Plugged In: Using Multimedia in Performance
Photo by Onur Binay on Unsplash
Multimedia theatre performances often incorporate elements like video, still images, sound, and lighting to create a more immersive experience for the audience.
When it’s done well, media can deepen a piece by pulling us further into the story and adding dimension that live performance alone might not convey. But it can also be tricky. Ideally, the media should enhance the work, not distract from it- unless that distraction is intentional and serves the piece.
In this post, I’m sharing reviews of two solo shows that I thought used multimedia effectively. What made it work is that the media was integrated in ways that mirrored how we actually use it in real life. Whether it was to emulate a Zoom meeting, an unboxing TikTok, or a music video, the effect wasn’t just theatrical- it was familiar. These moments felt grounded in reality, and that groundedness made them more powerful.
Another bonus: using media at key points added variety. Instead of one continuous narrative, these shows gave us small breaks, moments that felt different but still belonged to the world of the piece. When done well, those kinds of shifts refresh the audience’s attention and keep the energy of the performance moving forward.
Thanks for reading.
(Note: These reviews were originally published as part of my 2025 Edinburgh Fringe coverage for FringeReview. I’m archiving them here for readers who don’t follow that site.)
PSA: Pelvic Service Announcement
TL;DR
In PSA: Pelvic Service Announcement, New Yorker Amy Veltman transforms the most private of subjects into a playful, multimedia performance. With guitar in hand, sharp wordplay, and a knack for physical comedy, she mines humor from the very things women are told not to talk about. The result is both funny and empowering, leaving audiences laughing while reconsidering what it means to fully accept themselves.
Review
Amy Veltman has built a show that is as fearless as it is funny. PSA: Pelvic Service Announcement takes the most private of subjects, the pelvic floor and its betrayals in midlife, and makes them not only speakable but singable. Veltman leans into the taboo with charm, musical wit, and an inventiveness that leaves one delightfully surprised.
The show blends comedy, music, slides, and character work into multimedia theatre performance. What stands out most, though, is not the format but Veltman’s persona: simultaneously candid and coy, mature and playfully childlike. One moment she’s strumming a guitar, the next she’s impersonating her annoyingly upbeat nutritionist, then breaking into a ribbon-stick dance. Each shift is unexpected yet always purposeful, giving the show a sense of momentum and fun.
Her craft lies in juxtaposition. Veltman talks openly about things women are often told to keep secret, like incontinence, digestive issues, menopause, but she does so with such youthful energy and comic play that the audience never feels burdened. Instead, she transforms disgust into delight. Even when she describes feeling “gross,” the show itself insists that these bodily changes are not shameful but human.
The writing is packed with sharp wordplay (referring to her privates as her “Midtown tunnels” is quintessential New York), but what gives the material its bite is how it’s staged. Veltman has the physicality of a seasoned comedian, diving onto the floor to demonstrate exercises, turning props into punchlines, and using her body itself as a comic instrument. Multimedia elements are always cleverly used, like an unboxing video of something her doctor prescribed, making it a nod to TikTok culture.
What elevates the show beyond comedy is its integration. It’s not just a parade of gags about pelvic floors. Veltman brings us to a place of acceptance, landing on the insight that embracing her body, even the “disgusting” parts, is part of embracing herself. It’s funny, yes, but it’s also moving (and very much needed), because she earns it through openness, risk, and play.
PSA: Pelvic Service Announcement is a Highly Recommended Show for its combination of craft, courage, and charm. By turning secrecy into connection, Veltman reminds us that the very things we’re told to hide may be the ones that bring us closest together.
King
TL;DR
In King, Yen is the model of the perfect Singaporean woman: PR professional, dutiful girlfriend, socially anxious box-ticker. But when she slips into drag as Stirling Da Silva, a K-pop styled drag king, a new version of herself emerges, one that won’t stay hidden. With 21 characters, razor-sharp accents, and kinetic physicality, this is a smart, funny, and deeply Singaporean story about identity, image, and self-acceptance.
Review
I don’t know if it was coincidence or intention, but the Former Gents Locker Room at Summerhall is a fitting stage for a show about a woman discovering her masculinity. So, how did writer/performer Jo Tan end up there?
The story of King begins with Geok Yen’s quest to be the perfect Singaporean woman: efficient, pretty, a “female lead.” But after donning her boyfriend’s clothes for a costume party, she discovers Stirling Da Silva, a drag king persona modeled on K-pop masculinity. Stirling is everything Yen has never been allowed to be: bold, swaggering, magnetic. From then on, Sundays become a secret double life, with Yen playing the ideal girlfriend during the week and drag king on the weekends.
The performance is exhausting to watch in the best way: high-octane, rapid-fire, and breathless. In the first half, Tan ricochets between social anxiety, quick-fire punchlines, and character shifts with dizzying energy. The second half slows into graver territory, as Yen faces tensions with drag queens, strained secrecy with her boyfriend, and questions of authenticity. The contrast in pacing mirrors Yen’s struggle to reconcile image and truth.
Though it’s a one-woman show, King feels like an ensemble piece. Tan embodies 21 distinct characters, each realized through physicality and precise linguistic detail: from Yen’s Singlish, to expats with broad Australian vowels, to locals adopting a polished Americanized English. Language here isn’t just communication, it’s identity, and Tan uses it to draw sharp sociolinguistic portraits.
Some pauses would help the audience catch its breath, but the stamina and craft on display are undeniable. It’s the kind of performance that leaves the actor looking as if she’s gone ten rounds in a boxing ring, and the audience exhilarated just trying to keep up.
Beyond performance, King carries real cultural weight. In Singapore, queerness is still constrained by family expectations, social conservatism, and residual legal taboos. To embody a drag king on stage is a radical act of visibility. Stirling Da Silva is more than a persona- he’s a declaration that queer identities exist, thrive, and demand space in a society that prefers silence. On an international stage like Edinburgh, the work gains added resonance: it sheds light on queer culture in Southeast Asia and gives Western audiences a rare, necessary perspective on how identity is negotiated in conservative contexts.
Understanding the cultural backdrop makes King especially powerful. Singapore’s government eagerly imports Western soft power symbols like English as lingua franca, American media, Ivy League aspirations, while simultaneously resisting Western values. The result is cultural whiplash: citizens are trained to perform outward cosmopolitanism while expected to preserve an inwardly Singaporean self. The Japanese have words like honne and tatemae for this split between private authenticity and public façade. Singapore has no such terms, but the dynamic is real.
That tension runs straight through King. Yen has one outward self (the perfect girlfriend, perfect employee, perfect Singaporean woman) and one inward self (the drag king Stirling Da Silva). The genius of the show lies in mapping how those selves clash, overlap, and ultimately refuse to be separated. By the end, Yen cannot return to simply being the “perfect woman.” Stirling is part of her, and she embraces a new kind of leading role- not a female lead, but a male lead in her own life.
King is a Must See show: a tour de force of performance and craft, a bold act of LGBTQ+ visibility in a socially conservative society, and an invitation to audiences everywhere to consider what it really means to live authentically.
