The Motley Bauhaus houses three performance spaces, but that still is not enough for Tim Wotherspoon’s Future Loves Burning / Age Of Extremes. The writer-director has deemed the existing areas insufficient and instead taken over the entire venue for these two one-act plays. The result is a sprawling, chaotic and deliberately overwhelming experience that pulls the audience through shifting worlds of heightened language, absurdity and backstage dysfunction.
Wotherspoon uses this space in a captivating way, particularly with the first play Future Loves Burning, transforming the way the audience engages with it. Staging most of the play in the round in this space is inventive and makes it more intriguing, with the stage itself becoming a small seating bank. The doors and entrances, some of which I didn’t realise existed, keep the drama in motion and give the production an unpredictable intensity.
In 2025, Merriam-Webster named "AI slop" as its word of the year, describing the flood of low-quality content created by AI for clicks and monetisation. A year earlier, composer Aviva Endean and choreographer Rebecca Jensen were developing Slop, the follow-up to their 2023 work Slip. This experimental performance pulls audiences into a chaotic landscape driven by digital overload, environmental instability, and the constant buzz of contemporary life. Through movement and sound, the production reflects on confusion, distraction, and the difficulty of distinguishing meaning from the endless barrage of information surrounding us.
An instrument crafted by Endean opens the show. It's a maze-like construction of pipes and tubes, that when blown into releases an almost primitive sound that carries a calm, soothing quality. This early stillness sits in deliberate contrast to what unfolds, marking out a brief moment of clarity before giving way to a fuller, more active sonic and physical terrain. Jensen appears holding a lit candle and removes a large clump of hair from inside the pipes, turning a simple blockage into something visceral and unsettling. The instrument is dragged backstage, and the piece spills into its slop state, where structure breaks down and materials start to build and overlap.
If only all on-boarding processes were as enjoyably hectic as Sunny Youngsmith’s Cabin Pressure. In a suitably small black box theatre space, Youngsmith transforms the room into an aeroplane, the seating arranged with a central aisle for every audience member to walk down, flanked by rows pressed against the walls. It’s an effective bit of staging that immediately sets the tone of the show that is supported by a score of low hums of engine noises and in-flight movements. From the premium economy seat covers to the single lush business class throne, the details create an environment that is playful and a little unhinged.
For the most part, Youngsmith takes on the role of our lone flight attendant, abandoned by the rest of the crew who have all called in sick. Slightly frazzled and under the pump, they ask a 'passenger' to help with the pre-departure safety demonstration. Audience participation is handled with real care, with eye masks handed out as props for the long flight but also as a gentle opt-out signal for anyone not keen to be involved. It’s a smart, low-pressure system, though the atmosphere Youngsmith establishes so quickly is so relaxed and disarming that I don't see any masks on heads.
With a beaming smile and wide eyes, Frankie McNair tells us she is a survivor of childhood sexual assault and sexual assault. She laughs as she calls herself a high achiever. In Huge Ass Mindset, McNair reframes resilience through an unflinchingly self-aware, fast-moving set that refuses to linger in victimhood. She leans into ambition, survival instincts, and the absurdity of how the world expects people to package trauma into something neat and palatable. There is bite in her delivery, but there is also a disarming openness that keeps the room with her, even as she pushes into darker territory.
Rather than using it as background context, McNair places this experience directly into the foundation of the work, challenging how sexual assault and trauma are spoken about, particularly in comedy. The hour builds as a series of escalating reflections, with ideas that recur and steadily gain weight as the set progresses.
For three years, Sweeney Preston worked at PEDESTRIAN.TV, Australia’s largest youth publisher, as a journalist, breaking stories like “There’s Been Yet Another Explosive Development In Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie’s Family Saga” and “A Well-Known Aussie Gym Chain Has Finally Had It W/ Influencers, Banning Tripods At Its Gyms”. He also wrote dating advice articles, ironically while his own love life was in need of a rewrite. In Australia’s Worst Journalist, Preston blends his time in the newsroom with his mishaps in love for an hour of light-hearted comedy.
Preston’s delivery stays relaxed and aware throughout, which suits the material and keeps the tone grounded rather than overly stylised. His energy is consistently high, giving the set a sense of drive, even if the material doesn’t always match that momentum.
