The Daughters of Roísín, written and performed by Aoibh Johnson, is an ode to the women of Ireland, whose histories are too often forgotten. Serving as a kind of companion piece to Luke Kelly’s 1980 poem, For What Died the Sons of Roísín? this play is a poignant reminder of what the country’s women sacrificed.
By now, we all know about the infamous Magdalene Laundries, where so-called ‘fallen women’ were sent to work before having their babies, which were then taken from them and sold to wealthy adoptive families. But even those who avoided the overt cruelty of the convents were failed by a Catholic state that viewed them as sinners.
Directed by Cahal Clarke, this play from Wee Yarn Productions tells the tale of Johnson’s great-grandmother, who fell pregnant as a teenager. Her vulnerability is highlighted by the phrase she uses to insist her parents let her go to a dance (“I’m almost an adult; I’m seventeen”), which segues into a mournful lament (“I’m only seventeen!”) when she discovers she is going to have a child. After all, how was she supposed to know? No one ever spoke about sex. She didn’t understand what she was doing.
Johnson’s performance is utterly compelling: she flits effortlessly between the past and the present, breaking the fourth wall to draw us in with direct questioning, then clipping up her hair and becoming the frightened young woman confined to her room, with only the tiniest of windows to peek out of for the nine months of her pregnancy. No one must see her; her ‘sickness’ would bring shame to the family. And, when she gives birth, the baby – Johnson’s grandfather – is spirited away and adopted.
This is a lyrical piece of work, blending poetry, song and prose, at once a scathing condemnation of the church and a love letter to Ireland’s lost women. Oisin Clarke’s simple lighting and sound work well, allowing breathing space for the moments of silence and darkness, which are eerily effective.
One of my favourite things about the Fringe is the sheer breadth of what’s on offer; I love the fact that serious plays like this sit alongside stand-up comedy and circus acts and everything in between. The Daughters of Roísín is a thought-provoking, important piece of theatre, and I’m glad it’s found a home here at the Pleasance.
Olly Hawes isn’t a bad guy. Okay, so maybe things get a little out of hand on stag dos now and again, but he and his pals are not like those other lads, misbehaving drunkenly in historical European cities. Sure, they go to the same places and drink the same booze, but their raucousness is performative and self-aware. They’re being ironic – and that makes all the difference. Right?
In this one-man show, Hawes veers between biting humour and apocalyptic despair; it is at once a confessional and a call to arms. The affable persona he creates serves as a hook, allowing him to reel us in and bring us face-to-face with our own hypocrisies.
There’s a gulf between the opening scene, where Hawes stands contemplating which socks to wear, and the terrifying ending, where we all stand on the precipice of a climate disaster. But Hawes is an effective guide, leading us from an introspective focus on the daily minutiae to a bird’s eye view of what’s happening just out of shot. If this sounds bleak, it is, but don’t be misled – it’s also very entertaining.
There’s an overt meta-quality to this monologue. Hawes invites us to picture our own lead character. It might be him or it might just be someone a bit like him. It might be us. (It is us. We’re all guilty.) The piece is presented as a screenplay, with Hawes narrating the cues, which works well as a simple means of establishing where we are in time as well as place.
There’s no denying that the ending is frenetic and hyperbolic – but it feels earned. This is clever writing with a relatable protagonist, striking exactly the right tone to keep the audience on board.
And we need to actually do something about climate change, don’t we? The planet’s burning while all us f**king legends look away and party.
Theatre’s most famous skull, Yorick, is amply fleshed out in this playful monologue, written and performed by George Rennie. Shakespeare provides scant detail about the “fellow of infinite jest” – we only know that he sang, danced, made people laugh and gave the young Hamlet piggybacks. But Rennie mines these few familiar lines to breathe life into a character renowned for being er… dead.
Rennie is an engaging actor, strutting and fretting his hour upon the stage and easily connecting with the audience. The early stretches of the play establish Yorick as a jester, keen to do his job and entertain. But his smile stretches thin as he strives to perform his routines; he’s clearly aware that something is wrong. Where is his master? Where is the King?
