For anyone familiar with Glaswegian comedy, then Dean’s style should come as no surprise. He has a laddish manner, revelling in the roughness and exoticism (to us) of his Scottish accent. This roughness extends to his jokes—don’t expect him to hold back when describing his first sexual encounter.

The oddness of this particular story comes in two parts. Firstly, for the method Dean uses to (ahem) excite his female partner. Secondly, because Dean is gay, if the title of the show didn’t already give it away. He explores his coming out at 24, bravely making fun of the unequal responses from his friends (fine with it) and family (flatly refusing it).

On the whole Dean’s comedy is funny, as he rattles through jokes about Hindley Street, a Catholic upbringing and his total failure at being a gay man, that is if your perception of homosexuality has been shaped by Will and Grace. There are, though, a couple of uncomfortable priest/paedophile jokes that didn’t sit right. Fortunately, he also shows an acute awareness of the current political climate, both in the UK and Australia, which is missing from too many white male comedian’s routines.

The intimate nature actually lends this show an aura of cosy friendship. Dean regularly chats with his audience, creating jokes out of awkward interactions. It’s so relaxed it almost takes on the air of a group of friends meeting up. Dean turns the difficulties of being a small comic in a small city to his advantage. He puts in a lot of effort, and it shows. Dean is a fantastic comic.

Its premise is certainly one-of-a-kind, but, unfortunately, its realisation leaves a lot to be desired. In a technically-absent show, the power of the performance is made up entirely of these three characters. The improvised nature results in uneven performances, historical inaccuracies and lots of silence. This is, of course, to be expected. Improv is a gamble. But it also works if the actors present work as a unit, and the three actors—Catherine Crowley, Ruth Pieloor and Lynn Peterson—regrettably do not support each other as well as they should.

Of the three women, Peterson is the best, pulling herself eagerly into her role with a sense of old warm charm. Crowley and Pieloor are technically good, but left on their own, or playing scenes opposite one another, they do tend to dissolve into silence. More often than not, Crowley, with the lion’s share of scenes, is left sputtering at questions posed by her fellow actors, and no attempts are made to pull the scene out of these mires.

Put simply, there is seemingly no narrative point to the proceedings. The scenes seem to merely exist to evoke a time and place, a flavour of the past. There is no drive or reason to care about what is happening. You simply have to go with the flow, and hope that things reach a satisfying conclusion (and, being improv, there is no guarantee of that).

This is an era of history that deserves to be dramatised. The stories of women at the front of the home war effort is, after all, so rarely explored. But, based on this performance, improvisation is not the place to do it in.

Staged in Tuxedo Cat’s Mayall Room (upstairs in a renovated office building—there has been charm bestowed here upon an otherwise utilitarian space), The Sound of Nazis mixes the musical with history to great effect. No stone is left unturned, and every aspect of the movie classic is mined for its comedic worth, all to ask the question—why does Austria have a navy?

With strong performances, strong songs, and fantastic jokes, the world of 1930s Austria just…appears. Familiarity with The Sound of Music is desired, but not necessary to enjoy the absolutely rollicking good fun of this show. The jokes are so thick and fast, it is impossible to laugh and appreciate them all—and this is a good thing.

The music and performances are thoroughly enjoyable. Florence Bourke as a South African Mother Superior and Leisl von Trapp is excellent—her accent leads to one incredibly funny moment. The highlight of this show, though, is Hayman Kent, who takes on the role of Maria with an absolute awareness of what funny is. From her entrance, screaming in terror about the hills (who are alive, quite literally), she makes an indelible mark on the show. Her facial expressions are on point, her mannerisms even more so, and her delivery of each killer line and routine is pitch perfect. Seemingly channelling the spirit of Audrey Hepburn (a really clever move), she moves with grace and a little bit of clumsiness.

The controversy surrounding the political incorrectness of this show is somewhat justified. The Hitler parody—unsubtly named “Mr H” and played by Kel Balnaves as if possessed by the still-alive ghost of John Cleese—garners a semi-hostile reaction from the audience. The laughs are few when the attempted genocide of a racial minority is put to song and dance. It would be fine if the Nazis were the only ones getting whacked with the parody cudgel, but there are a couple of uncomfortable Jew and Italian stereotypes present as well. It’s all for laughs, yes, and the jokes are strong, but it is still uncomfortable to watch.