Natalia Sledz unleashes a chaotic, keenly observed feline world in Puss Puss, blending physical comedy, music, and surreal imagery into a largely silent hour of gleeful, unapologetic absurdity. It quickly establishes a distinct setup, inviting the audience to experience this reality through Puss Puss’ warped, instinct-driven lens.
At the centre of it all is Sledz’s skilfully measured performance. She captures feline behaviour with remarkable precision, from her fixation on noisy toys and anything that glints to her perfectly coughed up furballs and when an audience member sprays her with water. Every movement is intuitive, detailed, and finely tuned for maximum comedic impact.
Through centuries of daughterhood, the eldest daughter has been destined (or cursed?) for a life of perfectionism, high achievement, and anxiety. Rachel Tunaley is no different, as the eldest daughter of her family. However, when her sibling comes out as transgender, she believes she has been freed from the expectations that once defined her. Little does she know. In her new cabaret, Recovering Eldest Daughter, Tunaley takes the audience on a candid, humorous, and personal journey through mental health, identity, and the process of unlearning lifelong pressures as she searches for who she is beyond the role she was raised to fulfil.
Now the middle sister, Tunaley gleefully visits the Prophet of the Eldest Daughter to relinquish the eldest daughter label, only to be informed that too much time has passed and the title cannot simply be given away. No, there is only one way this can happen. She must learn to heal her inner child. Easier said than done. This prompts her to examine her past behaviours, thoughts, and relationships, confronting the patterns that have shaped her and the anxieties she has long carried.
Little Devil and the War Machine is set during the peak of political instability in Renaissance Italy, when Florence was frequently involved in conflicts and shifting alliances. This reimagining draws on the spirit of commedia dell’arte to explore the dynamics between four key figures, intellectual inventor Leonardo da Vinci, political strategist Niccolò Machiavelli, military ruler Cesare Borgia, and the mischievous apprentice Gian Giacomo Caprotti (Salai).
Rather than a straightforward historical retelling, the production reinterprets the era through a queer lens, questioning how identity and power are constructed. With mask work, bold physicality, and scenes of heightened comedy, it builds a vivid interplay of relationships where status, desire, and power are constantly negotiated onstage.
Christian Elderfield’s **Swingers** is a personal account that charts his experiences navigating the world of non-monogamy, framed under a mix of candid confession, saucy observational humour, and punchy one-liners.
Drawing on real-life encounters and a distinctly conversational style, he guides the audience through unfamiliar social spaces with curiosity and bravado, balancing explicit subject matter with a light, comedic touch.
Elderfield takes us through his adventures in swinging, and, in case it’s not obvious from the imagery, he’s referring to couples who have sex with other couples, not jazz music or playground equipment. He proves to be a strong storyteller, with a great sense of punchline delivery and a knack for puns.
In JKS: a Comedy(?), five comedians linger in a scrappy pub venue Green Room, killing time between sets by complaining about a tough crowd and taking cheap shots at each other. It’s loose, familiar territory, until the sudden death of a trailblazer in the Australian stand-up scene cracks something open. What begins as banter quickly spirals into a full-blown argument on the limits of comedy, the power of language, and who gets to decide what should, or shouldn’t, be a joke.
At the centre of this story are two opposing voices. Jase, a man of colour (Kevin Hofbauer), argues that nothing should be off-limits, that a joke on rape or paedophilia is not endorsing it. For him, comedy is about observation, not approval. On the other side is Alex, a gay, white man (Tom Ballard), who insists that comics have a responsibility to avoid punching down, and that intent does not cancel out impact.
Three eggs appear on stage. Slowly but surely, they begin to hatch, and out pop three cabaret-loving chicks. It’s best not to dwell on it too much. What follows is an hour of more chicken-themed burlesque, comedy and songs than you can fry. Adore Handel, Mae B. Wilde and Penelope Splendour are our hatchlings, who take us on a wild, ecstatic ride full of energy, cheek, and playful absurdity with Chookas.
The trio are adept at capturing the specific mannerisms of chickens. They display inquisitiveness and a judgmental edge as they reach out to the audience, almost as a challenge or assertion of authority. The way they move and feed off each other and us strongly resembles observing chickens, albeit with clearly exaggerated physicality.
