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Criptonite: Intergalactic Redux Red Rattler Theatre There is a moment, somewhere between the silver-jump suited stagehands gliding across the stage and a pole artist suspended mid-air under a crescent moon, when you stop watching a show and start inhabiting a world. That is what Criptonite does. It builds the Glimmerverse around you, and then it makes you believe in it. Created and performed by an entirely disabled cast, Criptonite is a high-skill circus theatre work that weaves pole, aerial, live vocals and comedy into one continuous, unbroken journey. The design is precise and thoughtful: glitter-drenched but never cheap, spectacular but always purposeful. Those stagehands deserve a special mention: costumed in silver, they move through the action as if they belong to the galaxy itself. One moment drew particular delight: a spaceship conjured from what appeared to be an umbrella - absurd on paper, completely magical in practice, and greeted with the applause it deserved. The use of UV colours and lighting is unabashedly camp and gloriously corny, and the audience loves it for exactly that reason. This is a show that knows when to wink. The cast dream a world where they belong and are celebrated, and they take you with them. That's not performance. That's something more powerful. The strength and grace on display are extraordinary. Andrew Gregory, known onstage as Tattoo Pole Boy, discovered pole in his forties after a lower leg amputation; Charlotte Evans began aerial six months after losing her leg at twenty. These are not backstories held at arm's length for inspiration, they are the argument the show is making, rendered in motion. Tom North, as MC and improviser, is a vital gravitational force. Charismatic and sharp, he holds the room between acts with wit and genuine warmth, improvising material that earns its laughs without breaking the world the show has built. Dean Nash, the live vocalist, brings soul and a knowing mischief that anchors the whole thing emotionally. At the centre of the Glimmerverse is Deb Roach, pole artist, producer, creative director, and an absolute force. Her costumes alone announce someone with a singular vision: spectacular, considered, every detail in service of the world she has built. And what a world it is, because Criptonite is, at its heart, Roach's personal dream rendered on stage with extraordinary drive and discipline. Watch her duet with Charlotte Evans -tender, gorgeous, two artists in complete conversation with each other - and you understand what is at stake in this work. Then watch what happens when the entire ensemble moves together, the choreography knitting every thread into one, and you understand what she has achieved. This is not a performer who happens to also produce and direct. This is an artist who knows exactly what she is making and will not stop until it exists. The Glimmerverse holds up as a complete world. There is a logic to it, a dream-logic, and you go along for the ride because this ensemble has committed fully to the dream: a universe built from the things we loved as children, reimagined as a space where these artists are not outliers but the centre of everything. It is, in the truest sense, powerful stuff. The Red Rattler in Sydenham is the right home for it. The venue has an edgy reputation for a reason. You don't go there for the usual. It is gloriously welcoming, indie to its bones, and long may it reign. A show on the edge belongs at the edge. Review by Kate Gaul

SONDER Old Fitz Theatre |Berlage & Co Let's start where we have to: the set. Slowly moving shards of mirror hang and descend around a lone figure on a reflective circular black floor, catching light, multiplying it, throwing it back in fragments. As a visual language for a show about shattered identity and the terror of being truly seen, it's close to perfect and it announces itself as the show begins. Berlage has designed for this stage before, but this might be his finest room. Technically, it's a wow from go to go. The directing matches it. There's a maturity here that's genuinely exciting. Berlage has learnt, or deepened his understanding of, something more valuable than spectacle: restraint. He knows when to hold his performer still, when to let silence do the heavy lifting. Those pauses land. Not every director acquires that instinct, and here it's doing an enormous amount of work. The material is heartfelt, important, and worthy - do I really need to say more? Romeo is a gay Māori man navigating the intersecting damages of a violent home, cultural dislocation, and a love affair in Berlin that undoes him. Riki Lindsey, who wrote the book and lyrics and performs the whole thing, brings genuine conviction and a voice that can carry the room. Mitchell Sloan's electronic score moves capably between nightclub euphoria and aching hollowness, and the incorporation of Mau Rākau and ancestral chant gives the piece a ritual weight that lifts it above the merely confessional. And yet. The writing sometimes announces itself where it might instead reveal itself. We're told what Romeo feels at roughly the same moment Romeo feels it, which keeps us in the position of sympathetic observer rather than someone truly implicated in his story. The score has the same tendency: driving hard toward intensity without quite burrowing under the skin. You admire it more than you're undone by it. None of which diminishes what Sonder genuinely is: a significant and necessary new piece of Australian music theatre: queer, Indigenous, formally restless, and unapologetically personal. The production surrounding the material is extraordinary. The material itself is still finding its sharpest edges. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Jessie Obialor

