REVIEWS: Toronto Fringe Festival 2025
iPhoto caption: Adam Francis Proulx, Elm Reyes, Kay-Ann Ward in a Fringe promo photo by Joy Adeola.
The Toronto Fringe Festival and an Ontario-based performing arts magazine bump into each other at a grocery store.
Amid the squeak of carts on tile, the Fringe says: “Our 37th iteration runs July 2 to 13 and features over 100 productions across 22 venues. And for the first time, the festival hub is in the Distillery District. Since that game we played last year was so fun… wanna send some writers?”
“You know it!” replies the magazine. “Let’s make it 20 critics, together reviewing more than 60 shows.”
The Fringe cheerfully agrees, then heads to the self-checkout.
This year, Intermission will be publishing Fringe capsule reviews from contributors Krystal Abrigo, Divine Angubua, Ferron Delcy, Liam Donovan, Karen Fricker, Sulaiman Hashim Khan, Gus Lederman, Ilana Lucas, and Columbia Roy.
In addition, the 2025 cohort of the Toronto Fringe’s New Young Reviewers (NYR) program will cover one or two shows each. More information about the participants and facilitators can be found on the festival’s website.
Reviews will be published below as they come in. For ease of navigation, new pieces will be added to the top of the post. If you’re looking for a review of a specific show, we recommend using your device’s “find on page” function.
Happy Fringing!
Sweet & Sultry Burlesque (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Liam Donovan
Reading the Fringe program, I wasn’t immediately sure whether this variety-show-style production was a genuine showcase of burlesque, or a clownish parody. I now understand this marketing ambiguity to be intentional. Created by Joshua Bonnici and Morgan Joy, with rotating talent from clown hub Sweet Action Theatre, Sweet & Sultry Burlesque thrives on liminality. Through burlesque’s inherent danger, directors Isaac Kessler and Gordon Neill conjure a tantalizingly carnivalesque atmosphere where boundaries blur and transgression reigns.
The oddities begin outside the theatre as a pair of performers in ratty volunteer shirts (Vinay Sagar and Victoria Watson Sepejak) submissively hold up platters of sweets for the audience’s taking. On stage, host Ava Val introduces them as the “kittens,” and insists they’re only here to clean up props between acts — we definitely shouldn’t encourage them to strip. At the July 10 performance, these opening punchlines gave way to a skilful, judicial-themed burlesque performance from guest artist Joe Peach.
From there, the show begins a descent toward chaos. Costumed as a toupeed elderly man, Bonnici strips down to a diaper. German-garbed Goldy Yason works satanic magic with a weiner. Antipodist Samantha Halas spins a quartet of prop pizzas. And in a transcendently ridiculous sequence, Neill bats away shadowy figures as Bastille’s “Pompeii” blasts. I won’t spoil the puppet-involving final number, but it, too, is brilliantly sculpted.
Clown or burlesque? It hardly matters. To perform in Sweet & Sultry Burlesque, there are seemingly only two requirements: Embrace volatility, and remove at least a little clothing.
The Ensemble (Soulpepper Theatre’s Michael Young Theatre)
by Samantha Unger [NYR participant]
Walking around the Distillery District, I was approached by cloak-clad figures asking if I had seen their missing lead actors. I later re-encountered these amusing characters in The Ensemble, Aliyah Bourgeault and Emmet Logue’s riff on José Sanchis Sinisterra’s Los Figurantes that explores what happens when those missing leads never make it onstage, and the audience is left with the ensemble to entertain them.
Over 60 minutes, a cast of 14 George Brown students and graduates brings energy to roles that would typically be in the background, but carry the show here. Under Christel Bartelse’s direction, the actors’ frantic movements help make the often-crowded stage pulse with life and chaos.
Bita Baakhlagh’s clever lighting shifts help move the focus from the collective to the unique personalities of individuals. Guard 1 (Cooper Bilton) wants to think. Guard 2 (Diana Eremeeva) would rather count cows. Prisoner 3 (Dale Rideout) wants to say hi to mom. And the Three Capuchin Monks (Maya Granic, Julia Middleton, Kaleb Piper) speak eerily in-sync, though perhaps unwillingly.
The tension between the characters’ desires and the author’s intentions fuels a discussion about free will and identity, achieved through open-ended questions, arguments, and even an attempt to leave the theatre. At times, this discussion feels repetitive; but then Page (Mila Trichilo) addresses this with a self-aware comment, and my audience laughed boisterously as they did throughout.
In an era emphasizing “main character energy,” The Ensemble is existential, meta, and filled with many nameless characters that I’d happily call my favourites.
David Lynch’s Seinfeld (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Krystal Abrigo
If Jerry Seinfeld had a nightmare directed by David Lynch, it might look a little like this. David Lynch’s Seinfeld delivers the sharp comedic timing and familiar rhythm of Seinfeld’s famous TV series while weaving in unsettling dream sequences that lend an eerie edge. With such an irresistible premise — and Lynch’s recent death adding an extra layer of resonance — it’s no surprise the show’s run quickly sold out.
If you’re a Seinfeld fan like me, you’ll definitely love this show. The entire cast is incredible in their characterizations: Edward Choi nails Jerry’s inflections, while Matthew Nadeau as George Costanza steals the show with uncanny precision. Nicole Passmore also commands the stage as Tikhonov with impressive projection and presence.
Writer-directors Guy Bradford, Paul Aihoshi, and Colin Sharpe, along with David Sharpe’s precise sound and lighting design, keep the pacing tight and the tone consistent. A Lynchian chase scene, where every element comes together flawlessly, is a highlight. I must give major props to Sarina French (literally). Her prop design, including Elaine’s wig and the Tall Man’s foam head, brings the show’s bizarre, off-kilter world vividly to life.
Though the Lynchian details stood out, the show is more Seinfeld’s David Lynch than David Lynch’s Seinfeld, leaning more on sitcom humour than filmic surrealism. Personally, I wished it pushed even further into the strange. Still, it hits all the right notes… like the Seinfeld theme, but with a shadowy bass line sneaking in underneath.
Apothecary (Theatre Passe Muraille)
by Gus Lederman
Medicine has developed drastically across time. You know what hasn’t changed? Misogyny.
In a magical apothecary that appears out of thin air to ailing people in need, women from across time and space seek help from early-1900s-era healer Lady, played by playwright and producer Laura Piccinin, and her apprentice, Tilly (Sydney Marion), from the 1970s.
The two shopkeepers provide medical care to these women without charge. There’s just one catch: They can only use medicine that exists in the year their patients are living in. To avoid causing rifts in the timelines, they can’t reveal the future to the women who come to them.
Piccinin’s book addresses crucial issues like medical misogyny, domestic violence, homophobia, and most of all, abortion. This show clearly supports choice and emphasizes the need for a supportive community. It feels particularly important to showcase right now considering that in the U.S., abortion is illegal in 13 states.
Composer-lyricist Allison Wither creates catchy tunes with gorgeous harmonies that sound especially crisp with the cast’s vocals. At points, the lyrics teeter on the cheesy side, but always have clear and strong messaging.
There is some awkwardly placed choreography in one of the final songs, which feels like it cheapens the message rather than adding to it. Otherwise, director Cass Van Wyck deftly balances the whimsy of the world with the seriousness of the issues discussed.
Apothecary is a solid and inventive feminist show with a talented company. I’d prescribe a visit to Theatre Passe Muraille to see it.
Killy Willy (Theatre Passe Muraille)
by Columbia Roy
Big, bold, and beautiful, First Born Theatre’s new musical Killy Willy makes a splash — and never misses an opportunity for a good fish pun.
Written by Eliza Smith with music by Mona Fyfe, the show follows a pod of killer whales struggling to plan their revenge on humankind, until they catch wind of Willy (Maya Fleming), AquaPark’s resident orca. When he fatally dismembers his trainer, the pod realizes righteous violence is really an option. Praise be to the new messiah!
Visually, the show is striking. Costume designer Gabe Woo establishes the main pod as a leather-clad black-and-white biker gang while Willy — a natural-born performer — is a sharp-dressed circus ringleader complete with sparkly blowhole. Millie Cameron’s elaborate set takes full advantage of Theatre Passe Muraille’s large, multi-level Mainspace. The cast of 13 actors-musicians create stunning physical ensemble moments as well, moving together to evoke one large whale, or terrifyingly tear a human to shreds.
The show may rehash some familiar narratives (we all know animal cruelty is wrong, right?) but in this silly, whimsical romp directed by Zoe Marin, social commentary is more of a side effect than the actual point. My only qualm was that it feels like the first act of a longer show, and could benefit from a longer runtime to flesh out each character and delve deeper into the underwater world.
Overall, Killy Willy is an ambitious spectacle that encapsulates exactly what Fringe is for: a space where artists push their creative potentials and have fin — sorry, fun — doing it.
Gaumukhi गौमुखी (Cow) [VideoCabaret]
by Sulaiman Hashim Khan
Writer-director Kush Shah’s Gaumukhi is a spiritual experience.
Straight from the cow’s mouth, Gaumukhi tells the story of Cow (Deval Soni), a young bovine living in late-20th-century India in the midst of heightened religious tensions between Muslims, lower-caste Hindus, and upper-caste Hindus — especially around the slaughter and consumption of cattle.
Soni’s Cow, presented as a human with a numbered ear tag, prances around a square chalk etching on the blackbox’s floor, with its corners dedicated to portions of Cow’s life. As she moves from one part of the square to the next, we learn about her close friendship with Pig in Bombay, with nights spent exploring temples and staring at intricate etchings on domed mosques. We learn about her tutelage under a drunkard musician, Pandit-Ji, in Meerut. We learn about her mother, her 15 siblings, and about dalits and brahmins.
Kabir Agarwal on keyboard and Utsav Alok on vocals deliver lush live performances of classical Indian musical traditions including bakhtis, kabiri bhajans, and Sufi devotionals that create a transporting atmosphere. Abbey Kruse’s spotlighting and haze add to the feeling of unknowing that Cow expresses in her anxieties about God, love, and the future.
For some time now, I’ve believed that there’s something special about the way exophonic writers are able to bend and play with the English language. In Gaumukhi, Shah, who grew up in Mumbai, writes profoundly pensive introspections about religious sectarianism with beauty and precision, while Soni’s physical embrace of the eponymous heifer brands the production as one-of-a-kind.
Because the show depends on the audience’s familiarity with the subcontinent’s history and culture, Gaumukhi — heading next to July’s Hamilton Fringe and August’s Mississauga Multilingual Fringe — might be less accessible for general audiences, but has the potential to still be a rewarding watch for those who are curious.
Very Shady Arab Ladies (VideoCabaret)
by Sulaiman Hashim Khan
By the time I thought I understood what was going on in this show from the minds of FAOC theatre company duo Maryem Tollar and Roula Said, plus HRH Anand Rajaram (who also directs), I was once again made aware of my obliviousness.
Despite the show’s name, Arab-ness isn’t really the focus. The large letter sheen “ش” (presumably short for shawarma) printed on the leading ladies’ shirts is a good metaphor. We’re here for flavour, not for substance.
Very Shady Arab Ladies is ostensibly about two friends, Maryem and Roula, who are trying to regain control of Maryem’s mom’s shawarma shop from Maryem’s uncle Samir (Tim Gentle), after her mother sold it to him many years ago. But the play soon becomes a satire on political rebellion when Rajaram’s first character, the evil Narendra (ha! Subtle!), swoops down and purchases the restaurant instead. At the same time, funky cops (played by Joska and Ernie Tollar) wielding a guitar and saxophone patrol the city in order to Kafka-esquely investigate threats of a nonspecific terror attack.
