Edinburgh Fringe Theatre reviews: 3 Chickens Confront Existence | The Ceremony + more...

Chickens facing the chop, an improv show that encourages compliance and a show about a cancelled show raise intriguing questions about free will writes Sally Stott in this existentialism-themed Fringe round-up

3 Chickens Confront Existence

Assembly Roxy (Venue 139), until 26 August

★★★★☆

The Ceremony

Summerhall (Venue 26), until 26 August 

★★★★☆

A Little Inquest Into What We Are All Doing Here

ZOO Southside (Venue 82), until 24 August

★★★★☆

A Play by John

theSpace @ Surgeons' Hall (Venue 53), until 17 August

★★★☆☆

“Hello, chickens. Welcome!” This is how we’re greeted, as we enter the theatre/factory, perhaps more similar than we’d like to think to the three feathered friends, with their full plumages, sitting in the row of cages in front of us. The title lets you know what’s going to happen: 3 Chickens Confront Existence. An alternative one could be Waiting for Broiler, only this time he turns up. 

While the Hugh Grant-esque Reginald (played by Eric Kirchberger, voice of the orange M&M) tries to anticipate the finale with an algorithmically verified “predictive model”, next door Bronseman (New York theatre aficionado Matthew DiLoreto) gives up on balancing nutrient pellets on his head after he discovers the “complex continuum of energy that connects us all.” Maybe the fact they’re about to be murdered isn’t so bad, he speculates? Perhaps they’re just part of the ecosystem of life and death that keeps the production line of the cage-filled universe flowing?  Helen (Audrey Rapoport) has named all of her eggs to alleviate the pain and is open to any, and indeed all, suggestions but is currently having to deal with the more immediate problem of being defecated on by “the upper tier.”

The script, written by Bill Schaumberg, feels like a real passion project, developed over many years with New York’s Naked Angels theatre group. The cast of fun thespians are clearly having the time of their lives but are also at the top of their game in feathery fabulousness designed by Sasha Richter (who worked on Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman). Maths and religion, politics and power, folk legends and, of course, love: the three human birds apply logic to chaos in a way that means either nothing or everything as the chopper approaches. It’s confronting stuff, but watching it enacted by chickens makes it strangely cathartic and surprisingly moving. 

Over at The Ceremony, the attempt to construct meaning is being carried out in a different way – improvised from the material that the audience provides. With great skill, inevitable failure and a bit of inspiration from the internet, Ben Volchok weaves whatever he can find into the show. Yesterday he spoke, today it’s delivered entirely through mime. In future it might contain “distressing or potentially triggering themes, strobe lighting and strong language/swearing.” Or it might not.

In this version, comforting authoritarian togetherness is pitted against the free will of the kind of audience member who refuses to clap along, inevitably finds themselves in a minority of one, and is 90% likely to be a reviewer, trained in free-thinking-at-all-costs and unlikely to give in to standing ovations, however playfully they’re encouraged. Childhood, love, lies: that’s the more conventional three-act structure which today, and maybe or maybe not on other days, holds things together. With Volchock an impish conductor silently directing the crowd, caring for others is turned into a system of mindless compliance that, despite its catchy rhythms, is anything but “nice.” But as our glinting-eyed master of ceremonies says at the end, this is a show that “really is what you make it.” Tonight, it worked very well as a mirror. 

Josie Dale-Jones in A Little Inquest Into What We Are Doing Here | Photo: (c) Rich Lakos

Facing her own reflection down the road on Nicolson Street is Josie Dale-Jones in A Little Inquest Into What We Are All Doing Here. After her sex education show for children was “cancelled” following an online backlash over the idea by people who hadn’t even seen it (how could they, when it didn’t yet exist?), the experience leaves Josie wondering if she ever wants to stage anything or speak publicly again. 

From what she says, the original play sounds like an unusually open approach to the subject that is either much needed, misjudged, or a bit of both. However, “I do not encourage you to decide what side you’re on,” she says. Not that any of those writing her hate mail or, eventually, the various government bodies that get involved, including the Arts Council England, seem to have such problems, as her funding is cut and she’s effectively abandoned and left to deal with the aftermath. And it’s from these long-ago burnt ashes that this show is, rather thrillingly, born. 

Performed from an appropriately stripped back set, it’s powerfully honest piece in which Dale-Jones lists what she now believes did and didn’t work about the abandoned creation (including the title: The Family Sex Show), but also addresses her own hypocrisy when it comes to allowing others to express ideas that she doesn’t agree with. Lost in the online outrage are far more interesting conversations, and this is one of them. In the cavernous dark, she ponders whether the current curriculum is keeping children safe or adults comfortable – and at what point reasonable critique becomes hate, and verbal online abuse escalates into real-life physical violence. 

Saying things isn’t safe. Writing them isn’t safe. She’s not safe. We’re not safe. As her words break up, they also transform into something else: a celebration of expressing what you believe in despite the fear of how others might respond – a readdressing of the balance between the individual and the mob. It’s invigorating to watch, even if she’s still left wondering whether she should be making this play at all. “No-one comes out of it very well,” she says, but as the man she’s talking to replies: “Maybe that’s what makes it interesting.” 

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In A Play By John there’s a danger that existential angst dissolves into itself in the endless questioning of empty nothingness. Marc Wadhwani and Jules Smekens bring professional polish and on-stage chemistry to the roles of Matteo and Reggie, two young men with matching hammers who are building their own coffins. Willing one another to die in a back-and-forth of abstract power play, they are directed by an unseen writer called John.  

The dialogue is pacey and the ending shocking, despite the purpose behind either being unclear – which, of course, is the purpose because purposelessness is the point.  Maybe my desire for something more is just an attempt to make sense of the arbitrary nature of reality by reproducing it through the easy-to-understand but ultimately meaningless structure of a theatre review round-up?  “You’re just words on a page,” one of the characters says before the lid of life’s final destination is nailed shut. I am and, as per my editor’s request, here’s this week’s 1061.