Rosie Wood

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  • PRESSURE 3

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    PRESSURE 3 brings together emerging theatre makers who are split into four teams, given the same theme, budget, and rehearsal time, and tasked with creating a half-hour play performed over three nights. Audiences vote each night, and a winner is announced at the end. The theme is “time is running out,” producing four pieces: Forwards or Backwards, Cookie Dough, Sad Face, and A Big Tip.

    The format is great fun. The competitive structure and tight constraints add energy, and seeing several plays born from the same prompt creates a strong conceptual hook. Ironically, it takes the pressure off any one piece needing to be perfect; the night becomes an exploration of how stories form—how quickly they take shape and what they need to land.

    Forwards or Backwards centres on an injection that reverses ageing—a decision everyone must make at 40. Joric (Cameron Krough-Stone), a university lecturer approaching the deadline, debates whether to take it. Although there’s a central relationship between Joric and his much younger partner Lirae (Madeline Price), the play unfolds largely through monologues about what ageing means and the hypothetical consequences of reversing it: would a brain tumour return at 32 if you de-age? What happens to couples when only one person takes the injection? It plays more as an intellectual exercise than a drama. Rooted in speculative ideas rather than human conflict, the concept is hard to fully realise in a short play.

    I can’t help noting that from here the plays become increasingly sexual. It’s funny that, under tight creative constraints, so many pieces gravitate toward sexual relationships—you wouldn’t be crazy to assume it’s an unspoken requirement.

    Cookie Dough, the second play, is far more successful at building an engaging world quickly. It follows two co-workers—Bernie (Abby McCann) and Polly (Grace Hudson)—meeting just before Bernie leaves for Glasgow to pursue her dream of starting a food truck. Polly rushes in, drenched and nervous, instantly getting laughs. The subtext is particularly well done: you can feel the world beyond the half-hour, the shared history between the two women. It feels like we’re watching the juicy end of a much longer story, yet still left wondering what might happen next.

    Sad Face, centred on a couple—Jonnie (Arthur Campbell) and Katie (Giorgia Laird)—whose night is disrupted by their friend Archie (Harrison Sharpe). It’s Katie’s first relationship, and she wants it to feel special; they sleep together, but Jonnie has already emotionally checked out and plans to move home and move on. The play doesn’t open with quite the same clarity or personality as Cookie Dough, but once the central betrayal lands, the situation is instantly recognisable, prompting equal parts laughter and outrage at Jonnie. It’s the piece with the clearest moral culprit, using a personal relationship to explore a wider ethical dilemma.

    A Big Tip packs a surprising number of twists into its half hour. Geordie (Will Lockey), still closeted, visits a male escort, Oscar (Jack Donoghue), for his first sexual experience with a man. Too nervous to proceed, he ends up talking instead, revealing that both his stepfather and stepbrother are also gay. Just as he finally feels ready, Oscar admits he’s actually straight, leaving Geordie mildly betrayed. In the end, Geordie asks only for a hug, and they kiss. Despite Oscar’s lack of attraction, the moment feels honest, marking a small but meaningful step in Geordie’s self-acceptance. It’s perhaps the night’s most cohesive piece, a short life-altering interaction with a stranger.

    I can’t call the winner, but I’m curious which play comes out on top. What strikes me is how differently each team positions its story within a broader narrative timeline. Cookie Dough feels like an episode in a longer series; A Big Tip like a self-contained short story; Forwards or Backwards like the opening of a dystopian novel; and Sad Face like the final, bitter moment of a failing relationship. Each group interprets the theme in its own way – from speculative to moral to deeply interpersonal – giving every piece something distinct. It’s a fun night, whether you’re interested in the mechanics of theatre, or simply enjoy watching well-made, emotionally charged stories.

    Written by: Kyle Eaton, Andy Sellers, Catriona Stirling, Oliver Woolf
    Directed by: Apostolos Zografos, Saniya Saraf, Aaron Finnegan, Jessica Whiley
    Produced by: Gregor Roach, Arthur Campbell

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Pressure 3, Playhouse East

  • Josh Jones: I Haven’t Won The Lottery So Here’s Another Tour Show

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    Josh Jones returns with a new show, I Haven’t Won The Lottery So Here’s Another Tour Show, that plays like a round-the-houses tour of his life, told through a series of joke-embellished stories about his family, dyslexia, Dancing On Ice, his relationship, his hometown and “bumming,” among other things.

