This is awkward. I’m not quite sure why we all decided to come here. You see, we answered this advert on Gumtree. It looked fun. The kind of thing that you sign up to late at night once the wine is finished. She promised cake. And vodka. And comedy. All we had to do was turn up here as an audience for her comedian boyfriend’s surprise birthday party. What not to like about that, right? Well, perhaps quite a lot actually. For a start, in a balloon-strewn lecture hall, the drinks are handed out by a manic-looking woman in a wonky wig who thanks us for coming in a way that suggests that we can’t leave, and then it all goes….DARK! Actually, as well as metaphorically. In the pitch black, we are forced to sing the opening note of Happy Birthday repeatedly, whilst waiting breathlessly for the boyfriend to arrive; for we are his ‘gift’, a fully primed audience set up to revive his flagging comedy career. By the fifth rendition of the opening note, I think that all of us are beginning to realise that something is not quite right here. It all seems a bit…desperate, a bit…sad. In fact, now I’m not quite sure that this guy will like the surprise, or if he even is…you know…actually her boyfriend! So we wait. And wait. The space is filled with increasingly tense reassurances that the Birthday Boy is on his way, and anecdotes about him and his comedic ability that are so adoring as to be unsettling.

There is a real excitement and tension as an audience member being placed in this role, particularly within such a time-sensitive and highly pressurised situation. Performer Hayley McGee presents an incredibly engaging character bursting with neuroses and vulnerability, immersing us entirely in her world of loneliness, lost love and mental decline as still we wait. This concept is an excellent one, and is executed with real skill and a slick structure which continually raises the stakes under Mitchell Cushman’s direction (with dramaturgy by Deborah Pearson). Every external noise has the audience on edge (including the entrance of latecomers, who are dealt with via some very effective improvised interaction) and there is a fascination in wondering if the boyfriend will ever arrive, and then if we even want him to. For as the action progresses, it seems that maybe his ‘wonderfulness’ if as illusionary as everything else seems to be. A re-enactment of his comedy set indicates a certain cruelty towards his ex-lover that is difficult to witness, indicative of a relationship that seems toxic at best.

Inevitably then, when illusions are shattered here, they are shattered absolutely. The climax is one which I won’t spoil here for prospective audience members, but long after the framing device of the surprise party no longer has a function, the feeling of not being able to leave remains. Everything seems to come apart at the seams, with a deconstruction of the carefully set-up room and image in a way that is deeply sad and affecting. Yet despite all of this, we end with a sense of hope that maybe things will be ok, being reassured by some final platitudes in the best end-of-the-party tradition… and, very importantly – cake.

In two adjoining rooms in Summerhall’s basement, sounds of the sea intertwine with flickering projections of an abandoned place, given over long ago to the ravages of the wild Scottish weather. Personal possessions are grouped throughout the space, poignant little glimpse of a life once lived. This deeply evocative multimedia performance installation offers an abstract exploration of the impact of Lord Leverhulme’s appropriation of the Outer Hebrides’ Isle of Lewis, which he purchased in 1918 with the aim of reviving the fishing industry. Instead, the result was the eventual decimation of the local population, and abandonment of the island. Performing brothers Jamie and Lewis Wardrop present a tantalising view into one of the island’s abandoned crofter’s cottages, using cleverly layered projections and carefully curated object collections to illustrate the sharp decline of a once-functioning community. There is a tangible sense of tragedy and nostalgia in the imagery of the dilapidated house, half-destroyed by the elements and time. It looks as if it was left in a hurry, with nearly all the everyday detritus of human life on display, and there is a universality in this; the idea that someone’s fully established life was suddenly abandoned and is left here in stasis. The sense is further enhanced by a searing montage of oceanic sounds, interwoven with affecting traditional Scottish storytelling, poetry, and fiddle playing.

The immersive and promenade nature of the performance particularly appealed to me, with an element of audience choice offered in that we were free to wander between the spaces. This allows you to construct your own narrative and experience of the piece, and I was fully captured by being able to stand in the space between the two rooms to gain two separate perspectives, and moments such as when were encouraged to draw near to a roaring (projected!) fireside and listen to ghostly takes. Part of the audience’s role, then, is in piecing the imagery and information together for ourselves, which makes the experience by its nature a personal one.

For me, there was absolute intrigue in the exploration of the abandoned house, but, whilst I understand that this was constructed as a metaphor for much more, there was still a slight frustration in that we never found out more about it! The content was largely exciting and the performers both confident and engaging, but the lengthily lecture-like opening (as necessary as perhaps it was to set the piece) felt too obvious an expositionary tool, compared to he innovation of the rest of the performance. Further, moments of stillness were included to good effect, but I found some of the longer non-action sequences challenging in terms of holding my engagement. However, this is, as previously highlighted, a deeply personal response to the piece, which is without doubt full of intrigue and atmosphere, very well constructed and has kept me thinking far in to the night!

