A Hundred Different Words for Love

In the programme entry for this show, James Rowland himself admits there's no shortage of art exploring love, and jokingly suggests that this might be the definitive piece on the subject. The amazing thing is that for all his expectation-lowering bravado, no one in this afternoon's audience doubts his dedication to achieving this impossible goal. It transpires that there's mileage still to be had in the topic, but to watch the artist reach for such great heights is a moving experience in itself.

Rowland tells stories in a manner comparable to Daniel Kitson and Ben Moor, but while these Fringe stalwarts exude a warming sense of safety and calm, he is infinitely more unsettled, intent on harnessing the neurosis that occurs throughout even the most mundane romantic sagas.

This story is told in the first person with the artist alternately banging his head against the floor, taking up residence among the audience, stifling tears at the memory of fictional incidents and stripping himself bare in most every way conceivable. It's true that no new ground is broken here, but Rowland very nearly succeeds in covering all that's understood of the subject.

Where he slips up is in the more twee moments of the show in which he plays—and then loops—cute piano motifs to underscore his sensitivity. A climactic song meanwhile feels wholly unnecessary. The star's account of an everyday relationship is ingenious enough without it being necessary that he sweeten the pill.