When you buy a ticket to a show, you expect a complete performance. Not so with Abby Wambaugh. Instead, they offer the first three minutes of 17 different shows. What initially feels like a series of disconnected sketches is, in fact, carefully constructed, with Wambaugh deftly weaving together a narrative about family, love, loss, and grief in their debut show, aptly titled The First 3 Minutes of 17 Shows.
The 17 scenes shift constantly in tone and style. Some lean into borderline absurdity, others involve audience participation, and a few take on more traditional forms of stand-up or storytelling. One of the earliest segments sees Wambaugh embodying a vacuum cleaner, an unexpected bit that elicits plenty of laughs. Another, titled "Straight Stand-Up", has them sharing details about their husband and children: amusing, though it seems somewhat inconsequential.
Taylah Whelan is turning 26. Their mum was pregnant with them at 26, and Whelan is now having something of an existential crisis. Welcome to Happy Birthday Taylah Whelan.
Whelan is surprised to see us all in their house, though they did invite us over to celebrate their birthday, so it’s only natural we’d be there. They are slightly awkward and unsure of what to do, but when they realise the drink they have taken from a friend is called "The drink that makes you reminisce,” there is little left to resist. While they initially fight the urge, it proves futile, and before we, and they, know it, Whelan is on stage, reminiscing.
At 2024's Melbourne International Comedy Festival, people would not stop telling me to see Piotr Sikora’s clown show Furiozo: Man Looking For Trouble. Naturally, I missed it. I did eventually catch it later that year at Edinburgh Fringe, and from that point on, Sikora locked himself onto my must-see list. So when I learnt he was bringing a work-in-progress, Blizzard, to this year’s Melbourne Comedy Festival, I was properly excited.
We follow a Polish soldier on a strange, snow-covered journey. There’s a lot of snow. And an orange. And a creature of sorts. For the most part, the work is silent, with fragments of Polish and very little English. But Sikora’s ability to tell a clear, compelling narrative without relying on language is where the magic really sits, everything is communicated through physical comedy, audience play, and a constant (non-verbal) dialogue with the room.
If you’re expecting gay comedian James Barr to deliver a
steady stream of dick jokes in Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex To My Mum), a
show built around the domestic abuse and trauma he experienced at the hands of
his partner, well… you’d be right. But what’s striking is how effortlessly that
humour is folded into the piece. The jokes don’t undercut the story, they sit
alongside it, disarming the audience just enough to let the harder beats land.
Barr begins lightly, walking us through his search for
Prince Charming, recounting a series of dates before arriving at the night he
met Chris at a Spice Girls concert. It’s framed as a turning point, the moment
he thought that two souls would become one.
Nosferatu, we’re told, is the German word for “sexy bachelor”, and that sets the mood perfectly for Nosferatu Looking For Love. Tired of his old life, this infamous vampire is chasing a sea change, heading to Australia with two clear ambitions, to become a star and to finally find a partner.
From the instant Rhiannon McCall appears, the character is fully realised. Dressed in black with stark white makeup, sunken eyes, exaggerated brows, a bald cap and pointed ears, the look is striking without being overdone. The hunched neck is a particularly nice touch, subtle but effective, adding to the physicality.
In 2008, Melbourne ended up in the global spotlight when 16-year-old Corey Worthington threw a house party that got wildly out of hand. His parents were away, and after posting an open invite on MySpace, over 500 people showed up to his suburban home. Total madness.
Now, he might want to keep an eye out, because two Nunawading locals are ready to make him old(er) news. In Best House Party Ever, best mates Big Mike and DJ JayJay, somewhere in their 30s and 40s, see an empty house as an opportunity. The moment DJ JayJay’s mum heads out, it’s game on. There’s booming music, questionable life choices, and the kind of party energy that escalates rapidly.
There’s nothing like a board game to bring out the best - or worst - in people. In Articulate, two share houses come together for their annual tradition: a fierce game night where the stakes are simple but brutal. The losing team must display a photo of the winners on their fridge - a daily reminder of their defeat and inability to guess even the simplest words.
In one corner we have the reigning champions: Tilly, Nadia and Jules: confident, composed, and fully expecting to take out the title once again. On the other are Lilo, Ben and Rommy, who are more than prepared. Warmed up and ready, they’re determined to prove they have what it takes to claim victory this year. The way each household is seen preparing for the evening is well directed and executed by the cast.