"Would you risk breaking bail for a packet of Mi Goreng?" The answer, it turns out, is yes. Obviously yes. And the fact that you understand exactly why, without hesitation, without judgement, tells you everything about what Saplings achieves in its seventy or so minutes on stage. This is theatre made from real stories: workshops and interviews with young people inside the youth justice system, from Marrickville to Moree. Yuwaalaraay playwright Hannah Belanszky has turned those voices into something that is simultaneously a collection of vignettes and a sustained, quietly devastating argument. The justice system, the play suggests, does not so much punish young people as interrupt them -catches them mid-reach for something ordinary and human, and calls that a crime. Director Abbie-lee Lewis, a Kalkadoon artist, proves herself outstanding here. The production has the confidence of something that knows exactly what it is: precise where it needs to be, loose and funny where looseness serves the story, and devastating without a single moment of manipulation. That's a hard balance and she lands it every time. Four performers carry the whole thing, each playing multiple characters across intersecting stories, and the ensemble is remarkable. Maliyan Blair brings charisma and genuine heart - you feel his energy in the room from the moment the play starts. Sam Harmon, with the clarity and technical polish you'd expect of a NIDA graduate, delivers nuance that makes every shift between characters feel earned. Danny Howard is the kind of performer you simply want more of - warm, grounded, impossible not to root for. And newcomer Talijah Blackman-Corowa holds her own with real authority against her more experienced theatre colleagues, and with a promise that this production would be lucky to contain for long. Angela Doherty and Morgan Moroney's co-design is exceptional - spare, intelligent, and alive to the material. Moroney's lighting does real dramatic work without announcing itself, which is exactly what lighting should do and so rarely does. The production arrives at the Sydney Opera House for the first time in seventeen years for ATYP, which feels fitting. This is not youth theatre in the sense of apprentice work or earnest effort. It is simply excellent theatre, made with the kind of creative integrity and political clarity that most mainstage companies would be proud to claim. That Saplings is heading to the Victorian Schools Drama Syllabus and eleven venues across five states is, for once, exactly the right call. Yani wants to go to the Easter Show. Kai wants a sense of home. Shanika wants her mum back. Lachlan wants his noodles. None of these things should be complicated. The play understands that. So, by the end, will you. Don't miss it. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Daniel Boud

Murder Horse – The Musical Bathurst Memorial Entertainment Centre Something is waiting in the wings at BMEC. It has four legs, a body count, and no intention of losing. Sweeney Todd meets Succession. That's the pitch. The Succession reference holds up beautifully: a dying patriarch plays his children off against each other in a battle for inheritance, and the plot structure has that same delicious, dynastic rot. Sweeney Todd, though? Less convincing. Murder Horse is murderous in name and gleefully bloody in spirit, but where Sondheim chills the blood, this show wants to make you howl. And largely it does. The setup is a dark horse of a premise. Feckless rich boy Des, desperate to save the family gaming empire, stumbles upon a bizarre racehorse - one that starts winning him races. Des revels in his fortune, until he discovers the truth: this horse is killing anyone who stands in its way. How the creative team brings the horse to the stage? That would be telling. Let's just say you won't see it coming and neither do the victims. The title alone is genuinely intriguing - gothic animalia, if you will - and when the horse does its work, the show is darkly, deliciously effective: successful in both horror and comedy in the same breath. But Murder Horse is ultimately a grab bag of tones, and it takes real rigour in the writing to keep a show on track when it's pulling in many directions. Because of its length (and it needs shortening) it could be darker, more pointed, more dangerous. Instead it has, at times, a "look-what-we-made-mum" feel. The love in the room is palpable. The discipline is still catching up. This is the second production from the Tim Hansen-Jack Dodds-Gareth Thomson stable, following Schapelle Schapelle. Both Tim Hansen and Jack Dodds performed in Kate Smith’s lauded Fast Cars, echoing a taste for sharp, satirical, regionally rooted musicals that