Posts Tagged Edinburgh Fringe

PUTTANA – Q&A with Mirko Corradini

PUTTANA was one of the most talked‑about international productions at this year’s Fringe: intimate, unsettling, and formally daring. It confronts prejudice, judgement, sex work, and the quiet violence of how society enters other people’s lives. Ahead of its wider international run, Counter Culture presents this in‑depth conversation with director Mirko Corradini, exploring the dramaturgy, ethics, sound design and collaborative process behind the production.

What first compelled you to create PUTTANA, a piece that confronts sex work, judgement, violence, and shared responsibility?

“PUTTANA began above all with a question about prejudice.”

He describes reading an article about a porn performer refused housing because of her job, and the question that stayed with him: why do we feel entitled to judge someone whose choices do not harm us? “I was not interested in saying that prostitution is right or wrong. I wanted to stop one step earlier.”

The show uses fragmentation rather than linear storytelling. What dramaturgical purpose does that structure serve?

“Our thoughts are never completely linear… In PUTTANA, different people speak… sometimes they seem to be in dialogue but are not really listening.”

Corradini explains that the structure mirrors the spectator’s slowly forming judgement rather than a traditional plot.

How did you approach directing a one‑woman performance that requires the actor to embody multiple characters around Laura?

“The main rule was to create together.” He recounts a rehearsal mistake that became a breakthrough, revealing how characters emerged collaboratively through experimentation

Why binaural audio and headphones?

“I realised that the real strength of the piece was that proximity… The headphones were the answer.”

The immersive sound design recreates intimacy even in larger spaces.

How do sound, proximity and moral tension interact?

“Sound does not accompany the performance. It is part of the direction.” Much of the audio is “dirty, unsettling sound” that becomes music.

Why was Beatrice Elena Festi chosen as your collaborator?

“I felt an artistic connection… elegance and precision in the transitions.”

Her subtle physical shifts made her ideal for a piece where technology completes the transformation.

How much emerged from her interpretation?

“A generous actor can create a new possibility simply through a mistake, a breath, a posture.”

How can theatre explore judgement and violence ethically?

“I can bring someone into a very intense situation as long as I continue to respect them.” He avoids literal nudity or violence to keep focus on meaning, not shock.

How did you see your responsibilities when dealing with emotional risk?

“Artistic availability must never become coercion.”

What did you hope Fringe audiences would confront?

“I wanted the spectator to ask themselves: Do I judge? Do I have prejudices?”

What surprised you in Edinburgh?

“Can this show speak to… someone from a culture completely different from ours? Edinburgh gave me an answer. Yes.”

What was the impact of the SoHo Playhouse Encore Series selection

“The New York selection gave me the confidence that PUTTANA could find an international audience precisely without giving up its willingness to take risks.”

How does PUTTANA relate to your wider work?

“I am interested in investigating what we do not say… the shadows we carry inside ourselves.”

What did this production teach you?

“That I enjoy myself more when I experiment.”

Where next?

“I can fall in love with a piece for a single actress… but also with a much larger project.”

What should spectators carry with them?

“Do I judge? Do I have prejudices? Will I look at someone differently tomorrow?”

Read our review of Puttana here
Read our interview with Beatrice Elena Festi here

 

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Edinburgh Fringe Review: The Pitch Finds Humanity and Humour in Belfast’s Divides

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★★★★★ Set in East Belfast, The Pitch centres on three teenagers whose lives intersect on a contested local football field. Robbie, a soccer‑mad loyalist kid, has spent his whole life practising on the same patch of grass. His sister Melissa is curious, open‑minded, and still figuring out where she fits. Deren, a GAA player raised in the same streets, has never had a home pitch of his own. When plans emerge to convert Robbie’s football field into a Gaelic pitch, the trio collide over sport, culture, identity, and the shifting political landscape around them — all against the backdrop of a looming United Ireland referendum.

Northern Irish theatre has always excelled at interrogating identity through the everyday, but The Pitch arrives at the Edinburgh Fringe with a particular urgency. As one of only five productions selected nationwide for the Pleasance Edinburgh National Partnerships programme, it stands as a flagship example of regional work that speaks directly to the realities of young people in a changing Belfast. This is not a play about “the past”; it is about the present — and the future that is rapidly approaching.

