BIGRE / “Fish Bowl”

There are haunted theatres, and then there is the Peacock. This is, after all, the only venue in London reportedly haunted by a dolphin. Not the ghost of an actor. Not a tragic ballerina. A dolphin. Which feels about right after watching BIGRE, otherwise known as Compagnie Le Fils du Grand Réseau's Fish Bowl, a show that answers the question nobody asked, namely: is this what late stage capitalism will do to the housing market?

Appearing as part of the annual MimeLondon (a festival renowned for the quality of its curation), Fish Bowl takes a standard clown formula and outs in full capitals. While Cirque du Soleil's efforts in this direction are the very definition of execrable, the Company Of The Big Network are slightly less subtle but far more relatable.

Created by Pierre Guillois, co-written with Agathe L’Huillier and Olivier Martin-Salvan, and directed by Guillois himself, Fish Bowl is a Molière-winning slapstick feast where words are optional, pratfalls are mandatory and everything is amped up through smart sound and lighting.

Let’s set the scene. Imagine three Parisian attic apartments, crammed together like Tupperware in an overstuffed kitchen drawer. Behind those paper-thin walls reside a tall thin man (Guillois), a big, booming man (Martin-Salvan), and their blonde love interest (L’Huillier). These three are neighbours by necessity and chaos by choice. Their mission? To navigate daily life. Their superpower? Turning every simple task into a full-on disaster.

If you came expecting the refined clowning of a Philippe Gaulier disciple, Fish Bowl would politely ask you to leave your expectations outside and come back in with a whoopee cushion under your seat. This isn’t refined theatrical nuance or anywhere near as evolved and interesting as Doctor Brown, Meow Meow or Puddles Pity Party. It’s Mr Bean meets Rising Damp in an urban hellscape. Bills flap as if haunted by that same ghost dolphin; toilets appear and vanish with the snap of a finger; and a buzzing fly is treated like a villain in a tragicomic opera.

There's no shortage of gloriously juvenile humour. Piss, poo and loud sex all play their parts as we move from skits to something approaching a story. Bathroom mayhem, leaky ceilings that seem personally offended by gravity, and fires extinguished with the precision of a toddler armed with a water pistol.

The choreography of chaos owes much to Laura Léonard’s set design, which is simultaneously absurd and ingenious. Walls double as trapdoors, props have minds of their own, and the playfulness of the environment gives the performers ample room to make utter fools of themselves.

Lighting designers Marie-Hélène Pinon and David Carreira deserve a standing ovation too. Their work doesn’t just illuminate the stage — it narrates it. Flickers and shifts direct your attention with sly precision, making even the smallest misstep a highlight of the evening. A dramatic spotlight trained on a misplaced sock somehow feels like Shakespearean tragedy.

What it lacks in style or nuance, Fish Bowl makes up for in unashamedly laugh out loud moments. This is physical comedy that celebrates its own ridiculousness. From a DIY fire that turns into slapstick pyrotechnics to a karaoke duel that devolves into sweets-stealing sabotage, every sight gag lands with the merciless efficiency of a cartoon anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote.

Yet beneath all the slapstick, there’s an unlikely dose of heart. These three accident-prone, gadget-obsessed and woefully uncoordinated misfits start to feel like old friends by the final bow. Their tentative connections, bungled romances and shared slights are underpinned by real humanity, which is what elevates this from mere pratfall parade to something some may find genuinely endearing.

If laughter is medicine, Fish Bowl is chicken soup on a cold night. It’s absurd. It’s silly. And it never pretends to be more than this. Somewhere, above the stage, I like to think that the dolphin is having a proper chuckle.

FISH BOWL continues at Peacock Theatre until 31 January.


Photo credit: Fabienne Rappeneau