From here, the monologue takes a darker turn, as Yorick slowly realises that the King isn’t the only one who’s dead. There are some clever touches, including a revelation about what really happened when Hamlet thought he saw his father’s ghost. Most affecting is Yorick’s yearning for the player he loved when they were both touring performers. Being plucked from obscurity to work at court has proved both a blessing and a curse.
There are some elements that don’t work quite so well, including an extended sequence featuring two audience volunteers – in today’s show, it’s Philip and me. Although we have fun participating, the scene is long and it’s hard to see what it adds to our understanding of the character. It’s introduced as Yorick’s attempt to ‘tell his story’ but I can’t work out how it does that. (It could just be that I missed something. I was a little distracted by the fact that Philip and I were sharing one pair of reading glasses because he’d left his at home.) Structurally, I feel like this comic relief would fit better in the first half hour, as it weakens the deepening tension and unsettling atmosphere of the second act.
Still, there’s a lot here to like, including the sound design, which complements the story well, reflecting Yorick’s state of mind. Now get you to the Pleasance Courtyard; to this favour you must come; Rennie will make you laugh at that.
Heard the one about four strangers locked in a gender neutral toilet? The ones who make a proper song and dance about it? Well, believe it or not, that’s the premise for Public – the Musical – and before you say that sounds like a terrible idea, let me assure you that this breezy, heartwarming production is one of the most downright enjoyable things I’ve seen at this year’s Fringe.
Laura (Alicia Corrales) thinks they see their partner kissing another woman in the street and seeks refuge in a public toilet. There they encounter ditzy, super-privileged but somehow adorable Zo (Annabel Marlowe), ultra-macho Andrew (Andrew Patrick-Walker), dressed in tight-fitting bicycle Lycra and over-anxious Finlay (Hugo Rolland), who was due to attend a meeting at the DSS and may be penalised for his absence.
Forced to spend an hour together, the mismatched quartet set about alternately bickering and trying to get to know each other. Think of this as an updated Breakfast Club and you’ll pretty much have the measure of it. But of course, John Hughes’s protagonists didn’t have songs and Public has plenty of them, a mix of exuberant poppy bangers and plaintive ballads. All four actors have terrific voices (particularly Patrick-Walker, who hits some impressive high notes) and when their voices are joined in harmony the result is sublime.
The script, by Kyla and Natalie Stroud with Hannah Sands, is perceptive and inclusive – and if a short stretch starts to feel suspiciously like Educating Andrew well that’s no big deal: the message is an important one. The Strouds have also written the songs with Olivia Zacharia, and the fact that Public has been long-listed for the Popcorn Prize makes perfect sense. I’d originally planned to do this review as a series of puns about toilets – you know, ‘best seat in the house,’ ‘fighting the cistern,’ that kind of thing. But this is too darned likeable to make dumb jokes about.
I always hate to announce a must-see so late in the Fringe but, if you’re looking for a rousing, cheerful way to complete your visit to Edinburgh, grab some tickets while you still can.
Matt Forde has built his reputation on a canny combination of political commentary interspersed with impersonations of the people in power. He’s a seasoned, confident performer and, pretty much from the get go, Inside No. 10 has the sizeable audience at the Pleasance Beyond laughing it up. The over-riding message is that the country is being led by the biggest bunch of buffoons in history and our only hope is to giggle about it. No arguments there. I’ve always thought that Rishi Sunak would be a hard man to impersonate but Forde manages it with ease, highlighting his ability to sound inappropriately effusive, even when he’s delivering horrible news.
And it’s not just the Tories. There’s a brilliantly observed Keir Starmer in there too, austere and seemingly obsessed with tearfully mentioning his late father at every opportunity and, since we’re in Scotland, the recent woes of the SNP are duffed up too, even if Forde wisely keeps his Nicola Sturgeon down to a few one-liners.