The titular ladies soon fall into cahoots with the leader of the rebellion, the very Canadian Tunnel Jesus (Gentle), after being ushered into the catacombs below Toronto by Samir’s wife, Maryem’s Aunt Pousy (Gentle), who is having an affair with the aforementioned subterranean Son of God. Soon, acolyte Shultz (Rajaram) pulls onstage members of the audience as everyone sings about “Letting Love Colonize Your Heart.”
Yeah, I don’t know, just go fucking watch it. Please.
This Is Not Me (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Florian Montague [NYR participant]
For thousands of years, medical experts have experimented on animals in the name of health research and advancing science. But is there a point where this goes too far? In creator-performer Vica Pelivan’s This Is Not Me, inspired by real events and directed by Ganesh Thava, a compassionate veterinary student named Marinka Pelivan is caught between her studies and her desire to protect the animals around her.
Using clear, simple gestures, Pelivan seamlessly transitions between all the characters in the show, including Marinka, her peers, her professor, and the dean — as well as Millie, the cow with which she develops an unexpected bond. Pelivan handles the rapidfire dialogue skilfully, nimbly switching between roles without missing a beat. As the show continues, the individual traits of each character begin to solidify — the Professor’s calm, assured stance; Millie’s vacant, unfocused gaze; and Marinka’s pleading desperation, which ekes out of every pore.
The set and lighting, designed by Sebastian Cattrysse and Rian Tran respectively, are minimal but effective. Spotlights evocatively isolate the character(s) into a smaller space, and enhance the bright, hot, cornered suffocation Marinka feels. Erik Richards’ soundscape, though sparsely used, helps further intensify more brutal scenes. A jarring, discordant track that plays while the students forcefully examine Millie makes the scene particularly difficult to watch.
All in, This Is Not Me is a powerfully evocative showcase of a young woman bravely tackling the obstacles threatening to block her pursuit of animal justice.
Lucian, Plato, and the Secrets of the Pussy (Soulpepper Theatre’s Michael Young Theatre)
by Divine Angubua
If you worry about the future of theatre or Gen Z’s ability to make work that’s affecting, fun, and erudite all at once, look no further than Lucian, Plato, and the Secrets of the Pussy. Written by Jules Spizzirri and Sydney Scott, this sex-obsessed, anachronistic comedy of errors makes light of the all-too-common figure of a man made foolish by his own obliviousness to romantic etiquette and the mysterious magic of erotic pleasure.
In ancient Greece, when Leaina (Jasmine Brough) leaves her husband Lucian (Kael Buryn) to be with her “best friend” Megillus (Jonnie Lombard) on the island of Lesbos, he seeks answers. Since Lucian — condescending and ignorant of Leaina’s individuality outside of his fetishistic animation of it — believes he was the perfect husband, he cannot understand why she would leave him to be with someone who appears to be neither male nor female: sexless, and therefore incapable of the sex act. To decode Leaina’s sex life, Lucian enlists his friend Plato (Jewell Bowry), hoping the great philosopher can reason him toward the truth.
With the help of director Alyssa Featherstone and intimacy director Karley Jagusic, the chemistry between Buryn’s Lucian and Plato had the opening night audience roaring with laughter. Plato, cheekily styled by Gabe Woo in a snapback and basketball shorts, is just as clueless as Lucian is. Within this conceit, they make a glittering mockery of patriarchy.
Ultimately, this play posits eros as a philosophical dialogue of its own, like one by Plato or Socrates long ago. Considering all we don’t know about love and sex, we might as well start there.
Nearly Departed (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Divine Angubua
Good comedy to me is a kind of alchemy. This could not be more true in the case of Cathy Boyd, who earned fame on season one of Canada’s Got Talent. In her Fringe act Nearly Departed, the jokes land right where the pain sits, and spin gold from it.
Without any distinct narrative structure, Boyd meanders the show’s 50 minutes away in a comically confessional style, rolling through anecdotes and asides from her mysterious life as an older woman. She talks about being a mother and a grandmother, the farce of television fame, being married for over 30 years, the spectre of death, and so on. As she operates within this grandmotherly pastiche, the zing of her jokes sparks from the aesthetic opposition of her appearance versus her monologue’s content. As a woman one visually associates with scarf-knitting and cookie-baking, her sex jokes about men with “big trucks” and ambiguous overgrown bushes floored me and then threw me heartily into the air. Boyd knew this and knew to title her show to play with the fragility we project onto our elders.
If there’s any point to Boyd’s show, it’s that the comedy functions as an argument for an opening up that she thinks needs to happen. Alongside the emphasis on diversity, equity, and inclusion, how about emphasizing other types of new voices and stories? Given the paradox that this freshness comes from a voice older than comedy’s usual youthful stock, I wonder how much brilliance still goes unseen.
Oh! I Miss the War (Native Earth’s Aki Studio)
by Heather Lundrigan [NYR Participant]
It would be tragic for good gay troublemakers to forget their elders, and luckily Oh! I Miss the War is here for the difficulties we’ve overcome, and the urgency of our present.
Starring David John Phillips, this highly complex play combines Matthew Baldwin’s 2017 monologue “I Miss the War” and Phillips’ new monologue “Oh!,” written in response to Baldwin’s piece. The interweaving nature of the material could be confusing if not for Phillips’ bright character work (purposefully directed by Anthony Misiano) and Vishmayaa Jeyamoorthy’s subtle lighting which alternates between 2022 Toronto and 1967 London.
In “Oh!” Phillips portrays Matt, an elderly gay man exasperated with the changing landscape of queerness in the 21st century; he notes an inability to connect with Gen Zs at a kink night. He’s nostalgic for his youth, when S&M made sense, and the AIDS crisis prompted safe-sex education that PrEP may abrogate. Matt wonders: “Am I nostalgic for loss?”
This sentiment is mirrored beautifully when Phillips takes his turn as rentboy-turned-tailor Jack in “I Miss the War.” In the wake of the U.K.’s 1967 Sexual Offences Act, Jack recalls the danger of the Blitz, and the vulnerability of a liberty vital enough to die for. Together, these characters give voice to a century of queer struggle and liberation, asking what we leave behind when we step forward.
Educational without being condescending, Oh! I Miss the War is a tender love letter to the queer community, and a must-see at this year’s Toronto Fringe Festival.
Hoody (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Divine Angubua
Whatever I expected out of playwright Dawna Wightman’s theatrical reorientation of the Red Riding Hood fairytale, it wasn’t this quiet gem of a play. When Hoody (Graham Knox as Little Red Riding Hood) and Lu (Wightman as the Big Bad Wolf) fall out of their fairy tale and into a Toronto apartment, they must find a way to rewrite their stories and save themselves from certain doom.
With such a strange premise, credit is due to Knox, Wightman, director Arthur French III, dramaturg Marcia Johnson, and costume designer Sabine Spare for deftly infusing the original tale with new meaning. They animate the Tarragon Solo Room with fresh ideas and a deeply disturbing spectacle of two characters simultaneously dispossessed of their personal narratives and oppressively possessed by a fiction that reduces their individuality to mere narrative fodder.
What happens to us when other people tell our stories and, in doing so, remove us from our own self-creation? For Hoody and Lu, the abject forms they take in Knox and Wightman’s bodies speak to the slow death that manifests in the absence of the necessary agency to freely be oneself. On stage, Knox and Wightman embody an aesthetic death, which precedes a mental death, and then total physical undoing if they don’t take charge.
Go see these two actors give it their all. Knox and Wightman seem superhuman in their capacity for sound, expression, and emotion. In their too-muchness, they speak urgently: Tell your story for yourself!
#1 Clown Comedy with Victor and Priscilla (VideoCabaret)
by Heather Lundrigan [NYR Participant]
Can clowns on the fringes turn their blood blue, or is aristocracy a skill that cannot be taught?
In #1 Clown Comedy with Victor and Priscilla, the titular and delightfully gender-bent siblings (Julie Vanderlip and Eric Amaral, respectively) welcome the audience into their Victorian-era sitting room. The situation quickly descends into chaos as Victor and Priscilla reveal a desire to leave their vaudevillian clown family to become a fine lord and lady.
Guided by a variety of physiologically similar cousins and vaudeville legend Aunt Nell (played by Parker-Elizabeth Rodenburg), the siblings receive a lesson in gentry manners. Through charming and inventive puppets designed by Michelle Gram (who plays the siblings’ matriarch), Victor and Priscilla taste the upper-crust life, challenged to fit in amongst the haute monde’s binaries.
While laughs are abundant and Kyra Keith’s direction results in excellent inter-actor chemistry, the script struggles to keep up consistent energy over the show’s hour runtime. As the characters translate a long Polari speech by Aunt Nell, for instance, more emphasis is placed on communicating historical fact than building dramatic momentum. This use of slang alludes to a history of queer secret codes, present in costumes (by Nina Kaye) with carabiners, fans, and rainbow buttons. The resulting exploration of gender roles and belonging is touching and pertinent, with an encouraging moral of unapologetic self love.
In a festival saturated with clowns, Victor and Priscilla provide a heartfelt and family-friendly offering for slapstick lovers, even if their comedy show doesn’t necessarily rank number one.
Siya: The Debut (VideoCabaret)
by Krystal Abrigo
This coming-of-age play has a clever title: “Siya” is a gender-neutral Tagalog pronoun meaning “them,” reflecting Marie Sotto’s exploration of non-binary identity, and “the debut” refers both to the Filipino 18th-birthday celebration and to this being the production’s world premiere.
Created by Sotto and co-directed with stage manager Lyara Malvar, the play reimagines the traditional Filipina debut — grand entrance, cotillion dance, 18 roses, candles, and treasures — through a queer, nonbinary lens. Dressed in a pink frilly gown, tiara, and running shoes, Sotto performs the show mostly solo, moving between stories, skits, and moments of audience interaction. She appears nervous, but her sincerity shines through. And, perhaps because Sotto has taken on so many key creative roles, the piece occasionally struggles to find tonal balance.
The show is delightfully Filipino, filled with culturally rooted humour: three uncles all named Tito Boy, blessing an elder in the audience, Tagalog punchlines, and a tinikling-inspired rhythm segment set to self-affirmations. Queer themes also weave throughout, from a literal closet joke to a cheeky prayer asking God to “make [her] mom a butch queen.” As a queer Filipino from Scarborough myself, I appreciated the specificity of its humour.
At one point, Sotto says, “When I think of myself as Siya, I think of myself as a culmination of experiences,” which, in my mind, is an echo of Whitman’s notion of individuals containing multitudes. But at times the show is corny and lacks nuance; it tells us how to feel rather than letting emotion unfold, muting the impact of its most personal moments.
Things My Dad Kept (Soulpepper Theatre’s TD Finance Studio)
by Krystal Abrigo
What happens when a Jewish millennial finally sorts through her dead dad’s stuff? In Things My Dad Kept, Ronit Rubinstein delivers a beautiful solo show that is part eulogy, part storytelling session, and part “Dead Dad Club” meeting — complete with audience participation, paper airplanes, and shared strawberries.
Armed with a cork board covered in photos and post-its, a three-tiered filing cabinet, and a dry wit, Rubinstein explores the strange comfort of sifting through decades of carefully preserved clutter. Her father, a Polish Jewish refugee born in 1938, saved everything, from report cards and dance recital flyers, to printed email warnings about mercury in sushi — as well as one particularly absurd email chain about a helicopter crash. In the thread, a helicopter began falling from the sky, prompting everyone nearby to run… except a man wearing headphones, who didn’t hear a thing. Rubinstein summarizes some of these emails and reads others flatly, letting their absurdity speak for itself.