    The opening is clever: a bit about reading hate comments—not his own, which he says he doesn’t really look at, but those of a comedian he personally can’t stand. It’s a subtle acknowledgement that everyone in the room will have their own opinions about the show, while quietly reassuring us he doesn’t plan to take any of them too seriously, and that he enjoys judging as much as we do. It perfectly matches the slightly unbothered and mischievous attitude that runs through the rest of the hour.

    Once the show gets going, the structure is loose—sometimes too loose—and the transitions between stories can feel abrupt. There are genuinely brilliant sections, but they’re interspersed with weaker moments where the energy dips. Jones mainly cycles through three recurring strands: his Manchester upbringing in what he affectionately calls “a scummy family,” his now-comfortable life with his doctor boyfriend, and the odd opportunities that come with being a successful comedian, including a brief stint on Dancing On Ice, where he twisted his ankle in week one but still got a full cheque. These threads are fun individually, but they could be woven into a clearer overall narrative. Doing so would help sustain the show’s momentum and make the hour feel tighter and more satisfying.

    There’s even a brief detour into the slave trade, which feels as crazy to describe here as it did when he introduced it onstage. The material is fine, but it only highlights that his strongest work lives in the stories about the people around him. Those scenes are vivid, rowdy, and warm; you can practically see the sitcom version already.

    His bit about his mum going to the local travel agent to book a holiday, but instead buying the woman’s dog—meaning she then can’t go on the holiday because she has to look after it—is exactly the kind of chaotic domestic comedy he excels at. Likewise, his grandad insisting he won’t die until he sees Jones marry his boyfriend, followed by Jones imagining the family accusing him of “killing grandad with your gay love!” Jones’s writing is genuinely sharp, full of subtle jokes tucked into the wording—like the idea of “killing” someone with “love”—that elevate the comedy without the audience having to do any extra headwork.

    Another standout is his story about desperately wanting a McKenzie coat, only for everyone around him to tell him it was a “gay coat.” The coat takes on a life of its own, transforming from a coat that looks gay into a coat that makes you gay. Much of Jones’s humour comes from that instinctive, ridiculous shouting-match energy of childhood—life throws something absurd at you, so you throw something equally absurd back.

    Jones tells us that he doesn’t want to create anything too serious or high-concept—he just wants to tell jokes, but he has some seriously good writing and a clear talent for crafting little comic worlds that could easily be linked together. As of now, he knows how to put on a fun night.

    Written by: Josh Jones

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Josh Jones: I Haven’t Won The Lottery So Here’s Another Tour Show – Leicester Square Theatre, London

  • Carl Donnelly: Another Round

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    With his cap on and two earrings firmly in place, Carl Donnelly takes to the stage with Another Round, his latest hour of laid-back, anecdotal comedy. Last year, he tempted fate with a show about feeling good about going into middle age — and life promptly reminded him of its brutality. This time, he unpacks the fallout with his signature casual charm.

    The first section of the show is a flurry of fast-paced, crowd-pleasing material on generational divides, ageing, Instagram vanity, and caveman diets, amongst other things. Its original material delivered in a familiar stylex, and the laughs come thick and fast. Once the audience is nicely warmed up, Donnelly slows the pace and takes us through some longer stories. He shares tales from his travels in India, searching for somewhere to drink, infiltrating a speakeasy in a local man’s house, and managing to bond with the initially suspicious locals over shared admiration for international sports stars — not to mention the joys of his alcoholic advent calendar. In some ways, it’s every man’s dream. 

    The second half takes a more personal turn, delving into his recent illness — a bout of internal bleeding exacerbated by an evening of taming a raucous cruise ship crowd by downing a queue of pints. Even this grim material is handled with wit and charisma, culminating in a surprisingly funny and heartfelt reflection on his daughter’s brush with bacterial meningitis. He admits that he thought about trying to take these subjects on to produce a heavier, more introspective show about processing this trauma, but fears this could lead to disaster if done wrong. He prefers to treat these subjects as he would any other, showing how lightness and humour can be a remedy for anything, from the frustration of having to endure influencers on Instagram to near death experiences.

    The opening section draws in new audience members with broad, accessible observations, but by the end it’s the scatological and the deeply personal that have his core fans roaring. He paints wild, hilarious scenarios, and you believe every word. His go-with-the-flow nature explains how he gets into so much trouble; he’s the sort of man who could probably squeeze in a quick gig after taking his pre-op laxative — if it kicks in on time, that is. No dodgy decision goes unrewarded with a hilarious dose of disaster. 

