Rosie Wood

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  • Crybabies: The Scaring

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    Fresh from a hugely successful Edinburgh Fringe run, Crybabies: The Scaring arrives at Soho Theatre with a hilarious jump scare. This Halloween sketch show, with a loose narrative, stars Michael Clarke, Ed Jones and James Gault. Although it is a high-budget production, it somehow retains the handmade charm of a Fringe show. 

    Set in a spooky hotel, complete with an ominous-sounding sauna maze, an exorcism gone wrong turns out to be part of an immersive stag experience. This sets the tone for a show that is constantly breaking through genres as well as the fourth wall, pulling us in and out of its universe at will.

    There is an impressive combination of precision acting and fast-paced chaos here. Every scene is completely slick, but there is a slight improv vibe to the whole thing, with off-the-cuff remarks and experimental jokes realised in XL glory. Dramatic lighting, life-sized dolls and Cecelia Carey’s set design all contribute to the extravaganza. With vast swathes of fabric draped over three tall walls, Carey’s set takes the DIY quality of Fringe and scales it up. The hotel proprietor even draws attention to the blank spaces in the theatre set, which we fill with our imaginations, by acknowledging that it isn’t attached to any walls. Comedy arrives to puncture the mystique of the horror show it parodies.

    The show draws attention to both the connection and the distance between the two genres. Jump scares become punchlines, highlighting the tension-building and release structure that are used by jokes and scares alike. Similar to the set, the script consistently obliterates supernatural and mysterious horror tropes with comic literalness: Gerry the ghost, played by Gault, isn’t a ghost at all; they were just ignoring him. Comedy often comes from plot holes and mistakes in speech that undermine the horror story it is spoofing, alongside a wealth of puns, gags and slapstick routines.

    Its cartoonish elements, physical comedy and stupid outfits only add to the amusing contrast between the terrifying and the absurd. It helps that Jones looks like a cartoon vampire, meant as a compliment, while Gault is not scared of a frilly crop top and short shorts. The characters are cartoonish, parodies of tropes rather than real people, which gives the whole thing a light-hearted, clowny style rather than being a serious commentary. However, they still manage to include topical references to COVID and the politically correct media. 

    The show is made up of a series of sketches, tied together with a loose narrative that sprawls around like untamed tentacles. There is no real singular core or point to the story, but that is not necessarily a problem. That bizarre mix between sketch and comedy play allows for a full-length show without the pressure to make a serious point or even really follow a proper narrative structure. Instead, it is fun, fast, high-impact and continuously unexpected.

    The Scaring has the freedom and silliness of a sketch show, but the scale to make its ridiculous ideas feel spectacular. It embraces the chaos rather than trying to contain it, allowing the show’s absurdity to become its greatest strength.

    Director: Jon Brittain 
    Set & Costume Designer: Cecilia Carey 
    Lighting Designer: Bethany Gupwell 
    Sound Designer: Ed Lewis 
    Video Designer: Nina Dunn 
    Illusions Designer: John Bulleid 
    Associate Director: Grace Duggan 
    Associate LX Designer: Jodie Underwood 
    Production Manager: Jack Boissieux 
    Stage Manager on Book: Verity Clayton

    published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Crybabies: The Scaring, Soho Theatre

  • Sara Pascoe & Friends

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    As part of the Roundhouse Comedy Festival, Sara Pascoe & Friends is a hand-selected mixed bill, hosted by Pascoe herself. The result is a very pleasant compilation show, with a varied line-up of professional-quality comedians carrying the audience through a long show that never gets boring.

    Pascoe opens the night with crowd participation mainly about opinions on films, particularly The Odyssey, alongside getting drinks for the audience — when she asks for volunteers, a crowd of gals scream “wine”. In a huge Molly Goddard-esque pink dress, Pascoe dissects topics like movies and the internet in her own chaotic, scatterbrained style. Sometimes she can be a little hard to follow, with the combination of her unfocused style and fact-heavy deep dives. She is, however, a good compère, providing a relaxed atmosphere for the night.

