The Day of the Locust

15/06/26

Pleasance Courtyard (Attic), Edinburgh

Published in 1939 by Nathanael West and set in LA, The Day of the Locust is widely considered to be one of the great American novels – a treatise on the insatiable hunger for fame. It was also memorably turned into a feature film by John Schlesinger in 1975. Sprawling, visceral and strangely apocalyptic, it’s an ambitious subject for a monologue and I’m intrigued to see what storyteller Calum Patrick Hughes can make of it in the claustrophobic confines of the Pleasance’s Attic. 

He manages to weave a beguiling tale with just his voice (occasionally boosted by a microphone) and atmospheric layers of sound, courtesy of an electric guitar fed through various loop and drone pedals, to create haunting soundscapes. Though he’s done a moderate amount of updating to the story – there’s mention of mobile phones at one point and also a couple of scenes where security forces have morphed into ICE agents – what’s interesting is how convincingly these elements gel with what was essentially a depiction of 1930s Hollywood. The avarice and greed remains undiminished; there’s the same propensity for people to exploit each other for personal gain.

Perhaps less successfully, Hughes has also retained the brutish sexual politics of the era in which the book was written, and I find myself wondering if those aspects too could be reappraised. Just a thought.

Hughes embodies all the familiar characters convincingly, varying his voice just enough to identify each of them in turn, and his descriptions of Hawthorn’s startling images create an atmosphere of steadily-rising tension throughout, until we are slammed headlong into the novel’s infamous climax. 

All in all, this is an experiment that has yielded a powerful and thought-provoking monologue. You don’t have to be a fan of the original – or even familiar with it – to enjoy this performance.

4 stars

Philip Caveney 

Endgame

14/08/26

Pleasance at EICC (Lomond Theatre), Edinburgh

Which adjective best describes Samuel Beckett’s Endgame? Depressing? Dystopian? Dingy? Dark? Take your pick. And yet this is also a funny play, full of clowning, jokes and silly absurdities. Who better to illuminate the weirdness than the wonderful Flabbergast Theatre?

We’ve been fans of Flabbergast ever since we stumbled across Tatterdamelion at 2016’s Fringe; in the intervening years, we’ve been wowed by The Swell Mob, The Tragedy of Macbeth and Paper Swans. We’re excited to see what they do with “the play that Beckett considered bleaker than Godot“.

Henry Maynard is not only Flabbergast’s founder and the director of Endgame, he’s also Hamm, the blind and dying man at the centre of this piece. Hamm is angry with life, railing against his failing body and the terrible state of the world. The view from his window, he is told, is desolate, post-apocalyptic. Something dreadful has happened out there – and it’s not much better inside his home. Hamm is stuck in his chair, unable to move, utterly reliant on the hapless Clov (Simon Gleave), who’s been with Hamm since he was a boy. Part servant, part surrogate son, Clov is cowed by Hamm, incapable of standing up to him.

The play’s most transparent metaphor is Hamm’s parents’ accommodation. Old and useless, Nagg (Derek Ellwood) and Nell (Complicité’s Annabel Arden) have been discarded like rubbish: they live in a pair of dustbins outside their son’s house, popping up occasionally to beg for food. The price for a hard biscuit is high: they have to listen to Hamm’s endless shouting about how they neglected him when he was young. His accusations are born out by Nagg’s cruel replies but their helplessness makes us sympathise with the aged couple.

Mostly, though, our hearts go out to Clov. He’s the only one who’s able to move, albeit with difficulty, and so he’s stuck caring for these dreadful people, none of whom has a kind word for him. Gleave’s expert clowning gives the play its physical dynamism, preventing it from seeming static, despite the fixed positions of the other three characters.

Skilfully conceived, this production has a clarity that illuminates Beckett’s dream-like, complex play, making it more accessible than any other version I have seen. Just as in life, death looms large – but there are plenty of laughs along the way.

