Rosie Wood

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  • 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

  • HOT DAWWG

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    HOTDAWWG feels like stepping inside a low-budget arcade game that has somehow become sentient. The show turns the repetitive logic of a cooking simulator — something like Papa’s Pizzeria or Hot Doggeria — into live clown theatre, trapping its characters inside a loop of service smiles, panic and absurd labour. It is slight, strange and meticulously controlled.

    At the centre is Ines Aresti, playing a hotdog vendor with the jerky, limited movements of a video game NPC. She sways nervously behind her tray, lifting hot dogs into the air with an over-eager grin and offering them to unsuspecting audience members. The comic premise is almost aggressively simple: how many different ways can someone give away a hot dog? Yet the show commits so fully to this tiny idea that it develops its own bizarre internal logic.

    Aresti is joined by Tom Kinsella as her boss, whose presence introduces a layer of status politics into the game. He stalks around reprimanding and directing her like a cartoon supervisor, creating the sense that the entire performance runs on invisible workplace rules that nobody fully understands. At only around half an hour long, HOTDAWWG never expands much beyond this setup, but its appeal lies less in narrative development than in the precision of the clowning itself. The whole piece rests on rhythm, restraint and control.

    The sound design is crucial to creating the show’s comic-book atmosphere. Ambient stadium noise hums constantly in the background, acting almost like the blank white space of a comic strip: a neutral field against which every tiny gesture becomes exaggerated. Familiar cartoon sounds — horn honks, abrupt musical stings, distorted effects — are chopped up and redeployed to punctuate jokes. One particularly memorable moment arrives when Kinsella appears dressed as an enormous hot dog, whispering “cómeme” (“eat me”). Aresti cautiously takes a bite from one of the sausages on her tray, and he instantly collapses to the floor dead. The joke is stupid, abrupt and perfectly timed.

    The bilingual nature of the show adds another comic tension. Dialogue slips between English, Spanish and indistinct muttering, with Aresti mainly speaking Spanish while Kinsella barks instructions in English. The mismatch in language sharpens the power imbalance between them and gives their exchanges a constant sense of near-miscommunication. Much of the humour comes from watching Aresti desperately trying to follow instructions she may not entirely understand.

    As the low-status clown, Aresti is deeply endearing. Her stretched customer-service smile barely conceals mounting anxiety, and the audience quickly becomes complicit in wanting her to succeed. Our laughter and participation feel like the only things keeping her safe from managerial punishment. Kinsella, meanwhile, avoids becoming genuinely threatening. With his exaggerated growls and finger-wagging, he resembles an overbearing toy conductor more than a real authority figure.

    Still, HOTDAWWG remains closer to a performance piece than a fully developed comedy show. Its ideas arrive as a series of neat little comic sketches rather than escalating into something genuinely chaotic or surreal. Despite the poster’s promise of grotesque madness — a ketchup-smeared face emerging from darkness — the show never becomes especially wild, shocking or psychologically strange. Instead, it maintains the same gentle register throughout. That restraint is both its strength and its limitation.

    Writer and created by Ines Aresti
    Directed by Wambui Hardcastle
    Dramaturg by Tallula White
    Design by Lolly Whitney-Low
    Produced by Ines Aresti, Zarmeeneh Khan

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: HOTDAWWG, Theatre Peckham

  • PalesTEENian

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Joe Haddad is a Palestinian, Catholic stand-up comedian who grew up in South London. There could hardly be a more relevant voice at the Peckham Fringe — an arts festival that values showcasing emerging local talent and cultural diversity. After being cautious about revealing his Palestinian background to those around him for years, here he is on stage at Theatre Peckham with his one-man show, presenting us with his unique perspective through a coming-of-age story which displays his skill as an entertainer.

    This unique perspective is that of someone growing up being from, and having family in, a country where there is war and tragedy. There’s a lot of the fragmented child’s perspective: the ominous feeling of half knowing, but also having the looming feeling of a darker unknown, something beyond your comprehension as a child — why you must repeat what your parents say at the airport word for word, why you can’t put up a string of Palestinian flags.