Philip Catherwood’s writing is sharp, funny, and politically literate without ever becoming didactic. The central dispute — whether the pitch should remain a soccer field or become a GAA ground — is not a contrivance. It is a precise metaphor for the cultural shifts happening in East Belfast today. The expansion of Gaelic games into traditionally Protestant areas has become a genuine flashpoint, and the play captures that tension with clarity and nuance.

Robbie’s fear of cultural displacement is rooted in lived experience. He is not a caricature of unionist defensiveness; he is a teenager terrified of losing the one place that feels like his. Deren’s frustration at being treated as an outsider in the community he grew up in is equally grounded. Melissa, caught between the two, embodies the emerging generation — less doctrinaire, more fluid, but still shaped by the legacies around her. The play avoids the tired “two tribes” framing and instead shows how identity is negotiated in mixed communities where lines blur and loyalties shift.

The humour is quintessentially Northern Irish: dry, sharp, and often deployed at moments of tension. Jokes about Tayto crisp packets, Irish street signs, and the semantics of “soccer” are not throwaway gags; they are cultural markers, reminders of how the smallest details become battlegrounds in contested spaces. The comedy never undermines the seriousness of the themes — it humanises them.

The emotional arc is clean and convincing. The characters begin in conflict, move through misunderstanding, and arrive at a fragile but genuine recognition of each other’s fears. The subplot involving Deren’s feelings for Robbie could easily have felt tacked on, but instead it deepens the stakes. It shows how personal vulnerability sits alongside political anxiety, and how the two often inform each other.

The production craft is strong across the board. Director Thea Mayeux keeps the 70‑minute running time tight, with pacing that mirrors the shifting emotional terrain. The staging makes clever use of the pitch as both literal and symbolic space — a place where lines are drawn, erased, and redrawn. Danae Crawford’s technical design supports the transitions without overwhelming them, and Rebekah Fitch’s sound work adds texture, particularly in moments where humour gives way to tension. The ensemble chemistry is exceptional; the three actors feel like real teenagers negotiating real stakes.

James Grimm’s Robbie is all brittle loyalty and jittery defensiveness. Jake Douglas brings warmth and quiet resilience to Deren, grounding the character’s frustrations in something deeply human. Dión Di Maio’s Melissa is a standout — perceptive, funny, and entirely believable as someone navigating mixed loyalties with more maturity than the boys around her. Their dynamic is lived‑in, messy, and convincing.

What ultimately makes The Pitch so effective is its understanding that constitutional debates are not abstract. They filter down into friendships, families, and the small patches of grass where young people define themselves. The play recognises that fear is not irrational when it has precedent, and that hope is not naïve when it is grounded in shared humanity. It offers a vision of common ground that feels earned rather than sentimental.

A witty, moving, and politically intelligent piece of theatre — one of the most thoughtful Northern Irish productions at this year’s Fringe, and a deserved flagship for the Pleasance National Partnerships.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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1518: The Dancing Plague — Satire, Chaos and Queer Heart at the Fringe

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★★★★★There’s something deliciously Fringe about a show that invites you to “shake your a** and dance ’til you (hopefully don’t!) die,” and 1518: The Dancing Plague leans into that promise with full satirical commitment. Based on the very real medieval mass hysteria that had Strasbourg’s citizens dancing themselves into oblivion, Hannah Ponturo’s comedy arrives at theSpaceUK fresh from Los Angeles—armed with a sold‑out reading, a Daredevil Festival pedigree, and the kind of chaotic energy that thrives in late‑night Edinburgh.

At its heart is a queer romance between Katherine and Anna, two peasants whose long‑fractured relationship reignites just as the city collapses around them. It’s a smart dramatic anchor: while clergy and civic authorities scramble to contain the outbreak, the play keeps circling back to the human impulse to connect even when the world is wobbling off its axis. The production promised “uncanny parallels” to our own recent crises, and the show doesn’t shy away from them—Covid echoes, political absurdity, and the familiar spectacle of institutions panicking while ordinary people try to make sense of the mess.

We loved the drag devil/angel narrator

Ponturo’s writing has that LA‑meets‑NYC flavour: punchy, self‑aware, and unafraid of silliness as a delivery system for something sharper. The production, created with Open Variations Theater, fits neatly into their mission of reimagining lesser‑known stories with contemporary bite. You can feel the interdisciplinary New York influence in the way the piece layers satire, history, and outright party vibes into a single 50‑minute burst.

