There is rich material in how it feels to self-advocate, fight for a diagnosis and face the unknown of a chronic illness. Edwards explores how we feel about physical illnesses versus those of the mind, and how we cope when facing a lack of control over our bodies and lives.

But are we saturated with solo confessional theatre? Or, as Edwards themselves puts it, are too many people trying to rewrite Fleabag? Shitbag demonstrates the strength of the form, showing the merit of making the invisible, visible.
★★★★
Reviewed by Lefa Singleton Norton

Lil Wenker | Bangtail
The Motley Bauhaus – The Cellar, until April 6

If Lil Wenker’s name – astonishingly her real one – isn’t enough to initially elicit a snort from you, her side-splittingly funny rendition of a cowboy-turned-accountant in crisis certainly will.

As soon as Bangtail aka Alan aka “the baddest man in Texas” struts onto the stage – clad in leather chaps, face adorned with thickly drawn eyebrows and moustache, arms akimbo – the audience is in stitches. His gravelly voice as he rasps “listen up” to selected audience members who are set to become part of the routine only deepens the giggles.

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Audience participation is integral to Wenker’s show, but similar to comedians like Garry Starr where no row is immune from the ensuing hijinks, it’s a safe, convivial space. You could find yourself a heifer, a cactus, the saloon doors, the all-important Nemesis.

Paradoxically lecherous yet always seeking consent, Wenker assumes a cloak of exaggerated masculinity with such gusto and mirth it’s rendered into something abject and farcical.

Fresh off sold-out runs at Edinburgh Fringe and Adelaide Fringe, this one-woman clown western expertly blends physical comedy, inane silliness and a tightly constructed narrative to deliver incredulity and laughter at every turn.
★★★★
Reviewed by Sonia Nair

Sara Pascoe | I Am A Strange Gloop

Melbourne Town Hall & Max Watts, until April 12

The spouses of most comics don’t want their flaws to be aired on stage. Sara Pascoe’s husband (fellow touring comic and former Sydneysider Steen Raskopoulos) doesn’t mind as long as she makes sure to tell the crowd that he’s great in bed.

A lot has changed in Pascoe’s life since I last saw her in Melbourne eviscerating Tom Ballard on The Great Debate stage. She’s gotten married and had two kids – she’s a family woman now and she wants to talk about it.

In most cases: yawn. The audience really doesn’t care about the tedium of your domestic life with the nocturnal bubs and a man who feigns ignorance to escape chores – we’ve heard that one a thousand times.

But not in Pascoe’s adroit hands. She weaves mirth out of monotony – be it the allure of polygamy simply to divide housework or the juxtaposition of sexual inclinations of both men and women once they hit their 40s.

It’s not all family gear, however. There are scathing observations about capitalism and the plight of the environment – all landing aplomb, if not depressing in their accuracy.

Pascoe may be a strange amorphous gloop of a human – but she’s one well worthy of your ticket money, the extra shows just added attest to that.
★★★★
Reviewed by Tyson Wray

Queerly Beloved
Melbourne Town Hall, until April 19

Queerly Beloved, we are gathered here today to enjoy a 100 per cent queer comedy night. In fact, to the delight of the performers, it’s also a 100 per cent queer audience as identified in a poll taken by charismatic host Maddy Weeks at the outset. In this explicitly queer space, there’s a shorthand, a knowing wink, a sense of freedom. No need for explainers, these performers just let loose. Praise be.

With a rotating line-up each night, Queerly Beloved serves seven tight sets from gender diverse and queer comics. While all fall under the LGBTIQA+ umbrella, there are a variety of comedy offerings and with such short sets nobody outstays their welcome. From Courtney Maldo’s puns to Scout Boxall’s exploration of the sex life of nerds, the material and styles are wide-ranging. It’s a loose, late-night way to get a feel for some of the queer comedy offerings available across the festival.
★★★★
Reviewed by Lefa Singleton Norton

Dan Rath | Tropical Depression

Swiss Club, until April 20

I would absolutely loathe to live in Dan Rath’s head. But I adore observing it from the back row.

He’s the first to admit that he’s a neurotic mess of a human being – but therein is his charm. He combines the LSD-like absurdity of Paul Foot with the self-deprecating anxiety of Maria Bamford and then pummels you for 50 minutes, speaking at break-neck speed.

He doesn’t so much zig-zag across different trains of thought as he does step on landmines that blow him catastrophically into another non-related punchline.

The correlation of IQ levels and complication of water bottles? Sure. Followed by escaping into North Korea so you don’t have to worry about the paralysation of having choice over the type of milk you buy? Why not. Taking Ozempic and smoking dope at the same time to have their effects fight for supremacy within your body? I’m completely lost, but I’m strapped in for this fever dream of a ride.