    There is also a lot of conversation about belonging here. Haddad expresses his love for his home country, his admiration for his “cool” Palestinian cousins, alongside his affection for British identity, represented through his attachment to his Chelsea shirt.

    He is conflicted and unsure about how to present himself to the world. However, through stand-up he finds a mentor in an older Scottish-Arab comedian, who encourages him to embrace his natural exuberance and find a home on the stage. This becomes perhaps the most concrete part of his identity, and the stand-up segments are some of the most successful parts of the show. His massive energy also carries the viewing experience, and he manages to embody a large cast of characters: aunties, uncles, parents, cousins, and students from his South East London school. He dips in and out of these voices with ease, without confusing the narrative.

    Admittedly, there is a great deal of complicated experience for him to unpack, but the plot, although chronological, could be more organised. The themes and ideas are delivered somewhat haphazardly, and a clearer narrative arc guiding the audience would allow these poignant themes to land with greater force. Perhaps because there is so much to cover, it sometimes feels as though he has only scratched the surface of some of the ideas he presents.

    Haddad’s hesitancy to fully reveal himself also comes across through his tendency to rest on clichés; the characterisations, although amusing, lack nuance, which at times makes his story feel more allegorical than personal. Some more specific portraits of the people in his life, in place of explicit explanation of how they function, would make the piece feel more grounded and emotionally immediate.

    Once he has bridged this gap between feelings and how he communicates them, this show could sharpen into a deeply resonant portrait of identity in motion, balancing its comedic vitality with the emotional precision needed to fully land its most powerful truths.

    Writer: Joe Haddad

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: PalesTEENian, Theatre Peckham

  •  ‘Title Goes Here’ An Improv Comedy

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Even as improv shows go, this one is especially casual. 

    It is hosted by show creator Brad Collett in a conversational style, with him and performers Beri Kahane and Richard Delroy veiled behind a pretty non-existent fourth wall. It is essentially just a fun hour of improv games without a theme or thread. There are lots of different formats, which add enough excitement and variation to the ninety minutes to keep things fresh and light. However, with a rotating cast of performers and such a wide variety of games and scenes, the show is as nondescript as the title suggests.

    The first is the best and produces some laugh-out-loud results. It centres around a date situation, featuring a waiter, a ‘weird’ character given a quirk by the audience, and the other half of the date – who steps outside and covers their ears before coming back in to guess the quirk. The audience on review night came up with gems such as becoming aroused when there was an awkward silence, and being terrified by questions. The guessing element really raises the stakes here; it feels like a glorified game of ‘guess the name on the forehead’. The game works so well because the situation of being on a date is clear and grounded.

    They have classic games, like scenes beginning with a location and a relationship, and more unusual ones, like a Dragon’s Den–themed game where one performer brings out an object and sells it to the other two as something it does not first appear to be. I would have invested in the light-up tutu, which becomes a bridal veil, rather than the knee-rest shaped like a head. A game where the trio perform scenes based on a famous film, suggested by the audience, with a twist, again given by the audience, is a little too complicated to produce interesting results. I wouldn’t know where to begin producing a minute-long scene which crosses Barbie with Hamlet either.

    The second half is a little harder to get through. We have the titular game, Title Goes Here, where the audience provide a title for a film and they make it. On the night of the review, they were given ‘Fishing for Friendship’. The team produced a relatively confused narrative with some funny moments, mainly centred around Collett’s character, who appeared dressed like a Sainsbury’s bag in a boxy orange windbreaker and burgundy top, complete with god-like abilities. It was perhaps a misguided choice to focus so much on the ‘fishing’ element, treated very literally with mimes of fishing rods, rather than the ‘friendship’ element; the latter might have given them more direction towards producing a clearer, more engaging narrative less reliant on object-based gags.

    The final game, in which a generic track from different  music genres is played and one improviser comes up with lyrics to a song based on a title from an audience member, is a fun idea, but only if the performers are comfortable with singing. It does seem as though they would rather not be doing it. 