    Many stand-up shows hinge on one central theme or concept, but Another Round doesn’t seem to need one. Patterns emerge naturally through Donnelly’s stories, and combined with his relaxed confidence on stage, it feels as though you’ve known him all your life by the end. The title captures the spirit of the evening perfectly: Donnelly’s long-time fans feel like old friends, and newcomers are quickly made to feel part of the gang. It’s as if everyone’s gathered for a few pints and a catch-up, and you leave with the sense that another round, and another hour of stories, isn’t far away.

    Written by Carl Donnelly

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Carl Donnelly: Another Round, Leicester Square Theatre

  • Karen

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Karen is a new one-woman show by Sarah Cameron-West that follows in the tradition of Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Miranda Hart: a protagonist, written and performed by Cameron-West herself, conjures an entire world as she attempts to navigate troubled relationships and the social demands of office life. The unnamed protagonist has broken up with by her boyfriend, Joe, at Alton Towers on her 30th birthday, halfway through eating a Calippo. To make matters worse, he leaves her for another woman, Karen — a colleague who also works with the ex-couple.

    Cameron-West’s performance style is distinctive: she never directly addresses the audience, instead speaking to invisible characters who are realised through her monologues. She does a commendable job bringing these characters to life, and despite frequent shifts in perspective, the plot never becomes confusing. Moments when she interacts with audience members by pretending they are other characters are particularly enjoyable. The writing is clever in this regard, allowing the audience to visualise every character clearly. The production also makes excellent use of lighting to heighten the comedy. A red wash, for instance, represents her raging mind when she speaks to Karen, in contrast to what she actually says in normal lighting.

    It is clearly a well-crafted script, and there are jokes throughout, but the piece suffers from a few problems in its central characterisation. Cameron-West’s performance is energetic and expressive, but it remains fixed on a single emotional note: anger. She erupts into furious outbursts almost immediately and rarely steps away from them, leaving little space for the audience to see the woman behind all the shouting and crying. While the show embraces female rage and challenges the idea that women should express their anger in a palatable way, it does so in a manner that feels one-dimensional and ultimately exhausting. She touches on themes such as jealousy, disappointment, and feelings of inadequacy, but never explores them deeply enough to draw meaningful conclusions, leaving the story feeling somewhat thin.

    One of the few reflective moments comes when she considers how her parents’ successful relationship has affected her, suggesting both that she should be able to find love because she knows what it looks like, and that her father has set an impossible standard for the men in her life. Yet this reflection feels misplaced in a story about losing someone she loved rather than struggling to find connection. This all matters because it prevents her from becoming a sympathetic character, which is vital if the audience is to be on her side through her misfortune.

    The ending, in which the protagonist explodes during a meeting with her boss, yet is rewarded with a transfer to the company’s New York office, feels more obscure than optimistic. She faces no real consequences for her erratic behaviour in the meeting and we don’t get the satisfaction of seeing her work through her emotions and come out the other side. A new beginning appears to fall into her lap rather than being something she earns.

    The scaffolding is in place for Karen to be a great show: the relationships, staging, and humour are all there, but the situations and themes would benefit from deeper exploration, and the piece as a whole from greater emotional variation. There is the potential for Karen to offer real catharsis to anyone who has felt wronged and compelled to suppress their emotions, but for that to resonate, the audience needs to feel a stronger connection to the protagonist.

    Written by Sarah Cameron-West
    Directed by Evie Ayres-Townshend
    Produced by Sarah Cameron-West
    Lighting by Oliver McNally
    Sound by Sarah Spencer

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Review: Karen, Underbelly Boulevard

  • Jeremy Nedd: From Rock to Rock

    Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

    Jeremy Nedd’s From Rock to Rock is a meditative and atmospheric piece that interrogates the theft of Black cultural expression through the story of the court case brought by rapper 2 Milly against the video game company behind Fortnite for appropriating his dance move, the Milly Rock. It serves as a poetic resistance against the commodification of Black creativity by corporate forces, which extract without offering credit, compensation, or context.

    The performance opens in near silence, with five dancers—Brandy Butler, Nasheeka Nedsreal, Zen Jefferson, Jeremy Guyton, and Nedd himself—entwined to form a single solid mass, echoing a rock at the front of the stage. Their slow, careful shifting evokes the passage of geologic time: the rock erodes, splits, and reforms. These bodies become tectonic and sculptural, shaped by nature’s invisible forces. When the stone finally fractures into five distinct forms, thunderous claps snap the calm. Suddenly, the Milly Rock appears.