The show moves seamlessly between intimate memories and inherited history. A standout moment recalls Rubinstein’s grandmother tossing a ball across the border into Soviet territory, playing catch with her toddler son as a quiet act of smuggling him to safety.
Grieving is unpredictable, and there’s no way of knowing which memories have already slipped away. Directed by Janelle Hanna, Rubinstein’s show is a touching love letter to her late father — preserved with care, dusted with jokes, and printed in triplicate just to be safe.
Bob Marley: How Reggae Changed the World (Tarragon Theatre Extraspace)
by Divine Angubua
When Duane Forrest stepped into the cool light of the Tarragon Theatre Extraspace with his guitar in hand, I didn’t know what to expect. Is Bob Marley: How Reggae Changed the World a musical, a memorial, a concert — or a sermon in the shape of an intimate musical memorial concert?
Through reggae, Forrest — helped by Ins Choi’s poignant dramaturgy — weaves history, politics, Marley’s life, and his own story into a show that realizes itself through music.
From his smiling introduction, Forrest pulls the audience in with the expectation of their participation in this sort-of-singalong. “All love, one love,” he repeats throughout the show, a beautiful phrase that paired well with my anticipation for pleasant entertainment — reggae as leisure. But as Forrest tells his and Marley’s stories, within which we encounter the trans-Atlantic slave trade, traumas from colonialism in Jamaica, and the struggle of making meaning as someone with a marginalized identity in the diaspora, “All love, one love” — the reggae spirit — takes on a polemical edge. Reggae as a practical mode of living, in all its joie de vivre and coolness, gestures toward resistance against oppression and the destructive nihilism it begets in its subjects.
Through Forrest’s raspy falsetto, drumming bass, and nimble fingers, we remember to smile. That smile may not entirely keep the dogs at bay, but it’s a start.
Songs by a Wannabe (Soulpepper Theatre’s Michael Young Theatre)
by Divine Angubua
“The world’s on fire, but I could be a Spice Girl.” Buried in this sentence lies the crux of a musical about a Ginger Spice impersonator going through a formative existential crisis. In it is also this one-woman show’s excellence and confusing insufficiency locked in tantalizing synchronicity.
On one level, our wannabe — and the play by extension — offers a story deserving of an attentive audience. Babz Johnston, the creator, sole star of the show, and real-life Ginger Spice impersonator in the tribute group Wannabe, embodies her autofictional self — a fact I did not realize until after the show, as I wrote this review. As a charming, self-consciously uninteresting, and seemingly not spectacularly talented woman, our wannabe presents sympathetically as a withering spectacle behind the gimmick she struggles to earn from. This achievement also manifests especially through the textured work of director Mitchell Cushman, music director Anika Johnson, and stage manager Jaimee Quinn-Hall.
On another level, however, our wannabe’s myopia, timidness, and lack of courage in facing her own desires actively contribute to her unfortunate circumstances.
In a play about chasing “the dream,” we watch Johnston scramble across Eric Andrews’ set design, from vanity mirror to clothing rack, singing and facetiously performing as a woman struggling to acknowledge that the proverbial party is over, and the sensible thing to do next is leave for another party or just go home. In a few seemingly unplanned meta-theatrical moments at the opening performance, Johnston glaringly fumbled some lyrics in the musical’s original pop score (composed by Anika Johnson, Suzy Wilde, and Johnston herself). At one point, she flat-out asked the audience’s pardon and restarted an entire song. I could not tell whether it was just our wannabe’s world on fire, or Johnston’s too in these moments — because, ironically, these interruptions made the play interesting, memorable, and moving for me. Perhaps there’s a lesson there.
All That She Wrote (Theatre Passe Muraille)
by Gus Lederman
This 90-minute musical interrogates the meaning of justice through the eyes of a non-binary barista/Twitch streamer, Kris Greyeyes (Blue Free Cooper), in Saskatchewan. The show is ambitious, super queer, and emblematic of the times we live in.
Playwright Annika Tupper covers a lot of ground with this unique production: critiques of the justice system, voracious consumption of true crime, and toxic queer relationships. A hugely important topic in the show is the horrific epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirit peoples, which is first addressed in the closing number — it could be more impactful to pepper this theme throughout the story before the call-to-action at the end.
A highlight of the show is the stellar 12-person cast; their voices are powerful, especially when they come together in Tupper’s meaty harmonies. Cooper and Amariah Faulkner, as Gemma, stand out with strong vocals, characterizations, and chemistry. Unfortunately, though, the instrumentation drowned everyone’s singing out at times.
Director Ally Chozik gives every performer a moment in the spotlight. That said, when three of the leads feature in a jury deliberation scene, I was unclear whether they were playing their main characters or extra jurors. As the show continues to develop, additional dramaturgy and outside eyes could help to strengthen the narrative and smooth out these sorts of kinks.
I’m genuinely excited to see this show develop, and to experience Makeshift Company’s future projects as trailblazers of new Canadian musicals. Check out All That She Wrote for a daring preview of that work.
Siranoush (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Victor Zhang [NYR participant]
In Siranoush, language is a time machine that teleports Lara Arabian — the writer and performer of this autobiographical, one-woman show directed and co-created by Carla Melo — into various dimensions of belonging, ambivalence, and epiphany.
With agile movements and fierce facial expressions, Arabian narrates her journey as a diasporic artist in search of her own voice on lands that are familiar yet strange to her.
Across the show’s 80 minutes, Arabian alternates between English, French, and Armenian; each language comes with its own distinctive rhythmic charm and stage personality. These linguistic ventures lead her to encounter a portrait of Siranoush, a 19th-century Armenian actress who overcame personal and political predicaments to become the icon of her time. The thread between Arabian and Siranoush develops into a tapestry of identities, investigating what it means to be a woman, a mother, a polyglot, and most pointedly, an artist.
Among the various props, including Armenian dolls, a suitcase becomes a literal and metaphorical symbol, into which the show manages to pack complex themes — immigration, gender struggles, genocide, and the politicization of art (video design by Avideh Saadatpajouh enhances these explorations). What I appreciated most is how Arabian directly interacts with the audience during her trip down memory lane, drawing us close to her and Siranoush with assured care and grace.
Lacking clear transitions, the non-linear storytelling can be hard to follow at times, and I yearned for a more substantial exploration of the titular figure’s own story. Still, Siranoush is a bold, timely show — a testament to the passion of a serious artist.
Broken Teléfono (Alumnae Theatre)
by Sulaiman Hashim Khan
Written by Brian Quintero and directed by Dianne Aguilar, Broken Teléfono follows Sabrina (Adriana Vasquez), a young Latina woman who lives along with her older sister Raquel (Alejandra Zapico) in an unnamed North American city, away from their family. Sabrina quickly befriends her colleague Chloe (Daniela Donayre) at an office party, and the two bond over chisme — “gossip” in Latin American Spanish. After some backstory about Sabrina’s parents, and lots of dancing to Bad Bunny music, Sabrina and Chloe realize they’ve had eerily similar experiences with eerily similar sounding guys… or rather, guy (Andras Orioli).
The show’s plot somewhat resembles the telenovela style that the creators claim inspiration from, but its pacing, acting, and dialogue feel more Disney Channel than Telemundo. Quintero’s script could benefit from leaning more into the twisty, over-the-top style that Spanish-language soaps are known for. Even the revelation that Raquel was also dating the same man is too expected.
In short flashback scenes, Zapico and Orioli also portray Mama Catalina and Papa Jorge, respectively, with a beautifully shy innocence. And Vasquez’s Sabrina transitions between lighter and heavier moments with elegance.
It’s difficult to write immigrant stories. Often, one ends up with an essentially average coming-of-age narrative peppered with complaints about strict parents and laments about language inability. But while Broken Teléfono occasionally veers into superficiality and cliché — like the never-acknowledged Frida Kahlo pillow in the sisters’ apartment — it largely steers clear, instead actively showing the struggles of working-class, precariously housed immigrants while maintaining its comedic tone.
Jack Goes to Therapy: A (Somewhat) Romantic Comedy (Alumnae Theatre)
by Rachel Jewson [NYR participant]
Jack Goes to Therapy: A (Somewhat) Romantic Comedy isn’t really about romance. It’s about what comes after. In this sincere and side-splitting one-man show, written, performed, directed, and designed by the multi-talented Zac Williams, we follow Jack as he navigates heartbreak, grief, feelings of inadequacy, and impostor syndrome, all while wrangling a class of quirky kindergarteners.
After his boyfriend leaves him for the man they had a threesome with, Jack spirals into a world of doom-swiping on gay dating apps, unsolicited dick pics, STI scares, and the looming deadline to return a now-useless engagement ring. Drowning in self-doubt, Jack turns to therapy.
With only a chair and clever lighting shifts to separate therapy sessions from real life, Williams transforms the bare bones set into a rich world. He seamlessly shifts between a cast of characters in scenes that are as hysterical as they are heartfelt. One of the most powerful moments arises when Jack opens up to a co-worker he’d dismissed as a “nosy bitch,” only to be met with profound empathy and emotional vulnerability. That moment becomes a catalyst, unlocking a chain of genuine and earned conversations.
Jack’s therapist offers a simple truth: “When you share love with the world, love is reflected back to you.” Jack Goes to Therapy reflects plenty. Heading soon to Winnipeg Fringe, it’s a smart, sincere, and refreshingly honest portrayal of male vulnerability — and a reminder that healing can be hilarious.
Stealing Home (Alumnae Theatre)
by Rachel Jewson [NYR participant]
“This is a Toronto story.” It’s one of the first lines in Stealing Home, and by the end, there’s no mistaking it. From heritage plaques on parking lots, to jabs at Downsview, and the endless “appeal the appeal of the appeal” mindset of not-in-my-backyard NIMBYs, playwright Annie Massey masterfully crafts a story that could only happen here.
When the City proposes supportive housing in the fictional, well-to-do East Westonville Village, residents appear centre-stage, wielding their connections, cash, and outrage in an effort to stop the project. Meanwhile, the remaining cast lingers on the edges, perched on set designer Alta Louise Doyle’s cleverly placed milk crates, quietly bearing witness to the vocal minority’s fight against affordability.
Directed by Pat McCarthy, Stealing Home skillfully balances the absurd with the devastatingly real. One moment, a porch pirate (Kayne Wylie) tries to unionize, a sentient parking lot (David Borwick) dreams of hosting EV chargers, or a wealthy woman (Anne Harper) falls for libido-boosting snake oil. The next, the cast powerfully delivers the statistic that 200 unhoused Torontonians die yearly.
Harper is a standout as Norma Fairly-Affluent, the quintessential NIMBY who believes she’s the story’s hero for saving a derelict parking lot dubbed “the beating heart of the community.” The actor is both hilarious and horrifying as a villain ripped straight from a Facebook comment thread.
Stealing Home isn’t the storybook Toronto. It’s the real one: messy, frustrating, and flawed, but still worth fighting for. It’s not just a Toronto story. It’s a wake-up call.
Screamin’ in the Rain (The Canadian Music Centre)
by Sulaiman Hashim Khan
“I’m committing suicide,” runs the chorus of the first song in this satirical mic-and-piano cabaret, written and performed by Eli Pasic. If this isn’t enough to dissuade audience members with squeamish dispositions, Pasic’s unapologetic commencement statement, “if you are offended, mission accomplished,” should do it.
And it should’ve been my cue to shoo away my poor Pashtun mother with whom I elected to watch the show.
Smooth keys support (rather tasteful) ballads about beastiality; and Pasic’s silky, Tom Lehrer-esque baritone make references to elite child-sex-trafficking — I wasn’t kidding about it being offensive — rather enjoyable. It seems that his $60,000-a-year education at the Berklee College of Music left him well equipped, technique-wise. Plus, as he tells us in the show, it gave him a good view of the 2013 Boston bombing.