    First up is Michael Odewale. He has a punchline-dense set with a relatable undercurrent of laziness. His anecdotes cover swapping bodies with a white woman on the train, being invited to a protest he can’t be arsed to go to, and the awkward transition when his once-strict parents now want to be his friends. His delivery is somewhat by-the-numbers, despite the creativity displayed in his material. In a club environment, this is probably helpful; a little more theatre is required in the theatre. He’s good enough a writer to have more fun messing with the formula.Travel Guides & Travelogues

    John Kearns is definitely a change of pace. Pascoe brings him on by saying that she loves the way his mind works. He comes on like a goblin, shaking his wig, which looks like a gigantic black scrunchie stretched across his bald head, like a bull swaying its horns. When he echoes “she loves the way my mind works,” his menacingly funny persona emerges instantly. Kearns doesn’t just talk about funny things; he is just funny to watch. He has an incredible instinct for comedic rhythm and really commits to being the clown. The actual observations he makes are also hilarious, and he brings them all to life with act-outs. He’s the only person to win both Edinburgh Fringe Best Newcomer and Best Comedy Show in its 40- year history, and you can see why. His act is interesting enough to stand completely alone.

    After seeing Harriet Kemsley all over the TV, she is exactly as you would imagine: giggly, with a lot of material on sex. She has a great eye for those embarrassing moments in life, and how the desire to impress can result in some spectacular moments of shame. There are some brilliant parallels between toddlers and grown men, and her sauna joke is a highlight. Some of the topics feel a bit tired, including material on dating apps. She must see this criticism coming a mile off, but let’s face it, chlamydia is so cliché.

    Finally, bombing in down and back from Edinburgh to be here tonight, Nina Conti comes on to warm and enthusiastic applause. Her act is so joyous and well-honed, you can’t help but love it. With the help of a dry-witted monkey puppet, she picks her participants for her famous false-mouth routine. Of course, there are a wealth of volunteers, but she really does take a lot of care selecting her final two. This time it’s a gardener and ex-pharmacist and a very elegant housewife. Conti’s routine manages to harness the joy in watching other people laugh. The woman is practically convulsing with laughter, and Conti’s high-pitched laughing over the top is impossible not to smile at.Acting & Theater

    This night shows the power of an excellent formula: fully rounded characters and an actual concept behind a set. In such a massive theatre, with high ceilings and a very mixed crowd, it’s definitely a test of comic skill, and the best moments come when comics curate an experience rather than just deliver material. However, the variety and quality tonight are top tier, with every comedian bringing something distinct and valuable.

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Sara Pascoe & Friends – The Roundhouse, London

  • Otto & Astrid: The Stages Tour

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Art-rock Euro-pop sibling duo Otto & Astrid are a gleeful pastiche of underground Berlin. They take the city’s grit, eccentricity and nightlife chaos, polish away the sharp edges, and transform themselves into bubbly characters — almost as if they belong in a children’s TV series about Berlin’s alternative scene. Their new show, The Stages Tour — yes, a nod to Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour — is a greatest-hits collection from the duo’s wonderfully strange catalogue.

    Holding the show and the band together is their sibling dynamic. Older sister Astrid (Clare Bartholomew) commands the drums, resembling a tiny wind-up drummer, her arms held at right angles as she relentlessly batters the kit. Meanwhile, younger brother Otto (Daniel Tobias) brings a cheekiness and almost childlike joy to the stage, bounding around like a little techno goat in red lipstick. Every now and again, Astrid leaves the stage, tempting Otto with the opportunity to perform “unauthorised songs” — which, naturally, he does.

    Between these songs, authorised and otherwise, the pair joke, bicker and reveal snippets of their wonderfully absurd backstory. They begin life in a small rural hometown, but after their parents are ever so tragically eaten by a lion, they move into a Berlin squat. It sounds like the premise of an excellent cartoon. The songs themselves are equally quirky and surreal, from ‘Ich Bin Nicht Bin Roboter (I Am A Lion)’ to ‘Tasty Snak’ and ‘I Wanna Be Your Kitten’. Lyrically, they offer playful, novelty takes on classic themes of love, power and technology.

    That childlike quality, however, creates an unusual tension with some of the show’s themes, and it is never entirely clear whether this contrast is intentional. Asking a room full of adults to rock out to what feels like Berlin Kidz Bop creates a curious tonal clash. Is this a rock  concert, or a piece of light family-style comedic entertainment? At times, the act feels caught between identities, needing to choose a direction and push it further.

    There is something undeniably pantomime about the whole affair. When Astrid commands, “No unauthorised songs!”, her wagging finger encourages us to “oh yes we are” her. Later, after the audience inevitably urges Otto to break the rules, she returns to scold us: “Look what you have done, London.” Even the crisps she hands out to the audience add to the playful theatricality. It makes for interactive fun, but it also nudges the show closer to Berlin: The Musical than the underground cult  comedy it seems to aspire to be. It feels like watching a pantomime dame and leading boy front a rock band.

