Tatterdermalion

So nice, he's brought it back twice – and why not? Henry Maynard's wordless showcase of mime, clowning and audience cajoling truly is delightful. And after a year's practice since last year's Fringe, it's as tight as tight can be.

It needs to be, really, because Maynard has to make the most out of very little. Over a rapt hour, he builds worlds out of a travelling trunk. It's a nice start point, setting the scene with a number of intriguing questions. Where is this solitary figure in a fez and scruffs travelling from? And should this shy, kind, naif be travelling alone? Oh, and why is what he's doing with an egg so amusing?

And so, with each item pulled from the trunk, Maynard's clown creates a tiny world. Some are raucous – a wild and hapless car ride. Some are wistful: a headless shirt who waits, and waits, provides an elegant highlight. Some are just downright dark. However London-centric a Tube commute scene feels, its jaw-dropping denouement means it's worth retaining outside of the capital. Each of them, however, requires input from us to bring fully to life, and the skill with which Maynard secures our willing contributions is an undeniable pleasure. Until, gradually, we realise that Maynard's clown is no longer a loner. He'll find friends and supporters wherever he goes. As he gets into his trunk—perhaps to be posted elsewhere—it's without a sniff of sadness. Wherever he ends up next, he'll be fine.