5 stars

Susan Singfield

Bliss

14/08/26

Pleasance Courtyard (Grand), Edinburgh

Bliss is currently being talked about as ‘the next Six.’ It’s easy to see why. Both offer revisionist stories where young women are placed centre stage. But while Six is based on actual historical events, Bliss chooses the traditional fairy tale for a makeover. If we’re merely talking about popularity, the massive crowd at the Pleasance Grand is proof that this show is exactly what it needs to be: a big, loud, glittering musical that has everyone clapping along to its upbeat songs and swooning to its power ballads.

Four teenage princesses live in a secluded tower, locked away from the world by their widowed father, The King (Cameron Johnson), apparently for their own safety. They are Piper (Askshara Gunda), Carmella (Alexandra Emmerson-Kirby), Faye (Miriam Nyarko) and Holly (Matilda Shapland). As they spend so much time with only each other for company, they have each developed expertise in the subjects that interest them most. Piper specialises in astronomy and, when she discovers that a rare meteor is due to arrive, she longs to find a way to go outside and watch it.

The girls use their combined knowledge to escape but, once outside, they encounter something much more interesting – young Prince Devin (Jordan Calloway), who looks like he’s on day-release from a boy band, but who has a way of knocking out a song that has Piper’s heart fluttering. It turns out he’s soon to be hosting a party where he’ll choose a bride. How can Piper wangle an invite?

Right on cue, along comes Fairy Godfather, Glimmermore (Tom Bennett, appropriately decked out in pink robes). He assures Piper that she has a perfectly good chance of securing an invitation, and he can see to it that she gets her deepest wish…

Happily, the writers have the good sense to point out that being chosen as a bride isn’t necessarily a good thing, since Glimmermore’s posse of eligible females all have something of the Stepford Wives about them – and maybe it’s not the best outcome a young woman can hope for…

Sheryl Kaller directs with aplomb and, with book, music and lyrics by Emma Lively and Tyler Beatty, and well-drilled choreography by Josh Prince, Bliss packs plenty of energetic singing and hoofing into its 90 minute running time.

If there’s an issue for me, it’s the lack of jeopardy in the story. Glimmermore is the closest this show has to an actual villain, but there’s never any intimation that he has any real power over those he inducts into his cult-like following – and, as it turns out, his attempts to threaten anyone are instantly dispelled by a fatal flaw he gives away early in the proceedings.

Still, there’s no ignoring the enthusiasm of that standing ovation, which threatens to lift the roof off the venue. Could Bliss become the next Six?

Maybe if the creators wish hard enough, their dreams will come true…

4 stars

Philip Caveney

Nesting

13/08/26

Summerhall (Old Lab), Edinburgh

Nesting is a difficult play – complex, ambitious and emotionally devastating. But that’s the beauty of art, right? It comes in so many guises. Sometimes it’s good to be challenged.

This one’s very close to home: it’s about a man dying of MND, the neurological condition that killed my lovely dad four years ago. Billy Mack’s embodiment of the disease is horribly accurate and I find myself crying. A lot.

Mack plays Francis, a widower who lives with his pregnant daughter, Emma (Francesca Hess). The two enjoy a close relationship, teasing and joking and looking out for each other. Emma’s an overworked teacher, and – although he’s retired – Francis is very busy too. He’s making a crib for his new grandchild, lovingly cutting and sanding the wood he’s chosen so carefully.

But there’s something wrong with his right hand…

The diagnosis of motor neurone disease, delivered by Dr Bell (Peter McCormick, who also wrote the play), is devastating.

So far, so sadly ordinary. But then we meet Gull (Michael Guest), a seagull with a mission. If Francis agrees, Gull will kill him and take over his body, stalling the disease at its current level. It’s a no-brainer, he squawks. Not only will Emma be spared the burden of caring for her dad, she won’t even know he’s gone. Francis is very tempted. He just needs some time to think.

