Fringe 2025 – Alright Sunshine ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
She's wanted to join the police since she was a little girl. Her Dad was in the force, you see. He kept the city safe, and now that's what she's doing. She's proud of her job.
Nicky's beat is on Edinburgh's Meadows. They, like everywhere else in the city, have a daily routine – and a nightly one. You can't mess with a routine – if you do, the result is chaos. Nicky keeps everything under control. Including herself.
We can tell right from the beginning of Isla Cowen's Alright Sunshine that Nicky is a powder keg of barely supressed emotion. Molly Geddes' razor sharp, drumfire delivery barrages us with information. Nicky knows everything about her patch; the joggers, the dogwalkers, the old ladies carrying their shopping. The teenage drinkers. The Morningside Mummies – 'An existential scream behind their Chanel lipstick'.
At first it's (intentionally) hard to tell whether Nicky's energy comes from enthusiasm for her work or exasperation with the people she has to police. Her descriptions of daytime Meadows' frequenters are very funny indeed; if you live in Edinburgh you'll recognise every one, in fact you may well be one. The summer, she says, makes everyone worse, including all those middle-class types with their barbecues, beer and Frisbees.
As Nicky's story continues, it's clear her Dad's been the major influence in her life. She idolised him. She didn't even mind when he missed her birthdays; he was out there keeping everyone safe. Including her. Or was he? When she speaks of her Mum, it's with disgust and pity. Mum isn't strong like Nicky and Dad; she cries like a girl. Mum wanted her to wear a dress to the meeting, to get the sympathy vote. Nicky's having none of that; why should she?
Gradually little hints are fed into the narrative. When Mum's out Dad indulges Nicky with tomato sauce sandwiches, 'our little secret'….
But all the time he's hammering home a message,
'Dinna be emotional, dinna let them think you're weak, DINNA BE A GIRL'
Of course Dad was 'impatient' with Mum; with all the pressures of his job, what did she expect?
Cowen and Geddes bring these unseen characters alive. I came away with a very clear picture of bully boy Dad and cowed, fearful Mum.
So now Nicky devotes her entire life to the police. Overtime, paperwork, patrols with male officers (because it's thought a man is less likely to hit an officer if he's accompanied by a woman.) Her long-suffering boyfriend's left her, but was that really because she worked long hours? As Nicky becomes increasingly agitated, the reason for her distancing from Rob surfaces, despite her attempts to 'push it all down.'
Geddes moves from funny to deadly serious with great skill. A slight pause here, a look there; she never fails to take the audience with her. As the truth starts to emerge from all the bluster, we realise why control is so important to Nicky, why she has suppressed her emotions for so long. She's tried so hard to act like a man, to please her Dad, satisfy the police force's needs, turn a blind eye to the appalling behaviour of male officers ('It's all just a laugh.') Even confronted by a scene of appalling domestic violence, she didn't cry, she kept it all in. The records of the perpetrator's earlier assaults were lost, the incidents never followed up.
And now Nicky's been forced to acknowledge that all of this has got her nowhere, or at least nowhere she wants to be. The patriarchy has wronged her, and so many other women, in every imaginable way. She's not worried, she says, about the forthcoming disciplinary hearing. Men ('including Dad') only ever get a rap over the knuckles so why should she be any different? But Cowen's script and Geddes' actions make it clear that Nicky is very worried, she knows all too well that this isn't how things go for women,
''Don't be a girl'….I AM A F—ING GIRL!'
There are very few props in this show; Geddes is well able to carry the monologue without them. Her police uniform is, however, used to powerful effect. It's Nicky's protection, psychologically as much as physically. It makes her feel safe when she's patrolling the Meadows at night. Without it she's as vulnerable as the next woman, walking home alone at night. Nicky tells women to take a cab, carry your keys in your fist, avoid dark places. Cowen paints a vivid and very real picture of the Meadows after dark; insufficient lighting, lonely paths, noises behind you. (Saoirse Ronan: 'That's what girls have to think about all the time. Am I right ladies?')
Music is used to excellent effect. As Nicky begins to implode, the rushing sound in her head grows unbearably, overwhelmingly, loud. The show's lighting is also well done, particularly the threatening darkness of the nighttime walk across the Meadows. There is no sunshine any more, 'alright' or not.