Ironically, it’s when he steps outside of British politics that the show really takes flight. His impersonation of Donald Trump is, as ever, spot on, nailing the man’s petulance and his childlike habit of blaming everybody else for his misfortunes. It’s easily the funniest part of Inside No. 10, (especially after being handed the gift of that mugshot) but, unfortunately, it has the effect of making the remainder of the show feel slightly anticlimactic. The piece doesn’t conclude so much as peter out.
Perhaps a little restructuring would help, holding back Trump (if only such a thing were possible) and finishing the exercise on a high point. Or maybe having him as a guide, observing our political system from his jaundiced POV?
Mind you, it’s bit late in the day to be suggesting changes, when the Fringe has almost run its course; besides, if the object of the exercise is to make an audience laugh, Forde certainly succeeds in that respect, big time.
Martin Urbano has been cancelled, but – despite the title of his show – he’s not sorry in the least. He’s a good guy, unfairly victimised just for articulating what everyone’s thinking. And, you know, assault. “Have you tried tickling a woman you don’t know on public transport recently? Apparently, it’s not allowed any more.”
Just to be clear: this is satire, punching up at the likes of Louis CK and Bill Cosby rather than down at their victims. It’s not an hour of whinging from an entitled twat complaining loudly via a Netflix special that they’ve been de-platformed – it’s a very obvious parody of that. Indeed, at times I think the parody is too signposted: the show might be more hard-hitting if Urbano were to commit more fully to the loathsome character he has created (although I can see that further blurring those delicate lines might actually be dangerous for him. After all, he does spend fifteen minutes telling us that he’s a paedophile).
Urbano is saved from this potential danger by a self-deprecating demeanour and by regularly corpsing at the very awfulness of what he’s saying. These qualities combine to reinforce the fact that he does not stand by the ideas he’s espousing, that they are just jokes, intended to make us roar in horror and disbelief. It works. The dingy underground space of Bunker Three is alive with laughter.
The Mexican-American comedian makes his audience complicit too, handing out bits of script for several of them to read. They acquiesce, and so become a part of the phenomenon, happily making statements that conflict with their ethics. Why do I feel qualified to make this assumption about how they feel about their participation? Because I am one of them: I actually stand on the stage and read some very dodgy things into a microphone. It’s a neat reminder that, just like me, Urbano is playing a role.
For a show dominated by misogyny and paedophilia to land as well as it does proves that we’re in the hands of a professional. The hour flies by and the audacious ending really takes me by surprise.
M R James’s short story Casting The Runes is a classic British chiller, and one that has been adapted for stage many times (and even into a film in Jacques Tourneur’s 1953 Night of the Demon). Theatre company Box Tale Soup have taken up the gauntlet and present us with this slick and brilliantly-designed production, which utilises a range of cleverly-constructed props and some fabulous puppetry, all created by the central duo, Noel Byrne and Antonia Christophers.
Edward Dunning (Byrne) thinks himself an expert on the supernatural – or rather, he has devoted his life to debunking it at every opportunity. So of course, he has repeatedly ignored the approaches of a certain Mr Karswell, who is eager for Dunning to have a look at his latest opus, a book about witchcraft. But then Dunning is approached by Rebecca Harrington (Christophers), sister of the literary critic, John Harrington, who was reckless enough to give Karswell’s previous literary efforts a bad review – only to meet with a mysterious and horrible death shortly afterwards.
When Dunning begins to receive some very odd items in the post and then an eerie book is handed to him by Karswell himself, he begins to realise that something is amiss – and that he is in serious danger of suffering the same fate as Harrington…
This is an ingeniously-designed production, where even the scene transitions are meticulous and intriguing enough to become an integral part of the show. The costumes, the props and the set are all treated with the same attention to detail, embellished with little flourishes that echo the runic theme.