    This move drives the structure of the show. Dancers break into duos, groups, and formations that fracture and reassemble like shifting plates. One performer glides across the stage on a hoverboard wearing an astronaut helmet, like a robotic ghost; another stomps with granite-block shoes. These surreal figures conjure a world suspended between the physical and the virtual.

    In one standout moment, a joyous sequence breaks through the automation. The dancers smile as if they’re enjoying every movement, and we see humanity return to their bodies. Later, Butler’s soulful solo by the rock is a moment of musical and emotional gravity. Her voice is astonishing, rising like heat from cold stone. The finale is a poetic monologue delivered by Jefferson as Butler plays the piano, his message ringing clear: “I gotta be me, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be me for free.”

    The Milly Rock is deceptively simple—arm swipes and rhythmic footwork—but danced in perfect synchrony, the performers resemble avatars, programmed to replicate identical movements on a loop. At one moment, the soundtrack cuts, and the dancers move in silence as though they were never responding to music, but instead to code. Their technical skill is undeniable, but this exactitude introduces a kind of hypnotic monotony. The work unfolds at a tectonic pace: slow and cerebral rather than action-packed or plot-driven. To fully engage, the viewer must surrender to its rhythm.

    The ambience is elevated by carefully curated visual and audio elements. The set evokes an icy mountain landscape, while ethereal soundscapes mimic howling wind and crunching stone. The dancers wear soft tracksuits and move almost silently across the stage, leaping and stepping as though they are weightless, more pixel than person. The lighting—sometimes brighter-than-white, other times awash in soft yellows against a nighttime blue—echoes the contrast between nature and simulation, body and data.

    From Rock to Rock is not always an easy watch, but it is a thoughtful and skilfully executed piece that invites the audience to engage mindfully with the issues it quietly meditates upon.

    Choreographed by Jeremy Nedd

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Jeremy Nedd: From Rock to Rock –  Southbank Centre, London

  • How To Give Up On Your Dreams

    Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

    Walking away from a dream sounds like a nightmare—having to admit defeat to yourself, to everyone who knew about your ambitions, and to let go of something that’s become integral to your identity. In her one-woman show How to Give Up on Your Dreams, Meg Chizek loudly and proudly tells us how she gave up on her dream of becoming a professional dancer.

    From an early age, she dedicated herself completely to dance, and her talent is evident in the show’s many lively numbers. She earned a BPA in dance at university in Oklahoma before moving to New York to make it as a dancer—only to land a small role in an off-Broadway production of Beauty and the Beast as a napkin. However, this show is not a tragedy. After trying stand-up comedy for the first time, Chizek falls in love with the art form and the new voice it gives her. Her dream doesn’t really end; it simply transforms into something new, and the show challenges the idea that life divides neatly into those who succeed and those who fail.

    Chizek is a naturally funny performer who unpacks the toxic culture of her dance school with wit and warmth. Her exuberance almost makes you forget that she’s describing something quite dark. One standout moment is a Venn diagram comparing her dance course to a cult, projected on a PowerPoint behind her. She also cleverly transfers her dance skills into a comedic context—the country-style leg kicks she breaks into while announcing that she went to university in Oklahoma are both impressive and hilarious. In fact, leg kicks seem to be a Meg Chizek speciality.

    Her comedic style feels more relatable than radically innovative, and it’s clear that her material resonates most with a certain demographic—musical theatre–loving women. She gives out stickers to audience members who catch her musical references and encourages us to shout out our own dreams at the start of the show. On review night, the audience is particularly small, which isn’t ideal for a performance that thrives on interaction. It would be great to experience this show in a fuller room that could feed off the fun on stage. Even so, Chizek’s irrepressible energy keeps the performance light and engaging.

    She also switches into different characters, including her ballet teacher—complete with a wig—who dismisses aspiring dancers with brutal ease. These moments add texture and variation to the hour, and it would be good to see more of them woven into the show. A few additional characters could help enrich the storytelling and bring the world of the piece to life more vividly. While the constant cycle of practising and auditioning reflects her real experience, it can start to feel a little repetitive on stage.

