Review: Briefs: The Works at Ice Cream Factory
Briefs: The Works at Ice Cream Factory
Sunday, February 1, 2026
From the moment we were ushered inside, Briefs: The Works wasted no time establishing tone. The stage was laid out like a catwalk, the vibes already pumping as raffle tickets were spruiked and old-school club classics—Kylie, George Michael—thumped through the room. This was not a slow burn. This was a party, and we were already late.
Announced as a retrospective spanning nearly two decades of Fringe shows, The Works didn’t approach its history with sentimentality so much as swagger. A theatrical lip-synced MC intro signalled the start of something special, followed by a group swan set piece blending burlesque glamour with tuxedo-coded camp. A coy opening was swiftly intercut with INXS’ Need You Tonight, burlesque feathered fans slicing the air as bodies across genders, ages and sizes ushered us into a club-state fantasia. Fluoro white Y-fronts flashed. Busby Berkeley symmetry flickered. Pump Up The Jam did exactly that.
Our MC, Fez Faanana, returned as “Busy Mum”—drag that knew exactly how far to lean into ridiculousness without tipping into cruelty. His banter walked a fine line between making us feel good about being there and poking fun just enough to keep things sharp. A brilliantly inventive Acknowledgement of Country invited us to walk together, stunningly and respectfully. When Faanana asked who was new to Briefs versus returning, the room revealed itself as female-heavy and fiercely loyal, with jokes landing about husbands awkwardly clutching knees for security.
“Tonight will get stupid,” he promised—and it did.
Local performer Matthew Pope delivered one of the night’s standout acts: a fabric-based aerial routine that made elite strength look effortless. Athletic yet profoundly graceful, Pope occupied a space between masculine and feminine without announcing it—beard, musculature, vulnerability and flow coexisting with ease. It was bodily virtuosity without bravado, and quietly arresting for it.
Chaos erupted with special guest Evil Hate Monkey, who burst through the crowd in a banana-yellow tutu. Ballet music gave way to rock and roll as he assaulted toe points with aggression, banana skins flung gleefully at the audience. Was this commentary on being a monkey dancing for us? Perhaps. Was it also joyously stupid? Absolutely.
Nastia followed—carted in by “scientists” as a kind of bionic woman. Their lip-sync was immaculate, their presence pure femme power: Beyoncé-like charisma fused with acrobatics, unencumbered by armour or irony. When Nastia paused at the end to breathe, the room breathed in with solidarity. It was one of the most affecting solo moments of the night.
Silliness abounded—a clown unravelled into a breakdown with vocal melismatic sobs worthy of Mariah Carey, balloon art defied physics (and gag reflexes), and another silk-strap routine impressed, if not quite eclipsing earlier heights. Busy Mum reappeared as a martini-soaked, kaftaned aunty, camp drunkenness that skewered and honoured its archetypes in equal measure.
Captain Kidd arrived with hypnotic hula hoops and ABBA’s Voulez-Vous, orange fluoro sailor suit blazing. Camp burlesque masculinity met iridescent mermaid shimmer—a performer crowned King of Burlesque in Las Vegas for good reason. Throughout, Faanana radiated warmth and Queen Kong-like gravitas, disarming any lingering awkwardness with charisma and genuine affection for the room.
The final act belonged to special guest Kitty Bang Bang, and she did not arrive gently. Fire twirling, fire swallowing—and then, quite literally, pussy on fire. In drag parlance the phrase was already loaded, but Bang Bang stripped it of metaphor entirely, igniting herself with brazen precision. Breast tassels blazed. Heat radiated through the room. The provocation was sultry, dangerous, and utterly controlled. You didn’t just watch this act; you felt it.
Crucially, The Works closed by crediting every performer—not just as part of a troupe, but as distinct artists in their own right. Each name was spoken. Each contribution acknowledged. It was a generous final gesture, reinforcing that this retrospective wasn’t about nostalgia alone. It honoured lineage while recognising present labour, skill and individuality. Still vibrant, still risky, still ridiculous, Briefs: The Works proved again that great drag is built from many disciplines and held together by trust, nerve and collective joy.
CAT LANDRO