And yes, it is a dance party. The show wants you complicit in the hysteria—laughing at it, recognising it, maybe even feeling the tug of it. The absurdity of people dancing themselves to death becomes a mirror held up to the way we cope with uncertainty now: distraction as survival, movement as denial, rhythm as rebellion.

It’s messy, cheeky, knowingly ridiculous, and unexpectedly tender. Exactly the sort of Fringe show that sneaks up on you: you arrive for the chaos, and leave thinking about the systems that shape how we behave when everything goes sideways.

If you’re looking for a satire with historical weirdness, queer heart, and a healthy disrespect for authority, 1518: The Dancing Plague earns its place on your August shortlist.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Body Parts: A Simple, Human Story of Repairing What’s Broken

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★★★★★  Body Parts is a small, honest, and quietly powerful Fringe show about a family trying to rebuild itself after a loss. A mother travels to rural Scotland, alongside one daughter, to visit another daughter who has bought a rundown house with her inheritance. The house is falling apart, and so are the relationships inside it. That’s the heart of the piece: people trying to fix things when they’re not sure how.

The story centres on four characters who are all dealing with their own turning points. Carmel is determined to make a fresh start, even if the house she’s chosen is barely standing. Margot tries to support her, though she sees the cracks clearly. Russell, Carmel’s on‑off boyfriend, is stuck between wanting to help and not knowing where he fits. And May, the mother, watches all of this with a mixture of worry, affection, and a growing sense of her own needs.

One of the strongest parts of the show is how it handles self‑acceptance. There’s a moment where May asks to be photographed so she can draw herself honestly. It’s simple, but it says a lot about how she’s trying to see herself again after years of putting everyone else first. Her relationship with her daughters also has real depth, especially with Margot, who has converted to Islam. It’s treated with respect and adds an additional, natural cultural layer to the family dynamic.

The show also uses physical theatre in a way that feels grounded rather than gimmicky. A scene where the women crawl across the floor stands out — it’s a clear picture of how stuck they all are, and how hard they’re trying to move forward.

The writing feels real. You can tell it’s been shaped by personal experience. The conversations sound like things families actually say when they’re tired, frustrated, or trying their best. The show asks a good question: what do you need when you’ve run out of wanting? It doesn’t force an answer, but it gives you plenty to think about.

There’s also some clever use of technology — facial‑mapping, sound, and projection — but it never takes over. It supports the story rather than showing off. That’s rare at the Fringe, and it’s done well here.

The cast work strongly as an ensemble. They play the tensions and the small moments of connection with a natural ease. Nothing feels exaggerated or over‑acted.

Body Parts is a thoughtful, well‑performed piece about ageing, faith, self‑worth, and the messy ways families try to support each other. It’s simple, human, and quietly moving. And it leaves you wanting to see what this writer does next.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Three Kingdoms, Three Languages, One Captivating Musical Homage

★★★★ The Sanctuary at the New Town Church is one of those rooms that seems to breathe with you the moment you step inside. Circular, warm, and architecturally striking, it’s the kind of space that flatters a mezzo-soprano before she’s even sung a note. As the audience settled, the room’s natural resonance promised an evening shaped by history, language, and the long shadow of Mary Stuart.

This concert, led by Norwegian mezzo-soprano Marianne Beate Kielland with Ben‑San Lau at the piano, set out to honour not one anniversary but two: the 440th year since Mary Queen of Scots became Queen of Three Kingdoms, and the 400th anniversary of composer John Dowland. It’s an ambitious pairing—royal tragedy and Renaissance melancholy—and the programme moved between France, Scotland and England, with Marianne singing in all three languages.

Kielland is no stranger to major stages. Her career spans Europe, America and Japan, and she has appeared in operas from Moscow to Paris to Versailles. That experience shows. Her voice carries a calm authority, the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself. She moves through French repertoire with ease, letting the phrasing unfurl gently, and when she shifts into Scots or English, the tone darkens slightly, as though she’s adjusting the emotional temperature of the room.

The evening unfolded like a platter of songs—carefully chosen, beautifully delivered—but at times a little opaque. Most pieces were sung in French, and while the leaflet provided a set list, it offered no guidance beyond titles. Without spoken introductions, it became difficult to track where we were in the journey. A few words from Marianne—about her connection to the material, her love of mezzo repertoire, or even a brief nod to Mary Stuart’s turbulent life—would have added welcome texture. Her singing was expressive, but the silence between songs created a distance that didn’t need to be there.

