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REVIEW: Her and The Voice in Her Head

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

Fuelled by spoken word and banter, Lorraine Adeyefa’s lively performance blends the playful and the painful, exposing the open wounds of a young Black woman’s search for love.

In the intimate black box of Theatre Deli’s Studio Ten, cluttered with laundry and
empty wine bottles, a young woman’s inner world spills outward. Her and the Voice
in Her Head, written and performed by Lorraine Adeyefa, plunges into the emotional
comedown of a situationship, tracing the fragile terrain between heartbreak, self-
doubt, memories, and the beginnings of healing.

Through banter, spoken word, and a lively performance, the piece captures a mind in
flux: messy, funny, and emotionally vulnerable. Adeyefa vividly embodies “her” as we
witness an internal dialogue made external with a mysterious voice floating onto the
stage. Warm, teasing and commanding, the voice (by Effie Ansah) becomes both
companion and counterpoint, and its verbal exchange with Adeyefa feels at once
deeply personal and performatively dynamic.

The story takes us on a journey through love anecdotes, from teen puppy love to city
girl dating. Moments of carefree bliss in the highs are followed by deep struggle in
the lows, revealing a profound craving for acceptance and love.

Connection becomes one of the production’s strongest points. From early on,
Adeyefa acknowledges the audience with a deer-in-headlights look, surprised not to
be alone. But she quickly turns the crowd into confidants. Banter flows easily, oversharing her every thought, from bits of songs to romantic delusions, yet avoiding
what hunts her the most.

And the room responds in kind. Laughter, sighs, and even spontaneous call-outs
ripple through the space as she shares her story, creating a sense of connection.
Theatre that manages to build collective care on the spot like that is something to
praise.

The piece is unflinchingly honest and raw. In such close quarters, every shift in tone
lands with no filter. Joy travels as quickly as sorrow through voice and movement
(with Adeola Yemitan as movement director), and the air feels thick with both the
playful and the painful.

Spoken word gives the piece a beautiful texture, becoming its beating heart. The
words ripple in ways that feel soft yet cutting, crystallising as the most truthful vessel
of the young woman’s feelings.

Meanwhile, sound design by Immanuel Baptist and lighting design by Jahmiko
Marshall play a crucial role in shaping the inner world. Baptist’s soundscape comesas an echo, particularly the voice, blurring the lines between internal and external,
and drawing audiences into the inner rollercoaster.

And so, audiences follow a mind brimming with intrusive thoughts: from rap breaks
to rabbit holes about, say, Black love, power couples, and films. The stream of
consciousness is occasionally interrupted by phone calls, but more often pulled back
by the inner voice’s calling, which becomes an anchoring presence that urges “her” to
cut through the noise and let the deepest feelings surface.

As the work peels off its layers, it carefully handles the darkest moments with
honesty. It gestures towards a reflection of self-worth and solitude, without losing
sight of the need for connection. Healing emerges as a process, one that exists
between self-love and being held by something beyond, and perhaps stronger than,
romantic love.

In a world that preaches self-worth through likes, prince-charming tales, and
relationship goals, all while encountering loud dynamics of situationship culture, Her
and the Voice in Her Head counters with a beautifully vulnerable story of self-
discovery.

This show’s run is now concluded and ran at The Theatre Deli, London.

REVIEW: Short & Mighty

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

An eclectic evening of bite-sized plays, ranging from delicious pieces to others still finding their flavour.

If Short & Mighty recalls Spain’s tapas culture with its show-hopping model, Instituto Cervantes proves the perfect host for this dynamic theatre event, in which five new short plays run in rotation across the building. Produced in collaboration with Untold Collectiv, this micro-theatre experience offers an evening of stories about power, each performance with a limited audience of fifteen people.

The micro-theatre model (indeed coined in Madrid) may echo immersive experiences or short play nights, but it has its own particularities. In Short & Mighty, audiences
are divided into groups with colour-coded programmes indicating the performances’ running order, room and time. Each group then journeys across the building’s four
floors, the atmosphere quiet and organised.