    Other than that, Delroy in particular is very at home onstage; his ability to switch easily into many different accents adds excitement to the games. Collett brings a comical, somewhat camp energy, and Kahane is very funny pretending to be aroused at awkward silences. They make a watchable, lighthearted show with highlights and dips, but with so much variation and so little structure or theme, it ultimately lacks a strong identity. There is nothing terrible here, but not much that stands out either.

  • Daisy Doris May: Big Night Out

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    This show is everything you would imagine of character comedy: one performer, three big cartoonish personas, bumping 

    music, and huge stage presence. But it is also exactly what you would expect from character comedy. A Berghain-born German party fiend, Häns Off; an Aussie wellness guru, The Divine Karen Moonstone; and best man and stag expert Steve Porter are all solid creations, but they tread familiar territory across both amateur and professional live performance circuits. From the outset, it’s clear what kind of night this will be: energetic, club-style entertainment – and it delivers exactly that.

    We’re greeted with club anthems and projected videos of Häns Off twirling around, laying down the “party rules”. It’s mesmerising, and that sense of spectacle carries through the whole show. The performance is incredibly smooth – high-energy yet controlled. What stands out most is Daisy Doris May’s agility and dance ability; the show remains highly watchable thanks to its immaculate execution. She is the life and soul of this big night out – someone who could enliven even the bleakest club. The audience are invited to dance and, notably, they’re very willing.

    The transitions are slick, with strong use of video. With vibrant colours and elastic energy, as Häns Off finally makes it into the club, Aussie wellness guru Karen tumbles out; it’s a neat overlap, and the idea that these characters coexist within the same chaotic nightlife ecosystem works well. In the next transition, set in a shop, Karen gives way to a stylish geezer buying mince, cheese, and “tit sticks” – sadly unavailable, though the cheese makes a callback cameo in Porter’s knowingly ‘cheesy’ best man’s speech. The structure flows as fluidly as Doris May herself.

    She’s also joined by her “party pouch” – her baby bump – which adds another layer to the feat. While most pregnant performers might be taking it easy, she’s hurtling around the Soho Theatre stage at full throttle on a Saturday night. She’s an absolute powerhouse, undeniably made for performance.

    The script, however, feels a little thin in terms of joke density and observational sharpness. While there is nuance – particularly in the way she plays with intonation and phrasing, most notably in Porter’s half-spoken, half-sung remixing of his own words – much of the comedy leans heavily on recognisability. And not just of real people, but of comedy characters we’ve already seen. Häns, for instance, recalls Sacha Baron Cohen’s Brüno, while Porter’s “southwest London but actually from Guildford” DJ feels pulled from a well-worn archetype. The Australian wellness guru is something I have even seen recently on the open mic circuit. There is, of course, space for new takes on established types, but what’s missing is a sharper sense of what makes these versions distinct.

    Despite this, a unique comic tension emerges between the professional command of Doris May herself and a large cast of unsuspecting audience members, plucked from the crowd to play bouncers, grooms, and stag party guests, among others. She handles them with total control, positioning them almost like props – plastic dolls arranged at will to play out her scenes. The contrast between her prowess and their awkwardness is brilliant. There’s a clear link to her online work here too, where she approaches members of the public in character.

    If you go to see this show, you’ll have a great time – it’s slick, high-energy, and confidently performed. It may not be the show you’re still talking about years down the line, but as a piece of well-executed character comedy, it absolutely delivers, even if it’s not quite pushing the form just yet.

    Written and performed by Daisy Doris May 

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Daisy Doris May: Big Night Out, Soho Theatre

  • Pat Rascal: Space Gravy 

    Rating: 5 out of 5.

    Space Gravy is like one massive sketch — the ultimate sketch — with all the bizarre jokes connected by the story’s absurd internal logic, forming a narrative about trying to make YASA (Yorkshire Aeronautics and Space Administration) the first organisation to land on Mars. It’s performed by the trio Pat Rascal: Anisa Khorassani, Matt Blin and Rob Davidson. Are they characters? Are they comedians? Are they clowns? They are all exceptional performers who can definitely make us laugh.

    The show has come to Soho Theatre after an extremely successful Edinburgh Fringe run, where it was the seventh best-reviewed show of the 2025 festival — and watching it tonight, this is no surprise.