    There is also a lack of direction at a structural level which causes it to lose momentum towards the end, with one too many false endings. The inter-song conversations are amusing but do little to establish where the show is heading. In this case, the German duo would throw a better party if it were a little more organised. Astrid & Otto also occasionally spend too long talking to each other rather than to the audience. They are at their strongest when they break the fourth wall, drawing the crowd into their playful rebellion.

    There is no shortage of charisma or technical skill on this stage. The show simply needs refinement, and the act needs a clearer sense of what it wants to be.

    Created by Clare Bartholomew and Daniel Tobias
    Lighting by Sam Lohs
    Directed by Clare Bartholomew
    Sound by Chris Carmichael

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Otto & Astrid: The Stages Tour, Soho Theatre

  • Thou Shalt Sit The F*** Down

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Few jobs require quite so much forced enthusiasm as entertaining children. Ben Everett Riley’s solo show explores what happens when the smile starts to crack. He plays Will, a veteran children’s entertainer balancing the gruelling party circuit with the emotional turbulence of life as a gay performer. The story unfolds across a series of increasingly chaotic birthday parties, loosely structured around Will’s self-written commandments for surviving the job – his own ‘thou shalts’. Binding it all together is his relationship with new recruit Fionn (pronounced Finn – RADA apparently thought the extra ‘o’ would make him more bookable): handsome, privileged and quietly dismissive of Will’s career, seeing children’s entertainment as the preserve of the failed actor.

    This is where the show is at its strongest. The dynamic between the struggling performance veteran and the ambitious newcomer offers a compelling route into the familiar theatrical territory of competition and snobbery. Solo shows built around the refrain of “I’m a failed actor, get over it” have almost become a genre in themselves, but the contrast between Will’s fading optimism and Fionn’s confidence hints at something more interesting: the search for purpose and joy in work, even when it falls short of your ambitions.

    Riley’s performance is one of the show’s strengths. He delivers the piece with a spoken-word rhythm, slipping between narration and character with confidence. The problem is that the comedy surrounding him rarely reaches the same level. Recordings of Will’s Scottish boss Karin lean into broad, almost cartoonish expression rather than naturalism, but the show never fully commits to this heightened world. Will is tightly wound and constantly anticipating disaster, yet his anxieties rarely generate the comic chaos the premise seems to promise.

    The show also occupies an uneasy space between children’s entertainment and sexual humour. Hate wanks, a groping Australian parent and skin-tight Lycra costumes that split in unfortunate places all sit very close to stories about entertaining children. The opening plays with this ambiguity, teasing what appears to be a risqué performance before revealing a superhero costume for a kids’ party. The joke lands, if somewhat predictable, but the comparison between performing for children and sexual spectacle is maybe too dark to remain tongue-in-cheek.

    Structurally, the play feels episodic, taking too long to reveal its central dramatic question and lingering heavily on scenes of sexual humour. It is only towards the end that the most compelling idea emerges: an older performer clinging to hope while grinding through difficult audiences, set against the naive certainty of someone just starting out. Had this conflict been introduced earlier and developed throughout, the show would have gained both narrative momentum and emotional weight.

    You leave entertained rather than moved. Riley is an accomplished performer with undeniable stage presence; the material simply needs a stronger comic engine and dramatic spine to match it. The characters, themes and narrative never quite deepen enough to leave a lasting impression. For a show about keeping the magic alive, it struggles to create enough of its own.

    Written by Ben Everett Riley
    Produced by Be Wry Productions

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Thou Shalt Sit The F*** Down, The Queer Comedy Club
    Review: Thou Shalt Sit The F*** Down, The Queer Comedy Club

  • James Phelan: Showman

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    ‘The magic will work, but you must concentrate!’ is the slightly barbed energy that dominates James Phelan‘s spectacle of astounding psychological manipulation and mind-reading.

    With a finger pressed to an audience member’s forehead, he summons information directly into their mind – names, unspoken secrets, knowledge of sentimental objects from other members of the crowd. It is one of the most ambitious feats of hypnotism conceivable, built on a delicate atmosphere of trust, engagement and imagination.