Unlike immersive theatre, the venue itself is not part of the world, and moving between performances feels like pressing a pause button. The brief expeditions between shows become a subtle bonding experience, as audiences find their way together and chat in whispers while the next show resets.

Every bite-sized story brings different flavours to the table: from surreal comedy to grounded realism, from tension-heavy drama to absurdist scenarios. Those with a blue programme begin with a strong opening in Spread, by Maya Owen (directed by Felipe Jara, performed by Helena Westerman, Isio Ighofose, and Bradley Tiffin). A queer young woman, a self-absorbed teenager and a mythical drag being find themselves stuck on a late-night train. Vibrant and witty, this surreal encounter explores personal space and nudges us to resist snap judgements, landing as a playful piece with a feel-good aftertaste.

Next comes Raquel Bartra’s Devolved (directed by Emma J Lever and performed by Farbod Montazeri and Esther O’Loughlin), in which a disillusioned politician is unexpectedly made Mayor of his hometown. None of his fellow townsmen seems to understand what that entails, except one: an old, power-hungry friend. A tale of
political blackmail, the dialogue traces a clear path but is short of dramatic drive. While it doesn’t quite ignite the turmoil faced by those in power, it remains a timely piece discussing the weight of leadership.

In The Target, by Diana Hognogi (directed by Raian Moore, performed by Sammy Attalah, David Hebb, and Shashank Sharma), two broke flatmates swim the deep web waters in a naïve attempt to make money, which spirals into a life-threatening enterprise. The piece is playful and packed with twists, and even if comedy and tension don’t fully land, its premise feels sharply relevant in times of financial
precarity.

Then follows Children of the Empire, by Jake Turner Chan (directed by Sofia Zaragoza, performed by Marisol Rojas and Tristan Pretty), in which a father and daughter drive through the city, quietly removing English flags. A powerful interaction neatly encapsulated, it evokes a political landscape in a deeply intimate way. The pair give truthful performances and achieve a moving 3D quality, their rebellious night ride revealing both disenchantment and hope. 

A gripping duo brings to life Jessica’s Trap, by Laura Bay (directed by Rebeca Pereira, performed by Durassie Kiangangu and Chloe Wigmore), in which a woman finds herself captive in a room with a colleague she barely knows; though he knows everything about her. Impactful from the start, the room holds a quiet, breath-held
tension as we trace the layered psyche of a man caught between devotion and obsession.

An eclectic evening with varied outcomes, Short & Mighty is perfect for the curious theatregoer. At its best, it truly hones proximity to magnify the stories’ resonance, and captures how brief moments can carry lasting weight. Together, these pieces offer a reminder of how unstable and shape-shifting power can be.

REVIEW: I Made You a Mixtape

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

A high-energy, genre-defying love letter to the 90s celebrating the fleeting intensity of a moment through the unfiltered language of dance.

Audiences know from the very first moment that this will not be a conventional theatre evening. Director and choreographer Christie Lee Manning steps onstage with handmade banners to establish what to expect: ‘I Made You a Mixtape’ is not a play. It is sort of a dance show. And it is definitely not a musical. What unfolds is a 90s dorm-room hangout where nine young women gather for one last, hella good night on the brink of a life-altering change.

The piece is presented by Response Theatre Company, pioneers of a hybrid method blending Meisner acting with movement theatre. The goal is for the performer not to focus on their inner world, but on their fellow performers in the immediate environment. With music as a scene partner, choreography becomes a living script that is never performed quite the same way twice.

The show unravels in episodic scenes, all within a non-stop party atmosphere. Live instruments performing on top of a 90s playlist make the environment incredibly vibrant, with Tom Kirkpatrick and Oliver Davies on guitar and drums. Each track underscores pivotal moments, with the cast rotating the spotlight to portray them through movement. These range from starting a dream job to checking into rehab, from getting married to the looming reality of an expired visa.