Under Ben Standish’s assured direction, Nesting is an arresting, deliberately stagy piece. As befits the Fringe, with its quick turnaround, the set is simple yet extraordinarily effective. A wooden frame with a curtain serves as hospital ward, bedroom window, room divider, etc. Meanwhile, Guest’s performance is a masterclass in physical theatre, committed, unnerving and utterly convincing. If the metaphor is a little opaque, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We find ourselves discussing possible interpretations long into the evening.

McCormick’s script addresses the strain placed on carers too. Hess perfectly conveys the toll her dad’s illness takes on Emma, as she struggles to look after him as well as keeping up with her job and coping with her pregnancy. The impassioned speech she gives is perhaps the most memorable moment of the play. She pleads with Dr Bell to help her, explaining that the care homes she’s approached have rejected her dad because MND is too complex for them! If that’s the case, how is she supposed to cope? How can two hours of daily home help be enough?

Dark, funny, absurd, salient: Nesting is not an easy play to pin down. But it is an intensely thought-provoking drama, one that will stay with you for a long time.

4.2 stars

Susan Singfield

A Ghost Among the Living

13/08/26

Pleasance Dome (Queen Dome), Edinburgh

There are regular visitors to The Fringe who we wouldn’t dream of missing. Box Tale Soup are one such company.

We first encountered then in 2023’s Casting the Runes, which we loved. 2025’s 1984 was even better. It’s not just that the two central performers are so accomplished. And it’s not that they make all the intricate sets themselves from recycled materials. It’s more that we’re always excited to see where they’ll go next.

This year they take on Edgar Allan Poe. We’re in!

Our narrator (Noel Byrne) takes to the stage and begins to recite Poe’s best-known poem, The Raven. But as he’s talking, a woman dressed in black (Antonia Christophers) prowls into the room and watches balefully from a distance as the narrator segues into another Poe classic, The Tell-Tale Heart. It’s clear that he’s aware of her presence and that her proximity has unnerved him… but who exactly is she? And what has drawn her to this event?

As the stories continue, she becomes the narrator’s assistant, helping him to manipulate those incredible puppets which illustrate each successive story in more detail. As ever, I marvel at the complex and brilliantly designed props that the twosome have conjured up; the incredible attention to detail. Every figurine, every lighting effect, every drape of fabric is a holistic part of the whole, so that there’s never any confusion as to where we are and who is who. As the narrative moves inexorably towards Poe’s masterpiece, The Masque of the Red Death, so the various pieces of the final puzzle slot perfectly together.

This may be Box Tale Soup’s finest achievement to date and I would urge lovers of horror, theatre, puppetry and set design to hurry along to the Queen Dome, where an absolute feast comprising all those different ingredients awaits you. 

But a warning for those of a nervous disposition: this is wonderfully creepy.

If you like it as much as we do (and I’m confident you will), please pass the word on. Productions like this are what the Fringe is all about.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Shaun Guff: Enuff is Enuff

12/08/26

Hoots Potterow, Edinburgh

Do you want to be happier? More successful? Have you had enuff? If so, get yourself to Shaun Guff’s self-funded seminar. He’s hit rock bottom so you don’t have to, and he’s ready to share his sensational life lessons via a very Y2K PowerPoint.

Guff is the third solo show from talented actor-comedian Clementine Bogg-Hargroves, who clearly isn’t one to keep churning out the same old stuff: the three productions could hardly be more different. 2021’s Skank was a heart-wrenching comic drama about a young woman with extreme health anxiety; 2023’s Please Love Me was an exploration of societal expectations, accompanied by pole dancing. And now here’s a character comedy, featuring an unqualified life coach called Shaun Guff, whose pronouncements are, well… You’ll have to pop along and see for yourself.

Created by Bogg-Hargroves and Lewis Coleman, this is cringe-comedy at its best: think Alan Partridge with a dash of David Brent or Larry David. Guff’s lack of self-awareness is cleverly depicted, the moments of social awkwardness he creates are genuinely mortifying. Bogg-Hargroves is an engaging performer anyway, but she turns that up to eleven in this show, forcing eye contact for just a bit too long, standing just that little bit too close. It’s wonderfully excruciating.