    After years under the thumb of the strict dance industry, comedy finally gives Chizek the freedom to express everything she’s felt about chasing that dream. The fact that she successfully transforms her experiences into a great comic hour proves that even when a dream goes unfulfilled, the journey is never wasted—even if giving up feels, for a moment, like failure.

    Written by Meg Chizek

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    How to Give Up on Your Dreams – Greenwich Theatre, London

  • Bloody Mary and the Nine Day Queen

    Rating: 3 out of 5.

    Bloody Mary and the Nine Day Queen tells the tragic story of Lady Jane Grey (Anna Unwin), the 17-year-old cousin of Mary I (Cezarah Bonner). Following the death of the young King Edward VI, the so-called “puppet king,” England is left in need of a monarch. With both Mary and Elizabeth declared illegitimate, Edward’s advisor, the Duke of Northumberland (Constantine Andronikou), advances Jane as queen, conveniently following her marriage to his son, Lord Guilford Dudley (Johnnie Benson). Jane’s short reign, rooted in her devout Protestant faith and reluctant sense of duty, ends in tragedy as Mary raises her forces to reclaim the crown, leading to the executions of Northumberland, Jane, and Guilford.

    The musical succeeds in bringing this turbulent moment in Tudor history to life through a series of sung-through numbers. With little spoken dialogue, the show feels almost operatic at times, filled with belting vocals and soaring high notes. The cast handles the demanding score impressively, and the production reaches genuine emotional heights, particularly through the relationship between Jane and Guilford. What begins with comical hesitancy gradually deepens into something heartfelt, making their final moments together all the more tragic.

    Anna Unwin plays a sweet and serious Jane, a devout Protestant whose deep knowledge of her faith shines through in the number Let’s Make The Best Of This. With her youth and goodness, she never seems to put a foot wrong, instead falling victim to an unfortunate fate that makes her ending all the more poignant. She is largely controlled by the more sinister Northumberland, to whom Constantine Andronikou brings a charismatic edge, making Jane the perfect pawn in his political game. Cezarah Bonner’s Mary provides a fiery contrast; in the number Bloody, she uses her powerful voice to embody her triumph over her helpless cousin. While the characters occasionally feel a little cartoonish, their strong contrasts help to clearly illustrate the key events and power struggles of the play.

    The show deserves credit for its clarity. With so much historical context to convey, stories like this, particularly those that are less frequently told, can easily become convoluted. Here, however, each song effectively explains key events in the timeline. The number The Puppet King neatly establishes the opening situation and clarifies the relationships between characters, especially Northumberland and the young King Edward. That said, the humour doesn’t always land as successfully as the drama. The actual puppet that represents the king, given a squeaky voice by Andronikou, is a clever idea, but it might have worked better in a production that leaned more fully into a tongue-in-cheek tone. Similarly, the comic songs Hitched and Let’s Make The Best Of It offer moments of light relief, but their silly humour feels a bit out of place.

    Bloody Mary and the Nine Day Queen also suffers from some pacing and tonal issues. At just over two hours, the show feels quite long, particularly given its minimal set and small ensemble, and many of the songs begin to blend together in both tone and structure. While a few standout numbers, such as Faithful and The Trial, deliver genuine emotional and dramatic power, others would benefit from greater musical or stylistic variation.

    The second half gains momentum as the earlier groundwork pays off, but the first act occasionally feels weighed down by exposition. This is perhaps inevitable in a historical musical, where much of the opening must establish context and background — hence why more variation in the score would be especially beneficial. This would perhaps make the play more successful as an entertainment piece as well as an educational one.

    Written by Gareth Hides and Anna Unwin
    Directed by Adam Stone
    Musical direction by David Gibson

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Bloody Mary and the Nine Day Queen – Union Theatre, London

  • Michael Rosen: Getting Through It 

    Rating: 5 out of 5.

    Michael Rosen’s Getting Through It is a two-part show formed of two stories: The Death of Eddie and Many Kinds of Love. In the first of these, he takes us through the day his son Eddie died in 1999, the moments that followed, the funeral, life after the funeral, and the ongoing present. The second is an account of his 40 days spent in intensive care when he contracted Covid-19 in the early pandemic, a collage of his own descriptions and ‘diary entries’ by hospital staff covering periods of time he is unable to remember.

    The show is a masterclass in storytelling — written and performed with such precision and care that the audience hangs on every word. You instantly feel as though you are in the hands of a professional: an experienced writer and an experienced griever. Approaching such immense topics, Rosen is at ease — assured, composed, completely in control. He walks onto the vast stage of the Old Vic, sits at a small chair and table placed at its centre, and holds our attention there for the entire duration of the performance. He needs nothing more than his voice and his words.

