Dear Annie, I Hate You

Some shows at the Fringe make you think you’re in the hands of a visionary. This one removes all doubt. From the moment the lights went down, it was clear the director knew exactly what they wanted and had the chutzpah to actually pull it off. Every beat, every transition, every calculated pause felt intentional. Were there tiny imperfections? Sure. But they were the kind of flaws you only notice because everything else is so good—like finding a smudge on the Mona Lisa and realising you’re standing close enough to see the smudge.

The set design was a full-on Fringe miracle. Two giant white plastic sheet curtains dominated the space, giving it the vibe of either a high-tech operating theatre or the most avant-garde car wash you’ve ever seen. LED wires coiled and glowed like sci-fi vines, TV screens pulsed with unnerving precision, and LED tubes added dramatic punctuation to the whole thing. On either side, white stair blocks gave the stage layers and height, which meant there was always something visually interesting going on. Honestly, it was one of those rare Fringe sets that felt bigger than the room it was in.

And then the lighting—oh, the lighting. This wasn’t just “light so you can see the actor.” This was light as art. It carved out the space, bathed moments in warmth or tension, and turned key beats into something almost cinematic. At times, the lighting itself felt like another performer—quietly stealing the scene in the best possible way.

Sound design was also strong, often working hand-in-hand with the lighting and visuals to build atmosphere. In most cases, it nailed the emotional tone, from anxious hums to swelling catharsis. But a couple of moments crossed the line from “immersive” to “I’m now part of the bassline.” The intent was clear—crank the intensity until the audience is in it—but shaving a few decibels off would’ve kept it from tipping into distraction.

The video design, though? Complete knockout. The interaction between the performer and the screens was so precise and thematically integrated it was like watching a duet—one human, one digital ghost. Sometimes the screens expanded the world; sometimes they closed it in claustrophobically. One quick heads-up: there is a short but graphic surgery sequence. It’s not gratuitous, it serves the story, and it’s over in under a minute—but squeamish viewers may wish to study their shoes and think about kittens until it’s done.

And the book—the beating heart of the whole thing—was pitch-perfect. The performer walks us through one of the worst experiences of her life with a mixture of buoyancy, vulnerability, and razor-sharp wit. One moment you’re laughing at a sly, brilliantly timed joke, and the next you’re staring into the abyss of her pain. That sudden shift in tone is exactly what makes the piece so powerful—it mirrors how grief, trauma, and survival really work.

In summary this is one of those shows that sticks to your ribs. Visually gorgeous, technically inventive, and emotionally fearless. It doesn’t just tell a story—it invites you into it, makes you feel it, and leaves you with a lump in your throat you can’t quite shake. Just be ready for that surgery scene.

If you’re coming to the Fringe and want something that will make you laugh, wince, and possibly rethink your relationship with LED tubing, get this on your list. Performances are limited, and the buzz is real—so book now, then thank yourself later when you’re animatedly explaining that scene to your friends over pints.

Dear Annie, I Hate You is currently playing at Pleasance Two in the main courtyard. You can book your tickets here: https://www.edfringe.com/tickets/whats-on/dear-annie-i-hate-you