Still, when the music was allowed to speak, it did so with clarity. Lau’s piano playing was sensitive and unobtrusive, shaping the atmosphere without ever overshadowing the voice. Together they created moments of real stillness, the kind that make an audience lean forward rather than sit back.

This concert was, in many ways, a tribute to lineage—musical, historical, and linguistic. It honoured Mary Queen of Scots not through storytelling but through sound, through the languages she lived in and the cultures she moved between. A little more communication from the stage would have deepened the experience, but the artistry itself was undeniable.

Reviewed by Jacqueline Sharp

 

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Musical Soulmates Captures the Pain and Beauty of Billie Holiday & Lester Young

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Some Fringe shows just entertain, and then there are shows that educate while they entertain, pulling you into a world you thought you already understood.  Musical Soulmates: Songs of Billie Holiday and Lester Young sits firmly in the latter category. It’s not simply a tribute to Billie Holiday and Lester Young; it’s a guided excavation of their lives, their music, and the brutal social machinery that shaped both. 

Christine Adams anchors the evening with soul‑stirring vocals—rich, grainy, emotionally alert. She wisely avoids imitation. There’s no attempt to mimic Holiday’s timbre or phrasing; instead, she leans into tonal homage, letting the ache behind the songs rise naturally. Adams understands Holiday’s sly humour, her armour of wit, her habit of letting pain sit quietly in the corner until it couldn’t be ignored. Songs like God Bless the Child aren’t just performed—they’re contextualised, illuminated, allowed to breathe.

One of the pleasures of the evening was the mix of familiar and unfamiliar material. There were plenty of songs I hadn’t heard before but liked immediately — including A Sailboat in the Moonlight, a gently romantic 1937 number Holiday made her own. It drifts along on the fantasy of two people escaping their troubles by imagining themselves gliding across moonlit water, a kind of soft-focus daydream set to music. And then there were the more familiar pieces, like These Foolish Things, which landed with a different kind of emotional weight. My mother played a lot of jazz when I was growing up, so those melodies carried me straight back to childhood — an unexpected trip down memory lane that added another layer to an already rich show.

Dick Lee’s saxophone and clarinet provide the show’s emotional counterweight. Ebullient, warm, and conversational, his playing feels like a dialogue with Adams rather than accompaniment. Holiday and Young’s musical compatibility famously verged on telepathy; Lee and Adams recreate that sense of intuitive exchange. Lee’s lines curl around Adams’ phrasing, sometimes shadowing it, sometimes nudging it forward, sometimes breaking away entirely to offer a commentary of their own. It’s a partnership built on trust, and it shows.

Phil Adams on guitar and Jerry Forde on bass complete the quartet with understated finesse. Adams’ guitar work is clean and spacious, never crowding the vocals, while Forde’s bass provides the steady heartbeat the show depends on. Together, they create arrangements that are respectful without being museum pieces—alive, responsive, and shaped by the room.

The narration threads through the performance with conversational ease. One moment, we’re hearing about Holiday and Young’s early camaraderie—his nickname  for her “Lady Day,” her “Pres” for him —and the next, we’re plunged into the silence of their three‑year estrangement. The show doesn’t sensationalise the rupture. Instead, it treats it as part of the larger tapestry of two artists navigating fame, addiction, racism, and the relentless grind of touring in segregated America.

And that’s where the Jim Crow material lands with force. The narrator doesn’t lecture; they illuminate. Jim Crow wasn’t an abstract policy—it was a daily logistical nightmare for Black musicians. Holiday and Young were barred from hotels, forced into back entrances, denied basic dignity. When Adams sings after these explanations, the songs carry a different weight. You feel the context pressing in.

The legal troubles are handled with similar nuance. Holiday’s arrests—mainly tied to drugs, always weaponised against her—are framed not as moral failings but as symptoms of trauma and exploitation. Young’s imprisonment, via military court‑martial for marijuana and alcohol possession, becomes another example of how Black artists were punished more harshly than their white counterparts. 

Structurally, the production moves with confident rhythm. Short stretches of storytelling give way to bursts of song. A quiet anecdote is followed by a musical punch. Paragraphs of history dissolve into a single held note. 

