With a title showcasing the names ‘Butt Boy’ and ‘Tigger’, one expects a bundle of laughs,and while the show effectively succeeds in inciting side-splitting belly laughs, the play’s main drawcard is its stirring premise brought to life through a brilliantly written script and beautiful acting. With rave reviews and sell-out seasons in Edinburgh, Dublin, Manchester and Sydney, The Adventures of Butt Boy and Tigger is the brainchild of Out Cast Theatre, the oldest Australian theatre collective with works pertinent to the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender communities.

Young, vulnerable and untainted by the rigours of love, Butt Boy ventures online one day to chance upon Tigger – an older man with more sexual know-how but a cynical disposition acquired from his negative encounters with one too many men. Somehow hitting it off despite their vastly dissimilar approaches to life and love, Butt Boy and Tigger start to meet online every week like clockwork for chat sessions that nearly always lead into cyber sex.

The audience cruises along with Butt Boy and Tigger and becomes invested in their journeys as the two characters embark on scintillating sexual escapades – borne entirely out of the depths of their imagination – and engage in plenty of dirty talk without divulging too much about their actual selves. Nothing is sacrosanct when it comes to the creation of these fantasies as the two characters interchange roles, adopt accents, catapult to the past or stay rooted in the present, assume false names and envisage every possible scenario or venue to keep the fantasies as interesting as possible.

Although the play kicks off in a light-hearted and rambunctious manner, it veers into an emotional battleground when Butt Boy tentatively brings up the possibility of the two meeting up face-to-face.

The dichotomy between the two vastly divergent characters makes for an immensely interesting and entertaining performance as the two actors play off their obvious shared chemistry to breathe life into Butt Boy and Tigger. One minute bound to their keyboards, the next leaping into the centre of the fold to act out each conceived sexual fantasy, the demonstrations retain an endearing quality and are thoroughly enjoyable to watch. The entire time, no clothes are ever shed and humour is effectively used as a plot device.

The use of minimal props – save for two chairs and two keyboards – ensure the two actors are the focal point as they fully utilise the stage space accorded to them to depict instances of both exhilaration and despair. But the play’s real strength lies in the seamless way in which it moves from overtly funny scenes, to sexually-charged moments, to deeply introspective instances where the two are forced to ponder what it is exactly they want from their relationship with one another.

As the tension builds and the audience’s emotions swing back and forth like a pendulum, the play culminates in a moving finale – heart-rending enough to incite a floodgate of tears.

A rollercoaster of emotions with the pervading themes of love, fear of judgement and the eradication of barriers in this cyber day and age, The Adventures of Butt Boy and Tigger strikes a chord and leaves the audience whirling from what they just bore witness to – long after the final curtain call.

Adventures of Butt Boy and Tigger ran until October 13 as part of the Melbourne Fringe Festival but is still showing at the Mechanics Institute Performing Arts Centre until October 20. Tickets are $20 full price and $16 concession.

The stage performance kicks off with a light-hearted candour that sees Sylvia Keays – the actor who plays Sophie – silently emerging from the crowd and guzzling down a few glasses of red wine with a blindfold draped across her eyes. Just as the audience start to wonder if Keays will perform the entire play blindfolded, she whips it off and proceeds to wax lyrical about a life permeated by the overarching themes of love, loss, friendship and a fear of judgement.

The performance is enlivened through the sophisticated use of background audio – used mainly when Sophie dials the numbers of strangers to sell them wine – while the spotlight that beams exclusively on Sophie from time to time creates a focal point for much of the performance.

Keays exudes confidence and comes across as witty and charming while retaining a sense of vulnerability – a counterpoint that is integral to the role of Sophie as we journey along with her throughout the highs and lows of her life.

Keays is a deeply compelling actor, seamlessly transitioning from laughter in one moment to tears in the next. As a torrent of emotion is unleashed towards the very end, Keays’ rendition of Sophie’s trials and tribulations is so rousing and heartfelt it feels as though Keays is narrating the events of her own life.

With the enjoyment of wine constituting the premise for many of Sophie’s life experiences, the play’s narration is rendered poetically through the exploration of wine’s many subtle nuances and remains accessible throughout. The audience are given the opportunity to taste two wines as Sophie traces the monotonous drudgery of her day-to-day job through to life’s sheer unpredictability and the near-spiritual enlightenment she encounters when she discovers that life is nothing if not a blind tasting.