As Nicky is called in to face the music, she puts on her police jacket and slowly, very slowly, places her hat on her head. It's a silent moment of realisation. The audience is hushed. This is what institutionalised misogyny does to women; female police officers, victims of domestic violence, wives of 'strong' men, women simply walking home at night.
Alright Sunshine is a Wonder Fools production. See it at Pleasance Dome (Jack Dome), 1 Bristo Square (Venue 23) at 4.20pm every day until 24 August. Please note there is no performance on Mondays 4, 11 and 18 August.
Please also don't be like me and go to the wrong Pleasance site! This one is in the Edinburgh University Students' Association building in Bristo Square.
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The Guardian
13 hours ago
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Bloody Awful in Different Ways by Andrev Walden review – darkly funny Swedish autofiction
For Mum (NB: not in a passive aggressive way)' reads the dedication at the beginning of this distinctive debut. It gives us a promising flavour of the voice with whom we'll be spending the next 340 pages. The story begins with deceptive simplicity: 'Once upon a time, I had seven dads in seven years. This is the story of those years.' The narrative has a section for each 'dad', charting Andrev's tumultuous childhood and teens as his mother's boyfriends come and go, all of them disappointing and disruptive, and several of them violent. The dads are named for their dominant trait in young Andrev's eyes: so we get the Plant Magician, the Thief, the Murderer, the Artist, among others. It is billed as a novel but we're in ambiguous territory here. The story is heavily autobiographical, based on Walden's own childhood experiences. The narrator tells us: 'If anything sounds made up, then you can be sure that it is true.' Instead, the inventions are 'tucked away in the most mundane parts – like the colour of a cushion'. So we have two Andrevs involved, the child whose bewildered, coming-of-age adventures we follow, and the 'real' Andrev, whose name is on the front cover. Metafictional interjections pepper the narrative, the authorial voice frequently intruding to comment on its own decisions, such as Andrev's observation on the very first page: 'I shouldn't start there. (I have most assuredly already done so, but I think the attempt should remain, given its aptness as a bridge to a dramaturgical arc.)' These postmodern flourishes could have felt grating, but the narrative voice has more than enough wit and charm to carry them off. It's easy to see why the book has been such a hit in Walden's native Sweden, where it was the bestseller of 2023 across all genres and won the August prize, Sweden's most prestigious literary award. Walden's instinct for observation and his ear for prose are flawless. His understated humour is particularly winning. Going to stay with relatives, Andrev is amazed by the number of cousins in the house: 'There are so many rooms and so many cousins that I keep finding new ones. It's like opening doors on an Advent calendar – wow, here's another cousin.' And then, a few pages later: 'When we return to the apartment on Tomtebogatan, new cousins have emerged from the walls.' (He hasn't yet realised that his aunt is a childminder.) But for all its humour, there is a terrible bleakness at the novel's core. The men are, almost without exception, selfish, violent, dishonest or cruel; sometimes all of these at once. It is characteristic of Walden's restraint that one of the most chilling moments in the novel is barely more than an aside, a reference to the friend of Andrev's mother, Little Cloud, whose ex-boyfriend turned up at her door one night: 'He didn't want to talk. He didn't even want to come in. All he wanted was to hit her on the head with the hammer and that he did, wordlessly. That's how she got the hole in her head and learned to hate men.' The childish offhandness with which this moment is treated makes it all the more disturbing. Of all the dads, the brilliantly drawn Plant Magician looms largest in the narrative. Some of the others have a tendency to blur into one another (the book might also have been called Bloody Awful in Pretty Similar Ways). But it's not really about the dads anyway. It's about Andrev, and, to a lesser extent, his vulnerable and resilient mother. Beyond the structural device of the seven dads, Walden resists any easy narrative hooks; Andrev warns us not to 'harbour expectations of an unexpected twist – this story lacks such inclinations'. Instead, Walden trusts to the precision and flair of his writing alone, and for the most part this decision is vindicated. It is true that the momentum dissipates somewhat in the final third (I could probably have done with one or two fewer dads, but since we're in the realm of semifictionalised memoir, this is a bit much to ask). However, the writing remains so sharp, so beguiling, so acutely observed that by this point I was willing to follow Andrev/Andrev pretty much anywhere. Rebecca Wait's Havoc is published by Riverrun. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion Bloody Awful in Different Ways by Andrev Walden, translated by Ian Giles, is published by Fig Tree (£14.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