By the end, what stays with you  isn’t just the music, or the biography, or the historical detail. It’s the sense of two artists—Holiday and Young—trying to carve out space for themselves in a world determined to shrink them. The show honours that struggle without romanticising it.  It’s a reminder that the past isn’t past. It’s still singing.

Musical Soulmates is a production that deserves to be seen—not because it’s nostalgic, but because it’s honest. It celebrates two friends whose musical and spiritual compatibility bordered on the miraculous, and it does so with intelligence, warmth, and emotional clarity. Adams, Lee, Adams, and Forde deliver a show that feels both intimate and expansive, rooted in history yet alive in the present.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Madonna’s Many Layers Shine in a Layered, High‑Energy Fringe Triumph

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★★★★★ A decade on from their first Fringe triumph, Night Owl Shows unveil Material Girl: Madonna The Icon — a world‑premiere production tracing Madonna’s evolution from breakout star to boundary‑pushing legend, led by “Voice of the Fringe 2025” winner Maia Elsey and the award‑winning Night Owl band.

The show opens with a burst of high‑energy dance music — the Madonna most people think of first — but it quickly becomes clear that the creative team are interested in more than sequins and nostalgia. One of the most striking moments comes early on, when a quote appears on the screen behind the performers: Madonna rejecting the idea that she “reinvents” herself, insisting instead that she simply reveals different layers of who she already is. It’s a line that lands harder than you expect. It reframes not only her career, but the whole idea of artistic evolution. We often say Bowie reinvented himself, but perhaps he too was peeling back layers rather than constructing personas. That thought stayed with me throughout the show.

A performance rooted in interpretation, not imitation.

What impressed me most was the attention given to Madonna’s early life — her childhood, her dance training, the discipline that shaped her long before the fame arrived. I knew some of it, but not all, and the show makes a point of grounding her later flamboyance in those formative years. It’s a smart choice: it gives the spectacle a spine.

The musical selections are mostly the high‑octane numbers you’d expect, delivered with real verve by Maia Elsey — a strong singer, a confident dancer, and an all‑rounder who knows how to work a room. But the show’s emotional peaks come from the quieter moments. Frozen from the Ray of Light album is handled with care, and the shift in tone is welcome. And then there’s Don’t Cry for Me Argentina. As someone who’s long been fascinated by Evita — both the musical and the political history behind Eva Perón — I found this section genuinely affecting. I remember wondering, back when the film came out, whether Madonna could carry the role. She did, and the show acknowledges that turning point with the weight it deserves.

One omission surprised me: Desperately Seeking Susan (1985). For many people, myself included, that film was the moment Madonna first registered as a cultural force outside of music. Desperately Seeking Susan wasn’t just a quirky mid‑80s caper; it was the moment Madonna’s off‑stage persona crystallised into something mythic. The film caught her at the exact point where fashion, attitude, and pop culture collided, and leaving it out slightly blunts the story of how she became a generational touchstone. That absence aside, the production’s musical backbone deserves its own moment in the spotlight.The musicians deserve their own praise. One of the guitarists delivers variations on Madonna themes that are genuinely inventive — miniature interpretations in their own right. The audience responded to him with the same enthusiasm they gave the main performer, Maia Elsey, which tells you everything.

Elsey drives the show with crisp energy and control.

And speaking of the audience: this was one of those Fringe shows where people don’t wait for permission. They were up dancing, clapping, singing along. The atmosphere was warm, communal, and frankly joyous. It’s a feel‑good show in the best sense — not shallow, not saccharine, but celebratory.

Material Girl – The Madonna Story succeeds because it recognises that Madonna’s career isn’t just a string of hits; it’s a story of layers. The show captures those layers — the dancer, the provocateur, the actress, the spiritual seeker, the pop architect — and does so with energy, affection, and a surprising amount of insight for a one‑hour production.
A vibrant, generous interpretation of Madonna’s life and music. And a reminder of just how many lives Madonna has lived without ever ceasing to be herself.
Reviewed by Pat Harrington
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A Fringe Hit You Can’t Refuse: This Little Thing of Ours Brings Big Energy to theSpace

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★★★★★ This Little Thing of Ours throws us straight into a mafia family on the brink of change. Frankie Coglione comes from a long line of mobsters cursed with terrible luck, but he’s determined to be the one who finally turns things around. Backed by his iron‑willed Nonna, he seems ready to take the top spot — until an unexpected death creates a power vacuum. Suddenly Frankie is forced into a musical turf war with Tony, a silk‑suited street boss with killer instincts. In this world, you don’t just whack someone — you give them a closing number. It’s mafia melodrama with musical theatre swagger.