    Phelan builds his world gradually, starting with a series of warm-up tricks that draw us into his logic. A card trick is framed around probability and influence, as he distracts us with mundane conversation before correctly naming the selected card. He then moves into exercises designed to engage the imagination: a magnet-like force pulling fingers together, one arm weighed down by an invisible box while the other is lifted by a balloon. From there, he escalates to his thought-summoning pièce de résistance, which begins by securing a volunteer’s feet to the floor with a few gestures and words.

    Alas, the imaginary quicksand does not take hold. The trick works only if the audience member fully commits to the illusion. We need to cooperate. 

    The interesting thing is how Phelan’s onstage persona copes with this. He begins to take on the voice of a strict teacher: if audience members don’t follow instructions, it’s our time they’re wasting. This is blended with a kind of comic cattiness, an air of‘You’d better not mess up my trick’. Traditionally, magicians project a relaxed omniscience. Phelan lets us see the desperate vulnerability underneath.

    This is slightly at odds with the much softer, more Disney-like vision of wonder that also runs through the show. He repurposes a Roald Dahl quote: “Those who believe in magic will find it,” and talks about his childhood dream of being a magician – as the nephew of Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee, it is in his blood. There’s a genuinely heartwarming moment where he asks a young boy named Logan what he wants to be when he grows up, then produces a coin engraved with the words “Logan Future Fighter Pilot.”

    The rickety moments also clash with the impenetrable fantasy world created by the show’s production design. As we enter, classic jazz standards such as ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ play over slowed-down black-and-white projections of traditional TV entertainers. Like Phelan’s mental tricks, it encourages us to melt into another world, to let go of the nagging details of reality and believe in something more magical – but the nagging details persist.

    Nevertheless, the tricks themselves are undoubtedly incredible. The audience never tires of the mind-reading routines. In fact, they only become more compelling. You’re on the edge of your seat wondering: are they going to say my name? You hope they do.

    By the end, Phelan remarks that it has been “an eventful show”. This might be part of an extraneous comic schtick. Or maybe, on this occasion, Phelan really does lose his cool as reality threatens to topple the magical realm.

    Created by James Phelan

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: James Phelan: Showman, Underbelly Boulevard

  • Zoe Wohlfeld: Dog Funeral

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    The title of Zoe Wohlfeld’s Dog Funeral promises exactly the kind of sweetly sinister paradox that the show delivers. It is a clown show about grief, an hour-long act of comic mourning that constantly balances the adorable against the disturbing.

    The story begins with a slideshow charting the life of Twinkle, Wohlfeld’s beloved dog. The illustrations are so sweet and lovingly rendered that they become faintly ominous. We know where this story is heading. After an act of fatal negligence involving a new boyfriend, Twinkle dies, and Wohlfeld emerges as a professional mourner of sorts, determined to process her loss in front of an audience of strangers.

    Her central character is a striking creation. With smeared make-up, gaping expressions and a childlike voice, she resembles a burnt Baby Jane or a Corpse Bride without the maggots, wandering the stage while she cries, mourns and seeks our attention. Her creepiness extends beyond the ghostly and gothic. Instead, it emerges from the childlike neediness that grief can provoke, reducing adults to creatures desperate for comfort, reassurance and affection.

    Here, loss strips away dignity. It makes us want to be noticed, soothed and loved. Wohlfeld’s clown captures this impulse perfectly. She cries, sulks, flirts and manipulates with the emotional logic of a child. The result is both funny and unsettling.

    This tension defines the show’s strongest — or worst — material. One audience member is recruited into a bizarre flirtation conducted partly through Wohlfeld’s backside. Another is sent on a mission to procure a “Pinot Gri-gee-o”. The humour comes from the absurdity of the requests, but also from the audience’s growing complicity in this strange and faintly disturbing spectacle. We laugh while simultaneously wondering whether we should be laughing at all.

    That discomfort will not be to everyone’s taste. Some may find the character’s babyish flirtatiousness grating, while others may find it genuinely unnerving. Yet the show commits so fully to its logic that resistance becomes part of the experience. Wohlfeld never winks at the audience or retreats into irony. She trusts the character completely.

    Whatever one’s feelings about these routines, there is no denying the strength of the show’s comic construction. In one sequence, audience members are instructed to repeat words fed to them by Wohlfeld, while another unfortunate punter is assigned a particularly suggestive sound. Once the pattern has been established, Wohlfeld casually inserts the phrase “my dog just died” before inviting the responses again. The laugh comes from anticipation, disbelief and the audience’s horrified recognition of what they are about to do. It is a simple mechanism executed with remarkable precision.

