Killing Me Softly

Last year, Richard Fry came to Edinburgh on a tentative mission to try out a new career. Now aged thirty-something, Fry’s life consisted of a rough childhood and a slew of unremarkable jobs, until a few years ago a fairytale-like twist changed his life beyond recognition. Turning up on a whim to a drama school’s auditions, he left with a scholarship and the promise of a life outside pub work. But promises are often white lies in the cutthroat world of the performing arts, and a pat on the back from a proud teacher doesn’t translate into food and a roof.

But Fry’s 2008 offering, a stunningly good monologue called Bully, did. Having checked into the dullest room in the Gilded Balloon, unfamiliar with Edinburgh and unknown to the world, he came out with enough praise and ticket sales to turn him professional. And so this year he’s not so much visiting the Fringe as setting up camp. Killing Me Softly, another home-brewed monologue in verse, is the crucial decider which will see him become either a one-hit wonder or a sure-hitter.

Fry’s theatre is a breed that bites and Killing Me Softly is quite unambiguously not a cuddly companion. With Bully-style volatility it swings from happy-clappy karaoke to a car crash, from a dirty joke to domestic torture. It’s a turbulent ride, but one fuelled by the sharpest wit and an unwavering, intense humanity that moves mountains.