I had a great time with This Little Thing of Ours. It’s exactly the sort of late‑night Fringe musical that thrives on energy, ensemble chemistry, and a willingness to lean fully into its own ridiculousness. The show promises gangster glamour, fast-paced comedy, and a live soundtrack, and that’s very much what the company delivers: loud, playful, and driven by performers who clearly enjoy being in this heightened criminal world.

It’s an ensemble‑driven piece  — Dorian Todd (Frankie), Kevin Parr (Tony), Meredith Rey (Nonna), James O’Neill (Don Lorenzo), Fraser Wood (Uncle Chicky), Arland O’Hara (Irish Mickey), Megan Wright (Butch), and Joan Smith (Giuda) all contribute to the entertainment, adding value. And you genuinely feel all of them working together. It’s one of those shows where the group dynamic is the engine; nobody is trying to outshine anyone else, and that makes the comedy, music and drama land better.

Having said that, I have my favourites! I particularly enjoyed Joan Smith’s performance as Giuda, the crew’s hitman. She has a sharp, expressive physicality that makes her both funny and genuinely intimidating. She’s one of those performers who can shift the tone of a scene just by how she stands or moves, and it gives the show a nice edge. Her dancing fits the character perfectly — controlled chaos, a bit dangerous, a bit silly, and always entertaining.

Kevin Parr’s Tony is another standout. Tony is a silk‑suited street boss with killer instincts,  and Parr leans into that contrast with real confidence. He’s powerful, charismatic, and very well acted — the sort of performer who knows exactly how to play the heightened theatricality of a mafia musical without tipping into cartoonishness. His dancing has that same swagger: confident, funny, and very much part of Tony’s persona.

The dancing across the whole ensemble is worth mentioning. It’s goofy in places, deliberately so, but choreographed with enough precision that it becomes part of the humour rather than a distraction. It’s blend of silliness and commitment makes the audience warm to the performers. Here, it works beautifully. The live band adds to that atmosphere, giving the whole thing a lively, immediate feel.

James Bruce’s writing is quick and playful, and Alice Humphries’ direction keeps everything moving at a brisk pace. The musical numbers slide in and out of the action cleanly, and Michael Mackay’s original score gives the show a distinctive identity. It’s not trying to be profound; it’s trying to be fun. And it succeeds.

I always judge how much I liked a musical by whether I’m humming one of the tunes on the way out the door – and with this I was (Family business).

The audience were fully on board — laughing, reacting, enjoying the ride. It’s the kind of show where the rawness is part of the charm. You don’t want it polished; you want it alive.

This Little Thing of Ours is a lively, confident, ensemble‑driven mafia musical with standout turns from Joan Smith and Kevin Parr, strong music, and dancing that’s both funny and surprisingly characterful. For a 22:30 slot, it hits exactly the right tone: expressive, entertaining, and full of personality and energy.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Read our interview with Composer Michael Mackay and writer James Bruce.

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Soft Spot: Trust, Tension and 300 Wine Glasses at the Fringe

Photo credit: Isak Stockas

There’s something instantly disarming about Soft Spot. Before a single glass is touched, you feel the tension humming in the room — that quiet knowledge that anything could fall, crack or collapse. It’s circus stripped of bravado and rebuilt around fragility, precision and the strange tenderness that comes from watching two people navigate risk together. Soft Spot isn’t just a duet between performers; it’s a duet between humans and the objects that betray them. What emerges is playful, nerve‑jangling and unexpectedly moving — a reminder that instability isn’t a flaw in life, it’s the texture of it.

Soft Spot plays with instability and near‑collapse. When you’re performing, what’s going through your mind in that split second where everything might fall?

When things go wrong, it often happens so fast that, before we know it, the moment has already passed. It’s really a reflex. At other times, though, there’s a moment when a glass starts to wobble and we have that split second to try to calm things down and regain the balance. To handle those moments, we really try to stay as alert and present as possible throughout the performance, so that if something goes wrong, we’re ready to react.

You’re working with 300 wine glasses, an object everyone knows can shatter. What drew you to building an entire emotional world around something so fragile?