While some topics such as the evils of landlords and the hollowness of modern dating have been thoroughly covered in all forms of art, Pasic uniquely approaches those exhausted topics in the form of song. And these more familiar subjects offer some time to collect oneself between apologies to Adolf Hitler, members of the Third Reich running off to Argentina, stories about Nazi jazz singers (is there a pattern here?), the ailments of old age (ah, I guess not), and fascistic sisters (oh gosh, there it is again).
Don’t take your mothers. Or do. I’m not your dad.
Echoes of My Silence (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Sulaiman Hashim Khan
Before this autobiographical one-woman show by writer-director-performer Azadeh Kangarani begins, you’re forced to see your own reflection staring back at you from one of six mirrors placed at the rear of an otherwise empty stage. You may be inclined to adjust your posture, or run a hand through your hair. The lights dim, and Azadeh walks out on stage holding up another mirror before delivering a provocative monologue about self-perception — and particularly, how we think of our own internal biases.
Azadeh frames the show around an experience she had on a Lufthansa flight from Dresden to Munic during which she noticed the cockpit was occupied by the expected middle-aged man, but also a young woman. Expertly created aviationary soundscapes fill the theatre as Azadeh begins to question why her first thought upon noticing the young pilot wasn’t excitement, or even neutrality — but a deep dread of the Dresden runway (music direction is by Petar Mrdjen).
From here, Adazeh begins to recollect and re-enact memories of her interactions with men throughout her life — from the subtle sexism of a painting representing a courtesan, to more heinous acts of sexual predation she endured as a young child in Tehran. She calls the events “silent violations.”
The most disturbingly visceral scene of all, however, is Azadeh’s experience with a man she calls “C.” During this sequence, Kangarani puts on an indescribably vulnerable performance — you’ll have to go and witness it for yourself.
In an apt case of nominative determinism, Azadeh — a name that means “freed” or “liberated” in Farsi — embraces being free.
Body as Nature (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Ferron Delcy
Rippling hair, muscle, water. Slack wrists become arm tendons become nails raked over scalp. The air is thick. This is “Loon,” choreographed by Margie Gillis in 1999 and the fourth piece in Body as Nature (directed by Brendan McMurtry-Howlett).
Featuring poetry (written and performed by Hana Shafi) and dance (performed by Caitlin Griffin), Body as Nature explores continuums of the human and nonhuman. Submerged in lush natural soundscapes (with contributions from composer Kohen Hammond), Griffin uses her body to reflect environments like the ocean shore or forest. She dances with subtle strength, exact and entrancing. Woven tenderly between scenes, Shafi’s poetry recitations evoke new ways of being: body as church bell, monarchy as menstrual cycle.
Since the show is structured as a series of contained solo acts, Griffin and Shafi perform together only once: as Shafi speaks her poem “This is How They Believe,” Griffin moves through the syntax of her words (dance choreographed by Griffin and Howlett). Both are confident and polished performers; they feel like natural collaborators. Fierce in its search for transcendence, this was my favourite piece.
In my experience, Body as Nature lovingly dismantles assumptions about interpreting performance. It’s not always an easy viewing experience and may not appeal to everyone. But even if you are not fluent in modern dance (I’m certainly not), this show has much to offer once you’re willing to let go.
Like the crashing waves that open the first act, Body as Nature is sometimes buoyant, sometimes furious, and sometimes simply “is”: life that rejects justification.
It’s Not So Bad (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Columbia Roy
From writer-director duo Noah Bradbury and Lara Olanick, It’s Not So Bad mostly follows a server named Nicole (Kate Schroder) facing a plethora of modern anxieties, from nuclear war and callous elitism to the struggles of buying weed at the end of the world.
Told in four parts, the narrative structure is disjointed; standalone sequences probe slices of Nicole’s journey, with little connective tissue between them. It’s difficult to parse out the deeper intentions of the piece when you’re trying to grasp where it’s going. This is most evident in the stylistic contrast between the first and subsequent parts.
In that first part, restaurant owner (Chris Boyle) must entertain every whim of big-spending Mr. Barber (a captivating Conor Bradbury). Through conversation and elaborate wine tasting we learn of Barber’s top-secret government contracts, and namely the construction of a centralized AI brain. The scene is nuanced and sinister, a slow build whose humour lies in the unsaid.
Parts two through four centre the launch and fallout of nuclear warfare, and as the play’s world descends into chaos, so does the show itself. Though this shift is certainly a way of differentiating between pre- and post-armageddon, the production negates the foundation laid by the first scene, resulting in a story with no grounding. The relationships between characters are forgone in favor of rapid pacing and low-hanging jokes, including a character whose central bit is imitating a Patois accent in a weed store.
It’s Not So Bad is ambitious in scope, but ultimately sacrifices its clarity and intrigue for easy laughs.
In His Time (Soulpepper Theatre’s RBC Finance Studio)
by Ferron Delcy
In His Time uses the framework of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot to explore the healing power of storytelling. In this debut production from writer-director Divyanshu Mani Hans, a gambler (Rahul Chawla) finds self-compassion through connection with a young boy, Koke (Hans). While thought-provoking, the play struggles with both production and performance elements.
The foundation for a compelling story is there. Jogi, a gambler, has retreated from the world. Every day he sits under a tree waiting for… what? His life is behind him. But when he finally relents to Koke’s prodding and talks about his past, a path to healing emerges.
Jogi’s recollection plays out as a scene in which a powerful man (Malik Suleman) tortures him and recruits his brother, Kash (Amol Malik). Suleman and Malik soon return to the stage in roles resembling Godot’s Pozzo and Lucky, here named Enforcer and Soul. This double casting intensifies the unsettling power dynamic between the characters — who, it turns out, are alienated pieces of Jogi’s interiority.
This plot was somewhat difficult to follow — perhaps purposefully so: the production describes its method as “absurdist storytelling.” More specificity in movement and blocking may have supported the unique poetics of this style. Rushed or quiet speech also interfered with clarity.
That said, In His Time contains evocative writing that builds insightfully on its source material, imagining how we may find our life’s meaning through self-exploration. More rehearsal and revision could help tighten up this sincere show.
This Show Will Change Your Life (Native Earth’s Aki Studio)
by Ferron Delcy
The premise is simple but brilliant: improv troupe $20 Sandwich (Brennan Asbridge, Antony Hall, Shaun Hunter, and Chase Jeffels) interviews one audience member about their life. Then, they improvise scenes based on the answers — an approach previously undertaken by the U.K.-based theatre company Improbable.
I’ll say it now: audience participation is voluntary (!!!). I went in paranoid, but you need not. Yes, someone must agree to an interview. But it doesn’t have to be you. It just takes one person to buckle under the weight of hopeful silence.
Then again, maybe you’re an extrovert. Or in dire need of life coaching from four comedians: Surely there’s nothing more illuminating than seeing your life flash before your eyes as a woefully inaccurate re-enactment?
This show had me in (laughing) tears. $20 Sandwich was effortlessly funny during the interview portion of the show, with a conversational and self-aware comedic style. And they steered their improvisation with an expert sense of when to stall, move the action forward, or cut the scene. Live keyboard accompaniment from Jake Schindler added to the fun.
The performance I saw didn’t necessarily go deep; instead, I had the enjoyable experience of seeing Hall and Jeffels perform as Care Bears. (They had a limited recollection of what Care Bears look or sound like. Or anything about them, really.) Audiences might not learn anything world-changing per se, but at least they don’t have to live with a new life regret: not catching this show.
Frat Haus: Evicted! (Tallulah’s Cabaret at Buddies in Bad Times)
by Columbia Roy
In the shadow of Toronto’s all-consuming condo market, Frat Haus: Evicted! is a lesson in making a frat house a frat home. Five drag kings must make some quick cash to keep their totally-not-a-fire-hazard house from the clutches of their greedy slumlord.
Blurring the lines between theatre and drag-stravaganza, the co-writers and performers take creative risks attempting to incorporate the highlights of both art forms. Entertaining parody songs give each king their spotlight moment, but the production struggles to maintain energy in transitions between musical numbers and scripted narrative sequences. After watching the cast dance through a whooping audience it was sometimes jarring to return to a scene kept to the stage. I wanted them to continue playing with the potential of the Tallulah’s Cabaret space and the non-existent fourth wall.
That being said, the kings commit whole hog to their personas — each bringing their own unique flair to this group of lovable scamps. Notably, the balls-to-the-wall stylings of Coyote Ugly (Gus Monet) are weird and wonderful. With sidekick Frat Rat in tow, Coyote’s dry humour and penchant for sleeping in walls adds a dose of crazed intensity.
Frat Haus: Evicted! centres queer fellowship beyond the world of the play, offering nightly cameos from local drag stars (see the Fringe website for the full list): it’s a celebration of a thriving community.
Moreover, the Frat Haus practices what they preach: priced as pay-what-you-can for their entire run, the Haus ensures they are the only ones selling feet pics here.
A Canadian Explains Eurovision to Other Canadians (Native Earth’s Aki Studio)
by Karen Fricker
Like many queer folk, multivalent performing and body artist Matti McLean found a haven in the spangly excesses of the Eurovision Song Contest. He shares the Euro-love with audiences in this hour-long show that combines confessional storytelling with a TED-talk-style lecture about the contest’s colourful history and arcane rules, laced through with karaoke versions of Eurovision songs. His contest knowledge is impressive, with loads of insider references tucked into his patter, and his warm manner invites audience engagement. At the performance I attended, many happily shouted out answers to quiz-style questions and sang along to early hit “Nel blu, dipinto di blu” (aka “Volare”) and the 2023 Finnish banger “Cha Cha Cha.”
While admittedly not the greatest singer, McLean’s commitment to the songs and to recreating some of the contest’s more eccentric choreography is winningly entertaining.
Having premiered the show in Orlando earlier this year, McLean’s continuing on to the Hamilton and Edmonton fringe festivals, blogging about performances he sees along the way. The piece is evidently still in development — he explained after our somewhat bumpy performance that he’s recently added visual elements and quadrupled his tech cues — and he could afford to clarify the narrative: the timeline of exactly when he discovered the contest is somewhat confusing.
The heart of the story, though, is strong: Embracing his love of Eurovision has been part of a journey to self-acceptance and singing his own song loud and proud.
Iris (says goodbye) [Soulpepper Theatre’s Michael Young Theatre]
by Hunter Weaymouth [NYR participant]
In Iris (says goodbye), death is a mixtape, and the audience gets to hit shuffle.
Created by the Dora Award–nominated duo Margot Greve (book and direction) and Ben Kopp (music and lyrics), this ambitious new musical unfolds in a liminal airport where souls await reincarnation. Iris is granted the rare opportunity to return to Earth and live another life. The catch? She can only choose her next life after watching how it ends. Throughout each show, random audience members select eight of 20 possible endings, shaping a one-of-a-kind performance.
Winner of the Fringe’s 2025 Adams Prize for Musical Theatre, Iris arrives at the Fringe with a $3,500 bursary and a guaranteed slot, and the production makes full use of those resources. It’s remarkably polished: tightly rehearsed, visually cohesive, and musically rich, thanks to a live band led by Kopp and co–music director Jonah Nung. Michelle Blight brings quiet magnetism as the observing Iris, while Sydney Gauvin, Madelaine Hodges, and Luca McPhee give the show emotional texture as the versions she might become.
Not every moment lands. While the comedic numbers crackle with clarity and energy, some dramatic songs feel overstretched. But the ensemble is committed and fluid, and Alessia Urbani’s costume design — vibrant reds for Iris, pale blues for everyone else — is subtle yet effective.