    That precision extends to Wohlfeld’s performance throughout. Her facial expressions are extraordinary. With mascara bleeding beneath her eyes and a mouth capable of stretching into cartoonishly tragic shapes, she creates an image that is at once ridiculous and strangely affecting. It is the kind of character that can carry an entire hour, and Wohlfeld commits to it without hesitation. Like grief itself, Dog Funeral is messy, needy and occasionally uncomfortable. It asks the audience to sit with emotions that are rarely flattering and then find ways to laugh at them. The commitment and the craft are admirable, even if the show’s more provocative impulses will not work for everyone. Nevertheless, Wohlfeld proves herself a daring clown.

    Written by Zoe Wohlfeld and Jack Grossman 
    Directed by Jack Grossman

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Zoe Wohlfeld: Dog Funeral, Soho Theatre

  • Do All The Things

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    Most interactive comedy asks the audience to participate. London Clown Festival’s character sketch show Do All The Thingsasks them to collaborate. The show is like being invited over by your crazy aunts for an afternoon of good old-fashioned fun. 

    Amid a jam-packed hour of character sketches, Abigail Dooley and Emma Joy Edwards of A&E Comedy find time for dancing, a conga line, compliments, pranks, and audience games. The show’s organising principle is the Thingo: a bingo card on which audience members tick off moments as they occur. Rather than receiving individual cards, spectators are grouped together around shared ones, immediately transforming strangers into teammates. With unapologetic abandon, together, we get up to all the things. 

    Many of the character sketches target a particular kind of pseudo-intellectual. Science, art, and spirituality are all skewered as the performers bring familiar stereotypes to life. Their characterisations tap into the subconscious images we carry of these people, taking our vague sense of what a scientist, an artist, or a tree-hugger is and rendering it in vivid, vital detail. 

    For instance, sporting goggles, frizzy hair, and an eccentric speech pattern, the scientist character delivers a presentation explaining a series of generic stock images labelled “science”. The sketch never concerns itself with actual scientific ideas. Instead, it draws laughs from the visual and verbal clichés we instinctively associate with the subject. The humour is immediate and visceral, elevated by the duo’s gift for comic performance. Their voice work is particularly strong. A fake advert for a Swiss beauty clinic stands out as another highlight. 

    Art receives similar treatment. One sketch pokes fun at the tendency to justify bad work with grand theories about what it supposedly says about the bad world. Yet the performers never come across as cynical. Even as they mock pretension, they invite the audience to join in, culminating in a naughty art project where we are encouraged to colour, stick, and customise Dooley and Edwards to our hearts’ content. 

    That spirit of collective play is what makes the show special. The bingo cards, mini-challenges, and opportunities to interact with strangers have the feel of dinner-party icebreakers. They encourage us to conspire together, compliment one another, and discuss what on earth it is we’re watching. It is how friendships are made in the real world. 

    There is a real lightness of touch throughout. Every hint of a sincere message arrives wrapped in absurdity. A clear feminist sensibility runs through the show: there’s nothing women should do except what they want. This sentiment emerges with a healthy dose of comic irony in backstage CCTV videos that show Dooley and Edwards changing costumes between sketches. “Joy is a political act,” one tells the other – while half-dressed as a spiritual guru, half-dressed as a mad scientist, and half-naked. For all their delight in exposing pretension, Dooley and Edwards are refreshingly free of it themselves. They understand that comedy can be clever without losing sight of joy, freedom, and connection. The goal is for everyone to enjoy themselves. Everything else is a bonus: the sharp observations, memorable character work, and the free badge. If joy is a political act, Do All The Things is both kinds of party.

    Created by Abigail Dooley and Emma Joy Edwards

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Do All The Things, Soho Theatre

  • Moonkid

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    Clowns are usually brash creatures. They revel in noise, disruption and the grotesque. Usually.

    Lucy Ellis’s Moonkid brings a gentler kind of cartoon to the London Clown Festival. Her parade of characters possesses an unusual serenity: a wandering moon, a nun absorbed in prayer, a gliding would-be poet and a wilderness safety guide sweeping the darkness with his torch. This stillness forms the backdrop against which the clowning takes place.

