A dark room, Italian opera, a stage strewn with theatrical clutter, the debris of how many productions, performances and shows. We’re in the home of the great Italian dramatist Luigi Pirandello.

 

Appearing older, tireder than his years, he’s sinking down into muttering writer’s block despair, a torch in the darkness giving the face a painterly glow.

 

As Pirandello, Julian Howard McDowell delivers a delicate, melancholy performance; a thoughtful, measured and deep exploration of ageing, desire and the ever present weight of the mask.

 

Whether it’s fame or social convention, the masks we all wear, the stress of having to struggle into acceptable costume and perform as the character expected of us, is the overwhelming theme throughout.

 

He’s lost under the huge burden of success and the demands of ‘what next’ that both public and writer impose, the temptation of rehashing what worked, the fear of finding something new, of constantly having to deliver, having to be what’s demanded.

 

When a mystery figure draped in a white sheet hits a tambourine, the creepiness cracks and the Stranger appears – a figment of his imagination, shifting through characters and attitudes, challenging the writer to action.

 

As the stranger who has appeared in the writer’s room and his mind, Andrew Allen shifts through a gallery of characters. The in yer face theatrical street performer comedian, the alluring lady, the manic gabbling fan who won’t leave him in peace, constantly capering, shouting and prodding, to get something, anything, any kind of reaction to kickstart the creative process.

 

It’s often very funny, especially when playing with the ridiculous cocktail party world of ‘what do you do?’ networking, always looking over the shoulder, scanning for someone more interesting.

 

This intense and engrossing two-hander is Tim Coakley’s ninth Brighton Fringe production, directed with energy and empathy by Petina Hapgood.