We were interested in the contrast that the wine glasses bring. Our strict circus training usually leads us to create acts, or shows that often only highlight skills, strength and control. Introducing wine glasses as a fragile element, with their potential to shatter at any moment, gives a counterpoint to the usual position of circus artists as live performers. It was hard to work with these objects. Having them shatter left and right really slowed down the creative process. We broke 317 glasses during the creation of the show and up until the premiere. After that, we stopped counting, but we’ve kept them all. It is important for us that these broken objects, which have been part of the process, continue to be part of the show, not only because we want to avoid waste, but also because the presence of these shattered glasses carries a symbolism that we feel is an important part of what we want the show to communicate. So, in the end, the very fact that wine glasses are fragile and can shatter is exactly what drew us to work with them.

The show is built on real trust between you as performers and as a couple. How does your relationship shape the way you negotiate risk on stage?

The way we negotiate risk on stage as a working duo is based on how we have been working together behind the scenes during the creation of Soft Spot. We carefully assessed and slowly increased the level of difficulty in order to make sure that we were establishing a safe environment where risk‑taking was not too reckless. This now allows us to perform the show with a good degree of confidence. On the other hand, the trust that we have built as life partners leans on kindness and forgiveness. We trust that the other person is doing their best, while at the same time knowing that they still might make mistakes. So when one of us underestimates a risk, even if it might have serious consequences for the other, we react as much as possible with forgiveness and kindness, because we inherently know that we are both simply imperfect people who are trying our best.

There’s a beautiful tension in the piece between technical precision and letting things go wrong. How do you decide when to “save” a wobble and when to let the chaos unfold?

To be honest, we are always trying to save the wobble. But because the glasses are so unpredictable, there are moments when it feels like they are the ones in charge. That creates a tension between precision and things going wrong. It happens very organically. When we realise that we can’t save a glass, we simply follow it and go with it. We try to keep the moment as honest as possible, rather than forcing or pretending that everything is under control.

You recorded the soundtrack from the sounds of the glasses themselves — clinks, tremors, resonance. What surprised you most during that process?

The composer we worked with, Mika Forsling, likes to experiment with unusual sonorities. He was excited to record the sounds of the wine glasses and eager to experiment with the recordings in his studio. What was surprising for us is that it only took two sessions to record all the sounds. We are also impressed with the variety of sounds we were able to create and by how much those sounds ended up being used in the final compositions.

Soft Spot explores how people respond when plans fall apart. Was there a moment in your own lives that inspired this theme? We wouldn’t be able to pinpoint a specific moment in either of our lives that would have inspired this theme. On the other hand, it was important for us to address this subject because we feel that those kinds of events can happen in anyone’s life but that our way of living doesn’t really give space to it.

Performing a show where failure is built into the structure must be emotionally demanding. How do you prepare yourselves mentally before going on stage?

We warm up our bodies and try to be as awake and present as possible so that we can react quickly if something goes wrong. Before we go on stage, we often also play a reaction game together, which helps us become even more alert and focused. Luckily, it also helps that we have more than 100 shows under our belts. Over the years, we’ve experienced all kinds of surprising failures, so we’ve learned to stay calm and adapt quickly.

Circus often celebrates mastery, but your piece celebrates recovery. What do you hope audiences feel when they watch you rebuild something that’s just collapsed?

We wish for people to remember that failure is mostly just a point of view. If something doesn’t go according to plan, it doesn’t mean that it was a useless experience. We also wish for audiences to see that sometimes, achieving something unique and beautiful requires us to fail along the way.

Loneliness and connection sit quietly underneath the spectacle. How did those themes find their way into the work?

Since Soft Spot is a duo work, it will inevitably address the theme of connection. When people watch two artists on stage, their relationship will always matter and tell a story to the audience. Before creating this piece, we had both mostly been working with solo acts, so it has been a very refreshing experience for us to share every moment of Soft Spot on stage.

Fringe audiences love unpredictability. What’s the most memorable “unexpected moment” that’s happened during a performance or rehearsal of Soft Spot so far?

A memorable and completely unexpected moment for us happened right at the beginning of the show, when Arttu squatted down and his pants ripped completely open at the back. We spent the first half of the show trying to hide his underwear from the audience, and we had to change one of the sections so that Stina could do Arttu’s part while he ran to the dressing room to change into a new pair of pants. It felt completely crazy and unexpected for us in the moment, but somehow the audience didn’t notice anything. When we mentioned it during the artist talk after the show, they found it very funny.