A heavily symbolic exploration of the effects of drone warfare on those with their fingers on the trigger, Swivelhead aptly meshes the personal with the political, creating a tangible atmosphere of the ever-escalating pressure inherent in such a profession. Based on testimonies of serving drone pilots, the production utlilises a striking scenography underscored by sharp dialogue and a well-constructed soundscape to bring the narrative to life. John Welch’s direction includes the careful placement of multi-levelled areas on stage, which successfully turns every object in to a signifier; principally there to communicate the rising tension and illustrate the themes of flight and freedom. At ground level, split-staging introduces a central area as the claustrophobic ‘ops room’, workplace to Sergeant Paddy, the troubled protagonist. Downstage right we see the more homely sphere of his elder sister’s flat, a setting for frequent and intimate phone calls between the two, often on the subject of her forthcoming wedding. Looming above this is the more abstract space of the siblings’ childhood tree house, which we discover was a refuge from a troubled family dynamic, including a violent father.  As the action intensifies, the spaces very effectively intertwine via abstract movement sequences that indicate Paddy’s unraveling mental health.

This sense of unease is also illustrated physically. As the drone team hone in on their target, Paddy experiences strange symptoms including skin itching, oddly curving nails and a sore neck, indicative of some abstract metamorphosis yet to be revealed. The ability to make decisions and comprehend the complex ethics of the role seem to become seriously impaired, becoming more marked until the crisis point; the eve of his sister’s wedding. it is here that the action reaches a rather sudden denouement; in a nightmarishly abstract sequence, Paddy finds himself atop the tree house. There he is at once berated by his colleague for his character flaws, whilst simultaneously practising a wedding speech that he doesn’t want to deliver, the wedding in his mind being a way of losing his too-close relationship with his sister for good.

Amidst this chaotic climax, Paddy’s physical incapacitation increases, his humanity relinquished until he actually becomes a bird himself. This device is quite an exciting one, allowing for exploration of a mind in decline, but its introduction perhaps felt a little abrupt and could have been further explored. I wondered if a vehicle for this could have been via the use of the puppetry, which was introduced in the fairly brief form of bird puppets at the start and at the resolution, but could have been extended. However, this is a production full of big ideas and interesting and imaginative concepts. On some levels it is rather confusing, but there is a sense of pleasure in how it revels in the abstract, whilst presenting an absorbing and complex main character who I wanted to know more about.

La Clique is something of an Edinburgh institution for me; after eleven years of Fringe attendance, I am still dazzled every time. On this occasion literally as well as metaphorically, having viewed some of the show through the rather unique filter of a discarded sequinned costume which was flung over my head. In typical British middle-class fashion, I politely let it hang there until I felt it pertinent to remove. As you can imagine, this took some considerable time, and in my glitzy prison I experienced a moment of somewhat existential reflection; what is it about this show that still hooks me in? The answer I think (and don’t blame me if I’m off-tangent; I did have a sequin slightly scratching my eyeball at this point) is that it contains some of the key things that excite me most about performance; an exploration of risk and illusion that still feels vital.

Established in 2003, and having won an Olivier Award for Best Entertainment, its creator David Bane also winning  a Total Theatre Award for Significant Contribution, La Clique features a range of talented performers performing specialised contemporary variety and circus acts, amongst them acrobats, magicians, cabaret artistes, comedians and musicians. This year’s show, named La Clique Encore, included Gerry Connolly as a delightful rapping Queen Elizabeth II, sporting a Brexit-inspired twin-set and some hilariously non-royal views on the recent political proceedings, Valerie Murzac’s  amazing contortions atop a giant glitter ball, and a level of hula-hooping from performer Craig Read that has to be seen to be believed! The energy and focus of the performance is absolute, all tied together via the band’s slick accompaniment under Danny Bourne’s musical direction. Whilst the content of some of the acts may not be exactly family-friendly, such as Sophie Zucchini’s edgy burlesque (who knew that handkerchiefs could be concealed there?), each is incredibly skilled and well honed.

The visual spectacle is carefully constructed, with high production values and a relatively intimate performance area in the round. This prompts a frisson of fear by bringing a portion of the audience close to some potentially hazardous action, and is emphasised by atmospheric lighting which compliments the venue’s design aesthetic absolutely. (The Famous Spiegeltent being an absolute delightful space made of  wood, stained glass and mirrors, featuring red-plush booths.) In true cabaret tradition, there is also a pleasing undertone of something a little darker lurking just underneath the surface. Some of this is to do with the sometimes controversial content, and a lot is in the immersive staging which allows one to be close enough to see details like the drag artiste’s smudged make-up or the ladders in the contortionist’s tights. This combined with the slightly faded beauty of the Spiegeltent itself creates a really tangible sense of expectation, like stepping in to a magical micro-world where anything might happen.