The set is a nostalgia wagon, scattered with memorabilia that has certainly taken those of us with a youngish perspective down memory lane. Girl band energy is in order. From 90s chokers to Green Day posters, the aesthetic strikes a chord with those who experienced the turn of the millennium. The ensemble recreates music videos and crafts fun moments in a DIY spirit, rummaging through all the small things inside boxes to dress up and find impromptu microphones. Beer pong with red cups, nineties board games, and old-school camcorders complete the collage, all ready for a choose-your-own 90s adventure.

What’s most striking is how fierce the dancing is. The cast includes Clair Gleave, Jennifer Kehoe, Katrina Lopes, Abbey Devoy, Amy Punter, Alexa Stevens, Lauren O’Sullivan, Maggie Trepanier, and Tatiana Ivanova. Each one brings their unique special sauce to the mix, and their performances are skilled and passionate. While their training is evident and the routines have a clear sense of structure, it is the unrestrained, freestyle energy that proves most infectious. Some command the stage with greater ease, but they are all a joy to watch, and the chemistry as an ensemble sizzles throughout.

Just like at a party, loud music muffles voices, carries laughter, and turns intimate conversations into collective dancing when the first chords of a banger explode from the speakers. The stage always feels alive, and the ensemble holds the space for each other, at times stepping forward as side-kicks during a solo, at times in the background and keeping the hangout atmosphere going.

The emotions showcased throughout the playlist go from joy to heartbreak and back again, sometimes jarringly so, and occasionally the performances verge on emoting. But the raw energy of these moments remains palpable, and the physical response to music and to one another feels immediate.

Participatory moments draw audiences further into the festive mood. A neon-lit crowd wave ripples through the seats to the sound of a soulful anthem you oughta know, while a not-so-random audience member is invited onstage to get a tattoo during Pretty Fly (for a white guy). A final routine brings the sixty-minute performance to a high-energy close, rounding off the experience with a playful, festive feeling.

‘I Made You a Mixtape’ is, at its core, a love letter to the nineties through the lens of friendship and the unfiltered language of the body. It resists easy categorisation, and that is where its strength lies. The show invites audiences to feel rather than define, and to let go to the beating pulse of music, shared memory, and the fleeting intensity of a moment you know won’t last. Come for the nostalgia trip, stay for the dancing.

‘I Made You a Mixtape’ ran at The Cockpit 6th-7th April.

REVIEW: Panacea

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

A cautionary tale for modern science exploring what happens when scientific ambition collides with emotional vulnerability.

Professor Augustus “Gus” Jamieson is on the verge of a breakthrough: developing an infectious vaccine that could prevent future pandemics. But as his research gains momentum, so does the pressure he faces — from ethics committees, close relationships, and his own need for recognition. Presented by Bloodline Theatre Company, Panacea explores what happens when scientific ambition collides with emotional vulnerability.

Following a debut at The Cockpit in early 2025 and a UK tour later that year, the play now arrives at Riverside Studios, posing the question: what happens when meaningful research intersects with human ambition?

Co-written by microbiologist Andrew Singer and theatre maker Christina James, Panacea is a cautionary tale for modern science. The play interweaves the personal and professional tensions that shape Gus’ journey. James’ background in psychoanalysis informs the protagonist’s emotional landscape, as he grapples with ASD: his loneliness and anxiety surface not only in sessions with his therapist, but also in conversations with his cat (and yes, the cat answers back — quite wisely, too).

Co-directed by Christina James and Freya Griffiths, the production moves away from realism to create a more metaphoric space. A loose Greek chorus of performers dressed in black foreshadow the consequences of Gus’ pursuit of success, commenting on events through verse, sound poetry, and choreographed movement.

Will Batty leads the cast as Professor Jamieson, supported by an ensemble of four — Emily Wallace, Marianne James, Nina Fidderman, and Charlie Culley — who each double as figures in Gus’ world: caring therapist, loving partner, needy cat, cautious academic, and ambitious student. Each brings clarity and distinctiveness, offering glimpses into the competing forces shaping Gus’ decisions.