It could be argued that there may actually be a bit too much focus on the transitions here, especially when some of the scenes are so brief – and that the script (much like the original story, published in 1911) does an awful lot of telling and not enough showing. But Byrne, Christophers and their bizarre puppet co-stars all submit sterling performances, while director Adam Lensing does an impressive job of racking up the steadily-mounting air of apprehension.
I’m perhaps a little too familiar with the story for my own good and am therefore denied the wonderful twist at the end, but this is an assured production from a talented and very idiosyncratic company. Judging by the sold-out house and the enthusiastic applause, the rest of the audience agrees with me.
The Box Show (theboxshow.org) is one of the most original acts I’ve ever seen. Incredibly, the whole production is confined to one small box – every prop, every costume change – like a puppet theatre with myriad human puppets. And Dominique Salerno (dominiquesalerno.com) is the puppet master, changing herself into a giant woman, a fighting couple, a demanding pop star – and a few more esoteric surprises it would be a crime to give away.
The constraints of the box mean that Salerno has to be imaginative – necessity is the mother of invention, after all. Low-budget theatre is often more interesting than its splashy, blinged up West End cousin; limiting herself to such a miniscule stage pushes Salerno even further down this road. I’m in awe of her imagination.
The Box Show is fast-paced, never letting up for the whole hour, the sketches building to a hilarious crescendo.
Audacious, funny, and perfectly crafted, The Box Show is performed with wit and precision. Salerno has the flexibility of a gymnast or a dancer (it makes my creaky knees hurt just watching her), as well as being a gifted actor and singer.
The tiny venue mirrors the tiny box, so it doesn’t take many punters for this to be sold out. Grab a ticket while you can – this Fringiest of Fringe shows is one not to miss.
The frenzy of the Fringe is over. It’s been beyond wonderful to see our city so vibrant again, after two quiet years. We’ve seen a startling range of exciting shows, covering many genres. We’re exhausted – but it’s not quite over yet. It’s time to award our virtual bouquets to the best performances we saw. The standard seemed higher than ever this time: has the break given writers and performers more time to sharpen their acts, or were we just lucky with the productions we chose? Either way, there were lots of contenders in each category, but we’ve narrowed them down to our favourite five.
So, without further ado, we present our choice of the best shows we saw at Edfest 2022.
THEATRE
An Audience with Stuart Bagcliffe (ZOO Playground)
An Audience with Stuart Bagcliffe is the sort of play which exemplifies the Fringe at its best. Written by Benny Ainsworth and directed by Sally Paffett (Triptytch Theatre), this ingeniously constructed monologue features Michael Parker as the titular Stuart, delivering Ainsworth’s script with consummate skill.
A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings (Summerhall)
Based on a short story by Gabriel García Márquez and adapted for the stage by Dan Colley, Manus Halligan and Genevieve Hulme Beaman, this is the tale of Elisenda and Palayo, two impoverished people who live in a rickety shack on the edge of a small town. Their tale is related by Elisenda (Karen McCartney) in a deliciously sinister style. She’s aided by Palayo (Manus Halligan), who barely utters a word, but moves humbly around the stage, using a curious mixture of handicrafts and high-tech devices to illustrate the story – a series of simplistic figurines, illuminated by tiny cameras and lights, take us into their miniature world.
Sap (Roundabout @ Summerhall)
Rafaella Marcus has scripted a deliciously labyrinthine tale about sexual identity (specifically bi-invisibility), one that cleverly assimilates a Greek myth into its core. The maze-like structure is beautifully captured by Jessica Clark and Rebecca Banatvala’s hyper-physical performances, directed by Jessica Lazar and Jennifer Fletcher.
Hungry (Roundabout @ Summerhall)
Chris Bush’s sharply written two-hander examines the relationship between Lori (Eleanor Sutton), a chef from a relatively privileged background, and Bex (Melissa Lowe), a waitress from the local estate. Hungry is a class act, so assured that, even amidst the host of treasures on offer at this year’s Roundabout, it dazzles like a precious gem.