    In the first story, death seems to happen in a flash. One moment, Eddie is a vibrant young man; the next, we hear the zip of the body bag, and his life is over — or rather, his death happens. Rosen draws a clear distinction that runs through the piece: “Death is biology. Grief is mind.” Together, those two ideas define the experience of loss — the first a medical process, the second a state of being.

    He opens with unflinching, clinical detail: the red stripes beneath his son’s armpit where the skin has started to deteriorate, the thin red liquid that seeps from his mouth. The description is matter-of-fact, almost detached, reflecting the numbness of a parent trying to take in the impossible. From there, the mental process of grief unfolds as something continuous, elusive, and ever-shifting. Watching a woman who also lost her child cry at her daughter’s grave, Rosen realises we only ever witness grief in fragments, not in the long, quiet years that follow.

    For all its darkness, The Death of Edie is not a heavy story. Rosen brings warmth and humour to the stage; there are moments of laughter and joy throughout. He speaks of Eddie as full of life — a great hockey player, funny, kind, surrounded by people who loved him. He emphasises his physical strength and impressive size, resurrecting his son’s energy and making the audience feel joyful and relaxed, perhaps as Eddie once made him feel.

    He connects Eddie to the present wherever possible, recalling that his son once worked in a theatre like this one, ushering audiences just as young staff do tonight. We all passed by that moment on the way in as unremarkable, but now it is charged. The connection between performer, place, and memory becomes palpable — the theatre feels momentarily inhabited by Eddie’s spirit.

    The second story, Many Kinds of Love, shifts focus from loss to survival. It explores and magnifies the moment that seemed to pass so quickly and quietly in The Death of Eddie: the dying. In the ‘liminal space’ of the hospital, Rosen confronts the same biological battle with microbes that claimed his son’s life. Once again, we hear startling medical detail — his blood oxygen levels dropping to a life-threatening 58. Yet when recounting his own illness, Rosen is more animated; this time, he is the fighter. His wit becomes a weapon, humour wielded against the pull of death, bolstered by acts of kindness and dedication from medical staff. The optimism that underpins this story reveals a different kind of getting through it — one rooted in endurance, connection, and gratitude. Rosen recognises that recovery, like loss, is more than physical. It depends on levity, on care, on the steady presence of others who hold you up when your own strength falters.

    Leaving a show about death, one might expect to feel heavy and sorrowful. Instead, you feel something gentler — a kind of clarity. Rosen transforms personal grief and near-death experience into shared reflection on how life and death intersect and co-exist. Getting Through It is not about moving on, but moving with.

    Written by Micheal Rosen

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Michael Rosen: Getting Through It – The Old Vic, London

    Reposted by Micheal Rosen on X

  • Tom Rosenthal: Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I Am

    Rating: 4 out of 5.

    What separates Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I Am from an average stand-up show is everything that has come before it. Tom Rosenthal’s career as a comic actor hangs over the performance. He knows we know him — but not necessarily for his own stand-up. We arrive with preconceptions: we think something of him before the show, during the show, and, most terrifyingly, after the show.

    That sense of caution runs through every moment as Rosenthal tells us about himself — exploring his recent autism diagnosis, his Jewish heritage, his career, his relationship with his famous father, and his status as a so-called “nepo baby.” Threaded through it all is a comparison to Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner, who made two great albums he could never quite follow. Rosenthal approaches all of this with a hyper-awareness of the audience’s gaze, as if every confession and every joke is filtered through the question: what do they think of me now?

    Many of the jokes come from the tension between wanting to be liked and pretending not to care. Every time he makes a sincere point about creating something beautiful regardless of what people think, he immediately undercuts it with a plea for reassurance — that we like him, that we think he’s funny. Rosenthal anticipates everything we might say about him — the post-show chat, the criticisms — and takes that second-guessing to absurd extremes. At one point, he even invents fake audience members who complain about the show upon leaving the theatre. The bit brilliantly captures how mad you can make yourself by trying to imagine what everyone else thinks of you.

    Protecting your reputation is another anxiety Rosenthal shares. He talks about how maybe Alex Turner should have stopped after two great albums rather than risk making anything worse. But you can’t do that. Rosenthal knows it, and the show becomes a kind of acceptance of having to keep putting yourself out there. Despite all his anxiety, there’s something laid-back about the performance. He takes his time to explain his points without worrying about pelting the audience with punchlines — though there are still plenty across the full hour. At one point, he jokes about how exhausting it would be, for us as much as for him, if he were hilarious 100 per cent of the time.