consistently punch above their weight. Here, they've set their sights on Australia's national obsession with gambling, and there's rich territory to mine. One might wish, though, that the show had pressed harder on its own discomfort. Because revelling in the glamour of the racing world while simultaneously skewering it is a tightrope, Murder Horse doesn't always stay on the right side of the fence. A production that truly wanted to bite the hand that feeds might have found a sharper critique of the industry at its centre, not just the corpses it leaves behind. The men behind the writing also perform, which is either brave or optimistic depending on the scene. Tim Hansen is the exception: seasoned, magnetic, with charisma to burn - a thoroughbred in a field of promising two-year-olds. The others are patchier - and if we're talking horses, the pitching is uneven. They could also have taken a knife, appropriately, to some of the overwriting. As a two-act work it does become flabby, and a tighter dramaturgical hand would have it racing home rather than pulling up short. The women, however, are running a different race entirely. Jacqui Bramwell Dodds as Di Denning brings genuine accomplishment. She is a singer and dancer of real quality. Alice Litchfield gives off awesome Jessie Buckley energy across a panoply of ensemble roles, which is no small feat. And Ruby Teys, choreographer and a central Janice Jorgensen, is frankly incredible. Her timing, her comic chops, her devil-may-care aliveness on stage: she's the kind of performer you can't stop watching even when she's not the focus. A dark horse? Not anymore. Annemaree Dalziel's scenic design is functional and gets the job done, but hasn't quite found its central metaphor yet, the literal visual world of the show is still searching for the image that will make it truly run. Becky Russell lights the show with musical theatre aplomb - as well as anyone could in the cavernous BMEC Showroom, a venue that presents its own challenges. Amplified sound in that space is a genuine beast to tame, and on occasion the balance tilted against the lyrics. Words lost mid-gallop, which in a musical is never ideal. A cracking band drives the original score with aplomb, and it was a genuine pleasure to be in that room with such collective competence. Kate Smith (PhD) pulls it all together as director. Musicals are hard. If this is a proof-of-concept production, one can only imagine that future outings will be sharper, leaner, and hungrier for having had the generosity of a Bathurst audience to test themselves against. Regional theatre is vital. Full marks to BMEC for keeping local production alive, kicking and occasionally homicidal. But here's the question the show raises and then sidesteps: in a country where gambling losses per capita are the highest on earth - where the punt is practically a national sacrament (not to mention the entire issue of animal cruelty) - is a campy, affectionate romp really the form this story demands? It gave this reviewer pause. Murder Horse is at its most alive when it's darkest; it's at its most uncertain when it wants to be loved. The good news is that Create NSW are on board, the talent is undeniable, and Bathurst contains creative gold. The challenge now is to go back to the drawing board, take a knife to the indulgences, trust the darkness, and make the next iteration the one that truly draws blood. The horse has bolted. Now somebody needs to ride it. Review by Kate Gaul

Romeo & Julie KXT Gary Owen’s Romeo & Julie arrives at KXT on Broadway with all the qualities that have made Owen one of the great contemporary playwrights. His writing is always underpinned by deep compassion; the characters are richly detailed, the dialogue eminently actable, and the storytelling constantly surprising. This production, directed with clarity and restraint by Claudia Barrie allows the plays humanity to shine. A contemporary reimagining of Shakespeare’s tragedy, relocated to working-class Cardiff, the play is a juicy, muscular work for four actors centring on two teenagers divided not by feuding families but by class, ambition and unequal opportunity. At its centre sit the titular lovers, played by Estelle Davis and Alex Kirwan, both recent WAAPA graduates. Their performances are so individual and finely observed they can genuinely break your heart. There is an openness and emotional precision to both actors that feels rare. Directors: this is your cue – put these artists on your radar! I can’t wait to see what they do next. Barrie, alongside Christopher Stollery and Linda Nicholls-Gidley, rounds out the supporting roles as parents whose decisions propel the narrative toward its conclusion. And it’s quite a journey. The production wisely trusts the language and performances to do the heavy lifting. That makes the design challenge an interesting one. Geita Gotoarin’s set leans effectively into working-class grunge, though it never quite achieves the poetic lift the text invites. The hanging fabric framing the stage from either side of the auditorium creates occasional sightline issues for audience members in the back rows. Emily Brayshaw’s costumes are understated but sharply observed, particularly for the two central characters, where they quietly deepen character and status. The company’s use of Welsh accents - guided by dialect coach Nicholls-Gidley - is a thoughtful layer of craft. While the play could comfortably sit in any number of locations, retaining its Welsh specificity grounds the work culturally and rhythmically in ways that enrich the production. Recommended. Review by Kate Gaul Image by Phil Erbacher