The staging has moments of inventiveness. Off-character performers enter to hand props, functioning as both chorus and stagehands. Paper sheets flood the floor to evoke endless bureaucracy; paper cups stand in for wine glasses; mobile texts are delivered on slips of paper. Subtle traces of crimson ribbon woven through costumes and set serve as a visual reminder of the red tape Gus must navigate.

The story presents a clearly mapped conflict and well-defined character dynamics, but the production doesn’t quite allow tension to fully thicken. The dialogue is sharp and engaging, delivered with confidence and ownership, yet the central performance does not fully sustain the dramatic engine of the piece. The show communicates the dilemmas of scientific advancement effectively, though it leans more toward cautionary framing than a deeper excavation of its protagonist.

Even so, Panacea succeeds in making complex science feel accessible and engaging. In a post-COVID-19 landscape, and amid the ongoing crisis of antimicrobial resistance, it offers a timely reminder: scientific progress is not purely technical, but shaped by individuals with all their human virtues and flaws.

This show runs at Riverside Studios until 21st March. Tickets here.

REVIEW: F*ckboy at Camden People’s Theatre

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

Part night train confession, part club-night fever dream, F*ckboy navigates dysphoria with sharp humour and sincerity. 

A performer leans casually against a dark stage wall under purple and blue lighting, wearing a black outfit with fishnet tights and chunky boots; a chair and a pair of scissors dangle from a chain.  This is Camden People’s Theatre, and we have entered the world of F*ckboy.

A one-person show that explores gender dysphoria and bodily autonomy, the play unfolds as a drunken night journey on the District Line where Frankie spirals into a series of memories and fantasies. 

Written and performed by Freddie Haberfellner, F*ckboy follows an overthinking Frankie through a sliding-doors journey towards self-acceptance. Frankie is on a long Tube ride home, drunk, with a pair of scissors in their coat pocket. They are also in a club, doing shots, trying to ignore the feeling of boobs jumping to the beat of their dancing.

Colours wash over the black stage, making the metallic glitter in Frankie’s make-up sparkle in a giving fabulous kind of way. From pulsating club lights to pink-hued love fantasies with none other than Andrew Garfield, the lighting design by Oli Fuller and Rowan West tells the story as much as the writing does. 

The technicolour journey is tightly paired with an atmospheric sound design by Marta Miranda and Gareth Swindail-Parry, evoking DJ beats and Tube announcements alike, and adding an enveloping texture to the 50-minute piece directed by Isobel Jacob.

Freddie Haberfellner brims with charisma. He involves the audience in playful ways: someone in the corner becomes the subject of their loving gaze every time Andrew Garfield enters the story; while two people in the front row become the dull-looking cis couple that Frankie scrutinises on the Tube. 

The chaos within is on full display: intrusive thoughts, second-guessing, the discomfort of untamed hair brushing their throat on a club night.  Yet, the play carries the polished quality of someone who has a rearview perspective on their own story. The path has already been walked, audiences follow its trace.

But this journey offers no neat origin story, Frankie remarks. While loving cars from a young age or experiencing trauma is what people might expect, Frankie’s life has no ‘inciting incident’ to offer for their experience with gender dysphoria. And yes, they have done the work of self-reflection with excruciating meticulousness ¾ scrutiny that, they point out, the cis man on the train would surely never have to endure should he decide to undergo cosmetic surgery. 

Haberfellner’s charismatic performance and sincere storytelling are engaging, even if the delivery maintains an even rhythm that does not always allow for deeper engagement with the emotional peaks and valleys. But this is no trauma porn. The humour in F*ckboy softens the darkest moments: Frankie runs for the toilet to collect themselves. But this is a club toilet, so the breakdown moment (and the storytelling) must wait in the queue. 

