagination. When Han Solo powered up his iconic ship’s light-speed drive, young Niamh absolutely fell in love with space, travelling between the stars, and the idea that something like the Millennium Falcon could be engineered. So she decided there and then that she would become an astronaut in order to get into space. So Niamh worked hard at school, and went to university; most recently she spent several weeks on the Space Studies programme at the International Space University. But you can’t help but feel her disappointment when she tells us that her engineering degree and choice of PhD science subject don’t quite match what the European Space Agency (ESA) is now looking for in its future astronauts. Still, she has her own astronaut trainee uniform to show for her recent studies; it just doesn’t include the badge name of a particular future space mission.Today’s older Niamh may still be grounded, she’s nevertheless looking up at the stars in the knowledge that – thanks to the Hubble Space Telescope – we now know that what looks like even the smallest speck of black space is actually full of the ancient light of impossibly distant galaxies. What is it about space that appeals to her – to us all? It’s not exactly clear that she knows for sure, but she’s aware that desire to explore is a long-established human instinct. And that space has so much to teach us. 

Many religions insist that humanity was created in God’s image; others argue that, throughout history, the process has been the other way round. It’s certainly the latter case with University of Hull-based Z Theatre Company’s God’s Waiting Room: writer Matt Kennedy didn’t just get to play God at the keyboard; he plays the part on stage too – a weary, slovenly, stressed-out God who smokes too much and has relationship problems with his eternal teenager son Jesus (a convincingly wearisome Molly Robinson).We first encounter Kennedy’s God, though, in the guise of a somewhat forward waiter in a restaurant, where self-centred Jason (Alex Clegg) is meeting his girlfriend Hannah (Natalie Ireland) – on whom he cheated, twice, with a stripper the previous evening while on a mate’s stag night. Initially, his macho posturing suggests that Jason has no regrets; but then he chokes on a slice of Hannah’s well-done steak and suddenly finds himself in the titular waiting room where the future of his soul will be determined – assuming he doesn’t opt to give his soul to the Devil, whose office is just on the other side of the corridor. However, this show is nowhere near as serious as its Fringe programme listing suggest: the level of broad humour is epitomised in Hank (Matthew Adams, giving arguably the most subtle performance among the cast) who, after thousands of years’ sweeping of that purgatorial corridor, can’t even remember how he died – and yes, the large knife still in his back is about as subtle as this show gets. Performed with varying degrees of ability, God’s Waiting Room rather feels like it’s more fun for the cast and their mates in the audience than anyone else. Yes, it’s momentarily funny to see the Devil (Emma Bishop) reincarnated as a stylish “lady in red”, but given that much of her scene with Beelzebub (Danielle Harris) is an exercise in listing demon names (alphabetically, from A to P), there’s no sense of threat or danger, making it difficult to care. The characters are one-note, and there’s little sense of what’s at stake. Meantime, attempts at some more “relevant” humour – Edinburgh’s trams, the UK’s Conservative Government, etc – simply fall flat.Perhaps strangest of all, however, is when Kennedy as God suddenly breaks the fourth wall by addressing the audience directly. The point that God – well, Kennedy in his role as writer – makes is a good one, but it feels forced nonetheless, and more for his benefit than ours.

The Creative Martyrs, that white-faced Laurel and Hardy of existential cabaret terrorism, are not men to be trifled with, as some rather talkative front-row audience members discovered during this particular performance of Tales from a Cabaret. But then, these particular Martyrs make it clear from the start that, as their audience, we have our own responsibilities arising from being there, and that it’s not for them to censor the stories they are about to tell. Famed for their subtly political songs, as ever accompanied by the surprisingly expressive combination of ukulele and cello, this latest example of the Creative Martyrs’ world view is an often-fascinating collection of tales and songs, delivered with a still, deliberate stage presence that’s impossible to ignore. There is something genuinely disconcerting and dehumanising about their way of describing the inhabitants of a city through the hats they wear. And then there’s their extended, audience-participation song on imposed and self-sanctioned surveillance – “You’re On The List” – which is all the more pervasive in our modern technological society.Their initially separate tales of a sensuous dancer, the “Glittering Raven”, and a daring escapologist – whose fates increasingly differ as we’re told of a free, anarchic cabaret scene being slowly and surely neutered and controlled by the authorities – are succinct, well-paced and worrisome not least because it’s not entirely clear whether they’re talking about 1930s’ Germany or present day Britain. The pair’s lament of the unsafe streets is genuinely moving – albeit balanced by the Creative Martyrs’ insistence that it’s time to fight back, then and now, with elegance. There is surely no stronger image than in their final song: “The Heart is a Revolutionary Cell”, though it’s of course rather scary that it has to be. This surprisingly subtle theatrical exploration of Weimar-tinged censorship and persecution is quirky, odd, and not a little bit weird. The Creative Martyrs are well worth tracking down, even if you might not sleep so soundly afterwards.

Some cabaret performers attempt to lull you into a false sense of security about what they do, but thankfully any audience finds out quickly enough what they’re going to get from that svelte and sophisticated gentleman about town, Mr Meredith. His opening rendition of the Doris Day classic Que Sera Sera starts innocently enough, but gets remarkably naughty very quickly. Which is just what we expect, of course; Mr Meredith, after all, is a master of audience banter, innuendo and smut, who takes a disarming, coquettish delight in the world and his fellow human beings.The title of his latest show is a bit of a mouthful – oops, innuendo can be like an STD, i.e. infectious – but Mr Meredith’s titular focus on dating, and especially how GPS-based smartphone apps have changed things, forms a strong enough backbone for what follows. A repeated theme – given how he’s unimaginably single again – is his genuine amazement at how technology has changed the whole dating scene; the “swipe left/right” nature of liking or disliking profiles on Tinder, for example, that enables you to destroy any self-esteem you might have from the comfort and convenience of your own home.But beyond the knob jokes which just keep on coming, his delightful, self-effacing songs – explaining why he has to get his “kicks”, how he fell in love with a Dalek, or detailing the embarrassing things we’ve all done while drunk – Mr Meredith has a life-enhancing message about embracing anticipation, grasping the therapeutic power of lying, and certainly not wasting our time looking for the next big thing. Admittedly, the holiday round the world by song is stretching the “dating” concept a bit, but any opportunity to hear Mr Meredith perform (and mistranslate) Non, Je ne regrette rien is well worth it.And yet… 3 stars. On the night of the review, Mr Meredith was forced – having started late – to curtail things rather abruptly (missing out his version of Bohemian Rhapsody, apparently). There was also a feeling that, given its slightly lush appeal, Mr Meredith’s 6.35pm slot at the Voodoo Rooms is just a tad too early in the evening, meaning it takes a bit longer than it should for him to warm up his quite sober audience. But perhaps worse, the keyboard is placed in a location which ensures that, whenever he’s performing a song, he’s out of the “spotlight” provided by this particular bar’s normal lighting. Which frankly doesn’t feel like him at all!