Blind Tasting has finished its run at the Fringe Festival. More information on subtlenuance projects can be found on their website.

At least two hours of silence with more than twenty strangers you have never met. A three-course vegan dinner in a private residence. No technological gizmos permitted. As a meat-eater with a penchant for talking and a fear of silent moments lasting more than two seconds lest they be deemed ‘awkward’, Honi Ryan’s Silent Dinner Party was a journey into the unknown, an experiment in social interaction and an environment where prized words were a forbidden means of communication.

With a sense of trepidation and a desire to talk as much as one possibly could in the moments leading up to the silent dinner party, I arrived at the private residence to hoards of people waiting by the house. Nervous, excited chatter filled the air as those who came alone shifted from one foot to the other in barely concealed anticipation.

As we were guided into the rear courtyard of the house, we were greeted with a sprawling table nestled under fairy lights bathing the courtyard in a pleasant glow. Soon the source of the mouth-watering smells become apparent – an array of dips and pita bread awaited us on the table. The awkward, furtive glances between attendees gave way to muted appreciation of the food as we tucked in with as much enthusiasm as a silent person could muster.

With a disarming smile, congenial host Honi made the rounds, waving to everyone who caught her eye and instructing her helpers to cover the labels of our alcoholic beverages with masking tape. Throughout the night, Honi was a reassuring presence, offering doonas to those who were cold, covertly capturing moments of the night and actively participating in the event that was her brainchild.

After the dips and bread were devoured, people slowly attempted to communicate with one another – an exercise that required oodles of creativity and a unique skill set usually reserved for a game of charades.

It was a constant source of bewilderment how people managed to explain their lives using nothing more than their hands and faces. I learned that the guy next to me had been in a relationship with the girl opposite him for the past 12 years, while a lady elsewhere on somehow managed to express that she is the head of a nurses’ union as we discovered two girls seated nearby met when they performed together in a play.

Despite featuring no sounds other than the odd titter, laugh or shriek, the atmosphere was lively and convivial. We amused ourselves with infantile hand gestures (rude ones, more often than not) as we became well-versed in the art of sign language – if it could be even called that.

Mistakes were made as information was relayed through the most rudimentary ways but instead of inspiring consternation, everyone was relaxed and even tickled by the various interpretations. Rather than impeding conversation, the absence of words only strengthened the desire for understanding between the people sitting around the table.

Every half-hour, we were served with food – easily enough time to familiarise ourselves with each other between courses. Befitting the occasion, the Moroccan-themed dishes were unpretentious, hearty and most importantly, utterly delicious.

Perhaps the most lasting impression from the night was the shared camaraderie and inexplicable bond forged with one another. Despite basic facts – such as our names – remaining unknown until the very end, we successfully learnt about each other’s lives and were united in the fact that we all partook in this very atypical event.

And, in an event that Honi called “unique” to our dinner party, there was a spontaneous marriage proposal. Armed with nothing more than a bottlecap ring haphazardly held together by masking tape, Joel lowered himself to one knee in front of his partner Karen and asked her to marry him. The entire room erupted in a wordless hubbub, and the proposed stood there dumbfounded with tears in her eyes; needless to say, she was lost for words as she accepted his proposal without actually saying “yes”. Various people strode up to congratulate the couple with hugs and kisses – a sign of the bond that had grown despite only meeting for the first time only two hours ago.

Silent Dinner Parties runs until 7 October at private residences around Melbourne. Tickets are $55 full-price.

Set against the backdrop of a share house – a situation many of us are only too familiar with – Banana Republic is a humorous depiction of what happens when three friends start up a ‘commune’. An amalgamation of everyone’s assets, consensus decision-making and non-hierarchical structures are defining characteristics of a commune – but in a house where one is an unemployed couch potato, one is a burger flipper and the other is a law student who works part time, the results are comical and catastrophic.