    The sweet and seemingly pure-hearted Moonkid, who attracts as many ‘awhhs’ as laughs, begins a friendly game of noughts and crosses before gradually becoming petty and sarcastic when they lose. None of Ellis’s characters, however saintly they initially appear, are entirely above a middle finger. The praying nun begins gossiping with God; her mischief eventually descends into violent slapstick. The comedy comes from small corruptions of innocence and mischief in church rather than explosions of chaos.

    Some segments choose to end on moments of contemplation rather than laughter. When the wilderness guide ends a section with a heartfelt reflection on the endlessness of the horizon, it catches the audience off guard at first, but ultimately stands out amid the cheekiness and adds to the show’s enchanting feel.

    The show even feels rooted in older traditions of clowning. Moonkid’s fixed mask looks as though it might have been lifted from the margin of a medieval manuscript, while the recurring religious imagery lends the piece the atmosphere of a medieval Feast of Fools.

    This gentleness shapes the structure as much as the characters. Where many clown shows begin with a burst of energy before settling into reflection, Moonkid proceeds in reverse. The opening scenes, featuring Moonkid and the nun, unfold entirely through mime. When the hunter finally emerges from the darkness and speaks, it feels transgressive, as though he has broken a silence that had become the show’s natural state.

    The poet is like a mad spider, slinky and villainous; her weapon is amateur poetry. Dressed in black, she resembles a cartoon shadow with large, attention-seeking eyes, improvising from audience suggestions: a corner, failure, a potato. She has a full grasp of the character’s internal logic, and her responses, which generate jokes physically and verbally, feel effortless. It’s that comic effect where someone of apparent low status is performed with the authority of a high-status figure. This is reminiscent of the inversion of order common at medieval religious festivals, and is probably the character with the most laugh-out-loud irreverence.

    Ellis’s movement is exceptional. Physical routines are executed flawlessly; meticulous gestures and jumps are a trademark of her style. She has a sharp precision that makes it seem as though an invisible force is working against her. Her hands and feet extend into delicate points, performing ecclesiastical gestures with exacting intricacy.

    Her achievement is in making restraint feel alive and playful rather than static. Moonkid creates a softly subversive world where innocence never quite holds. Stillness is constantly and delicately unsettled, with humour emerging from small breaches of calm — petty jealousy, playful blasphemy, and flashes of mischief in otherwise serene figures. Even its quieter moments feed into this atmosphere, creating a show that feels less like a series of sketches and more like an enchanting ritual.

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Moonkid, Soho Theatre

  • The P Word

    Rating: 5 out of 5.

    The P Word is like a Hollywood movie in theatre. This Olivier Award-winning romance tackles massive real world problems: the asylum system in the UK, LGBT+ persecution abroad, racism within the gay community, and internalised racism, all while pulling us through an absorbing, unlikely love story. It tells that story in the best way: making it moving rather than heavy; gripping, action-fuelled and characterful; dense without ever feeling dry.

    The romance is between Bilal (Waleed Akhtar, who also wrote the play), or Billy as he calls himself, a British-Pakistani man doing everything ‘right’ to fit in as a gay man in London, and Zafar (Esh Alladi), an asylum seeker living in temporary accommodation in Hounslow. Zafar is fighting the authorities for his life as he escapes his father in Pakistan, who has already killed his lover Haroun. Billy, on the other hand, is stuck in an unfulfilling cycle of hookups and empty socialising, until a chance encounter with Zafar at Pride. Despite being drunkenly racially attacked by Billy, Zafar responds with kindness. From there, a friendship develops into romance as Billy intervenes to prevent Zafar being unlawfully deported to Pakistan.

    What Akhtar achieves so effectively is to anchor political and systemic pressures in intimate human consequence. Billy’s problems could seem insignificant compared to Zafar’s, but they have led him to deep self-erasure that prevents him from finding genuine connection. Zafar, meanwhile, is connected to his culture and at ease with himself in a way Billy is not, despite the constant fear he lives under. He gradually disrupts the defensive identity Billy has built around himself – the “fat, brown, gay boy” he still believes he is. Although the press casts Billy as the ‘hero’ of the story, the play resists this framing: each man is the other’s salvational force, and the romance lies in their mutual completion.

    Both performances are excellent, with Alladi particularly compelling – commanding yet understated, bringing a grounded naturalism to Zafar that keeps the stakes immediate. The climactic scene on the plane lands with the force of a Hollywood set-piece, only here it unfolds in real time in front of you. Some audience members were in tears. It is always interesting to hear what people say as they leave the theatre; never before have I heard the phrase “life changing”.