Audience members are left wheezing at the abundance of ridiculous non-sequiturs as multiple gags ricochet across the room without leaving them any time to catch their breath.

Rath is definitely not a comedian for audiences who enjoy the TV and commercial radio friendly-type acts whose anecdotes are served on a comfortable white-bread platter. For everyone else – book yesterday.
★★★★
Reviewed by Tyson Wray

Ruby Teys | Cherry Vinyl: Coober Pedy’s Last Showgirl
The Greek – Aphrodite, until April 20

If Showgirls’ Nomi Malone was raised by blind moles in Coober Pedy in 1991, you’d get Cherry Vinyl: the latest larger-than-life character from the totally twisted, and wholly original mind of local legend, Ruby Teys.

Fresh off the back of 2024’s cult hit Dog C*nt, Teys brings us another hour of absurdist chaos that tap dances between comedy, cabaret and Drunk History: Australia in six-inch heels. It’s loosely based on the true story of the stealing of $5.4 million from Kerry Packer in 1995. But truth has always been a gentle suggestion for Teys. What she offers instead resembles David Lynch directing Kath and Kim in Cabaret.

There’s a tap number for Ivan Milat, a shrimp-cocktail bustier and an overpowered taser. On opening night, Teys soldiered on despite a stolen costume, with the unpredictable magnetism that has made her a creative force in Australian comedy. You either love or hate her bawdy brand of nostalgia-filled chaos and high kicks. There will come a time when her freewheeling style and lack of focus will frustrate rather than endear. But that’s next year’s problem. Tonight belongs to the moles of Coober Pedy.
★★★★
Reviewed by Guy Webster

Piotr Sikora | Furiozo: Man Looking For Trouble
The Motley Bauhaus – Theaterette, until April 20

There’s a lot of talk surrounding “toxic masculinity” in recent years, but few artists know how to tackle the epidemic head-on without resorting to tropism. Yet physical comedy might just be the perfect form for taking the piss.

Piotr Sikora, in his latest show, Furiozo: Man Looking For Trouble, tells a story of a meathead as he parties through life, looks for love, settles down and parties again.

Through body gestures, simple props, mimework and oafish nonverbal growls, Polish clown Sikora manages to satirise and project the quintessential capital-M Man who rages through life unable to access his feelings, a social script followed through until the end of time.

Old-hand Sikora handles this caricature somewhat as if we should handle it with care. Regardless, his contemporary interpretation of this social disease is particularly enjoyable because what is masculinity if not a clownish performance? Audience participation is paramount in this one, so come prepared.
★★★★
Reviewed by Cher Tan

Alice Tovey | Glass Houses

Storyville, until April 6

Alice Tovey’s father went to jail, she tells us with a Judith Lucy-esque cadence. He was more a white-collar criminal than a member of The Carlton Crew, but that’s not the point.

Glass Houses is as much a vicious critique of the grossly mishandled prison-industrial complex as it is a reminder of the importance of familial love, empathy and forgiveness – as flawed and dysfunctional as those dearest to us may be.

As she recalls visiting prisons of varying security levels, Tovey dispels myths and offers insights into the humans others prefer to ignore.

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She details the communities built by hardened criminals inside unbreakable walls and how her father was subjected to literal torture that broke the United Nations’ Mandela Rules.

There are instances where deploying a red pen would have enhanced the hour. Tales of her father’s bathroom habits when not in the clink, her colonoscopy experiences, and a hypothetical feline-fronted fast-food franchise are unnecessary for cheaper laughs. But they are quickly forgiven as she reaches poignant crescendo after crescendo.

Through stand-up and song, Tovey’s shows have often seesawed from the silly and absurd (Doggo, Not Like The Other Ghouls) to the masterful skewering of societal constructs (Garbage Monster, Mansplaining). When she homes in on the latter – which she does in spades in Glass Houses – she shines.
★★★★
Reviewed by Tyson Wray

Josh Glanc | Family Man
Chinese Museum, until April 20

Josh Glanc is a hairy tornado. He glides on stage wearing his trademark midriff T-shirt and a cheesy up-to-no-good grin. Glanc is coming in hot after touring the United States and the UK, then both the Perth and Adelaide fringe festivals.

Family Man is a riotous hour of musical comedy, audience interaction and lanyard appreciation. Glanc knows which members of the crowd to pick on – sorry, celebrate – and tonight, he almost gets more than he bargained for with a young buck named Gene. “Where to from here?” he asks at one point, reading the room beautifully.