An Illiad Wharf 1 At Sydney Theatre Company’s Wharf 1, David Wenham takes on An Iliad - Lisa Peterson and Denis O’Hare’s one-actor adaptation of The Iliad, directed by Damien Ryan. The work itself has a formidable lineage. Originally created at Seattle Repertory Theatre, An Iliad distils Homer’s vast epic -over 15,000 lines, composed in Homeric Greek in the 8th century BCE -into a solo performance. The source text, sometimes called the “Song of Ilium,” unfolds during the final weeks of the Trojan War, charting the rupture between Achilles and Agamemnon while spiralling outward to encompass the entire mythic architecture of the siege: its origins, its inevitabilities, its aftermath. It is, fundamentally, a poem about the recurrence of violence and how war loops through history, retold and re-lived. The staging of this production leans into a now-familiar aesthetic of the “found” space: the Poet (David Wenham) enters an already worn, emptied world, dragging behind him a modest cart of belongings from which he extracts objects to stand in for the story’s shifting elements (design Charles Davis). It gestures, perhaps, toward Mother Courage and Her Children - that image of survival through accumulation - but here the metaphor never quite coheres. The objects remain resolutely literal, their symbolic charge underdeveloped. What could accumulate into theatrical poetry instead feels illustrative. The conceit never fully transforms the space; it stays grounded, practical, and ultimately limits the work’s capacity to lift into something more mythic or dangerous. This adaptation leans heavily on Robert Fagles’ translation, long celebrated for its clarity and accessibility. But “accessible” isn’t the same as alive. Here, the language sits in an uneasy middle ground: neither fully contemporary nor truly epic. What should surge instead settles. Fagles’ text, in this framing, becomes flattened - intelligible, certainly, but rhythmically inert. The poetry lands as narrative rather than incantation; information rather than invocation. And Wenham, though an actor of considerable intelligence, leans into that mode. The delivery is controlled to the point of uniformity: a measured recitation that rarely breaks open. The great engine of the story: rage, grief, terror, absurdity - demands volatility, but the tonal range feels compressed. There are too few ruptures, too few moments where the performer seems overtaken by the telling. Where the Poet is seized by Achilles’ mania or Andromache’s grief, we get modulation rather than transformation. It remains storytelling, rather than possession. This is the production’s central paradox: a work about the uncontrollable violence of history rendered in a largely controlled, even-tempered register. It’s a choice. The adaptation itself contributes to this. By framing the text as conversational and digressive, it trades the muscular propulsion of epic poetry for a looser, anecdotal rhythm (with a generous sprinkling of local references thrown in). The stakes dissipate. We are told a story about war, rather than something that enacts it in the room. What does cut through is the presence of the musician (Helena Svoboda), whose score threads a necessary unease through the evening - an undercurrent of danger and otherworldliness that the text and performance intermittently lack. Together with sound designer Brady Watkins there is something really muscular brewing here that leans into what cannot be spoken, beginning to match the terror of what is being told. There’s no question the material remains potent. The Iliad, alongside The Odyssey, is one of the foundational works of Western literature - a brutal meditation on honour, mortality, and the cyclical nature of human conflict. Its architecture is vast, its themes, inexhaustible. This production is intelligent and lucid, but too often dramatically even. An Iliad should feel barely containable, like history erupting through the body of the performer. Here, it feels carefully held. Review by Kate Gaul Image Daniel Boud

Erth’s Dinosaurs – From Hatchlings to Giants Sydney Opera House There’s something quietly radical about sitting in a theatre full of children and adults, all leaning forward in shared wonder. In an age of relentless screens and speed, Erth’s Dinosaurs - From Hatchlings to Giants  offers a different proposition: attention, curiosity, and awe. Framed as a live wildlife presentation, the work blends storytelling with science to bring prehistoric life vividly into the room. We encounter creatures both familiar and surprising  from a baby Triceratops to the wide-eyed Leaellynasaura, and the strikingly local Australovenator. The emphasis on Australian dinosaurs is a particular strength, grounding the global myth of “dinosaurs” in a specific and proudly local context. What distinguishes this production is not just the scale of the puppetry, though