Review: TORONTO FRINGE FESTIVAL REVIEW ROUNDUP 4 at Toronto Fringe

LOVE, SHAKESPEARE, AND ROPE (Of a Feather)

This unconventional venue show at Birdhaus, an events space known for its shibari (decorative rope bondage) program, explores themes and emotions in Shakespeare’s sonnets via these other ties that bind. The unique combination is thought-provoking, sometimes very powerful, and certainly like nothing else at Fringe this year.

The scenes showcase a range of emotions and styles, from a loving act of trust, to gothic passion, to acrobatics by equals, to degradation and sadism. The most compelling one is the last, a contest of wills between artist and art object, which has both the clearest arc and the only sonnet spoken by the performers rather than in a prerecorded track. Breathing lines of Sonnet 24 back and forth to each other, the performers also gradually shifted the power balance between the creator and creation. When the sonnets are played via recording, it’s easy to let the text wash over you instead of fully considering the connection between it and the performers. Fortunately, if you miss anything, there’s access to a document where you can read the sonnets later. The shibari itself is complex and fascinating to watch in practice, and the venue’s atmospheric design, featuring a sky of floating candles, adds to the experience.

A note that, at the time of viewing, the show’s team had added a surprise 15-20 minute intermission to the show’s already 90-minute run time, causing it to run significantly over the advertised length. This is inappropriate in a festival where rules about precise timing are so clear, and in a show that stresses informed consent.

Promotional image provided by the company

A COMEDY SHOW AT THE END OF THE WORLD (Jon Blair)

The apocalypse is easy. Comedy is hard.

In this whip-smart and deeply silly solo sketch show (with a dash of Anne Washburn’s Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play) by Jon Blair, a Jimmy Fallon-esque TV sketch comedian goes from playing Toilet Trump on the small screen to headlining the barrel that serves as the stage for New Garbagetown on a post-apocalyptic Earth. (We’re told that something Very Bad happened, and left to imagine the details.)

While creating a vivid world of food scarcity, animal mutants, and dictatorial warlords, Blair’s character also muses about the purpose of comedy—and therefore the purpose of himself—in a time where the possibility of winning a can of mystery beans is a bigger draw than his show. He makes the case that comedy helps us process our emotions, lets us determine how we feel about a situation, and often cushions the blow of the frightening and unknown. On the other hand, he skewers the notion of comedy as a powerful force for change, asking whether falling back on satire as activism can actually make things worse.

If this sounds serious, it’s all wrapped in a tightly structured blanket of riotous humour, such as a hilariously meandering song about an angry mob, a sketch that incorporates an interrupting Mutant Alert broadcast with impeccable timing, or a duet with a doll only Blair’s character can hear. His physical comedy is also top-notch, particularly in a scene where he’s beaten up by three invisible goons. Like a sweet caramel wrapped in dark chocolate, the whole thing is  salted with a pinch of soul-searching melancholy that elevates it into something special.

It's strange to achieve catharsis from a show with a “Skeleton of the Week” contest. But that’s comedy for you.

Photo of Jon Blair by Jon Blair

ORBIT (WaxWing Theatre Company)

The best science fiction is always a commentary on the issues of today, cushioned by its future setting. Sarini Kumarasinghe’s ORBIT is a tight, incisive drama about the dehumanization of an increasingly AI-driven corporate world that can only be tempered if we can find the energy to care for each other instead of succumbing to alienation.

Roe (Ivy Miller), an immigrant to a large urban centre that promises excitement but lacks real opportunity, finds herself adrift on the routine commuter space shuttle meant to get her home. She’s equally adrift in the byzantine automated customer service system that uselessly bounces her around, until she finally reaches a human customer service agent (Will King). When an actual pair of eyes takes a look at her situation, they discover things are more dire than she thought—but is she valuable enough as a person to justify the shuttle company’s rescue?

There’s a genuine sense of danger in Roe’s predicament, which propels the play, making it tense and suspenseful. The situation feels barely removed from today’s customer service woes, but Kevan Cress’ creative projections of space routes, the view from the shuttle window, and bot interruptions go a long way to making things feel futuristic. A clever running gag where the characters are mechanically warned about swearing on the call highlights the absurdity of policing language during a life-or-death situation.

Where the show really shines is in the rapport between Miller and King, who remain in separate spaces throughout but forge a meaningful connection anyway. King movingly portrays The Agent’s growing compassion and horror as he begins to run out of options to save Roe and as he learns more about her immigration story, and Miller captures Roe’s anger, panic, and despair as it becomes increasingly clear that corporate intervention is not guaranteed.

A Fringe gem.

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