    This is all the more impressive given the simplicity of the staging. Two actors inhabit a central, circular revolving platform that does much of the narrative work. At first, the characters occupy separate halves of the rotating stage, physically divided yet moving in parallel, before the design allows for a literal coming together. As tensions rise, the rotation accelerates, disorientating the characters and intensifying the drama, as though the story itself has tipped into a controlled spin.

    The final moment shifts register entirely as Zafar breaks character and turns to real-world testimony, inviting the audience to contribute. The effect is to turn the theatre inside out. The story does not end on stage, but continues outside it – in solidarity.

    Written by Waleed Akhtar
    Directed by Anthony Simpson-Pike
    Set and costume by Max Johns
    Lighting design by Elliot Griggs
    Sound design by Xana
    Composed by Niraj Chai
    Movement direction by Rachael Nanyonjo
    Dramaturgy by Deirdre O’Halloran
    Produced by Tan France and Dr Ranj Singh

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: The P Word, Bush Theatre

  • Zoe.exe

    Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

    Just a few years ago, a play about an AI-powered robotic girlfriend would have felt like pure science fiction. Now, with people using AI as therapists or even claiming to fall in love with ChatGPT, Zoe.exe feels much closer to social commentary. 

    Jo (Rachel Duncan) has recently broken up with her girlfriend Zoe (Rhiannon Lucy Bird), and her roommate Zack (Izaak Hamilton-New) who works at a tech company decides to recreate Zoe as an AI-powered robot girlfriend. He asks Jo to help make the robot as human as possible by sharing everything she knows about the real Zoe. Jo is understandably furious: Zoe was not a string of data, but someone who knew her so well she could instinctively understand how she felt. When the real Zoe returns, however, she reveals that Jo had treated her like a machine too — programming her to respond perfectly to every emotional need until she eventually cracked and left. The play raises unsettling questions about the emotions and imperfections AI removes, and whether those flaws are exactly what make us human.

    Jo jokingly describes the situation as a “discount Black Mirror.” Although the script lays the groundwork to remove that discount sticker, it never quite gets there. The play explores the breakdown of a friendship, but it does not dare to explore any truly twisted consequences of a computer that can convincingly feel like a person. There are a few things holding it back.

    Zoe.exe is billed as a dark comedy, but with its central debate and relationship arcs, it is essentially a drama. The comic opening makes some of the emotion feel a bit jarring. Jo does not quite seem shocked or even blown away enough by the robotic replica of her girlfriend; she is too busy making sarcastic jokes, playing passive-aggressive games of Guess Who, and complaining about her job. All of this is funny, but it muddies the reality of the world and wastes time getting to the play’s dramatic core.

    There is also just too much going on in terms of plot. So many threads are set in motion that the ending feels shoddy. There is no resolution to the argument between Jo and Zack after he delivers an incel-y speech about how technological developments are there to help lonely men like him find connection in a world where women only want a man with an “eight-pack and a trust fund.” After a fairly thorough exploration of AI, the play seems to tack on another huge contemporary debate at the end without offering any real answer or opinion. It cheapens the discussion of AI by making the play look like an attempt to squeeze as many popular “2026” topics as possible into one show. 

    This is not to say that the script isn’t rich with great dialogue, and conceptually interesting. The acting is also excellent from each cast member. Hamilton-New plays exactly the kind of naive optimist who would become entranced by technological development and dance along with it — literally — without question. Duncan, meanwhile, is skeptical of everything: moody, guarded, but wanting care and attention just as much as Zack does. Then there is Bird, who is uncanny as the AI Zoe. She is like a cross between a Barbie, a character from a Ladybird book, and a Chucky doll. As the real Zoe, however, she becomes a flustered, emotionally sensitive woman. Her ability to embody these two characters is showcased in an impressive scene where she switches between them mid-conversation, the lights flashing blue and red with each change. Having said that, none of the characters are hugely likeable. Zack is a little too wet, Jo a little too mean, and Zoe a little underdeveloped, and this somewhat caps the impact of the emotional payoff.

    Zoe.exe is not as unsettling or emotionally devastating as it could be, but its ideas are timely, its performances strong, and its central questions genuinely thought-provoking. Even when the play overreaches, it is never uninteresting.

    Written by Andrew Atha

    Directed by Jasmine McHayle

    Published with the Reviews Hub

    Peckham Fringe 2026: zoë.exe – Theatre Peckham, London