Jen is an articulate but highly strung law student who prides herself on being a progressive young thinker but nevertheless buys into consumerism and a lifestyle largely shaped by her whims. Enter Geoff, her left-leaning latte-sipping revolutionary new boyfriend who shuns every form of excess and champions against corporatisation, environmental degradation and child labour (to name a few of his causes). Jen’s cousin and housemate Julian is unhappy at his rudimentary job flipping burgers but is even more chagrined by Jen’s newfound love for activism – as a result of her infatuation with Geoff – and suggests turning the house into a ‘commune’ to show Jen the folly of her ways. Both are undone when their third housemate Dill discovers his knack for online trading on the stock exchange and uses the commune’s money to buy stocks – essentially turning the play into a microcosm of the global financial crisis and a portrayal of the nuances of Australian politics compressed into a single household.

Nary a dull moment exists as each actor enthusiastically wrestles with the contradictions of their characters, each line delivered with aplomb and each complex issue delved into with a striking simplicity that renders it at once accessible and entertaining. The camaraderie between cast members is evident, enlivening the plot and injecting each heated debate with an added intensity.   The play is replete with memorable one liners, while conversations between the characters are innocuously peppered with political turns of phrase as the play deftly contrasts the rigours of share house leaving with the political minefield that is its premise.

Self-described as a part play/part sitcom, Banana Republic also successfully merges the mechanics of a live television set with the intricacies of a contemporary theatre show to make for an interesting experience. Audience members are asked to make different sounds – varying from raucous laughter and shocked gasps to hysterical screaming – which are recorded at the outset and played at sporadic intervals throughout the play. The boundary between audience members and performers is further blurred when the audience is given the opportunity to bear witness to what goes on behind the scenes; in one scene preparation, for instance, Julian runs on the spot, works himself into a fit and douses himself in water to assume the sweaty sheen of a burger flipper.

In another departure from traditional plays, a camerawoman follows in the wake of each character as the play simultaneously broadcasts on a small television screen above, nimbly capturing the essence of a sitcom as audience members are gifted the treat of enjoying the play from different angles and in divergent ways.

The result is a refreshing, uproarious and thought-provoking take on contemporary Australian politics, the moral ambiguity of the many different causes that people unite under, and the mayhem that ensued after the seemingly avoidable global financial crisis.

Banana Republic runs until 7 October at The Owl and the Pussycat. Tickets are $20 full-price and $15 concession (group tickets are $18 per person for four people).

Nestled in a covert space above the Order of Melbourne sits comedian Bart Freebairn’s makeshift pillow fort. Once you get down to your hands and knees and crawl through the initial entryway, you are greeted with Winnie-the-Pooh bedspreads that clothe the walls, smoothed doonas that line the floor and lumpy pillows that prop up the fortress – although the latter also occasionally act as a buffer for one’s rear end.

As is soon discovered, the pillow fort is a throwback to the cubby houses that were such an integral part of Bart’s childhood. This forms an overarching theme of The Warmth we Make with our Lives as Bart mines his personal experiences to present an endearing and occasionally touching show riddled with funny anecdotes, spontaneous re-enactments and the subtle message that life is but what you make it to be.

With an affable demeanour and conversational style, Bart delves into life’s great mysteries (can we only dream of things we have actually experienced?) and ponders upon happenings that have shaped him up to this point with a candour and air of nonchalance usually reserved for a deep and meaningful session with a close friend.

Nothing is sacrosanct as Bart talks about the first time he used the word ‘fuck’, his infantile impression of what sex entailed, his opinion on drugs and porn, his poverty-ridden days of eating beans out of a can and his penchant for internet dating which was ‘just for kicks, but more so because he felt lonely’.

At times, Bart breaks from his laid-back disposition to impersonate himself in exaggerated falsetto tones. Hilarity ensues – especially when Bart plays out a conversation between himself and an imagined other on an internet dating website. Yet the show is not without its touching moments, mostly aptly demonstrated when Bart narrates a story about a particular unfortunate habit of his late grandma.

Bart somehow successfully steers clear from sounding vulgar or coming across as preachy, despite talking about things such as anal sex on a jet ski (which for the record, Bart did not do) or the ways in which porn denigrates women. And despite narrating a show that is wholly derived from his own experiences, Bart’s show never borders on self-indulgence as he frequently considers the audience with questions that draw them into his experiences.

Charming and forthright with a disarming smile, Bart spends the show deconstructing the traditional barrier that exists between performer and audience members in typical stand-up routines – and therein lies the show’s strength. As comedians are propelled to dizzying heights of fame and accorded prized television appearances, Bart expresses a desire to keep things ‘small and rad’ in his pillow fort. As Bart says, he wouldn’t know what to do on television anyway.

