Squidboy

To see Squidboy is to step into an imaginary hall of mirrors. A fabulated fisherman tells the story of a made-up squid who eats invisible crisps and plays with a non-existent dog. Layer upon layer of unreality reflects upon itself creating the Fringe’s most wonderfully absurd illusionary universe. It may only exist in the audience’s mind’s eye, but for an hour, it is the most comically concrete place to be.

The architect of this surreal cosmos is Kiwi Trygve Wakenshaw. He builds this one-man show entirely out of his bendy limbs, liquid facial expressions, and silent movie clowning.

To try and tell the story of Squidboy would not only be a disservice, it would be misleading. There is none. Instead Wakenshaw flits from one sequence to another, following a dream logic thread.

Here he is sharing an imaginary packet of crisps with the audience. Here he is playing the world’s most expansive game of fetch with his dog. Here he is massaging a cow. Now there’s a squid trapped in a lift.

It sounds mad, and it is. But in Wakenshaw’s masterful hands the audience completely buys into the physical and narrative laws of his world. He has atomic clock timing. He knows the joy and the power of repetition. And it's significantly funnier than the majority of the Fringe's comedy programme.

Yet he might have a point. In the end, it isn’t real. The lights come up and reality replaces illusion. But in the wistfulness this engenders, the power of theatre can be found.