You are ushered into a dark room and told to sit next to a corpse. The motionless figure is lit up by two rows of candles, each one flickering and letting off an uncomfortable smoky smell. It reminds you of a room in Madame Tussaud’s where all the disembodied wax figures hang from the ceiling.

That’s when you notice an Adam’s apple bobbing.

He’s alive. Indeed, he’s a real human.

His name is Alec (Dean Cartmel) and he’s your first point of call in Rule of Three. Trapped in what seems like a solitary confinement cell, Alec is understandably a paranoid and confused individual. You know he’s acting – and boy, is he convincing – but the cause of his agitation is unclear.

Emily Tomlins and Tim Wotherspoon make up the trio, but you only meet them later. They are similarly lost, questioning everything including their identity. One can only presume there is a profound meaning behind each of their befuddled soliloquies, something worthy of another Matrix sequel. But the performance’s themes are never explicitly revealed, leaving the audience to piece the puzzle together and read between the lines in their own time.

As such, it’s difficult to know what to make of Elbow Room: Rule of Three. It’s one of those arty performances that will polarise audiences; you will either love it, or you won’t get it. While this critic falls into that latter category, there are nevertheless a few unequivocally strong aspects of the experimental piece.

As mentioned earlier, the lighting and haunting soundtrack – a sustained minor chord, wavering only in its intensity – successfully create a dystopian mood. At times, you feel as though you’re lost in a deleted scene from Blade Runner or Terminator. It’s the end of the world as you know it, but nobody feels fine.

Moreover, the intimacy of Rule of Three – which takes place in an appropriate warehouse setting – gives the performance a memorable quality. The characters might scare you, the plot might confuse you, and the ambience might get your spine tingling, but there’s one thing for sure – Rule of Three will remain in your mind for a very long time.

Rule of Three runs until 13 October at The Warehouse. Full ticketing information is available on the website.

If you have ever read a Jane Austen novel, you will know how easy it is for the author’s flowery vocabulary to subconsciously infiltrate your real-life dialogue. As far removed as our reality may be from 18^th century Britain, something about Austen’s work transforms cars into “mechanical modes of transport”, and chips into “potato slices of notable salinity”.

In Pride Hard, Austen’s pompous diction romanticises 1980′s action thriller Die Hard in a similar manner. Gone are Bruce Willis’ concise punch lines and cutting insults. In their place are protracted – albeit hilarious – phrases, none as potent as “matriarchal fornicator”.

Such language complicates the already ludicrous Die Hard plot, making the on-stage action almost impossible to follow. But one gets the sense that this is intentional; players Rob Lloyd and Kelsey Gade wish to parody Austen’s excessive verbosity while mocking Die Hard’s excessive calamity.

As funny as Gade is in her multitude of roles – some of which are a tad racist – she is upstaged by her experienced male companion. Lloyd is a theatrical wizard, delivering a series of convincing performances. While his drastic shifts between characters can be difficult to follow, Lloyd retains a commanding stage presence. On the night I attended, he even branched out into improvisational comedy, making the lady in the front row regret her impulsive – and uninvited – act of audience participation.

Pride Hard’s greatest strength is also its biggest weakness. As with all eclectic mash-ups, the play inherently appeals only to a selective niche; it is only as funny as the audience’s pop culture familiarity. Given the disparity between the play’s two main elements – few fans of Austen’s work will admit to having seen the Die Hard series, and vice versa – there are only so many people who can fully appreciate Pride Hard’s hilarity.

The duo arguably complicates this further by bringing in a third pop culture theme (a children’s classic that I will refrain from revealing) into the final scene. But few audiences will complain about the sensational finale, which – if anything – highlights the fact that Pride Hard shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

Sure, Pride and Prejudice fans won’t cackle at every John McClane reference. Likewise, Die Hard diehards might occasionally find themselves lost in translation. But either way, audiences of both persuasions will find something amusing about this innovative piece – and if they don’t, they’re probably missing the point.

Pride Hard runs until 13 October at the Meeting Room, North Melbourne Town Hall. Full ticketing information is available on the Fringe Festival website.

There’s a certain joy in watching personalities clash with one another on stage – yet that joy is somewhat nullified when you can identify with the victims of the theatrical parody. Picking up on the idea that parental relationships can be just as tumultuous as those of children, God of Carnage is a clever – but unfortunately flawed – 90-minute production, and much of its potency comes from its ability to hit close to home.

Ironically, the play’s greatest weakness is that it fails to take this idiom more literally; rather than locating the events in a Melbourne context, the actors pretend they are in France. While the location doesn’t compromise the central notions, it is nevertheless a noticeable enough feature to detract from the performance’s authenticity. Put simply, bourgeois French people – with distinctly French names – don’t speak in Aussie accents. Likewise, Australians don’t greet one another as “monsieur”, or use the term “grass” as an insult.

These issues could have been resolved with some very simple tweaking, and it’s a real shame the writers missed this invaluable opportunity. After all, the beauty of God of Carnage is that it exposes immaturity as a universal trait – something that defies surface characteristics such as age and nationality.

The performance is also let down by some inconsistent acting. While all four leads have their moments, three quarters of the cast are at times unconvincing.

Chris Martin’s Alain is smug and hateable – as he should be – but recites his lines in an excessively methodical manner. Melina Wylie’s characterisation of Veronique – a self-assured leftie with a passive aggressive streak – is similarly accurate, but is occasionally over-exaggerated. Her habit of turning her face away from the audience is also distracting.