The Guardian
17 hours ago
- The Guardian
Bloody Awful in Different Ways by Andrev Walden review – darkly funny Swedish autofiction
For Mum (NB: not in a passive aggressive way)' reads the dedication at the beginning of this distinctive debut. It gives us a promising flavour of the voice with whom we'll be spending the next 340 pages. The story begins with deceptive simplicity: 'Once upon a time, I had seven dads in seven years. This is the story of those years.' The narrative has a section for each 'dad', charting Andrev's tumultuous childhood and teens as his mother's boyfriends come and go, all of them disappointing and disruptive, and several of them violent. The dads are named for their dominant trait in young Andrev's eyes: so we get the Plant Magician, the Thief, the Murderer, the Artist, among others. It is billed as a novel but we're in ambiguous territory here. The story is heavily autobiographical, based on Walden's own childhood experiences. The narrator tells us: 'If anything sounds made up, then you can be sure that it is true.' Instead, the inventions are 'tucked away in the most mundane parts – like the colour of a cushion'. So we have two Andrevs involved, the child whose bewildered, coming-of-age adventures we follow, and the 'real' Andrev, whose name is on the front cover. Metafictional interjections pepper the narrative, the authorial voice frequently intruding to comment on its own decisions, such as Andrev's observation on the very first page: 'I shouldn't start there. (I have most assuredly already done so, but I think the attempt should remain, given its aptness as a bridge to a dramaturgical arc.)' These postmodern flourishes could have felt grating, but the narrative voice has more than enough wit and charm to carry them off. It's easy to see why the book has been such a hit in Walden's native Sweden, where it was the bestseller of 2023 across all genres and won the August prize, Sweden's most prestigious literary award. Walden's instinct for observation and his ear for prose are flawless. His understated humour is particularly winning. Going to stay with relatives, Andrev is amazed by the number of cousins in the house: 'There are so many rooms and so many cousins that I keep finding new ones. It's like opening doors on an Advent calendar – wow, here's another cousin.' And then, a few pages later: 'When we return to the apartment on Tomtebogatan, new cousins have emerged from the walls.' (He hasn't yet realised that his aunt is a childminder.) But for all its humour, there is a terrible bleakness at the novel's core. The men are, almost without exception, selfish, violent, dishonest or cruel; sometimes all of these at once. It is characteristic of Walden's restraint that one of the most chilling moments in the novel is barely more than an aside, a reference to the friend of Andrev's mother, Little Cloud, whose ex-boyfriend turned up at her door one night: 'He didn't want to talk. He didn't even want to come in. All he wanted was to hit her on the head with the hammer and that he did, wordlessly. That's how she got the hole in her head and learned to hate men.' The childish offhandness with which this moment is treated makes it all the more disturbing. Of all the dads, the brilliantly drawn Plant Magician looms largest in the narrative. Some of the others have a tendency to blur into one another (the book might also have been called Bloody Awful in Pretty Similar Ways). But it's not really about the dads anyway. It's about Andrev, and, to a lesser extent, his vulnerable and resilient mother. Beyond the structural device of the seven dads, Walden resists any easy narrative hooks; Andrev warns us not to 'harbour expectations of an unexpected twist – this story lacks such inclinations'. Instead, Walden trusts to the precision and flair of his writing alone, and for the most part this decision is vindicated. It is true that the momentum dissipates somewhat in the final third (I could probably have done with one or two fewer dads, but since we're in the realm of semifictionalised memoir, this is a bit much to ask). However, the writing remains so sharp, so beguiling, so acutely observed that by this point I was willing to follow Andrev/Andrev pretty much anywhere. Rebecca Wait's Havoc is published by Riverrun. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion Bloody Awful in Different Ways by Andrev Walden, translated by Ian Giles, is published by Fig Tree (£14.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
Edinburgh Reporter
2 days ago
- Edinburgh Reporter