    To be perfectly honest, it would be very difficult to accurately describe the entire plot. So much happens so quickly; the story veers off into wild tangents, always on the brink of complete nonsense. After an extended scene with a Greek couple, for instance, we return to our narrator, Yorkie Yorkshire Yorkshireson Humberside-Smith, who shrugs, “yeah, it probably went something like that,” pulling us back into the main storyline. Rather than feeling like empty randomness, however, each scene complements the last, working more like a continuous setup-and-punchline structure that builds something cohesive and constantly evolving.

    The story kicks off with lip-syncing sections about Yorkshire’s performance at the 2012 Olympics — if it were its own country, it would have come 12th overall. It’s arbitrary details, like a fixation on the number twelve, that form the basis of the outlandish gags. From there, the trio are fuelled with astronomic confidence in the English county, treating Yorkshire pride like a form of extreme national patriotism, and they don’t stop until the three of them are crammed into a Yorkshire Tea–branded rocket (a cardboard box), ready to land.

    Each scene is packed with proper clowning: immaculate physical comedy and precise phrasing that keeps it funny enough to earn the absurdity. The physical jokes are almost mathematical in their precision and construction. These are jokes that clearly take a lot of thought and practice to execute, but they land with immediate, visceral impact. Simple moments — Khorassani reappearing to scare Blin and Davidson after a blackout, an unfortunate incident involving a live dog in a bag, or a well-placed Shakira impersonation — are executed with perfect comic timing.

    They also play with devices like narration, asides, and dialogue as tools for joke construction. A standout moment comes when they visit a Spanish space station to spy on its crew, armed with a giant phrasebook that translates exactly what the astronauts are saying. They create many games like these, each ripe for humour.

    The accent work is phenomenal. In keeping with the cartoonish absurdity, the voices aren’t aiming for authenticity or nuance, but instead stretch pacing and sound for comic effect. There are shades of The League of Gentlemen in the character work, slightly grotesque in their hilarity: the Greeks with their cartoonishly large bulges, the devilish American NASA astronaut Elon Husk with his sneaky schemes, and a haggard, bald Jessica Ennis — whose inexplicable coughing up of a feather is an absolutely hilarious touch. Each character is recognisable yet entirely original and exciting.

    It shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. And yet, somehow, it absolutely does. Once the insanity is set in motion, it just keeps building into something funnier and funnier. It’s sharp, punchy madness that you surrender to completely.

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Pat Rascal: Space Gravy – Soho Theatre, London

  • Vittorio Angelone: you can’t Say Nothing any more 

    Rating: 5 out of 5.

    This is one of those shows that you feel glad to have seen. A complete, precisely structured, incessantly funny 70 minutes of stand-up. What seems to begin as any other stand-up show — with funny childhood stories and tales of recent TV appearances — flows into a hyper-dense script that explores what it’s like to be an entertainer today in a climate of hyper-surveillance, cancel culture, and the idea that having an audience means having a “platform” that ought to be used to advocate for causes.

    The hour-long show is a staple of the stand-up genre, but it’s so hard to make the most of. Funny anecdotes and tight one-liners can sustain things for a while, but soon become wearing without a solid structural backbone to carry us through.  Vittorio Angelone has had plenty of clipable viral moments on TikTok and Instagram — he can clearly play the short-form algorithm game remarkably well —but here he’s created a layered masterpiece that builds as it progresses.

    He breaks down the two directions we’re so often pulled towards: either earnestness, virtue signalling, and slightly desperate attempts to appear politically informed and righteous, or provocation for its own sake, kicking against that same impulse. He takes jabs at Ricky Gervais and Nish Kumar equally, joking that different sections of the audience cheer for different sides. What’s impressive is that he manages to be critical of both without ever seeming preachy himself. By this point, he’s already won us over with quick-fire punchlines and a personable, slightly mischievous presence—you really believe that he’s just someone who wants to make us laugh, and, as he sees it, make art.