Iris (says goodbye) doesn’t always transcend its conceptual scaffolding, but its heart is intact. It’s a show about endings, told with invention, sincerity, and a clear affection for the weirdness of being alive.
People Suck: a musical airing of grievances (Theatre Passe Muraille)
by Shivani Nathoo [NYR Participant]
Humanity is awful — at least, according to the returning Fringe show People Suck, a comedic, heartfelt, and sometimes raunchy song cycle chronicling specific ways society stinks. It takes the audience on what the company describes as a “plotless emotional arc” — from lighthearted amusement to the depths of despair — before ending on a hopeful note.
The brilliance of Megan Phillips and Peter Cavell’s score lies in its variety. While many song cycles stick to a genre or two, People Suck balances traditional ballads and patter songs with calypso, rock, gospel, Gregorian chant, and opera (complete with spoken translation).
Even more impressive is the cast of five that nails each song. While all are excellent vocalists, Michelle Nash’s ability to ace both grounded ‘80s rock and floating soprano arias is particularly impressive.
Despite having no overarching plot, Jessica Sherman’s direction gives the production incredible flow, with acted transition and thematic musical interludes maintaining the audience’s attention. The cast’s ability to switch characters on a dime immerses the audience in each new world, even with a minimal set.
The use of physical comedy and choreography is also very clever, as exemplified by a tableau of the evolution poster during a song about Darwin.
The show doesn’t just excel at comedy. Two somber ballads were incredibly moving — with the audience hanging onto every second of Phillips’ and theatre veteran David Silvestri’s performances.
Rounding out the show with an upbeat ending, the finale interweaves previous themes and music, and makes one simple request: People, try sucking less.
The Zucchini Club (Tarragon Theatre Extraspace)
by Amarah Hasham-Steele [NYR Participant]
If you liked Dora the Explorer as a child, you’ll like Alexander Mantia’s The Zucchini Club as an adult. This musical hand-puppet show, performed in a miniature puppet theatre designed by Sal Mantia, follows zucchini-obsessed gardener Pasquale Provolone and a cast of charming city-dwelling creatures, including a squirrel, a possum, and Pasquale’s own pet dog.
As Pasquale attempts to guard his prized zucchini from potential predators, the animals, oblivious, perform their unique talents for the audience, vaudeville-style. The Zucchini Club channels all the warmth of a children’s show, just with more cursing and innuendos.
For such a playful piece, The Zucchini Club has unexpected political resonance. The central conflict is between an old man with a narrow vision of what matters and the vibrant, changing world around him.
The show advocates engaging with the world and finding beauty in the everyday urban outdoors. It asks its audience to look twice at Toronto’s raccoons and skunks, to remember that they make the city just as much as we do.
Above all, The Zucchini Club is simply fun. The puppets, designed by Alexander Mantia, Ronnie Burkett, Kim Crossley, and Dina Meschkuleit, engage in impressive physical comedy –– dancing, fighting, throwing themselves on the ground, all with a distinctly slapstick feel. The vaudeville performance features music (composed by Jessa Richer and Alexander Mantia), dancing, comedy, magic, and poetry, each performed by an adorable animal.
This was not a show with many emotional highs and lows. For 60 minutes straight, all I did was smile.
Zeitgeist (Cinecycle)
by Nirris Nagendrarajah [NYR participant]
Who exactly do you want to be?
In Zeitgeist, written and directed by Ben Yoganathan, this question preoccupies its six eclectic characters — embittered exes, intellectual queers, hopeless romantics — over a single night.
In our oversaturated age of information, as the planet deteriorates and nations clash, to figure out your place and your purpose in the world can feel like a life sentence. The antidote, Yoganathan suggests, is making connections, falling in love, consuming substances, and thinking about art.
From the outset, after a meet-cute in a gallery leads to a party, Yoganathan projects his aesthetic inspirations onto a screen: a montage of scenes from films by Whit Stillman, Richard Linklater, and Noah Baumbach (among others), as well as the counsel of Rainer Maria Rilke, who urges us to “live everything.”
Taking place at Cinecycle, a bicycle repair shop turned underground cinema, the unabashed way this 75-minute play translates a cinematic sensibility into theatre is exhilarating, with a stylish naturalism, a cool attitude, and philosophically driven dialogue. In a riveting sequence, Alli Carry’s choreography and Christopher-Elizabeth’s brilliant lighting transport us to a dance floor, producing a kinetic energy that never wanes.
As it oscillates between its plots, that, combined, form a raw, erudite portrait of what early adulthood feels like, Zeitgeist illustrates that by believing in a future, one might thrive in the present, in order to, as one character puts it, “exist in the world, not outside of it.”
Yoganathan, an exciting, mature talent who freely draws from his desires and obsessions in lively, innovative ways, has fashioned a theatrical experience — no: a dream — you’ll wish to live in.
UFC 3: No Laughing Matter (Sweet Action Theatre)
by Liam Donovan
Sweet Action Theatre is creating mischief in the unconventional venue category with a characteristically unhinged offering: A try-not-to-laugh battle between seven Toronto clowns and comedians (including three rotating guests).
The hour-long production nicks its basic format from the Japanese game show Documental (repackaged internationally as Laughing Out Loud): After a player laughs once, they receive a warning; next, they’re eliminated.
Introducing the July 4 showdown, emcee Isaac Kessler explained that UFC 3 is in “beta,” and Sweet Action is using Fringe to work out the exact rules.
For now, the competition is largely a free-for-all, with the performers anarchically leaping into comedic bits. On the night I attended, these ranged from a performance of the song “Tomorrow” (Victoria Watson Sepejak) to prop work with wet hot dog buns (Vinay Sagar) to a reading of intentionally bad jokes (guest Jenny Serwylo) and beyond. At one point, Sweet Action founder Gordon Neill even traded his shirt for a superhero-like mask and crept up on other contestants.
The show is a spontaneity-ridden delight. What needs clarification is the relationship of the audience to the competition. One spectator was cast as judge, but their rulings were frequently overridden by Kessler, making the assignment feel tenuous. And while we were theoretically allowed to call out laughter on sight, only a couple of people got involved.
By the way… UFC 3 is not a sequel. The number is there just ‘cause. If that illogic resonates, you’ll dig this battle royale.
Silence (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Victor Zhang [NYR participant]
There is a void in Silence, written by Fawad Khan and directed by Zain Ahmed. Not merely caused by family turmoil, it’s one that extends to the realities of political oppression and state violence.
Struggling with the disappearance of their youngest son, a Pakistani family is trapped in this resounding void.
The 60-minute political melodrama has a succinct yet effective aesthetic (designed by Pola Rodriguez): minimalist lighting design, a mundane family room with a dining table and chairs, and a cellphone ringtone recurring throughout.
The talented ensemble cast are tasked with subtly communicating emotions. There’s the frail, absent-minded patriarch (Naveed Kamal); the taciturn, acquiescent daughter-in-law (Mahnoor Khan); a morally obligated son grappling with dire family conditions (a stellar Matt Scerii); and a fearless but desperate mother searching for the means to rise from out of the void (a captivating Andrea Larrañaga).
Along the way to the play’s brief yet piercing conclusion, the characters ask how we move forward in life without receiving the closure we pray for and the healing we desire. In a promotional video, Larrañaga shared that Silence is about believing in hope, even when we are in pain.
So, from that void, what do we see?
Isolated individuals wanting to hold onto memories of loved ones in the ruins of systemic violence, demanding accountability from the powers that erase them — even while knowing any answer they receive may be hollow, and their efforts could ultimately vanish.
Yet activism in art is never in vain. Watching the play rekindled that belief for me — showing how art can bear witness, challenge erasure, and carry memory forward, even in the face of the void.
Childhood by Cheap Wine (VideoCabaret)
by Columbia Roy
Cheap Wine is kicking off its Fringe season by clearing up a common literary misconception: It’s not Frankenstein, it’s Frankenstein’s boner.
Composed of Charlotte Creaghan, Jesse McQueen, and Jack Creaghan, the sketch trio takes audiences through a whirlwind of emotions exploring childhood and the childishness lingering within us. Jack and Charlotte were siblings as children — and as far as we can tell they still are — while Jack and Jesse are married (not as children). Together they tackle issues relevant to all ages such as: Are my parents getting divorced? How many screwdrivers can I drink before I shit my pants? What are the ethical implications of experimenting on living beings?
Set to the soothing tones of Darude’s “Sandstorm,” Childhood by Cheap Wine is raunchy and fun. The performers’ strong personal ties help create a laid-back, comfortable environment where they can laugh at each other as much as we laugh at them.
During Fringe, VideoCabaret’s Deanne Taylor Theatre is arranged in the round, and while not the most natural setting for sketch comedy, it’s clear that the company has consciously adapted to the space and is continuing to find their flow. With help from movement and staging consultant Lizzie Moffatt, they make use of aisles and include deliberate choreography to ensure that no seat is safe from their silliness.
From the sketch troupe who are decidedly not a throuple, Childhood by Cheap Wine is a clever concoction of scenes centring simpler times before our frontal lobes developed.
Pornstar (i) [Soulpepper Theatre’s RBC Finance Studio]
by Nirris Nagendrarajah [NYR participant]
All comedies run the risk of having the audience laugh at them rather than with.
Such is the case with Pornstar (i), co-written and co-directed by Tharshan Raj, who also stars as Ari, a larger-than-life personality modelled after Kollywood comedians such as Vadivelu and Vivek. Described as a “dramedy,” the play ping-pongs from melodrama to crassness but struggles to convincingly strike either tone, which estranged me from immersing myself in its latent humor and heart.
When we first meet him, Ari is on a porn set in Montreal, but a phone call from his mother Kavitha (a particularly strong Sumathy Balaram), who has heard through the grapevine about his secret life, results in a well-timed episode of coitus interruptus.
“I did what all great thinkers do,” he explains to her about his transition from cinema to porn: “Pivot!”
But what he hasn’t thought about is how this decision impacts the women in his life.
Despite poor lighting choices that often leave the performers in the dark (lighting design is by co-writer and co-director Mayurathan Thevathas) and awkward transitions between scenes, there are moments when the show glimmers: in a drug-induced nightmare and a wild third-act twist, for instance.
But in retrospect, an absent father — whose voice, and anticipated arrival, applies pressure to the narrative but never materializes — undoes the dramatic stakes Pornstar (i) attempts to create, leaving the audience high but dry.
“I can’t quit,” Ari resolves, since his passion for his art is greater than anyone else’s pride — an inspiring thought.
James & Eddie (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Hunter Weaymouth [NYR participant]
In James & Eddie, the winner of the Fringe’s 2025 New Play Contest, playwright-performer M.J. Kang delivers a deeply affecting memory play that captures the fractured, often surreal experience of growing up between cultures. Set in 1980s Toronto and told through the eyes of Eun-Kyung, the youngest daughter of a Korean immigrant family, the piece unfolds as a whirlwind of memory: funny, tender, and quietly devastating.
Co-directed by Kang, Elsha Kim, and Katherine Ko — who also make up the cast — the production is a model of collaborative storytelling. Kang plays Eun-Kyung throughout, anchoring the play in her perspective, while Kim and Ko shift seamlessly between a range of characters within the Korean-Canadian community, including parents, siblings, and childhood friends.
There is no traditional set, only a few laundry baskets, two chairs, and the occasional prop. Lighting changes, designed by Annasofie Jakobsen, subtly signal time and place. The imaginative restraint of the staging allows the emotional landscape to take centre stage.