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This Little Thing of Ours: Inside the Musical Mayhem of Fringe’s Mafia Comedy

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There’s something irresistible about a show that knows exactly what it is and leans into the chaos with style. This Little Thing of Ours does just that — a gleeful mash‑up of mob mythology, musical theatre swagger and the kind of character work that only comes from creators who genuinely enjoy the world they’re building. Speaking with James and Michael, you get the sense that this project didn’t just arrive fully formed; it grew out of shared obsessions, late‑night ideas, and the kind of friendship where one person says “I want to write a musical” and the other immediately replies, “Right, let’s get started.”

What follows is a conversation that gets right to the heart of the show: the rivalry, the comedy, the family dynamics, the theatrical mischief, and the sheer joy of making big, bold musical theatre out of the mafia canon. Their answers are sharp, funny, and full of the enthusiasm that’s driving this show straight into Fringe folklore.

Michael Mackay is the composer of This Little Thing of Ours, and James Bruce is the writer of the show. Here is the full interview.

Frankie Coglione’s family curse is such a fun hook – when you first started developing the show, what came first: the mafia mythology or the musical comedy angle?

The inception of the story came from Michael. He mentioned in passing that he wanted to write his own musical, and two days later I was on the phone asking to get involved. It was always going to be a musical given Michael’s background, and we both love mafia‑related films and TV shows, so that cemented the initial direction. Once we dove into the writing, comedy came most naturally — the characters were so laughably ego‑driven that we needed to take them down a peg.

The press release hints at a real tug‑of‑war between Frankie and Tony. How did you approach building that rivalry so it feels both dangerous and delightfully theatrical?

Frankie and Tony are both bad guys — Tony is just much worse. Frankie has had a speedrun to the upper tiers of the mafia while Tony has had to grind, scheme and hustle to get where he is. There are a lot of back‑and‑forths between them, culminating in an 80s glam‑rock style duet.

Your Nonna character sounds like a force of nature. What inspired her, and how central is she to the emotional spine of the story?

We wanted Nonna to be the all‑seeing eye in the family business. Nothing gets by her and she’s sharp as a tack. We liked the idea that she had a secret web of informants throughout the crew, reporting every tiny piece of information so she could use it to her advantage. Female characters in mafia shows are often complicit bystanders; we wanted Nonna not just to witness events, but to be the puppet master pulling the strings.

You describe the show as “The Sopranos with full‑scale musical mayhem.” What elements of classic gangster cinema were irresistible to parody or reimagine on stage?

The way characters express themselves — in their words and gestures — in mafia cinema is so captivating and feels prime for parody. We loved the idea of these big macho guys singing about their beef with other members of the “Family.”

The idea that you don’t just whack someone – you give them a closing number – is brilliant. How did you balance the comedy with the stakes of a mob story without tipping too far in either direction?

Alice came up with that line — thanks, Alice. Shows like The Sopranos can have comedic elements in the darkest scenes. We tried to keep the story ticking over without getting too dark, but anything mafia‑related certainly heats up in the second half.

Michael Mackay’s Fringe experience and James Bruce’s BBC background make for an interesting creative pairing. How did that collaboration shape the tone and rhythm of the show?

Our collective experience allowed us to take ideas that worked well and avoid the things that didn’t. We’ve been friends for a long time, so we tend to be on the same page about what we find funny.

Alice Humphries’ previous Fringe success clearly brings strong directing pedigree. What new energy or perspective has she brought to This Little Thing of Ours?

Alice has been the real driving force of the show. She’s brought so much experience that we desperately needed. We met her in February and since then she’s been invaluable in bringing the songs to life.

You’ve assembled a cast of local Scottish talent. What qualities were you looking for to bring this heightened, musical‑gangster world to life? The obvious requirement was that they needed to pull off the accent and sing. We also looked for people with a bit of dark energy about them. I think all of the cast would be quite comfortable playing villains.

The show features a live band of professional musicians. How integral is the live sound to the storytelling, and what does it let you do that a backing track never could?

A live band is essential — it brings the show to life. Backing tracks or playing to a click creates a stale, repetitive atmosphere. Having four musicians playing live and feeding off the audience is much more fun.

Fringe audiences love a late‑night discovery. What do you hope people walk away with after seeing your 22:30 performance – what’s the lasting flavour you want them to carry home?

We hope they ignore the Omertà oath the mafia enforces and tell everyone they know.

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