Don't go to Tony Law's show expecting to have its name—Frillemorphesis—explained to you. It is an invented word motivated, he claims, by his not knowing what "metamorphosis" means. He is keen to ensure that the title doesn't encourage you to think the show is about anything, and he repeatedly berates himself for failing to offer a narrative arc to tie all his tangents together.
Law is a Fringe favourite. His ramshackle persona crackles with energy and is highly involving. The fun here is in trying to discern what is scripted and what is off-the-cuff, for seemingly in-the-moment ramblings suddenly connect to earlier material. "I refuse to sully your experience with pre-prepared material," he exclaims, only getting around to opening his book of jokes more than halfway through the show. Is this a one-off experience, different every time? Or something smartly executed to appear that way?
Sections of the crowd cheer at material drawn from shows from previous years, as if parts of this hour are reencactments of greatest hits. There's a real joy in being in an audience having to be on its toes, unsure of what will come next and where the jokes will come from. But the silliness never reaches the pitch it should, and when he bemoans not garnering big enough laughs to give him time to take a swig of his drink, it's hard to disagree. But it remains all good fun, which might just be enough.