the larger creatures are undeniably impressive, but its transparency. The stage design is elegantly portable, never competing with the puppets themselves. Instead, it invites the audience into the act of creation: a fold-out illustrated frame, a small digital camera, simple but deft theatrical mechanisms. We see how the illusion is made, and that revelation becomes part of the delight. The dramaturgy is deceptively sophisticated. Big questions are embedded lightly within the action: could a carnivore be raised as a herbivore? Did dinosaurs sing? What happens when one gets sick? These provocations are never laboured; they emerge organically through interaction, humour, and gentle narrative turns. Crucially, the work maintains a deep respect for its young audience. Invitations onto the stage are handled with care and clarity, creating moments of genuine participation without tipping into chaos or condescension. The performers remain warm, precise, and responsive, holding the room with a confidence that allows space for unpredictability. And then there is the emotional arc. We move from lush, playful prehistoric landscapes to the looming shadow of the extinction event - a shift handled with surprising tenderness. The concept is made clear without overwhelming its audience, and importantly, the work gestures toward practical ways of thinking about and responding to loss in our own time. Rather than closing down, it opens out: extinction is not only something that happened, but something we are implicated in. Even here, the production resists spectacle for its own sake, choosing instead to frame loss in a way that is accessible without diminishing its weight. Despite featuring some of the largest creatures to walk the earth, the show is full of small, endearing details: a clumsy toddler T. rex, a gently chaotic crèche of baby dinosaurs. It is this balance, between scale and intimacy, knowledge and play, that gives the work its distinctive power. Created by Erth Visual & Physical Inc., long recognised as leaders in puppetry, this production does more than animate dinosaurs. It animates the space between generations, inviting audiences of all ages to sit together and imagine — slowly, collectively, and with delight. Review by Kate Gaul Image: Daniel Boud

Only Bones The Mill There is nowhere to hide in Only Bones . No set, no text, no narrative - just a body, a light, and a square metre of space. And yet Daniel Nodder builds something vast, strange, and quietly astonishing within it. A performer of formidable control, Nodder  draws on nearly two decades of street dance, clown training at École Philippe Gaulier, and mentorship from Thom Monckton to deliver a work that feels both rigorously crafted and completely unbound. What begins as something almost imperceptible - tiny shifts, a flicker of form - unfolds into a microscopic universe of creatures, textures and transformations. The detail is exquisite. Hands articulate with uncanny precision - fingers becoming antennae, tendrils, soft-bodied organisms. Limbs isolate, distort, disappear. The body folds and reconfigures in ways that feel at once playful, grotesque and deeply controlled. There is slapstick here, certainly -but it’s filtered through a highly refined physical language that elevates the work beyond novelty into something genuinely transporting. Nodder specialises in the in-between: where human becomes creature, where structure dissolves into sensation. The effect is mesmerising. You find yourself leaning in, recalibrating your sense of scale and possibility. This is not theatre that declares itself loudly, it draws you closer, asking you to meet it in its precision. This is singular, deeply crafted solo performance that captivates audiences through sheer physical intelligence. And with a season heading to the Edinburgh Fringe, it feels destined to travel even further. This is Fringe work in its purest form: inventive, intimate, and utterly unlike anything else. Recommended. Review by Kate Gaul

Kathy Maniura: The Cycling Man The Mill   There is something deeply satisfying about watching a character unravel in real time—particularly when that character has spent a small fortune on lycra and still can’t quite outrun himself. Kathy Maniura’s The Cycling Man  arrives in Adelaide trailing the kind of Edinburgh Fringe buzz that can feel overinflated. Here, it’s earned. This is precise, intelligent character comedy, ridiculous on the surface, quietly devastating underneath. We meet a middle-aged, newly single man clinging to identity through gear, stats, and self-mythology. He is, quite simply, a pompous git. And Maniura knows it. The brilliance lies in how finely calibrated the performance is: every gesture, every micro-shift in status, every absurd justification lands with elegant control. This is not chaos comedy,it’s engineered. The drag king lens sharpens everything. Masculinity becomes both costume and cage, and Maniura plays the tension beautifully. There’s a delicious friction between bravado and fragility; between the man he insists he is and the one quietly falling apart in front of us. And crucially, it travels. UK-inflected, yes, but the rhythms, the ego, the delusion of reinvention-through-hobby? Entirely legible to an Australian audience. You recognise this man. You may even have dated him. Are you married to him? What elevates the work beyond parody is its restraint. Maniura resists the urge to push for easy grotesque. Instead, she allows the character’s desperation to leak through the cracks, making the comedy sharper and the undercurrent more affecting. Directed with a light but attentive touch by Cecily Nash, the show maintains a tightrope balance between satire and something more human. It is, above all, very, very funny. Not in a blunt-force way, but in that sustained, accumulating rhythm where laughter builds because the world is so clearly, confidently drawn. A masterclass in character work, and a reminder that the most absurd figures are often the most recognisable. Review by Kate Gaul