Glanc leans into his venue’s “rich tradition” of comedy and puts his mic to the brick walls for a ripping set-piece. His preacher man and French pervert characters keep the pace of the show lively and allow for a surprising multimedia callback that has everyone in the room glad they spent their hard-earned on this hirsute clown.

Glanc continues to refine his craft and shine in front of every crowd, whether they’re silly billies, cheeky monkeys or a third, risque category that I won’t spoil.
★★★★
Reviewed by Mikey Cahill

Garry Starr | Classic Penguins
Malthouse Theatre, until April 20

He can sing, he can dance, he can perform an entire show without pants.

Garry Starr is back, and he’s going to save literature – by performing the entire canon of Penguin Classics, sort of.

If you’re yet to be acquainted, know that Starr is a ridiculous, ridiculous man.

Also know: the laughs are guaranteed.

His humour is physical, silly and uproarious. The interpretations are mostly literal riffs on titles – Moby Dick, for example, or Around the World in 80 Days.

An enormous amount of effort has gone into props and costumes that deliver single visual gags, including a spectacular bait and switch for The Jungle Book.

Expertly handled audience participation adds to the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants comic tension. You’ll be lucky if you beat the 10 others champing at the bit to get on stage.

It’s an 18+ show, mainly due to the nudity, but check out his G-rated offering, Monkeys Everywhere, if you’d prefer.
★★★★
Reviewed by Hannah Francis

Grace Zhang | Saying Grace
Theory Bar – Screening Room, until April 6

Grace Zhang’s show is titled Saying Grace, and while she begins the show by thanking the audience for a fair few things including taking a risk on a comedy show where the title is a pun on the comedian’s name, there’s no mystery to it: it is exactly what it is.

Much of this character comedy show is of Zhang “saying grace”, complete with a meal she slowly unpacks in front of her. She thanks everything: from the vegetables in the dish and their farmers to the chef and restaurant which cooked it, its workers, et cetera.

From here, Zhang’s ASMR-esque demeanour smoothly transitions as she moves onto wingmen, boyfriends, smoking weed, unemployment and more. There’s a particular sense of watching a vlog in the flesh, and perhaps that’s the cleverest part of it. But similarly, because of that, it falls victim to explication – the internet can’t always translate into real life, where there’s much more ambiguity.
★★★
Reviewed by Cher Tan

Douglas Lim | Made in Malaysia
Chinese Museum – Jade Room, until April 6

If you know what a Kilometrico pen, congkak and the game of “police and thief” are, this show is for you.

Returning for an encore run, Malaysian-Chinese comic Douglas Lim delivers an assured set that leans into the humour of cultural stereotypes while questioning them, resurrects emblems of Malaysian youth, and takes aim at any number of things – Singapore, his childhood nemesis, Chinese-sounding English names.

Lim has an affable onstage presence with a self-deprecating, gently admonishing manner – clever punchlines gesturing to Malaysia’s endemic corruption and the ramifications of colonisation are delivered so cavalierly, they’re almost missed.

Lim sufficiently deconstructs his show for a non-Malaysian audience, but much of it hinges on a shared comprehension of a highly specific cultural context. It’d be difficult to truly grasp the humour underpinning Lim’s race-based jokes without understanding the fraught model of multiculturalism that pits Malays, Chinese and Indians against one another in the home country – Lim is always careful to punch up or sideways – and which manifests in things like racial quotas, which Lim lampoons.

Some bits – like commentary on the inefficiency of the Western education system – are a touch overdone, but Made in Malaysia is exactly what it purports to be: an hour of stand-up pitched at an audience well-versed in Manglish who can guffaw at a well-crafted joke about corporal punishment.
★★★
Reviewed by Sonia Nair

Takashi Wakasugi | Comedy Samurai
ACMI, until April 20

Takashi Wakasugi’s jokes are sharp like a samurai’s sword, cutting through the cultural clashes that divide Australia and Japan.

His onstage persona has a lively, frenetic energy, with his fast-paced delivery and heavy gesticulation keeping audiences entertained.

He asserts that the local lifestyle lacks discipline and simplicity, directing occasional smokers to “be samurai, be consistent”.

The observations are clever, such as an analysis of returning customer strategies for chains ALDI, Officeworks and Chemist Warehouse.

Jokes are also delivered in interesting formats that encourage the audience to think deeper, such as a haiku bit that requires imagination to interpret the punchline.

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When jokes don’t land, such as a relational conclusion between sake and wine, Wakasugi gently chides, “use your brain”.

He ends with gutter humour, which feels like an unnecessary addendum to an otherwise focused show.