    His thoughts on these wider themes hinge on his own predicament of being from Northern Ireland, but being born in 1996, two years after the end of the Troubles — though, as he jokes, for those two years he was involved. Many of his cultural references are connected to a tragedy that he can’t quite claim to have experienced, yet can’t fully separate himself from. A recurring bit (of which there are many) centres on the phrase “up the RA!”, which Angelone confesses he often uses simply to mean “woohoo.” There are many instances of people using phrases based on loaded topics so often and so frivolously that they lose their weight. He talks about “free Palestine,” which many performers use today to get whoops and cheers. He manages to walk this ethical tightrope with real skill, raiding it for laughs.

    Angelone owns the stage, making the vast Eventim Apollo feel like his own. He’s relaxed enough to shift from sitting on a large red chair to leaning into the mic stand, to delivering more animated sequences centre stage. There are also some brilliant theatrical touches, including moments where a harsh spotlight snaps on for faux disclaimers—often around mentions of Gerry Adams—neatly sending up both media outrage and the pressure to self-censor.

    He gives a lot of attention to what people think of him, particularly journalists, taking things he’s said out of context. At one point, he calls one out by name, after an audience member twists his words to make him seem homophobic — but he gets his own back by being just as selectively devious with theirs. He always seems one step ahead of potential criticism, aware of his own cleverness and even teasing the audience for possibly resisting it.

    There’s a cheekily catty, competitive streak running through the whole show; at times, he seems like an angry child who just wants to be recognised and to win. It feels familiar, too: that underlying desire for praise and attention in an increasingly complicated world.

    Written & Performed by: Vittorio Angelone

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Vittorio Angelone: you can’t Say Nothing any more – Eventim Apollo, London

  • Phoenix Rising: Bar Staff Takeover Cabaret

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    You couldn’t get more cabaret than a cabaret made up of performers who usually work behind a cabaret bar. Performers working behind bars and trying to break into the arts is a tradition. Singers, drag queens, and actors: The Phoenix Arts Club has an eclectic mix of staff. Having seen other shows here, the bar staff always seem as enthusiastic about what’s on stage as the paying audience; they must be itching to get up there themselves, and tonight we get to see what they’ve got.

    Dan Fishlock hosts the first half with easy charisma, holding the room together with bumper music playing underneath as he swiftly introduces each act. Rather than giving each performer a long set, the show moves quickly, with acts on and off stage after a single number. It keeps the evening varied and engaging.

    First up is Jade, delivering emotional vocals with a country song against a projected video of a moving road — as though we are driving along while she stands on the dashboard. The effect is mesmerising, and the screen is used effectively throughout the night.

    At times, some of the vocals veer slightly off, but the relaxed cabaret style allows for this. Each act brings a new energy, and the rough-around-the-edges quality adds to the fun rather than detracting from it. A particularly funny moment comes when MISSFACE ends her performance by announcing she hopes we enjoy it so much we don’t notice she isn’t wearing heels: chunky shoes that make it look like she’s just come back from a woodland hike.

    Tricia Wey keeps us on our toes, surprising us again and again with something weird and wonderful. She begins with a song accompanied by Fishlock on guitar, before suddenly breaking into a Yorkshire (ish) accent for a comic monologue about splitting the bill after an expensive meal. In the second half, her inner Miss Hannigan comes striding out for Annie’s“Little Girls,” which is a clear highlight — exactly the kind of unexpected camp fun you want from a cabaret night.

    The drag acts span a range of styles. Donafella is beautiful and captivating, leaning into old Hollywood glamour with slow, elegant lip-syncing. During a rendition of Where’s My Husband, she breaks from her perfect poise to cry out, “Where is he?” — the sudden unravelling of that impenetrable glamour is both desperate and brilliant. MISSFACE, who hosts the second half, brings a clubbier energy, performing an original song — I Don’t Know God, He Doesn’t Know Me — against chaotic projected visuals. It is a little clumsy in execution, but fuelled by undeniable charisma. Later comes DELUNA, MISSFACE’s drag daughter. There is a clear family resemblance, but DELUNA adds a burst of youthful, manic energy, throwing herself into aggressive cartwheels and really getting the crowd going.