What begins in joy slips gradually into unease. The story moves from hopscotch and Charlie’s Angels to parental violence, cultural erasure, and even death. A final revelation lands with emotional force — not for shock, but for truth.
Kang’s writing is unsentimental, but rich with compassion. The humour is organic, often springing from the perspective of a child trying to make sense of an adult world. The result is a piece that feels specific, universal, and entirely human.
James & Eddie is not just a story remembered. It is a story reclaimed, and in that reclamation, something rare and luminous takes shape.
Quiltro (Soulpepper Theatre’s TD Finance Studio)
by Zoe Magirias [NYR participant]
What would a dog do? Steal slushies, bare teeth, and fight back, of course!
Quiltro, by Yasmine Agocs, follows the (almost) fearless, 13-year-old, self-proclaimed “dog girl” Nina (Cheyla McNally Rondon) as she runs away from home in hopes of living among the strays, only to realize that a beast has been trailing behind her all her life.
The 1973 Chilean coup acts as a powerful backdrop for the memories Nina inherits from her abuelita, who would feed the neighbourhood dogs every day until she was attacked by a yellow-eyed, grey-skinned creature with jagged teeth. Nina’s dream is to find these dogs, and along with them, a sense of belonging and connection to her roots.
Alejandra Angobaldo, the other half of this two-hander, is a complete shapeshifter. Her ability to slip into man, beast, and everything in between is striking, and makes for a captivating performance.
The dynamic direction from Asenia Lyall works in tandem with the haunting sound and lighting design (Evan Moritz) to create an unsettling atmosphere that I’d call Southern Ontario Gothic.
Agocs’ script could use some sharpening. Ideas get lost in dialogue, not always connecting back to the revolutionary heart of the piece, and Nina’s ability to experience other people’s memories feels both underdeveloped and overcomplicating.
Basil Page Productions paints a deliciously dark picture of the trauma that chases victims of imperialism and their descendants. Quiltro is a mutt, mongrel, a dog of mixed breeds, defying genre via the small acts of revolution speckled throughout its fur.
A Sexy Pigeon Show (Soulpepper Theatre’s TD Finance Studio)
by Toni Burrell [NYR participant]
Whether you believe that pigeons are rats with wings, or that they’re awesome feathered friends, A Sexy Pigeon Show, from the Ottawa-based Lighter Touch Art Collective, will make you start to appreciate them or appreciate them even more. This one-bird show is co-written by Erik Karklins and Sarah Ivanco, who plays beloved Colum, an alley-pigeon that tries to curry favour with humans.
The staging of A Sexy Pigeon Show offers all a pigeon needs — a good nest, scraps of cigarettes, and a neat corset (makeup design by Harley Wegner, costume design by Sarah Ivanco).
The play involves audience participation, and Erik Karklins’ lighting highlights participants, bringing focus to those volunteers. For more serious scenes, the lights are either focused on Ivanco, or the entire stage (when she’s moving around and interacting with props or audience). The sound design, also by Karklins, captures Calum’s mood and the cityscape, making it feel like we’re actually in the alley or the city fountain.
Karklins and Ivanco are part of the neurodivergent community, and their work caters to neurodivergent folks like myself: each scene kept me engaged, and I was able to feel the shifting emotions as Colum experienced them.
The audience eagerly partook in Colum’s bid to gain the attention and love of humans, like the animals had in the past, before humans moved the goalpost, shifting pigeons from “pets to pest.” Ivanco’s angelic singing voice, use of the space (onstage and in the audience), well-paced speech, and over-the-top puns make A Sexy Pigeon Show worth the watch.
The Adding Machine (The Puppy Sphere)
by Columbia Roy
What would you do with a second chance at life? Mr. Zero would find another job.
Leroy Street Theatre’s The Adding Machine, adapted and directed by Alice Fox Lundy from Elmer Rice’s 1923 play, explores a world staring down the barrel of human redundancy. A model employee for 25 years, Mr. Zero (Tim Walker) murders his boss after being replaced by an adding machine and is promptly executed.
Waking up in Elysium — the plane for virtuous souls — he meets QWERTY (Jamar Adams-Thompson), a matricidal yet compulsively religious man who believes his sinful heart deserves eternal punishment. Free to read, paint, or simply relax, Mr. Zero panics realizing there is nothing to do in the afterlife except live, and instead chooses to tirelessly operate an adding machine.
The Adding Machine interrogates the purpose of modern life — what if technological advancement is not existential progress? Mr. Zero cannot fathom life beyond a job, even as jobs become more meaningless in each lifetime.
Walker and Adams-Thompson deliver standout performances; their fine-tuned reactions and natural chemistry is magnetic. Even the smallest movement of their exaggerated characters — a tight-lipped smile, or the widening of eyes — brings laughter in the face of existential dread.
Despite centering machinery, the play is painfully human and painfully relevant. Like Mr. Zero, we cannot maintain meaningful relationships when all our energy is devoted to work. The brick-walled industrial venue is cold yet intimate, perfectly suiting the piece.
Dark and witty, The Adding Machine questions whether chasing our own obsolescence has alienated us from the point of living.
A Cigarette That’s Good For You (Soulpepper Theatre’s RBC Finance Studio)
by Ilana Lucas
Why are there so many cigarette slogans out there? A nicotine-themed “Rainbow Connection” jingle bookends Sketch Don’t Kill My Vibe’s fever dream of a sketch comedy show A Cigarette That’s Good For You. The energetic and polished company is piping full of addictively creative ideas; they work well together and mostly nail the comic timing on sketches presenting a dating app for moderates, a game show that identifies the racist origins of common phrases, and a YouTube channel where Roz and Mocha slowly lose their grip on reality. Once they learn to cut every joke after its best punchline, they’ll be unstoppable.
Every performer gets a showcase moment or two; Carley Thorne and Talia Rockland hit particular heights together, whether portraying a dumb blonde femme fatale and jealous plain Jane secretary; Toronto Raptors dancers having two very different days; or both the dying, elderly father obsessed with mobile games and the doctor who won’t stop reviving him.
The troupe’s only significant misstep is an interesting but long and tonally inappropriate piece about a deceased dad with unfinished business that’s more tragic than funny. Ironically, it’s a sketch that almost kills the show’s vibe. But it’s quickly forgotten as the next puff of laughter passes your lips.
Terrible Fish (Soulpepper Theatre’s TD Finance Studio)
by Ilana Lucas
When you’re a woman well into your 40s — or, god forbid, even older — you tend to disappear. Sylvia Plath’s 1961 poem “Mirror” described the aging visage of a woman staring into the glass with horror, seeing herself not as a picture of Dorian Gray, but as a “terrible fish.” Despite her frustrations with the patriarchy, writer-performer Caitlin Murphy proudly wears this marine moniker. Terrible Fish is a rousing and witty monologue that refuses invisibility; part sociological study, part personal reflection about the tribulations of aging and the capriciousness of both physical and societal betrayal, it careers with aplomb from Germaine Greer to online dating to zoological data to a completely unromantic (and therefore refreshing) look at motherhood.
Murphy has a commanding stage presence and adroitly pulls together disparate threads while accompanying herself on the piano or banjo, alternately evoking cowboy films, Tori Amos tunes, and Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. Boldly looking into the societal mirror, she asks us to reflect on why we’re all so afraid of an aging woman.
The audience at the showing I attended was primarily comprised of women of a certain age, but Murphy’s message should be heard by everyone. Plus, anyone who rhymes “youth fails” with “toothed whales” is my hero.
Galen’s Grocer (Soulpepper Theatre’s RBC Finance Studio)
by Ilana Lucas
Galen Easton and his Canada-wide grocery store chains have an image problem; namely, that billionaires aren’t relatable. So the thinly disguised corporate magnate decides to create Galen’s Grocer, a sitcom set at a No Frills but so similar to Kim’s Convenience that it uses its character names and theme music. (That his fictional wife and children are cast from three different ethnicities doesn’t seem to matter.) Meanwhile, there’s a CEO-killer on the loose and plenty of drama backstage, as the actors have ulterior motives for taking their thankless roles.
Director Dave Barclay’s production packs in many entertaining verbal and visual gags in its social satire of both the Westons and past Fringe darling Kim’s, including cartoonishly violent reactions to shoplifters and serial killers alike, No Name-branded props, and puppet portrayals of the magnates who are Galen’s only supposed friends (designer Nitin Anand). Thomas Sharpe’s strong performance as the affably evil Galen anchors the show; whether earnestly doing a questionable Paul Hyun-Sung Lee impression or whining about his inability to buy love, he’s just so hate-worthy. Lance Oribello and Gunjan also stand out, sparks flying between the shallow meathead portraying Jung and the no-nonsense crusader behind Umma.
However, Ian Yamamoto’s wacky script doesn’t consistently create enough distance from the original media property or the Weston empire to be a truly clever parody, often seeking laughs solely of recognition rather than transformative commentary. Here, it tries to have its President’s Choice-brand cake and eat it too.
Don’t Fall In (Alumnae Theatre)
by Shivani Nathoo [NYR Participant]
What happens when your work takes on a life of its own? Kara is about to find out.
Don’t Fall In follows Kara (Reo Reilly), a magical academy student working on their final story for Story Brewing 401. With the deadline approaching and their assignment in shambles, Kara employs magic ink and finds themselves inside their story. What follows is an hour-long musical fantasy adventure filled with queerness, spells, and self-discovery, as Kara works to solve the problems they’ve brewed in both the real world and the written one.
Debut playwright Holland Ziemann’s usage of a story within a story is clever, with fairytale characters adding depth and dimension to their real-world counterparts in ways that remain unseen until the show’s final moments. At times, though, the embedded narrative results in uneven pacing, with some scenes feeling very information-heavy.
Don’t Fall In’s musical numbers are where the production and cast really shine. Ziemann’s score is full of intricate harmonies, dizzying jumps, and emotional key changes — which the cast handle flawlessly under the musical direction of recent Dora Award-winner Michael Ippolito.
The cast are able to both hold their own as individual performers, rising to the occasion during big vocal (and Kazumpet) solos, and cohere as a unit, as is particularly evident when they join forces and act as one entity near the climax.
In today’s unpredictable world, Don’t Fall In serves as a poignant reminder that despite the chaos, we are still the authors of our own stories.
Quiz Icarus (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Amarah Hasham-Steele [NYR Participant]
At Quiz Icarus, Nam Nguyen and Aaron Brown create community well before the house lights go down. Bouncing up and down the aisles, Nguyen shakes hands, asks for names, and cracks jokes. When the show starts, I feel like we’re already old friends.
Quiz Icarus is Nguyen and Brown’s story of falling in love with — and eventually competing on — Jeopardy!. But it’s also the story of their friendship, the story of the niche and nerdy world of trivia, and the story of chasing an exhilarating, impractical dream. Animated by Nguyen’s energy, Brown’s vulnerability, and a carefully cultivated feeling of intimacy between actors and audience, Quiz Icarus is a love letter to quirky subcultures everywhere.
The show’s greatest strength is its audience engagement. Jeopardy!-style trivia questions are projected behind the stage, and two lucky viewers can answer them throughout the show. As the performance ends, Nguyen and Brown invite those two viewers onstage to compete in a round of Jeopardy!. Each time a question appeared, I could hear the whole room murmuring guesses.
The interactivity of the show underscores its point, that passion — whether for Jeopardy!, theatre, or anything else — begets community. The best part of competing on Jeopardy! is that it’s played together, alongside people who are weird in the same way you are. The warmth and camaraderie that fills the Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse is proof of that. So is the friendship between Nguyen and Brown. After all, regardless of whether they won when they competed on Jeopardy! — and I won’t spoil the outcome — we know that they found each other.