There is some audience participation but don’t let that put you off. Bogg-Hargroves is a lot more sensitive than her alter-ego, and she knows how to pick the right people. (And let’s face it, there’s never a shortage of willing performers watching a Fringe show.)

The show is laugh-out-loud funny from start to finish – a joyous, silly hour of nonsense.

And who knows? It might just open the door to a brand new you.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

Kirsty Mann: Corpse

12/08/26

Summerhall, Red Lecture Theatre

Do you believe in ghosts?

Kirsty Mann opens Corpse with that very question and asks the audience to vote one way or the other by raising a hand. I am one of several people who vote ‘no’ without hesitation, even though I’ve published plenty of supernatural fiction over the years, and even won the Scottish Children’s Book Award for The Piper. But do I actually believe in ghosts? Nah.

Mann assures us that what she is about to tell us is a true story, something that recently happened to her. She informs us she’s a doctor – and yes, that’s easy to check; she has long led a double life, working in the NHS as well as doing comedy. Now she wants to tell us about the time when she and her husband, Mark, are thinking about starting a family, but can’t because they are living in a tiny one-room flat in London. She sees this house advertised: a big three-bedroom affair with stairs and everything… and, because it is in such a terrible state of repair, the two of them can just about to afford to buy it.

Okay, so the old woman who owned the house has recently died, and the woman’s sister still lives next door and has a strange habit of standing in the garden at night, eating the apples from an old tree, but… a foot on the property ladder, right? A step up! It’s not to be sneezed at.

So they buy the house.

The set couldn’t be simpler: an old double bed, a heap of assorted junk in the corner and some distinctly dodgy-looking paintings, purportedly the work of the house’s late owner. But Mann doesn’t need a complex set; she’s a fabulous storyteller, taking us through her early days in her new home, the different people she encounters, the strange discoveries she makes. She coaxes laughter from the odd little things that happen to her as she tries to adapt to the unfamiliar environment – but steadily, unsettlingly, her experiences become more and more unnerving, so that all those easy laughs increasingly become interspersed with moments of absolute dread.

I can see how Mann is doing it, of course: simple lighting and sound effects, perfectly-timed jump scares. But somehow, along with everybody else in the packed room, I’m flinching at every new twist. My heartbeat is raised and, on a couple of occasions, it’s all I can do not to jump right out of my seat.

It would be criminal to give any more away. Suffice to say that Corpse is a highly effective piece of storytelling masterfully delivered. It achieves the almost impossible, a perfect blend of laughter and screams. A comedy of terrors, if you will.

And it works like gangbusters.

So, let me ask you a question. Do you believe in ghosts?

5 stars

Philip Caveney

The Longer My Mother Is Dead, The More I Like Her

12/08/26

Greenside (Olive Studio), George Street, Edinburgh

We arrive at Greenside’s George Street venue a little early, so I can’t resist FaceTiming my mum to get her reaction to the poster of the show we’re about to see. Consequently, I take my seat with her laughter still sounding in my ears, a salient reminder of how lucky I am that my relationship with my mum is so straightforward. We have a lot in common; we enjoy each other’s company; I love her – and she loves me.

Deborah Unger, on the other hand, has a lot more to work through. In this autobiographical piece, she shares her lifelong battle to understand her mother, to come to terms with the complex dynamics of their bond. Because resolution matters – even if her mom’s already dead.

Unger switches between the roles of mother and daughter with practised ease, simply raising her glasses when she’s being herself, and peering through them when she’s being her mom. Sitting on a black box, legs dangling, she takes us back in time to when she’s five years old. Mom is clearly a difficult woman – moody and hard to predict, veering from hot to cold. But young Deborah admires her: she’s uncompromising, secretive, bold and brave, steering her family across continents for her husband’s military career.

