Irish Times writers review Dublin Fringe Festival events.

Among Us ****

The Globe

Watching somebody type may not sound fascinating but in this quirky musical performance from Dutch duo Mayke Nas and Annelys de Vet, the stream of consciousness that floods de Vet's laptop screen responds to the surges of wind and brass instruments that fill the air. This is typing as performance.

Her words comment on relationships, emotions, on theatre directing, on drinking, on visiting Dublin - "I did not expect so many drunk people on the streets" - while students from the Royal Irish Academy of Music are scattered on barstools among the pub's regulars, creating a musical dialogue that ends in a volley of staccato blasts. A second visit is demanded to see if it's all as impromptu as it seems.

Helen Meany

Enough **

National Gallery

Although it opens with the line "All that goes before forget", this dense prose work from Beckett's Residua echoes many of his other texts. "When the pen stops I go on," the female narrator says, reminding us of "I'll go on" from his novel trilogy. A woman describes days, years, spent with an old man, a sexual relationship that began when she was a child - another of Beckett's odd, unforgettable, couplings. The two of them walk and munch flowers, gloved hands touching, measuring miles and words per day. Written as a text to be read, rather than to be performed as a dramatic monologue, it's flatly narrated by Ally Ni Chiarain, as if she has learned it by rote and is reciting it without comprehension. Gare St Lazare has proven to be an impressive exponent of Beckett in the past but this seems a disappointing, even pointless exercise.

Helen Meany

Winter's Discontent ***

Andrew's Lane Studio

Backstage, in his dressing room, the scenery of Robert Winter's life in the theatre comes crashing down around him. And, in the performance anxiety of William Zappa's one-man play for Alinta Productions, life's challenge is simply to remember one's lines.

Winter is an incorrigible ham, and Zappa seems quite comfortable in the role. "I want speeches," his monologue implores, railing against contemporary drama, contemporary music, the sell-out sham of voiceovers.

There is something tragic about a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and the impotence of life as a cipher. But this is no less a narcissistic cliché than Winter's off-putting meditation on self-pity. Directed by Maolíosa Stafford, Zappa's is nonetheless a commanding performance.

Peter Crawley

You Don't Feel It Here ****

Focus Theatre

In silence, a traffic light blinks through its colours on a darkened stage. Even before the performers make their entrance, Romania's Green Hours company presents this play from Lia Bugnar with a strikingly accomplished touch. When the characters appear - a young man and woman, thrown together in a narrow space over a Bucharest highway as they try to escape the stench that only they can "feel" - they are sparky, complex creations. This is a short piece, and theirs is a simple tale, told with tenderness and humour, and gracefully realised by the two actors, their slightly broken English only adding to the effect. The suggestion of something that smothers, in a city so recently beset by oppression, is wisely kept in the background; what matters is human connection, and this is movingly conveyed.

Belinda McKeon

Runs until Saturday, 1.10 p.m.