My Pet Lizard, Liz: The Shakespearean Existential Crisis that Led to His Ultimate Demise (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Ferron Delcy
An acerbic Scottish lizard, Liz had my heart the second I heard him speak. But don’t think My Pet Lizard, Liz — from writer-performer Shaharah “Gaz” Gaznabbi and director Anand Rajaram — is all quirky, musical fun. Gaznabbi has penned a smart takedown of the Western theatrical canon and its “balding bisexual” overlord, Shakespeare.
Gaz wants to nail their Hamlet audition, but they keep messing up the “To be or not to be” soliloquy — and their pet lizard, Liz (puppet built by Natasha Ross and Lindsey Griffith) has had enough. Shakespeare is depressing and humans won’t let him go. Determined to become a new kind of playwright, Liz mounts an original show at Toronto Fringe. Meanwhile, Gaz faces off against the glaring spotlight of the audition room (lighting design by Vasilisa Filippova).
Bookended by scenes set after Liz’s death, My Pet Lizard, Liz portrays not just grief but the experience of feeling like an outsider in the theatre industry. Reflective moments punctuate the show’s laugh-out-loud absurdist comedy. Gaz’s audition scenes, in particular, introduce a touching vulnerability about finding your way as an artist.
Gaznabbi is a talented performer who is still honing their acting and singing. Skilled at puppetry and charmingly funny, some of their more emotionally heavy scenes — like those at the beginning and end — feel less lived in. Granted, Gaznabbi addresses within the show their reliance on humour in the face of tragedy.
By the way, that revelation happens in conversation with a character called Lizard God: just another example of the show’s blend of kooky humour with insightful commentary on reverence, art, and community.
Paper Chase (Tarragon Theatre Extraspace)
by Columbia Roy
Inspired by playwright-performer Hugo van Essen’s personal odyssey to secure Canadian residency, Paper Chase is a fast-paced bureaucratic nightmare that confronts audiences with the question: How far are you willing to go to stay where you are?
Fledgling psychologist and college dropout Erik (van Essen) has 30 days to scrape together enough cash to convince Immigration, Refugee, and Citizenship Canada (the IRCC) that he is worthy of a visa. Naturally, when facing deportation, dealing psychedelics is the most reliable course of action. As the deadline approaches, Erik’s antics escalate dramatically, from touting psilocybin’s health benefits to compromising his friendships for larger deals.
Designer Ashley Ferguson weaves Erik’s desperation into the set. Hundreds of papers collaged onto a stage-left panel frame a screen displaying an airport departures board, running a constant countdown to deportation day.
Clocking in at 50 minutes, Director Kate Kolo has crafted a show that is punchy and brief, mirroring the narrative itself. With five other actors tackling roles from coked-up grandmothers, to Jeep-obsessed frat bros, to cutthroat government answering machines, the boisterous physicality of each supporting character perfectly counterpoints the introspective, soft-spoken Erik.
At its core, Paper Chase is a play about community, and the friendships we build that make somewhere home. It explores feelings of dehumanization in the immigration process while commenting on the systemic disparities in immigration policy. Through tongue-in-cheek humor and a strategically placed European passport, Paper Chase offers a lighthearted look into stressful realities, and reminds us of the importance of accepting support.
Alpha (Soulpepper Theatre’s Michael Young Theatre)
by Florian Montague [NYR Participant]
Alpha’s Hilltop College is rippling with scandal, as word spreads about the titular character’s sexual assault accusation and subsequent arrest. The show begins with five students filing into their classroom, eager to gossip about the current events. Alpha is written and performed by the Naparima College Drama Club from Trinidad and Tobago, where the story is set, with the cast age ranging from 12 to 18, in a production directed by Jeanelle L. Archer-Chan.
The five main characters never leave the classroom, but, through subtle costume changes, a live band, and a variety of in-world skits, the audience is transported all over the fictional school’s town. The music, the Creole English script (with surtitles), the local references, as well as the ritual stickfighting (called Kalinda) all help infuse the show with a strong sense of culture and place. The boys spend most of the play trading conflicting rumours about the events that occurred prior to the rape, speculating on Alpha’s troubled home life, and pondering on the definition of masculinity today.
In between bouts of lively banter, they take turns engaging in the well-performed, emotionally charged skits, transforming into Alpha, his parents, and his eventual victim. The music and lights work harmoniously to provide a festive, upbeat energy to the lighter scenes, and an eerie, harsh coldness as the subject matter darkens.
Perhaps most haunting of all was the decision to leave the five main characters unnamed; they are instead identified by number. The only student character named at all is the never-seen Alpha, a chilling reminder that Alpha could have been any one of them.
Confessions of a Redheaded Coffeeshop Girl (Alumnae Theatre)
by Krystal Abrigo
Rebecca Perry returns to the Fringe with Confessions of a Redheaded Coffeeshop Girl, a solo hit revived a decade after its original run. Set in 2013 and packed with razor-sharp period references (“Starships” by Nicki Minaj! Owl necklaces! Lady Gaga’s meat dress!), the show follows Joanie Little, an anthropology grad brewing lattes while waiting for her life to start.
A diehard Jane Goodall fan, Joanie turns her café gig into a field study. She likens her boss to a silverback ape, a jogger to a wild turkey, her ex-boyfriend to a preening male peacock, and a construction worker in a fluorescent safety vest to a grinning zebra. Even her tipping strategy becomes data collection — one question, three jars, and full social analysis.
Perry is wonderfully charismatic and animated. Her character work is crisp; she zips between personas with ease, keeping the energy high and the audience fully engaged through every wild twist and turn. Her writing bursts with vivid detail and hilariously specific metaphors, while a live musician (Quinton Naughton) adds distinctive sound cues that punch up the pacing and comedy.
As someone currently deep in the chaos of my 20s, I found Joanie deeply relatable. Fast-paced and laugh-out-loud funny, Confessions suggests that if your life’s a mess, you might as well treat it like a safari — observe the madness, document the patterns, and try not to get eaten.
Have Fun Kids (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Ferron Delcy
Written and performed by Laura Anne Harris and directed by Jessie Fraser as part of the curated Next Stage Series, Have Fun Kids captures the beauty and fragility of memory. Through deeply personal storytelling, Harris pays tribute to her friend Jordan Mechano, a Toronto theatre artist who died by suicide in 2020. The performance, Harris shares, is an exercise that enables her to remember.
Audio clips of Mechano’s unpublished manuscript musings punctuate Harris’ stories about their friendship and her beat-by-beat relation of the day Mechano died. Meanwhile, a pixelated image projected onto two screens comes into focus at a glacial pace, mirroring the patchwork process of recollection.
The piece is partly guided by four meaningful objects (designed by Merle Harley), each enclosed in a wooden box, each prompting a different story. Audience members, the Fringe webpage says, choose elements of the show’s content before it begins. It seems audience members may have selected the four objects before the show started (although I didn’t see this process) — meaning Harris did not know which objects she would encounter before opening the boxes.
Harris follows many thematic threads. Mental health, community, grief, motherhood, the practice of creating art, and the art of staying alive. Sometimes these tangents seem only loosely related. That said, Harris keeps the show grounded with her calming presence and light humour: I felt like I was chatting with a good friend. Her experience as a performer was palpable in her easeful command of the stage. Early on, Harris jokes about a question she’s often asked: “Will your show make me cry?” Be warned — the closing revelation of Have Fun Kids understandably had everyone around me in tears.
A Play We Just Wrote Just Now (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Gus Lederman
Readers, for this scene we need a location…
Tarragon Theatre Solo Room!
How about a relationship?
A dauntless drag queen duo!
And a genre?
Glittery gay comedy!
Hilary Yaas is chastising the audience and Selena Vyle is running late. There are wigs. Everywhere. It’s a chaos train right from the pre-show and it doesn’t stop chugging until the 60-minute runtime is up. A Play We Just Wrote Just Now is exactly what it sounds like: Yaas and Vyle, armed with a rack of costumes, wigs, and a randomized playlist, improvise a play on the spot. At the opening show, the audience’s prompt was a John Green-esque young adult story that starts at an ice cream stand and ends at prom.
The story went off-course quite a bit as Yaas and Vyle continued to throw ideas out there. They didn’t always pick up on each other’s offers, which could’ve helped streamline the narrative. There were a lot of funny characters, but it was hard to follow at times. The strongest points of the show were in the audience interaction. Yaas and Vyle are great at teasing audience members just enough without going too far.
After the nerves of opening day wear off, I imagine Yaas and Vyle will settle more into their dynamic, allowing their comedy to come through stronger and more clearly. The show will be completely different at every performance, and their energy and commitment to absurdity is enough to guarantee a good time.
Regarding Antigone (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Gus Lederman
You are entirely captivated by creator-performer Banafsheh Hassani from the moment they open their eyes. They demand your attention with their gaze and hold it without reprieve.
You’re tuned in to Regarding Antigone: a raw and inimitable solo show co-produced by Tiohtià:ke (Montreal) groups The Sky is the Limit Theatre and Sort of Productions. They create theatre with and for racialized, queer, and immigrant artists.
You listen as Hassani tells explosive vignettes of violence, painting an overarching narrative of love and creation in the face of state brutality. They weave a tapestry of short narratives, pulling threads from their own life, war photography, and the Greek tragedy Antigone.
Hassani uses second-person language to remind you of your role as an audience to inhumanity. You oscillate between chills, discomfort, and laughter, enamored by their striking physicality and director Art Babayants’ staging.
At the end of the show, you’re invited to decompress from the heaviness of the show with some self-regulation techniques. You’re also asked questions, encouraging discussion about the show’s themes with other audience members. You admire the care put into this show, from Hassani’s performance to the post-show debrief. It’s designed to allow you to connect with strangers and process the profound experience you’ve just had.
You try to put Regarding Antigone into words, but feel that there isn’t anything to say that could be more succinct than Hassani’s words in the show. So you end your review here, and urge readers to go see it instead.
Bitty-Bat and Friends (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Gus Lederman
Have you ever been to the bat cave at the ROM, but wished that the fake bats were replaced by humans with bald caps, tiny hands, and impeccable physical comedy? Well, Bitty-Bat and Friends will fulfill that desire in 60 hilarious minutes.
Bitty-Bat and Friends is the inaugural show of the artist collective Snacks Provided, established by 2024 members of the Fringe’s TENT program, which trains emerging artists in theatre production. And snacks are indeed on offer — as long as you can answer some bat trivia first.
A rotating cast of clowns, burlesque performers, and zoo animals open the show. At the performance I attended, burlesque duo Dolly Wilde (Alex Vermey) and Ingrid Moonshine (Kiana Woo) performed entrancing acts, the former being scary-sexy and the latter being silly-sexy.
A zookeeper (Hilary Wheeler) emcees, welcoming the audience to a tour of the Toronto Zoo. The main event is the bat cave, where we find Bitty-Bat (Emily Jeffers). The human-sized bat is hesitant at first, but slowly lets us in on their world of hunting, mating, and eating. Jeffers’ extensive clown training is evident; the smallest changes in her facial expressions incited snorts and cackles from the audience. The costuming plays a huge role in Jeffers’ physical comedy; she uses her long wings and tiny hands for recurring gags throughout the show.
The show doesn’t end with a clear button, but I’m not sure that it needs one. From open to close, physical comedy is the clear star of this zoo. It’s well worth the price of admission.
Wake Up (Tarragon Theatre Solo Room)
by Gus Lederman
A young queer couple goes camping, but there’s a sinister feeling that everything might not be as it seems. Charlie, played by playwright Lauralee Leonhardt, is having glitches in their memory and becomes increasingly disoriented. Two voices (Kennedi Knoch and Rosie Wu) taunt them as they try to enjoy their trip with their partner, Alice (Apollo Faulkner). Everything slowly unravels as Charlie questions their reality.