Armando’s portrayal of Michel is perhaps the most intriguing of the quartet; given the character’s fickle behaviour, his role is most challenging. Nevertheless, Alain’s comment that Michel is far more authentic when angry has more than a bit of truth to it.

To somewhat counter the thespian limitations of her companions, Michelle Myers’ Annette is an ever-reliable constant. The silent tension between Annette and with her work-obsessed husband (Alain) is palpable, and is considerably more believable than the restless relationship between Veronique and Michel.

While this assessment appears rather negative, it should be reiterated that God of Carnage is actually quite an enjoyable play. In spite of its weaknesses, the play’s script is funny, profound, and relatable. Moreover, the aesthetics – including the edible food props – create the ideal setting to complement the sparring players.

God of Carnage has finished its run at the Fringe Festival. More information on Pop Culture projects can be found on their website.

Awkwardness is evidently the new funny. I never thought this was possible, given the seemingly polar relationship between social discomfort and humour – but when you find yourself cracking up over a nonsensical joke about dentists, featuring puns not even your dad would dare make, you know the times are changing.

Lessons with Luis represents a new brand of comedy, one where punch lines are substituted for oversized fleeces, and where extroverted personalities are replaced with the kind of people you might meet in a library. Most significantly, the jokes in Luis presents: Kidney Kingdom are not funny. Most of them are downright incoherent and don’t deserve to be reimbursed with laughter. The funny thing is, these jokes aren’t meant to be funny.

Luis, Luelin, and their father Len are the true centrepieces of this performance; their general demeanour and mild dance moves are enough to negate the cringeworthy humour. Indeed, few other comic groups could pull off the awkward repertoire of this familial troupe without falling flat.

The three performers stay in character from start to finish. The protagonist Luis is both sheepish and confident; he thrives in the lead role, but never drifts too far from his self-conscious and concerned nature.

Len, on the other hand, is your typical proud father. All throughout the performance, he looks for opportunities to praise his two sons. His sentiment comes from the heart, as opposed to his intentionally stilted dialogue, which he recites off a portable music stand.

As loveable as Luis and his father are, the star of the show is Luelin, Luis’ mute and perennially deadpan brother. Luelin is a reluctant hero if there ever was one. Only once does he offer the crowd the semblance of a smirk, and one suspects that was accidental. The closest he ever comes to verbal communication is during an intermission sequence, in which he gives an unsuspecting audience member a moment in the spotlight.

Luis, Luelin, and Len’s social incompetence is unequivocal, but they do their best to ensure the awkwardness isn’t reciprocal. The fast pace of their show gives the audience little time to feel uneasy; before one has decided whether or not a skit is clapworthy, the canned laughter soundtrack has already played and Luis has thanked his crowd.

In doing so, Luis and co. gives their audience no choice but to embrace their unconventional act. Moreover, with the trio offering personal farewells to every member of the audience at the show’s end, this is one comedy performance that’s impossible to hate.

Lessons With Luis – Luis Presents: Kidney Kingdom runs until 5 October at The Ballroom, Lithuanian Club. Full ticketing information is available on the Fringe Festival website.

Nicholas J. Johnson won’t be the funniest man you see at this year’s Melbourne Fringe Festival, but he may well have the greatest mainstream appeal.

In the context of a grassroots cultural arts event – where the word “mainstream” is about as welcome as an X-Factor contestant – this could be construed as a backhanded insult. But one suspects that widespread engagement is exactly what Johnson craves. After all, his show is a 60-minute confession about selling out.

As the name suggests, Today Tonight, Tomorrow the World takes the audience behind the scenes of the Channel Seven current affairs namesake. As the programme’s resident con-man expert, Johnson recounts his rise from bullied child to Today Tonight regular. His tale of good fortune – if you can call it that – is littered with comic interruptions, many of which are aided by his futuristic iPhone-operated slide show.

Johnson’s show resonates with the audience because it strikes an almost-optimal balance between comedy, memoir, and audio-visual asides, with the occasional magic trick is also thrown into the mix – a reliable crowd pleaser if there ever was one. As such, he delivers a bit of everything for the tightly-packed Club Voltaire audience.

As should be expected, not every one of Johnson’s jokes hit the mark. Indeed, one off-hand remark about serial killers didn’t quite resonate with the North Melbourne crowd in the way he would have liked. It was the timing more than anything else; for obvious reasons, Melbourne audiences are a tad sensitive given the events of the prior week.

Nevertheless, for a non-professional comedian, Johnson’s charm and measured irony is welcome. To the relief of the crowd, he is also self deprecating about his personal narrative, guaranteeing that Today Tonight will never invite him back should their producer happen to stumble upon this set.

Without giving too much away, Today Tonight, Tomorrow the World hits its peak in a wonderfully satisfying finish. Prior to the commencement of the performance, Johnson’s slide show swears the crowd to secrecy on this very finale, so there’s only so much I can say. What I will reveal, however, is that the concluding minutes bring many of Johnson’s loose ends together, which is a credit to his writing ability and sense of theatre.

While it’s hard to categorise Johnson’s show into a watertight category – is it a stand-up show or the world’s most light-hearted TED Talk? – Today Tonight, Tomorrow the World is perhaps best described as an interactive version of The Hamster Wheel. It’s a performance that invites us to poke fun at a television show we all love to hate, while laughing with a man who gave the show so much of its “quality” content.

Today Tonight, Tomorrow the World runs until 6 October at Club Voltaire. Full ticketing information is available on the Fringe Festival website.