Bed Bug The Crawford Room Bed Bug  is what happens when heartbreak mutates. Not a gig. Not theatre. Not quite a rave.Something messier. More intimate. Slightly unhinged. Bed Bug  is a live unravelling: a heartbreaking, experimental electronic-folk concept work that traces the collapse of a decade-long relationship and the grotesque, fascinating metamorphosis that follows. It sits in that deliciously unstable space where performance becomes emotional weather. Created by Jack Brett, with music production by DINNERLADYYY, weaving a live electronic undercurrent that shimmers, fractures and carries the work into something more volatile, Bed Bug  dissects the sticky, destructive patterns of human behaviour. Even in its darkest turns, the work remains alert to the possibility of transformation. The result is a performance that is entirely inhabited. Brett is a charismatic and deeply watchable performer. There is something both alluring and unsettling in the way he holds eye contact with the audience: intimate, exposed, slightly dangerous. He has the voice of a broken angel - tender, bruised, and capable of sudden force. On guitar, keys, loops and tin whistle, he builds a miniature epic from fragments, textures and pulses. The sound world is rich and engulfing, moving from poetic fragility to full-bodied electronic surge. The show’s references make sense: Kafka hovers here, as does the contemporary alt-pop lineage of confessional composition. But Bed Bug never feels derivative. It has its own feverish logic. Brett’s background as a music, performance and visual artist is evident in the work’s total composition, as is the breadth of his collaborative life - from Sleep Walking Animals  to his internationally touring work with storyteller Casey Jay Andrews. This is a maker who understands atmosphere and how to use it to destabilise an audience, then draw them closer. What lingers is not only the sonic sophistication — though there is plenty of that — but the sense of emotional risk. This is tricky to categorise, and all the better for it. Looking around the room, it is clearly reaching the theatrical adventurers - those audiences hungry for work that slips between genres and resists easy packaging. For me, that makes Bed Bug  exactly the kind of work a festival like this should hold close: ambitious, strange, musically arresting, and utterly unafraid of its own intensity. This is an evening of music, performance and images that will last a long time in memory. Review by Kate Gaul

Sexy Ghost Boy Upstairs at Duke of York Hotel Sexy Ghost Boy  begins with instructions. A ritual. A dare. “Begin with a circle. Work your way up, slowly. Bravely. The Macarena happens to completion. Scream.” It is ridiculous. It is precise. It is, in its own way, completely serious. From this opening invocation, the audience is initiated into a world where the absurd and the intimate collide, summoning the titular spirit: from New Zealand, an award-winning, hilariously f***able apparition who exists somewhere between clown, seducer and existential threat. Sexy Ghost Boy is less a character than a force - erratic, disarming and deeply attuned to the strange rituals that govern our bodies. Blending clowning, burlesque and performance art, the show interrogates the micro-neuroses and unspoken rules that shape our understanding of sex. It is not interested in eroticism as such, but rather in the awkward choreography that surrounds it: the hesitations, the over-performed confidence, the internal scripts we rehearse and repeat. Through a series of escalating physical and comedic sequences, Sexy Ghost Boy exposes the fragile mechanics of desire, turning them inside out with gleeful abandon. What makes the work land is its commitment to precision within chaos. The performance may feel anarchic, but it is underpinned by sharp technical control. Each gesture is calibrated, each awkward pause extended just long enough to tip into discomfort before snapping back into laughter. The audience is constantly caught between complicity and resistance, unsure whether to lean in or recoil. There is a particular pleasure in the way the performer manipulates tone. One moment, the space is filled with broad, almost childlike physical comedy; the next, it shifts into something quieter and more unsettling. The burlesque elements play deliberately with expectation, teasing the possibility of seduction before undermining it with absurdity. What emerges is a kind of anti-eroticism -desire rendered strange, clumsy and unmistakably human. There is also something distinctly generous at the core of the performance. For all its provocation and irreverence, Sexy Ghost Boy never feels cruel. Instead, it invites the audience into a shared recognition of vulnerability -the absurd lengths we go to in order to connect, to be seen, to be desired. It is also, refreshingly, difficult to categorise. Looking around the room, it’s clear the show has found its audience: theatrical adventurers of multiple identities, open to risk, absurdity and delight. That, perhaps, is what makes it such an ideal Fringe work. It resists neat definition, instead creating a space where different sensibilities can collide and coexist. There is something quietly heartening in that - an acknowledgement of the breadth of audiences willing to meet work on its own strange terms. Having already built a reputation across New Zealand, where it picked up multiple fringe awards including the Organised Chaos Award (Auckland Fringe) and the Bizarre and Charming Award (Hastings Fringe), the work arrives in Australia with a clear sense of its own identity. It is confident in its strangeness, unapologetic in its tone, and finely tuned to the rhythms of live audience engagement. What lingers after the performance is not a single image or moment, but a sensation: of having been pulled through something unpredictable and oddly revealing. The show does not offer neat conclusions or moral resolutions. Instead, it leaves us with the echo of its central provocation - what if the rituals we cling to around sex and intimacy are themselves the strangest performance of all? Sexy Ghost Boy  is chaotic, disarming and unexpectedly incisive. A work that understands that sometimes the most honest way to approach desire is not through seduction, but through laughter - and the courage to look directly at the absurdity of being human. Review by Kate Gaul

KIN   The Crawford Room Rooted in dancer and musician Erin Fowler’s exploration of her Irish ancestry, KIN  is an intimate and elemental work-in-progress that sits somewhere between music gig, ritual and dance theatre. It is a piece shaped by grief, ancestral dislocation and the uneasy terrain of Australian cultural in-betweenness. In its current form, it already holds a quiet power. At the centre of the work is a yearning to understand inheritance: what has been passed down, what has been lost, and what it might mean to belong on this land as someone shaped by colonial histories. KIN  asks these questions with sincerity and care, resisting easy resolution. Instead, it offers fragments - songs, gestures, stories, invocations - that gather into an evocative meditation on memory, womanhood and cultural absence. Much of the work’s force comes from its music. The three-part harmonies of Erin Fowler, Tess Fowler and Jessica Bigg are solid, haunting and deeply affecting. Their voices seem to hold both personal grief and something more collective: a longing for connection, for lineage, for forms of cultural continuity that feel real rather than inherited through cliché. The work explicitly reaches beyond the familiar shorthand of white Australian identity - “footy, snags and Aussie larrikins” - in search of something more meaningful, more truthful, and more embodied. This search is where KIN  i s at its most compelling. It gives presence to the “White Cultural Void” without becoming abstract or didactic. Instead, the themes are grounded in the body: in women’s voices, women’s rituals, and the subtle ways history lodges itself physically and emotionally. The embodied movement language is evocative and restrained, allowing gesture and presence to do the work rather than over-explaining. There is a sense throughout that the performers are not illustrating an argument but living inside a set of real, unresolved questions. Detailed narration helps thread these ideas together, and the personal storytelling is genuinely engaging. Fowler’s reflections open broader questions about shame, inheritance and habitation: why we are here, how we came to be here, and how we might live more honestly in relation to the land beneath us. These are big questions, and KIN  does not pretend to solve them. Its strength lies instead in its willingness to sit with discomfort, uncertainty and longing. As a work-in-progress, KIN  already possesses a clear tonal world. Its textures are carefully layered, and its shifts between song, speech and movement feel organic. The invitation for audiences to join in moments of shared song is particularly effective, creating brief but potent experiences of collective resonance. These moments open the work outward, transforming it from private reflection into something communal. What is already present is strong: an evocative performance language, a compelling personal frame, and a sincere engagement with difficult cultural and historical material. KIN  is a thoughtful and moving offering, intimate in scale, but expansive in the questions it asks. It leaves a lingering impression, not because it arrives at certainty, but because it invites us into the ache of searching. Keenly felt and genuinely engaging, this is a work worth watching as it continues to grow. Review by Kate Gaul