The Sound of Nazis is unbearably funny—a full hour of comedy gold.

Ben Noble portrays every character in this show, and he is a wonder, taking on the multiple voices with ease. He effortlessly glides between each story, adding something special to each one. At one point he is a midwife, bringing Johnson into the world and simultaneously seeing his death, the next he is imagined as Johnson’s killer, bristling with menace. There is obvious emotion in his performance. His passion for this project is palpable, resulting in real tears and real pain.

This show is perhaps a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The multiple voices of each story are appropriately distinctive, but they do not flow successfully into one another. The monologues are handled effectively by Noble, but without any guidance for the audience and with no sense of time or place, the narrative becomes flawed and confusing.

The use of music to knit scenes together is inspired, but is not executed well. Noble’s voice is adequate, but the songs are not especially memorable. They do not even seem inspired by the source material at all, coming across as average love ballads. Although there is one disco song in the middle that is very good, helping set the scene for a 1980s Sydney scene.

There is something incredibly noble about this show. Its dedication to the truth of its material seeps into every scene, imbuing them with a pulsating heat. There is no doubt that a lot of well-placed emotion and rage has gone into this production, however the discordant effect created by the jarring scenes and use of music goes against the power of the show. Its lasting force is in its message, not of tolerance, but of anger. The Reckoning goes a long way to rile the emotions of its audience in its stirring portrayal of a homosexual man’s life, cut short. It wants you to be angry about the injustice of Johnson’s death—and if this production has done its job, you will be angry.

Named for the “genetic relationship between offspring of a single birth,” Zygosity plays with womb imagery, astrology, horror themes and the idea of escape. Held captive with no resources, the pair only have each other to rely on and when they discover their relationship to each other, things start to turn sour. All this results in some fantastic dialogue and direction from Andreas Lohmeyer and Michael Abercromby. Playing the estranged brother and sister pair, Lohmeyer and Grace Victoria are fantastic as Paul and Cassandra. Tied down and only able to move from the neck up, they give all they’ve got and manage to overcome their physical incapability with boundless energy. As a pair, they have a playful, stinging relationship, slinging barbs at one another in as loving a manner as possible. They are wholly credible as estranged twins, and give a potentially hokey concept believability.

Like the captive twins, the audience are effectively blindfolded for the whole of this performance. They are given little context, and have to make their own conclusions about the world beyond their incarceration, personified by Rose Riley as the kidnapper. She gives this role the right amount of menace and fun, to the point where you can feel yourself siding with her, and approving her burgeoning relationship with one of the captives. The sound design by Adrian Kingwell is exceptional, creating an unsettling atmosphere with sparse electric soundscapes. Ancient World’s ancient cellar is also an inspired venue choice—set dressing not required.

Is there an escape behind the door? The unanswered questions of Zygosity lead to a constantly renewing sense of interest. Kept on the edge of your seat, the show works on its unwillingness to lead the audience down a pre-determined path. Driven by energetic performances and a sharp, fresh script, Zygosity is a robust piece of theatre.

The Misery Children’s project, Him, is good. Like, proper good, the kind of good that makes you glad you are in Adelaide at this exact time, to be able to enjoy quality shows such as this. Him is a one-of-a-kind.

Helped by Daisy Brown’s direction, David Geddes gives a masterful performance—if you can call it that. The lines separating reality and acting are constantly blurred. You are never quite sure if he is being himself or acting. Assuming two characters in one body (one faux bubbly, the other genuinely pained—or should that be the other way around?), Geddes successfully creates intimacy with the audience in every sense of the word through his supremely honest performance. Working through issues of masculinity, identity and assuming the homosexual mantle, he spins a web of his (his?) life stories with a refined inelegance. He jumps from happy-go-lucky to heartrending so subtly through an excellent use of props. The stories he tells ring unnervingly true for any gay person sitting in the audience, myself included, as the old tales of coming out and awkward first sexual encounters are given new life through Geddes delivery. It is an incredibly fresh performance.

The music from Mario Spatё floats behind Geddes, providing the right mood but remaining firmly in the background. This does unfortunately mean that, given the small space, the noise from outside does occasionally intrude, but this is of small concern.

At several points during the show, Geddes asks “Are you paying attention?” The most interesting thing about this show is what it requires from you as a spectator is pain. Geddes strips not only to get a laugh, but to make a point—there are no boundaries from now on. The guards are coming down, and you cannot shy away from what is going to be said. No matter how painful the proceedings, no matter what is done or said, you are obliged to watch. The reward for doing so is boundless.