There are, however, moments of vulnerability that pierce the air.  A speech embracing madness and uncertainty in a Shakespearean vein challenges the idea of normality, turning inner turmoil into defiance.  Past and present selves blur, so does fantasy and reality, moving tentatively towards self-love and healing.In a time when public discourse around trans and gender dysphoria is, to say the least, fraught with misunderstanding, theatre like F*ckboy feels crucial. Some may recognise their own journey; others may find new ground from which to understand dysphoria. Either way, the show opens up a space to reflect on how we construct our sense of home, in the body, in the mind, and within the society we move through.

REVIEW: Trip the Light Fantastic

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

An uplifting, delicate piece that moves the heart. Driven by gripping performances charged with sentiment, effortless humour, and piercing moments, the show unfolds like a waltz with each step echoing the push and pull of a cross-generational relationship.

Eager Freddie has been tasked with bringing reluctant Jack up to speed in a one-on-one ballroom dance class. Jack (John Peters) wants to woo his wife, hoping a smooth waltz might be the first step towards mending a strained marriage. He has lived Freddie’s lifetime three times over. Meanwhile, Freddie (Harvey William Brown) craves company, almost compulsively so, as if constant engagement might keep his scattered brain in line. With one of them stoic to the bone and the other wearing his heart permanently on his sleeve, their encounter feels like a recipe for either remedy or disaster.   

Written by Miriam Battye (Scenes with Girls, Strategic Love Play, Succession), Trip the Light Fantastic makes its London debut at OSO Theatre.  

This is an intimate production staged in a stripped-back stage with nothing but two chairs and a broom (ballroom dancers will know what this one is for). The show runs for 75 word-heavy minutes, with the drama unfolding entirely through conversation. And yet not a moment drags. Brown and Peters have such instinctive chemistry, and their characters’ contrasting personalities spark so vividly, that the relationship bubbles with wholeheartedness. 

There is something endearing about watching generations come together in theatre, both in the audience and onstage. In this delicate story of loneliness, love and intergenerational connection, Battye’s writing explores not only two wildly self-critical, borderline self-loathing men, but also the vastly different ways generations metabolise pain. She examines how cross-generational friendship might open up new ways of seeing −and understanding− both others and ourselves. Her words shift from plain and succinct to brutally raw. 

And when the cast take hold of her words, colouring them with their characters’ inner turmoil, their interaction shines with unreserved, technicoloured authenticity. Freddie operates with a has-a-feeling, says-a-feeling vulnerability, while Jack armours himself in stoicism and pulls on a tough exterior to keep emotion firmly corked. 

As they take tentative steps towards the waltz, they craft a bond so vivid that it carries the audience along on a rollercoaster with them. In their more throat-tightening arguments, the air in the room grows heavy until the disquiet simmering beneath erupts like lava. Yet they pivot seamlessly into softer, uplifting exchanges, offering flashes of warmth that feel genuine. 

Director Ella Straus handles the rhythm with great dexterity. She guides the audience through rapid-fire lines charged with sentiment, and allows long, weighted pauses to let the more piercing moments settle. Sound and lighting are minimal, adding subtle texture to the piece.

Brown and Peters give heartfelt performances. Brown as Freddie sets a quick tempo propelled by no-filter avalanches of words that reveal his inner disquiet. His Freddie is charming and loving, yet deeply self-conscious and fidgety. The frenzy is counterbalanced by Peters’ Jack and his stone-cold restraint. Jack recoils from connection, whether on the dancefloor or in life. “I just want to learn the steps. I’m not about this, centring myself. Loosening my aura,” he insists. His arc is the sharper of the two, and Peters delivers it with precision: it is not only his stiff knees that begin to loosen as he slowly learns how to “invite people in” (another one ballroom dancers will get), not just onto the dancefloor, but into his life. 

This is an uplifting, delicate piece that moves the heart. It doesn’t parade a sunny, feel-good friendship. Instead, it embraces the messy interplay between two radically different people with strikingly similar aches, both learning to navigate uncertainty in a world where happy outcomes are not guaranteed, but worth pursuing.  Trip the Light Fantastic runs at OSO Theatre, London, 26th February -1 March.