    As Elisabeth Ellingsen herself puts it, she brings a jazzier tone to the evening, dripping in black sequins. In the second half, she performs The Man That Got Away alongside projected messages she has received from men on Hinge — bizarre and genuinely disconcerting in equal measure. It is a very of-the-moment concept; not particularly original, but undeniably funny. She is also the strongest vocalist of the night; her smooth voice never falters.

    We also hear from event organiser Jeneevah, who performs one number with a pianist and another in front of the now-familiar screen, bringing a welcome moment of sincerity and emotion to the evening.

    Part of the thrill of the arts is never knowing where the next talent will come from — the fantasy that the person shaking your cocktails could be the next Lady Gaga, or just another hopeful. This night leans fully into that idea. Maybe Gaga isn’t among us tonight, but there are plenty of performers here who feel far better suited to the stage than behind the bar.  

    Produced by: Josilyn “Jeneevah” Campbell

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Phoenix Rising: Bar Staff Takeover Cabaret – Phoenix Arts Club, London

  • Measure For Measure & Julius Caesar – Dirty Politics Double Bill

    Rating: 2 out of 5.

    Politics, manipulation and deceit: these are the themes that connect the two plays — the tragedy Julius Caesar and the comedy Measure for Measure — that the Shake-Scene Shakespeare theatre company have paired together in this split bill. The real defining feature of the evening, however, is the company’s cue-scripted performance.

    Cue scripting is a historical performance method in which actors receive scripts containing only their own lines and the cues that precede them. There are no rehearsals beyond a quick run-through of entrances, exits and, in this case, the violent scenes. A Cue Holder (Lizzie Conrad Hughes) sits to the side with a full script, ready to prompt actors if they lose their place; and today they do, frequently.

    The technique attempts to recreate the conditions of Shakespeare’s theatre. In Elizabethan playhouses, there were no directors, and companies might perform a different play every day. Actors would not necessarily know the full text of the play, partly to prevent scripts being sold to rival playhouses and partly to minimise the need for expensive printed copies.

    Hughes opens the evening with a pre-show monologue in iambic pentameter, telling us that “our floor is a casino.” Yet the gamble is not quite the thrilling theatrical risk the metaphor suggests. Instead, it often feels as though we are gambling simply on whether the company will make it to the end of the play. Shake-Scene places this very difficult and technical task in the hands of performers who appear either amateur or unfamiliar with the technique. The dominant feeling is awkwardness, as actors hesitate over their lines and seem to hold their breath in case they interrupt someone else. Rather than encouraging deeper embodiment of character, there appears to be little room for characterisation at all; most of the actors’ energy is directed toward simply getting the lines out.

    The absence of blocking adds to the sense of clunkiness. At times, actors move abruptly or uncertainly, such as during the scene in which Brutus is visited by Caesar’s ghost, where performers circle the stage in a slightly haphazard pattern. In larger group scenes, characters often appear to stand around awkwardly, arranged in ways that feel unnatural.

    The production is openly self-deprecating, frequently acknowledging and even leaning into its rough edges. At the end of the first half of Julius Caesar, Hughes remarks, “And that’s what Shakespeare looks like when you don’t rehearse it,” before clarifying, “So Caesar has just died, if you didn’t get that.” These moments are genuinely funny, but they also reinforce the sense that what we are watching is closer to a workshop demonstration than a fully realised performance.

    The format fares better in the second section with Measure for Measure. Comedy proves more forgiving of hesitation and mistakes: one line mishap becomes an accidental Freudian slip from the otherwise earnest Isabella (Halli Pattinson), which only adds to the chaos. The rhythms of comic dialogue also seem easier for actors to navigate, and the inevitable stumbles can be folded into the comic timing.

    Still, there is something genuinely appealing about the spirit of the company. Shake-Scene Shakespeare runs workshops and training sessions for actors who want to get into Shakespeare, and the atmosphere on stage suggests an inclusive and supportive community. As an educational exercise or participatory exploration of historical theatre practice, the project has clear value. Whether it translates into a satisfying experience for a paying audience, however, is another matter.

    Written by William Shakespeare
    Produced by Shake-Scene Shakespeare

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Measure For Measure & Julius Caesar – Dirty Politics Double Bill, Golden Goose Theatre