If you see no other show at the Fringe this year, see Him.

Opening on a monologue by the titular King, this show wastes no time in throwing you into the deep end. Blurring the lines of fiction and reality, logic and narrative falls apart as King struggles with his estrangement from his home planet. Science fiction has always been a welcome home for metaphorical tales of humanity, but Bradley Klendo’s script fails to rise to this. There are some important messages contained within this play, mainly centring on the disconcerting effects of migration and the anger and bitterness it can leave in some, though this becomes lost in translation. Jokes fall flat, a result of the muddled internal logic. Trying to contain an allegory within a metafictional narrative is difficult, and unfortunately comes off as incomprehensible.

It is the performances that really make this play. Sahil Saluja is a standout as the problematically-named Arab, giving just enough humour whilst providing a welcome real-world standpoint, through which the play can explore its themes. Leigh Ormsby as the Antagonist uses his body terrifically in a very physical performance. The three witches (Lisa Dallinger, Eva Torkkola and Danae Swinburne) are an absolute delight, making much of their absurdity inherent in their characters. Dallinger in particular is excellent, taking on three separate roles with aplomb. Her understanding of comedy is fine, giving her witch character and dominatrix Jacqueline the right amount of ridiculousness, whilst retaining these features and combining it with real anxiety for her role as the Playwright’s partner. Both Thomas Kay as King and Alex Rouse as the Playwright are satisfactory, although there is a dynamism missing in their performances.

The direction by Vlady T is outstanding. He makes great use of the space—characters spill in and out of the three entrances in random patterns, creating a completely absurd experience. In addition, there are some extremely potent scenes. When Arab gives his traditional greeting to the theatre, it is met with awkward laughter from an audience unable to pronounce it. Moments such as this, which catch the audience off-guard and highlight western society’s difficulty in interacting with other cultures, lend this play a greater worth. Where it miscarries is in its attempt to fuse two different forms together. This witch’s brew, whilst perhaps still too raw to be fully understood, is an enjoyable and well-timed piece of home-grown theatre.

Staged at Holden Street Theatres and directed by Michael Pigott, Johnson has adapted Kinski’s biographies, Kinski Uncut and the rare All I Need is Love, into a performance narrative detailing the actor’s life. Opening with a detailed description of a harrowing trip down the Amazon with director Werner Herzog, it becomes obvious almost immediately that Johnson’s performance as Kinski is not without its problems. He adopts a stereotypical German accent, but the Australian twang can’t help but show its head from time to time. Armed only with his words, instead of drawing the audience into his world he reads the excerpts from Kinski’s autobiography off of a tablet, barely lifting his eyes. The performance loses life this way, coming across like a lecturer philosophising to glassy-eyed students. Thankfully, running silent in the background is a series of film clips accompanying the scenes described. These clips do a good job of filling in the colour to Kinski’s life. On the whole, the lighting and media are executed seamlessly.

Jess Bush accompanies Johnson as Pola, one of Kinski’s daughters. Presented as a face swathed in darkness on a projected screen behind Johnson, like the voice of God she interjects at various points throughout the performance to highlight the reality of Kinski’s impact on the women he surrounded himself with. Bush provides a much-needed female perspective, and she is fantastic, shedding light on Kinski’s decadent lifestyle.

In an industry where a person’s estimable film work cancels out their depravities—Roman Polanski anyone?—it is disappointing to see one such life depicted in a revering light. Kinski, on the evidence of his own writing, is not a good man, wilfully ignoring the suffering of the women around him. Johnson is appropriately gleeful as Kinski describing his sexual encounters, but when he steps out of character that gleefulness, accompanied by admiration, is frustratingly still present. Johnson seems to acknowledge this: he is quoted to say on Kinski and I’s website that Kinski is ‘an incredibly problematic artist to be obsessed with [...] He was a mad, tormented genius, but he may also have been a monster.’ At one point in the performance, while Johnson is the middle of a particularly lurid sexual escapade, the house lights come up and Bush’s voice, clear and condemning, rings out through the theatre: ‘Are you serious?’ It is difficult to gauge whether the show is condemning or venerating Kinski’s life and treatment of women. On this showing alone though it would seem to be the former, which makes the whole experience, unfortunately, too uncomfortable to swallow.