Wake Up is created by Twinkle Toads Theatre Company, a collective of young trans and queer artists. There’s a youthful energy to the show, even with the mature themes of grief and loss. It plays out like a sapphic YA novel with lots of cute first queer romance moments.
I attended the opening performance, when the cast didn’t seem entirely confident — likely first show jitters. I sense that they have the vigour to grow more self-assured throughout their run, especially with a supportive audience.
There’s a moment in the show where the mystery of what Charlie is experiencing is explained quite bluntly. I felt that the story could stand on its own without that exposition, allowing the audience to draw their own conclusions.
The set is a highlight, particularly the camping tent and chairs that the four-person design team has painted with forest scenes. It’s a clever way to make the most of the few design elements a Fringe slot’s quick setup/tear-down time allows.
Wake Up fits in with the young, crafty spirit of Fringe that empowers emerging artists to tell their stories. I’ll be rooting for them all.
Judge Mintz (Tarragon Theatre Extraspace)
by Samantha Unger [NYR participant]
Watching Bailiff Hay (Brandon Craggs) swear in each plaintiff, defendant, and witness over a copy of Law for Dummies opens a strange stint on a jury.
During its 75-minute runtime, Judge Mintz presents four cases, built around suggestions shouted by the audience to the Honourable Judge Mintz (J.J. Greenberg) himself. The comedians playing each role bring distinctive characterizations, complete with catchy walk-up music, wacky costumes, and fake accents (which, in the best way, are not always appropriate for the case’s setting).
At the show I attended, a landlord dressed as a knight (Ghazal Ghiami) tried to evict their WrestleMania-hosting tenant (Chelsea Larkin), and a jeweler with a hook for a hand (Carley Thorne) was accused of bullying, among other cases.
Some character combinations land better than others; with different comedians for each case and show (including special guest Colin Mochrie on July 6), the improvisations are playfully imperfect. Meanwhile, Greenberg and Craggs’ characters and their doting relationship bring needed structure and continuity to unify an otherwise disjointed experience.
My favourite part was a recurring sequence called “Judge Mintz’s final judgements,” in which Greenberg (accompanied by dramatic lighting and sound echoing Who Wants to be a Millionaire?) delivers unexpected resolutions after the audience determines the guilty party — via applause, of course. Sentences like marriage or a second hook hand exemplify the show’s hallmark unpredictability.
The verdict? Judge Mintz is weird, chaotic, and fun. If you want improvised nonsense on your docket, catch the show at Fringe — or monthly at Comedy Bar, should you miss your court date.
Adam Bailey: My Three Deaths (Native Earth’s Aki Studio)
by Liam Donovan
More than once during this hour-long storytelling show, writer-performer Adam Bailey questions the accuracy of the monologue’s title — he is, after all, alive enough to be premiering My Three Deaths in his home province before heading to the Winnipeg and Edmonton fringe festivals.
But I think the wording is accurate enough. In a plain black tee, with the help of a single chair, Bailey recounts three experiences where he was taken for dead, by himself or others. He explains at the show’s beginning that the stories are ordered not chronologically but by ascending intensity, and often analyzes them in relation to a triptych of deaths he recently experienced in a single year’s span: that of his last living grandparent, his mother, and his cat of 16 years.
Bailey is a well-known Fringe face and has calibrated the show’s ups and downs with care. While on opening night his delivery at times veered toward rushing, it’s clear that the foundation is solid, and I strongly expect that his performance will solidify over time.
In my experience, the first two stories, about getting stuck in a ditch and being born without a pulse, acted primarily as lighthearted setup for the final tale, which concerns a full-on near-death experience. A couple clever lighting effects only bolstered the surreal profundity of hearing how his thoughts progressed from panic, to frustration, to disarming calm.
Edgar in the Red Room (Helen Gardiner Phelan Playhouse)
by Ferron Delcy
Written by Matt Chiorini and Greg Giovanini, Edgar in the Red Room is an hour-long fever dream. Grim humour, shadow puppets, and two delightfully terrible wigs power this romp through Edgar Allan Poe’s corpus of dark tales. Oh, and it’s also a musical. That’s a lot for one Fringe show to handle, but Edgar somehow manages — delivering a remarkably lucid reflection on Poe’s life and legacy, with a telltale amount of heart.
There are two Poes in this play: the Writer (Carly Nicolai) and his creation/double (George LeBrun). As the Writer crafts the story we’re watching, lines blur between character and creator, fiction and reality. The result is a dizzying composite of Poe’s works, drawn from “Fall of the House of Usher,” “Berenice,” “Annabel Lee,” and others.
The Chiorini-directed production takes risks with practical effects and choreography (by Maya June Dwyer) — and when it works, it’s magical. That said, there were a few technical snags opening night, and room for a more polished presentation overall.
Where the show really shines is its original songs (with musical direction and keyboard by Giovanini), which set Poe’s words to an often morbidly upbeat score; the musical stylings of Cabaret come to mind. Other highlights include Kilian Crowley as the ghoulish Roderick Usher and stunning Gothic costumes designed by Kylee Galarneau.
This story about Poe’s life is really about his death — or vice versa. Edgar finds the humanity at the centre of that tale while amplifying the campy caricature that looms larger than life. Hence, the wigs.
Divine Monster (Soulpepper Theatre’s RBC Finance Studio)
by Ilana Lucas
In the dead of night in Paris’ famous Père-Lachaise cemetery, the ghost of legendary actress Sarah Bernhardt (Bonnie Anderson) has a once-in-a-deathtime chance to come back to the land of the living — if despondent and dumped young musician Martha (Hope Goudsward) will unwittingly allow her body to become the vessel. Part history lesson on Bernhardt’s life and career, part supernatural thriller, and part exhortation to enjoy what you have while you still have it, Elena Kaufman’s Divine Monster (directed by Mary Dwyer) is bolstered by an entertaining concept and a trio of committed performances, alongside a minimal but effective graveyard set and period-evoking costumes (design consultant Debra Hale). Anderson is très français, Greg Campbell gamely throws himself into playing every male figure in Bernhardt’s life, from lovers to famous friends, and Goudsward provides a sense of modern irony.
The 45-minute work could benefit from further developing the relationship between Martha and Sarah, as the conclusion feels perfunctory despite solid early groundwork and a couple of good jokes about social media. Some of the most interesting aspects deal with Bernhardt’s Jewishness and her romances with women, neither of which endeared her to parochial gatekeepers. Is she really a succubus, the play asks, or a greater force of nature?
The Singing Psychic Game Show (Soulpepper Theatre’s Tank House Theatre)
by Ilana Lucas
She reads the song in your heart rather than your tea leaves, but she’s still a psychic and (according to her) she’s always right. That’s the conceit of Marysia Trembecka’s The Singing Psychic Game Show, a largely improvised, audience participation-heavy solo performance that’s textbook Fringe wackiness (and has played in festivals across the world).
In a vibrantly printed floor-length dress, unruly mop of blonde curls and staggeringly tall sandals — which didn’t make it past the first 10 minutes — Trembecka regales audiences with her talent, doing musical readings based on a chosen card, a song that charted on the participant’s birthday, or a parasol of prediction (costume and set by Martin Butterworth). These fortunes occur during loosely structured, basic games, but the competition between the four audience teams is mostly arbitrary and merely an excuse to call people up to dance.
Trembecka wanders into introspection as far as talking about the versions of Maria Callas and Edith Piaf who live in her head; it would have been nice to delve further into the concept of song-as-tarot, and a more solid storytelling framework would help to balance the charming but shambolic game-playing. In the end, this one’s as fun as the audience is willing to engage with the personable host, who projects genuine warmth into her predictions.
Everything You Do is a Balloon (Soulpepper Theatre’s TD Finance Studio)
by Ilana Lucas
It’s challenging to encapsulate Reanne Spitzer’s sub-40-minute solo work about a woman trying, on her birthday, to come to terms with her multifaceted identity in a mindscape comprised entirely of balloons, so that she can obtain a ticket to a social media rave headlined by “DJ Ceviche.” It’s equally challenging to discuss it without spoilers, so you’ve been warned. Fluidly directed through the balloonscape by Andrew Cameron, the Dora Award-winning Spitzer is a high-energy, tremendously engaging performer, and her script is so full of biting humour that in the early minutes it’s hard to catch all of it over the laughter. A scene where she delivers a grant application vocoder-style is iconic and potentially worth the price of admission on its own.
When things get deeper, Spitzer also ponders the current internal conflict many Jews in the arts face (this reviewer included) in a way that feels honest, pointed, and real. On the other hand, the work is deliberately unfinished in a way that feels overly indulgent, following a popular current playwriting trend where the writer decides that a subject is too difficult to deal with, so it’s best to just give up. That’s understandable — it is difficult — but may be artistically frustrating for audiences once the shock value wears off.
Jimmy Hogg: The Potato King (VideoCabaret)
by Krystal Abrigo
What do you get when a manic, self-deprecating English comedian dates his way through southern Ontario? In Jimmy Hogg: The Potato King, the result is a fast-paced one-man show full of chaotic charm, delivered like a pint-fuelled pub tale… if the pub were dark, intimate and in-the-round.
Armed with only a stool, a mug, a phone, and his animated storytelling, Hogg, a Fringe circuit veteran, takes the audience through a whirlwind of dating misadventures, culinary metaphors, and unapologetic British self-loathing. The tales escalate from awkward romantic encounters to reflections on emotional growth, peppered with absurd details such as a Potato Grower Magazine monthly subscription (which is real, by the way) and a morel foraging session under the 401.
A joke about swapping a glass of milk for a pint of wine draws big laughs, as do recurring bits about Ontario place names and a sharp-tongued grandmother’s views on British cuisine. Some gags intentionally run long, but Hogg’s timing and command of the stage keep the momentum going.Rather than settling for a tidy conclusion, he leans into theatrical subversion, tossing out fake endings and a final callback to an earlier scene. Offbeat and sharply funny, The Potato King is an hour of controlled chaos that is surprisingly tender, even at its most unhinged.
Almost Ever After: A New Musical (Artists’ Play)
by Krystal Abrigo
Almost Ever After is an ambitious, clunky, and undeniably earnest attempt at a film-to-stage hybrid. Written and directed by Toronto Fringe regular Andrew Seok, the show adapts material from his upcoming musical film and draws inspiration from Love Actually. A 22-person cast navigates a web of loosely connected love stories. Some are cute, others overwrought, and many feel underdeveloped. The characters’ lives intersect in subtle and serendipitous ways, similar to the structure of the 2014 musical If/Then, though here the approach feels much less refined.
Staged in a brick-walled aerial gym with folding chairs, the show unfurls beneath a canopy of fairy lights, with a band onstage and performers cycling through romantic vignettes. A program note explains that each song aims to function like a standalone music video. But the addition of dialogue and plot between songs makes the concept feel disjointed. Rather than leaning fully into the music-video structure, the show tries to balance concert, story, and stage musical at once, without fully succeeding. The number of romantic couples also becomes overwhelming, making it difficult to invest in any particular arc.
There are touching moments. A scene between two strangers stuck in an elevator offers genuine warmth, while a storyline about a couple expecting a child carries the most emotional weight. The songs are sweet and Seok’s intentions sincere, but many of the jokes, packed with millennial and Gen Z references, fall flat. There’s heart here, but the ideas don’t translate very well onstage.
The 2025 Toronto Fringe Festival runs from July 2 to 13. Tickets are available here.
Intermission reviews are independent and unrelated to Intermission’s partnered content. Learn more about Intermission’s partnership model here.
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