Fleabag, Soho - theatre review

Every time I’ve seen a play featuring Phoebe Waller-Bridge, a dynamic performer blessed with a rare and compelling life force, she has acted her fellow cast members off the stage. She has now made the eminently sensible move of starring in a one-woman show, and just to make sure that not only does she get all the lines but that they’re humdingers as well, she has written the piece herself.

Fleabag arrives in London on a blaze of richly deserved awards glory from Edinburgh. It’s a deliciously dirty and scabrously funny monologue about a young woman drifting aimlessly on the harsh tides of modern urban living, who defines herself almost entirely by her sexual encounters. Fleabag, who delightfully runs a hopeless guinea-pig-themed café, has an unsurpassed knack of alienating those who care for her and then skipping lightly over all of life’s sadnesses and nuances with insouciant eloquence.

Waller-Bridge barely moves, but it’s with absolute assurance that she commands both the stage and our attention in Vicky Jones’s confident production. She has a startlingly expressive face, all vivid angles, and a cherishable way of looking mildly aghast at whatever outrageous line her mouth has just let forth.