While The Warmth we Make with our Lives may not be a traditional stand-up routine, it’s a cosy, intimate and compelling show that feels like you’re sitting around a campfire listening to a funny friend. Exactly how Bart would have wanted it.

The Wartmh we Make with our Lives runs until 13 October at the Order of Melbourne Green Room. Tickets are $15.

The Silent Dinner Party has a very straightforward premise – you attend a dinner party with a group of strangers, and must remain silent throughout. No speaking, no reading or writing, and definitely no mobile phones! From this simple idea was born one of the funniest shows I have attended at this or any other Fringe.

Prior to the event, attendees received an email with the address of a private residence in the eastern suburbs. I arrived slightly before the scheduled start time, and there was a line-up of guests already waiting. The sense of nervous excitement was palpable; no-one really had any idea what they were in for.

This anticipation actually serves as part of the show itself – I spent most of the previous day wondering what it would be like, what my reaction would be to being unable to communicate verbally, and who else might actually be crazy enough to decide this would be a fun way to spend an evening!

Once the door opened and guests were ushered through, it became clear that the Silent Dinner Party was definitely going to be fun. We had no idea who we were sharing a table with, what they do, where they live, or any other details apart from what we could observe or interpret from their behaviour.

As the night progressed, and people made full use of their BYO alcohol (each bottle/can helpfully wrapped in tape by the Silent Dinner Party staff, so guests couldn’t read the labels), the “conversation” became remarkably open – any pretence or affectation just falls away when you are reduced to communicating at a really basic level. The number of rude hand gestures that a table full of ostensibly mature adults can generate is far higher than you might expect…

Of course, once one person finds something funny, it is very difficult not to be caught up in the situation, even if you didn’t see the gesture/situation they are responding to. The sight of 20-odd people shaking with silent laughter, some with tears rolling down their faces, is more than enough to induce you to join in!

You will be astonished at your own creativity – it is possible to convey quite complex ideas using only facial expressions and hand gestures, and of course any embarrassment you feel because of the way you’re waving your hands around wildly and pulling the most ridiculous faces soon dissipates when you realise every other person around you is doing the exact same thing.

When I signed up for Buzzcuts, I wasn’t expecting to have to become a restaurant critic too, but the food served at the Silent Dinner Party was such an integral part of the evening that it would be wrong for me not to mention it. Again, no reading or writing through the whole evening, so no menu – I’m relying on my memory…

The food had a definite Indian theme, starting with an entrée of spiced pumpkin soup served with herbed pita bread, followed by a lemony, peppery rice dish as main. The main was accompanied by a range of other dishes, including a sort of tomato- and chickpea-based stew, a green salad with pine nuts and dressing, and orange slices topped with herbs and small cubes of beetroot – definitely a new taste for me! Dessert was a real highlight – ice cream topped with saffron fairy floss, with a cardamom- and cinnamon-infused crumble and rose syrup. Delectable!

Everything was served casually and competently – the wait between courses was slightly too long for some of my fellow guests, but I felt it gave more of an opportunity to interact with each other. This is a crucial point – more than most other shows, the enjoyment you get from the Silent Dinner Party is highly dependent on the other attendees. If the people around you connect with the idea of the event, and choose to immerse themselves in the experience, then it is likely you will have a more complete experience as well.

For example, as with any group of people, there were a range of reactions to the strict “no talking” rule – some considered it more of a guideline, some relied on mouthing words, and some took it to heart and remained utterly mute for the whole evening. In fact, some of the funniest moments of the night took place when people with different approaches were forced to interact – it was exactly as if they were speaking the same language with different, difficult-to-understand accents.

There was a point towards at the end of the evening when people visibly began to tire, with a corresponding increase in the noise level, which did put a slight dampener on some of the hilarity that had taken place earlier in the evening. However, I’m not sure if there is anything to be done about this – different groups will have different tolerance levels when it comes to the length of the dinner party.

All in all, the first (and possibly only) Silent Dinner Party I have ever attended was an absolutely brilliant idea and a truly compelling experience. I would highly recommend it to anyone – if only for that dessert. Yum!