'Theatre of the real': how artists at Perth Fringe World are stripping down to reveal their vulnerabilities

At this year’s Fringe World festival in Perth, the “theatre of the real” is everywhere: theatre, comedy and drag all speak directly to our reality, played against a background of survival.

Real stories provide moments of honesty, introspection and clarity. In bringing true stories to the stage, artists are creating an intense connection between audience and performer.

In a normal year, the festival would play host to artists from across Australia and around the world. With borders closed indefinitely, 42 shows have been cancelled.

The result is a decidedly local festival.

For those of us locked in, it is an opportunity to see ourselves mirrored from the stage, to learn about our neighbours and to delve into how they have navigated their lives.

The real makes up for where the news fails

British theatre director Nicolas Kent has said theatre has taken over the role of the news. While this is contentious, theatre audiences grapple with information differently: we want to suspend our disbelief, believe in the hero and hear the full story.

Joe White draws on his own stories as master of ceremonies for stand-up show Best of Africa, presenting gags awash with admiration for his family and community.

White’s open door to his past invites us into the living rooms of communities a few suburbs over, something the news often does with undulating fear.

My mates in Melbourne were saying to me “You have to isolate for 14 days by yourself in a four-star hotel – you are going to hate it!” And I responded with “as an ex-Ethiopian refugee, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna love it!”

White reflects honestly and with humility, pausing comfortably to make his audience feel seen. Vulnerability is at the heart of his performance, and feels like a measure of courage.

Ella Randle’s play 28 Grams draws from a similar place of vulnerability. The one-hander covering her battle with anorexia walks us from healthy child to dying adolescent to counter the romanticisation of the illness in the media.

Actor Georgia Condon tells Randle’s story like it was her own.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been called ugly. The first time was by a girl who told me that her mum thought I was ugly.

The toxicity of this culture is all the harder to digest because of how it rests in Randle’s reality. Although the words are spoken by Condon, our knowledge this story is based on Randle’s life motivates us to listen with open ears. We feel the weight of responsibility for parents in our community who should know better.

Justin Sider’s Dickless similarly blurs the boundaries between artist and character. Sider is trans, and he explores this identity through the story of a man who has lost his penis. Performed in an elevated drag king aesthetic, Dickless is an exploration of trans validity and a rejection of the heteronormative hero’s journey.

While drag performers have traditionally lip synced, Sider sings and raps live, seducing us with resonance and range. By using his real voice, we are brought closer to his body, celebrating his queer and trans identity.

Read more: 'RuPaul’s Drag Race' and lip-syncing: A once controversial practice is no longer taboo

The real helps us see ourselves in others

Michelle Hall’s play The Dirty Mother tells her birth story to reframe how childbirth trauma can be dismissed.

When Hall’s son was born, his heart stopped for three minutes. We are held captive by the harsh metal scream of a flatline. We feel the anxiety of waiting for her baby’s heart to start beating again … before it does.