With a sold-out opening night and growing profile through TV appearances, catch this performer early during his rise to fame.
★★★
Reviewed by Vyshnavee Wijekumar

Holly Bohmer | Don’t Let Me Eat My Babies
The Motley Bauhaus, until April 6

The line between comedy and horror is gossamer-thin. A jump-scare can leave audiences settling back into relieved laughs, while the sharpest humour affords a safe spot from which to check out the abyss. Holly Bohmer’s excellent debut solo show plumbs this territory.

She avoids the surface-level tropes of creepshow-inspired comedy – there’s zero mwoo-haa-haa here – and instead taps a deeper vein of body horror, Lynchian surrealism and cosmic absurdity.

The parade of human-ish horrors she embodies range from a creepy therapist channelling our inner babies to a sex shop entrepreneur whose experiments are as compelling as they are unsettling. Her most straightforward role, a high-schooler taking littlies on a school tour, is perhaps her most disturbing.

There’s seriously inspired weirdness in here, but Bohmer’s chameleonic performance is always underwritten by a winning relatability. She’s not here to offend. She wants us all in on the joke. She’s no monster, but good heavens, she’s created some.
★★★
Reviewed by John Bailey

Nat Harris | I Don’t Want To Make A Scene
Chinese Museum, until April 6

“6.30pm Comedy! First preview!!” Nat Harris says, mocking herself.

Harris has bravely put her hand up for one of the earliest reviews of the Comedy Festival, and she delivers a frequently funny hour with themes of self-reckoning, mostly based on stories of growing up as one of four girls, her dad’s legacy, and admitting she’s a people-pleaser who never wants to make a scene.

Harris starts strongly with her low-key iconic character, Pussy Willow, and stays focused during the freewheeling hour, using smoky jazz background music to great effect.

Her strengths lie in her surreal sketch work, and I’d love to see more of her characters, like one included tonight: an HR officer who is 100 per cent about to conduct a witch-hunt.

Pussy Willow and Jester Cat’s respective origin stories have the audience transfixed, but the last third of the show loses a little steam. This is where further characters could be introduced to bring it home with aplomb.
★★★
Reviewed by Mikey Cahill

Eli Matthewson | Night Terror
The Greek – Apollo, until April 20

Eli Matthewson has had a good year, the bastard. He’s been on Dancing with the Stars and Celebrity Treasure Island. He’s bought a house.

Comedy doesn’t necessarily take kindly to people doing well, he admits 20 minutes into his charming but unfocused Night Terrors. Where’s the tragedy? Where’s the time?

Instead, Matthewson offers witty anecdotes from his year of living comfortably. If that sounds a bit limp, it is. Not even Matthewson’s boyish charm and cerebral wit can make this half-hazard collection of semi-related bits and stories of domestic bliss feel cohesive.

In the absence of any overarching idea, Matthewson’s set descends into a tonally confused stream-of-consciousness. We move helter-skelter from boyfriend troubles and Costco benefits to gentle audience riffing; from Marvel Superhero fatigue, to takes on polyamory. Despite a break-neck pace of delivery, 50 minutes pass at a snail’s pace, with each punchline representing something ultimately more tragic: a missed opportunity.
★★
Reviewed by Guy Webster

Sophie Power | CVNT

Malthouse Theatre, until April 12

Martin Scorsese’s 2013 film, The Wolf of Wall Street, is infamous for its generous use of expletives. It’s a mere molehill compared to the mountain of obscenities uttered by both performer and audience members in Sophie Power’s CVNT.

Dressed as a vulva, Power is reminiscent of Julia Masli in her show, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – pacing the room and engaging crowd members to relinquish their secret vulnerabilities. Except in this instance, they’re invited to unleash on those in their lives that they utterly, utterly hate.

CVNT is a show that could easily be awarded one or five stars on any given evening depending on the audience – it did win best comedy at last year’s Melbourne Fringe Festival after all. Unfortunately, I caught it on an evening where hostile men were encouraged to shout “f— you, c—!” at their in-laws and exes. It’s jarring and uncomfortable for many in the room – akin to being in an enemy cheer squad at the MCG or witnessing a bar fight.

There are moments of surreal bliss – including a gospel sermon that would surely send all who recited it straight to hell; a dance party where the audience joyously declare their adherence to “the cult of c—”; and a room-wide rally about our shared hatred of landlords. It’s extremely sex-positive, including a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey-type game where men in the room are tasked to find the clitoris (it took a long time for one to finally get it right).

Conversely, there are also moments where it feels like you’re at a lecture organised by Andrew Tate.

Power is an incredible performer – she’s drenched in sweat, cranberry juice and dislodged fake eyelashes by the end of the hour. With the right crowd, CVNT could be cathartic. That wasn’t tonight.
★★
Reviewed by Tyson Wray

The Age is a Melbourne International Comedy Festival partner.

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