The Tragedy of Macbeth (Assembly Roxy)
Let’s face it, we’ve all seen Macbeth in its various shapes and guises – but I think it’s fairly safe to say we’ve never seen it quite like this. Flabbergast Theatre’s eight-strong cast reel around the stage, plastered in mud and raving and flailing around like demented beings. This is a play about the madness brought on by the seductive power of hubris, so it feels entirely appropriate. It explodes, it capers, it struts its fretful stuff upon the stage and signifies plenty…
COMEDY
Feeling Afraid as if Something Terrible is Going to Happen (Roundabout @ Summerhall)
Both Samuel Barnett and Marcelo Dos Santos deserve huge praise for what is undoubtedly one of the best collaborations between writer and performer that I’ve ever witnessed. The narrator is working me like a master magician, mesmerising me, misdirecting me, even scattering a trail of clues which I somehow manage to overlook. The result? When the piece reaches its conclusion, I feel as though I’ve been punched in the solar plexus.
Kylie Brakeman: Linda Hollywood’s Guide to Hollywood (Gilded Balloon Patterhoose)
Making her Edinburgh Fringe debut, Kylie Brakeman delivers her cleverly scripted lines with consummate skill, and the whip-smart, snarky one-liners flow like honey laced with vinegar. It’s more than just a series of laughs. It also nails the cynicism and hypocrisy of the movie industry with deadly precision. I leave convinced that Brakeman (already a major name online, with over sixty million views) is destined to play much bigger venues than this one.
Emily Wilson: Fixed (Pleasance Courtyard)
Emily Wilson’s Fixed is part musical, part stand-up and part catharsis. She appeared on The X Factor USA back in 2011, as one half of the earnestly named duo, Ausem. “Because my best friend’s called Austin, and my name’s Emily, so together we’re Ausem!” She was 15 and thought she was destined to become a star. But then she hit a snag. The judges decided they liked Austin, but not Emily… What emerges is a thoughtful commentary on fame, ambition and exploitation, and it’s riveting.
Christopher Bliss: Captain Wordseye (Pleasance Courtyard)
Christopher Bliss (Rob Carter) is a new name to me and I can only regret that it’s taken me this long to encounter him. He’s that rarest of things, a brilliant character comedian… and a literary genius to boot. I can’t wait for his words of advice on poetry, which I have long considered my Achilles heel…
The Anniversary (Pleasance Dome)
Jim (Daniel Tobias) and Barb (Clare Bartholomew) are eagerly preparing for their 50th wedding anniversary but they’re not always in control of things and some of the items in the finger buffet might better be avoided. This handsomely mounted helping of slapstick from Australian company, Salvador Dinosaur, features no real dialogue, just gibberish and the occasional mention of each other’s names – but the soundtrack is far from silent. It’s essentially a piece about the indignities of ageing, replete with references to forgetfulness, dodgy bowels and the ill-advised over-application of both prescription drugs and prunes. It ought to be tragic but it’s somehow horribly funny.
SPECIAL MENTIONS
Fills Monkey: We Will Drum You (Pleasance Courtyard)
Sebastian Rambaud and Yann Coste are two brilliant percussionists, the kind of people you imagine could go through an entire day without ever breaking beat. They begin with conventional sets of drums, hammering out thrilling polyrhythms as the audience claps along. But they have an air of competitiveness about them and the stakes keep rising. It really helps that the two percussionists are also accomplished clowns. Working under the direction of Daniél Briere, they’ve devised a show that switches back and forth through a whole series of scenarios, never lingering too long in one place to ever feel repetitive.
Manic Street Creature (Roundabout @ Summerhall)
Manic Street Creature, written and performed by Maimuna Memon, is an assured slice of gig theatre that focuses on the subject of mental health from a slightly different perspective – that of the carer. Memon tells the story through a sequence of songs being recorded in a studio session. She’s a confident, assured performer, with a thrilling vocal range, accompanying herself on acoustic and electric guitars, keyboards and shruti box. When everything’s in full flow, the story takes flight and I feel myself propelled along by its urgent, rhythmic pulse.