There are a lot of threads to this story, and some of them are left dangling, which I find a little frustrating. Nonetheless, TLMMIDTMILH is an interesting exploration of the ties that bind, and there’s something very heartwarming about Unger’s realisation that she is, in fact, very similar to her mom.

3 stars

Susan Singfield

Penelope

11/08/26

Underbelly Cowgate (Belly Button), Edinburgh

As we file into the dank gloomy confines of Belly Button, Penelope (Grace McLean) is already sitting on a stool, awaiting us with the patient air of somebody who is well acquainted with biding time. As anyone who’s read Homer – or watched Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey – will be aware, Penelope has been waiting for twenty years for her husband Odysseus to return from his travels. While he’s off battling a Cyclops and negotiating the Clashing Rocks, she’s stuck at home doing some weaving. As you might imagine, she’s getting pretty bored with the process.

As the lights go down, three musicians file in to provide the musical soundtrack. Alex Bechtel, who wrote the music and lyrics, takes a seat at the keyboards and he’s joined by a cello player and a drummer. The sound they create is moody and haunting – and then McLean begins to sing a mournful, soaring ballad. It’s evident after just a few bars that she has an extraordinary voice.

From this point, the story progresses through a wide range of musical styles, sometimes solemn, sometimes frivolous, occasionally edging toward rock. Penelope gets through quite a lot of alcohol as she delivers her tale of woe and, of course, it’s always interesting to hear the story from a different perspective: a woman who was always her husband’s second choice after the legendary Helen; a woman dealing with a son growing into manhood; a woman resisting the advances of those predatory suitors, who are constantly seeking ways to break down her determination not to remarry. We’ve all been there.

For me, the high point in this hour-long musical extravaganza is a lengthy conversation with Pallas Athene, whose voice is supplied by the three musicians talking in unison. It’s interesting to note that the Goddess offers very little in the way of answers.

This is an assured hour of musical theatre, directed by co-creator Eva Stenmetz and impeccably delivered by the four performers. You don’t have to know The Odyssey – or even Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad – but it might help to be familiar with the original story.

Or maybe just trot along to Belly Button and soak it all up.

4 stars

Philip Caveney

Goodbye Dandelion

10/08/26

Underbelly Cowgate (Belly Dancer), Edinburgh

It turns out assisted dying is a hot topic at this year’s Fringe. A mere five days in and, not only is this the second show we’ve seen about it, but there’s someone waiting outside with flyers for another one “dealing with the same issues”. Euthanasia, it seems, is in.

But if the theme is redolent of the Traverse production we saw yesterday, the form could hardly be more different. While After Party is a raucous two-act play, Goodbye Dandelion is an altogether gentler affair – a whimsical hour of musical storytelling, charting Maddie Rice’s friendship with the titular Dandelion, aka octogenarian Darcy O’Shea.

Thirty-something Maddie is feeling a bit lost. There’s nothing wrong exactly: she has a steady job, a caring boyfriend, an agreeable flatmate. It’s just… shouldn’t there be something more? When she sees an advert for Run-Relate, she thinks it might be the spur she needs. Simultaneously improving her fitness and helping a lonely pensioner; surely that’ll make her feel fulfilled?

But things don’t go as Maddie expects. For one thing, it turns out she hates running. And for another, Darcy doesn’t want her help. Still, as their spiky, unlikely friendship develops, it’s clear the benefits are mutual. Until, that is, Darcy tells Maddie her deepest, darkest wish…

Maddie narrates her tale with an engaging openness, the language simple but compelling. Her brother, Marcus, provides musical accompaniment and wry asides, knowing exactly when to undercut the more sentimental moments with a witty song or some salient statistics. Everybody Dies is easily my favourite number; who knew a song about death’s inevitability could make an entire audience laugh out loud?

Although it’s about dying, this charming, clever show is ultimately life-affirming. There’s no bold ‘seize the day’ message, no cloying, fridge-magnet platitude. Instead, there’s a clear-eyed, honest appraisal of what it means to live.

4.6 stars

Susan Singfield