★★★★

“to his absolute credit he shirks on dignity and goes big on gross-out laughs”

Irish comedian and semi-famous podcaster (YOU should relax) Mike Rice is bringing his hour of stand-up, Cruel Little Man, to Edinburgh, and it does not disappoint.

As the title suggests, this is no-holds barred comedy. Rice’s initial musings are on Hitler – “I oft think of Hitler” is the segue – and P Diddy, whose worst crime was being an accessory to James Corden during carpool karaoke. Before the show has even begun he’s threatening to milk a big fella in the front row. But being a self-professed ‘Cruel Little Man’, Rice rarely goes for the cheap joke, almost all his material has a well-earned payoff, scaffolded by extremely impressive storytelling and masterful pacing.

Rice is a very physical comedian, and he stands out through his commitment to every character he embodies onstage to decorate his stories of misadventure. Nino, a coy Spanish sausage dog, comes to life, as does Zachariah, the frigid, put-upon bible scribe who takes out his frustration on generations of gay people. A classic Rice impression, Donald Trump, does his rounds, making new friends in prison, as does the non-binary wizard/political consultant in his head, one of the best jokes of the night.

Since Rice’s extra show was in one of Edinburgh’s massive lecture theatres in Assembly Square, it was only right that, in between the jokes and the gaffes, he made sure that we came away with some important lessons. Like how to get MDMA through airport security, and which male erogenous zones are being sadly overlooked. Rice is not afraid to paint a visceral picture, there’s a really nice buildup to a bestiality-themed bit in there, he talks about his own asshole quite a lot. He mimes playing a severed penis like a harmonica – to his absolute credit he shirks on dignity and goes big on gross-out laughs.

My only qualm would be that his set could feel a bit top heavy. Starting with his most shocking material means that there’s a bit of a lull in the middle when Rice moves on to more relatable comedy, like the perils of dating and lonely cinema trips. It’s still very funny, but doesn’t quite provoke the same combination of shock and hysteria that kicked off his set. Trump’s prison escapades are a return to controversial form towards the end of the set, and Rice rounds off during a poignant acid-fuelled moment between brothers with a well-placed callback that left the audience feeling satisfied.

Overall, through a combination of well-paced storytelling, committed physical comedy and close to the mark punchlines, Mike Rice proves himself to be a cruel, but extremely funny, little man.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Edinburgh International Festival

★★★★★

“This is a finely wrought work, every element chosen with precision”

The theatre curtain glows with a looping projection—what many today would call a “boomerang”, though not of the Australian variety. The image fades. In the pit, the live orchestra tunes. The curtain rises to reveal an aerial artist suspended in a mist of golden haze, dressed in crimson, as she tumbles and falls while descending. It is Eurydice’s death on her wedding night—her plunge into the underworld. The image is both haunting and beautiful. Our evening of visual poetry begins.

The ancient story: Eurydice dies on her wedding day, and Orpheus, the world’s greatest musician, journeys to Hades to bring her back—on one cruel condition: he must not look at her until they have left the underworld. In this staging, Orpheus awakens in an asylum, visited by Amor, who offers the same bargain—the Greeks and their Sisyphean tasks, the test of patience, the temptation to turn too soon. We think we know how this ends. We read, “Love triumphs.” But does it?

The star is Christoph Gluck’s luminous score, performed with clarity and elegance by the Scottish Chamber Orchestra and the Chorus of Scottish Opera under the baton of Laurence Cummings. Another standout is the collaboration of several artistic forces, including direction and scenic design by Yaron Lifschitz, choreography by Lifschitz, Bridie Hooper, and the Circa ensemble. Costumes are by Libby McDonnell, video design by Boris Bagattini. Countertenor Iestyn Davies gives Orpheus a voice of ache and purity, while Samantha Clarke sings both Eurydice and Amor with grace and power. The movement artists are the kinetic heart of the piece—always in motion, inhabiting the liminal space between myth and dream, unflinchingly hurling themselves into these underworlds of kinetic flow.

The set is a white box. Other small structures appear, then vanish. Supertitles are video-mapped onto the back wall, integrated into the scenery before decaying and falling away, like Eurydice’s first descent.

The colour palette is stark: white, black, and red. The language is that of symbols, each one dissolving into the next. The chorus becomes part of the set; dancers counterbalance against walls, walk horizontally when lifted, roll, and dive along vertical planes. There is no safety net.

A green circle of grass appears; red petals rain gently down. Three male dancers share a breathtaking trio, weaving, diving, and cascading over and under one another. Dancers mask and unmask, building impossible towers of bodies. The production flows from one potent image to the next—each a tableau of loss, longing, and fragile, precarious triumph.

This is a finely wrought work, every element chosen with precision. Music meets voice, meets movement, meets circus. Opera and contemporary circus intertwine in a pas de deux—tumbling, floating, weightless. Gluck’s Orpheus and Eurydice is brought back from the underworld, but in this telling, we should not avert our gaze. Perhaps we should never look away.