    He has the appearance and performance skill of a well-practised actor, but with his slicked-back hair, white shirt and black trousers — echoing Turner’s look — he presents a cartoonishly over-polished figure: an actor who’s had success and now seems oddly removed from the real world, a world he can no longer return to. In a way, the look itself pre-empts how he thinks we will see him — another way of saying, I know what you’re thinking.

    Rosenthal always manages to make us feel like we’re in on the joke. Despite the fact that most audience members will never experience what he has, he knows we understand the same paradoxes and fears of being seen. He constantly reassures us that he likes us, calling us his “favourite audience” because we laugh at his favourite jokes — a gesture that lets us know we’re seeing him in the way he wants to be seen.

    For all his worry about being judged, he seems finally at ease, figuring it out in real time — and in the process, delivering an hour packed with great jokes.

    Written by: Tom Rosenthal

    Published with The Reviews Hub

    Tom Rosenthal: Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I Am – Soho Theatre, London

  • Magic Alan

    Rating: 2 out of 5.

    Magic Alan is a crazy and unapologetically ridiculous new show by Beth Beaden, following Alan (Gregor Roach), an incompetent magician who crashes a children’s charity gala in the hope of finally getting noticed. In an attempt to charm Elaine (Natasha McAteer), the lady with the clipboard backstage, he performs a trick that accidentally summons a demon. The demon proceeds to possess first Elaine, then a pigeon, and eventually Alan himself. From there, chaos unfolds: demon-possessed Alan seduces a respected magician’s agent, hides from the children to avoid cursing them, and encounters another magician, retired Glen, who just so happens to be his father.

    Three Fiends Productions are known for their big, brash characters, and Magic Alan certainly delivers on that front. The show thrives on absurdity, leaning heavily into slapstick and the kind of deliberately clunky exposition that feels almost like a parody of bad theatre. Some of the funniest moments come from how bizarre the plot becomes, like the sudden reveal that Gerald is Alan’s dad, punctuated by the awkwardly delivered line, “because I’m his dad.”

    While this style of humour creates a spectacle that’s initially hard not to laugh at, it also makes it difficult for Beaden to establish a solid plot or fully rounded characters. The first half of the play is buoyed by the cast’s commitment and manic energy – Alan’s slow, deliberate pizza-chewing introduction sets the tone perfectly. However, as the show progresses, it gradually runs out of steam; the audience becomes increasingly desensitised to the wild antics, and little substance remains beneath the madness.

    Exposition arrives late and oddly, such as the mid-show revelation that the performance is taking place at the Tate. Alan’s apparent surprise at being there makes little sense given that he has somehow actually arrived. A late punchline about the children being left in the Tate car park is funny, but only if you ignore the fact that the Tate doesn’t have a car park. In an improv sketch, such inconsistencies would add to the absurd charm, but in a scripted play they just make the world feel incoherent and confusing.

    It’s hard to know whether we’re meant to take Alan’s situation seriously or laugh at him like we would a cartoon character. We’re invited to empathise, at least partly, with his dream of becoming a great magician, yet his complete lack of awareness – about the event he’s crashed, the venue, and the other magicians – undermines any real connection we might form with him or his supposed ambition to be noticed. The stakes feel so implausible that it’s difficult to care about his predicament, however energetically it’s performed. The joke, of course, is that the whole situation is absurd, but that absurdity can only hold our attention for so long over the course of an hour-long show.

    This anarchic style of humour might work better as a series of shorter sketches, where plot development isn’t required, or it could be paired with a stronger narrative and more developed characters to sustain its chaotic charm for the full hour.

    However, the play has plenty of redeeming qualities. The lighting design is dynamic, particularly during the demon possession sequences, when Elaine’s eyes first flash yellow. Beaden delivers a funny and endearing performance as Julie, the weepy assistant, grounding the madness with a touch of genuine character work. Her writing also reveals a distinctive sense of humour – one that, with a bit more focus, could develop into something properly hilarious.

    Written by Beth Beaden
    Directed by Nicole Austen-Paige
    Produced by Natasha McAteer
    Lighting by Robert Glass

    Published with Everything Theatre

    Review: Magic Alan, Golden Goose Theatre