Fringe 2025 – Alright Sunshine ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Nicky is here to talk about her life as an Edinburgh police officer. She's actually waiting for a meeting with her seniors, but in the meantime she'll fill us in on her daily schedule. She's wanted to join the police since she was a little girl. Her Dad was in the force, you see. He kept the city safe, and now that's what she's doing. She's proud of her job. Nicky's beat is on Edinburgh's Meadows. They, like everywhere else in the city, have a daily routine – and a nightly one. You can't mess with a routine – if you do, the result is chaos. Nicky keeps everything under control. Including herself. We can tell right from the beginning of Isla Cowen's Alright Sunshine that Nicky is a powder keg of barely supressed emotion. Molly Geddes' razor sharp, drumfire delivery barrages us with information. Nicky knows everything about her patch; the joggers, the dogwalkers, the old ladies carrying their shopping. The teenage drinkers. The Morningside Mummies – 'An existential scream behind their Chanel lipstick'. At first it's (intentionally) hard to tell whether Nicky's energy comes from enthusiasm for her work or exasperation with the people she has to police. Her descriptions of daytime Meadows' frequenters are very funny indeed; if you live in Edinburgh you'll recognise every one, in fact you may well be one. The summer, she says, makes everyone worse, including all those middle-class types with their barbecues, beer and Frisbees. As Nicky's story continues, it's clear her Dad's been the major influence in her life. She idolised him. She didn't even mind when he missed her birthdays; he was out there keeping everyone safe. Including her. Or was he? When she speaks of her Mum, it's with disgust and pity. Mum isn't strong like Nicky and Dad; she cries like a girl. Mum wanted her to wear a dress to the meeting, to get the sympathy vote. Nicky's having none of that; why should she? Gradually little hints are fed into the narrative. When Mum's out Dad indulges Nicky with tomato sauce sandwiches, 'our little secret'…. But all the time he's hammering home a message, 'Dinna be emotional, dinna let them think you're weak, DINNA BE A GIRL' Of course Dad was 'impatient' with Mum; with all the pressures of his job, what did she expect? Cowen and Geddes bring these unseen characters alive. I came away with a very clear picture of bully boy Dad and cowed, fearful Mum. So now Nicky devotes her entire life to the police. Overtime, paperwork, patrols with male officers (because it's thought a man is less likely to hit an officer if he's accompanied by a woman.) Her long-suffering boyfriend's left her, but was that really because she worked long hours? As Nicky becomes increasingly agitated, the reason for her distancing from Rob surfaces, despite her attempts to 'push it all down.' Geddes moves from funny to deadly serious with great skill. A slight pause here, a look there; she never fails to take the audience with her. As the truth starts to emerge from all the bluster, we realise why control is so important to Nicky, why she has suppressed her emotions for so long. She's tried so hard to act like a man, to please her Dad, satisfy the police force's needs, turn a blind eye to the appalling behaviour of male officers ('It's all just a laugh.') Even confronted by a scene of appalling domestic violence, she didn't cry, she kept it all in. The records of the perpetrator's earlier assaults were lost, the incidents never followed up. And now Nicky's been forced to acknowledge that all of this has got her nowhere, or at least nowhere she wants to be. The patriarchy has wronged her, and so many other women, in every imaginable way. She's not worried, she says, about the forthcoming disciplinary hearing. Men ('including Dad') only ever get a rap over the knuckles so why should she be any different? But Cowen's script and Geddes' actions make it clear that Nicky is very worried, she knows all too well that this isn't how things go for women, ''Don't be a girl'….I AM A F—ING GIRL!' There are very few props in this show; Geddes is well able to carry the monologue without them. Her police uniform is, however, used to powerful effect. It's Nicky's protection, psychologically as much as physically. It makes her feel safe when she's patrolling the Meadows at night. Without it she's as vulnerable as the next woman, walking home alone at night. Nicky tells women to take a cab, carry your keys in your fist, avoid dark places. Cowen paints a vivid and very real picture of the Meadows after dark; insufficient lighting, lonely paths, noises behind you. (Saoirse Ronan: 'That's what girls have to think about all the time. Am I right ladies?') Music is used to excellent effect. As Nicky begins to implode, the rushing sound in her head grows unbearably, overwhelmingly, loud. The show's lighting is also well done, particularly the threatening darkness of the nighttime walk across the Meadows. There is no sunshine any more, 'alright' or not. As Nicky is called in to face the music, she puts on her police jacket and slowly, very slowly, places her hat on her head. It's a silent moment of realisation. The audience is hushed. This is what institutionalised misogyny does to women; female police officers, victims of domestic violence, wives of 'strong' men, women simply walking home at night. Alright Sunshine is a Wonder Fools production. See it at Pleasance Dome (Jack Dome), 1 Bristo Square (Venue 23) at 4.20pm every day until 24 August. Please note there is no performance on Mondays 4, 11 and 18 August. Please also don't be like me and go to the wrong Pleasance site! This one is in the Edinburgh University Students' Association building in Bristo Square. Like this: Like Related
