Ego-conscious fashion
same room as someone so good looking, gives way to genuine laughter.
As a former model, Knowles clearly knows what it’s like.
While the world of castings, fashion parties and photoshoots may be familiar to anyone who’s ever picked up Vogue, the wit and verve with which she sums up the power imbalances that exist between the young women and the industry professionals who police their every word/look/mouthful of food is sharp and fresh, with jokes as funny and skilfully structured as many of the top stand-up comedians you’ll see at the Fringe.
Rachael Head’s engaging direction finds physical humour in the hidden world between the poses, while, in the audience, the continual flash of a camera whirrs away.
With the underlying threat of being “dropped” unless she “lands” London fashion week, Knowles’ likeable, upbeat and clown-like character finds a photoshoot with a revered male photographer is not what it is built up to be.
Through turning her body into a sexualised object, our formidably astute narrator strips away the comic voice we have come to so enjoy in the same dehumanising way that she depicts this man and, indeed, the wider fashion industry, as doing.
It’s an uncomfortable but highly effective sequence – one that undercuts the comedy and elevates what is an already extremely enjoyable piece into something much more thought-provoking, powerful and, in the current climate, ultimately extremely pertinent.
Until 11 August. Today 8:20pm.
The songs of Jacques Brel demand not just technical musical virtuosity but a spectrum of passionate emotional expression, from vulnerability to disdain to joie de vivre.
Few performers today can meet those demands with the accomplishment and verve of Peter Straker, a phenomenal presence whose electrifying delivery belies the fact that he this year celebrates 50 years in showbusiness.
Straker is no stranger to Brel, having worked with the Belgian master’s chansons for decades.
But this pared-back set, accompanied by the excellent Gulliver Ralston on what Straker calls a “postage-stamp stage,” offers a tremendous opportunity to see him work his magic at close quarters.
The enveloping opening number, No, Love You’re Not Alone, begins in darkness, Straker’s hands outstretched to establish contact.
As the show continues, Charlie Paton’s effectively simple lighting casts coloured washes to suit Brel’s dramatic, compulsive and heightened world.
Amsterdam, for instance, is a lusty red to suit Straker’s rowdy, sinuous and charismatic storytelling, while the gently poignant Sons Of is bathed in a melancholic bluegreen.
The emotional range is dazzling: one minute, Straker brings out the insecure sexuality and resentment of Next, Brel’s grotesque tale of lost virginity; then the giddy torment of Mathilde, about a lover’s return; then the scabrous social satire of The Middle Class, performed as a cartoonish duet with Ralston whose bravura climax threatens to engulf the whole venue.
Indeed, alongside his extraordinary voice and emotional heft, Straker consistently thrills with his physicality, flailing his limbs, flashing his arse and marauding among the audience, eyes darting, voice defiant.
From the plaintive heartbreak of If You Go Away to the foot-stomping bravado of Jacky, Straker brings Brel’s world of lust, fear, tragedy and celebration to glorious, rapturous life.
Until 12 August. Today 9:20pm.