The Ofsted Massacre (The Space @ Surgeon’s Hall)
Phil Porter’s script feels like it’s been torn from the inside of a stressed-out teacher’s head: a revenge fantasy, born of despair. It’s also a very funny play, drawing on Shakespeare, while lampooning staffroom stereotypes and exposing every cliché. This production, by Kingston Grammar School’s sixth form drama students, is a triumph. The young cast embrace their roles, eliciting gales of laughter from the audience with their well-timed punchlines and impressive slapstick.
Making a Murderer: The Musical (Underbelly Bristo Square)
Like millions of others across the UK, I was transfixed by the Netflix documentary, Making A Murderer – so when I spot a poster on the Royal Mile with the words ‘The Musical‘ tacked onto the end, I’m intrigued – and simultaneously doubtful. Isn’t that going to be… disrespectful? But, in the capable hands of writer Phil Mealey, MAMTM offers a compelling version of the familiar events, a fresh perspective on the story that never feels like a cheap shot. The songs are terrific throughout, ranging from spirited rockers to plaintive ballads. What’s more, the production supports (and is supported by) The Innocence Project.
The Tiger Lillies: One Penny Opera (Underbelly Bristo Square)
Describing an act as ‘unique’ is often considered a cop-out, and yet I can’t think of a more appropriate word to describe The Tiger Lillies, three remarkable musicians currently strutting their inimitable stuff at The Cow Barn on Bristo Square. Originally formed way back in 1989, they’ve been through a number of personnel changes over the years, though the macabre compositions of singer-songwriter Martyn Jacques have remained a constant. They describe themselves as “Brechtian Punk Cabaret”, and who am I to argue with them?
Edfringe 2022 is gradually coming to a halt. Technically, there are still a few more days to go, but for us, sadly, this is where it ends. There are other places we need to be. As ever, after the buzz of watching and reviewing fifty-plus productions, we’re exhausted and looking forward to a rest.
But there’s still one last show to see.
Headcase is a memoir of sorts, written and performed by Kristin McIlquham (she’s quick to tell us that nobody ever knows how to pronounce her surname). On our way in, we’re provided with little red notebooks, because this is a show all about making lists. She’s been doing it for much of her life. ‘To do’ lists, mostly. You know the kind of thing. ‘Get a decent boyfriend, buy a flat in London.’ And now, fast approaching forty, she makes a new one. ‘Write a play about what happened to my dad. And get a brain scan.’
When she was six years old, Kristin’s father suffered a brain aneurysm. He was in a coma for some time and, when he finally emerged from sleep, he no longer recognised his own family and had to learn how to do things that should have been second nature to him. And he had to come to terms with what had happened to him. Now it’s Kristin’s turn to do the same. That title was his suggestion, by the way, based upon his favourite joke. He’s gone now, but Kristin’s passion to tell his story remains.
Headcase is an interesting piece, both funny and poignant. The stage is stacked with transparent packing boxes, filled with hundreds of notebooks, no doubt symbolising the emotional baggage Kristin has accumulated over the years. Every so often, she takes items from those boxes or from the leather tool belt around her waist, items that prompt certain memories. Musical cues tell us exactly where we are in the story. Along the way, Kristin fields awkward phone calls from her mother and is constantly interrupted by the voice of her therapist (Juliet Garricks) and, at key points, her father (Nicholas Karimi), a garrulous Glaswegian, with a habit of saying the wrong thing.
Nicely paced, the story switches from incident to incident, never losing momentum. I would like to see the notebooks we are given – and the things we’re asked to write in them – more convincingly integrated into the piece but, nonetheless, this is engaging stuff, designed by Zoë Hurwitz and directed by Laura Keefe. It’s a satisfying way to finish off what’s been an exciting and talent-packed Edinburgh Fringe.
And on that note, good night and goodbye, Edfringe 2022. We’re already looking forward to seeing you again in August 2023.
Bouquets & Brickbats 