It’s hard to easily explain what’s so fascinating about Tim Honnef’s particular brand of theatrical performativity. He’s been frequenting the Edinburgh Festival Fringe for well over a decade, either as himself or in the guise of his alter-ego, Jonas Müller. In either case, his simple, no-frills style is a well-trodden path, usually sat at a desk, reading from or holding up random books or papers while telling strangely abstracted and often absurd tales that wind themselves slowly into a tapestry that begins to make more and more sense.
In Honnef’s Lost Words, we find Honnef as simply himself, recounting how after an illness, he finds himself with an impairment to his memory, necessitating that he writes down almost everything that occurs to him in a series of notebooks. But then as these grow in number and threaten the peace and tidiness of his home, he has to find somewhere else to put them, somewhere out of arms reach, but close enough for reference.
So begins these myriad musings on the nature of memory, family and the oft-assumed permanence of the written word, a wander through the mind of a storyteller who enjoys crafting patchwork fables. As ever with Honnef, it’s never quite clear where the line between reality and fiction lies. Honnef pointedly reads from notes throughout the show, indicating heavily that this is now a necessity rather than a stylistic choice. When he stops to address the audience with questions, he jots down the answers for later reference, but it’s impossible to know if this is all just part of the show.
Equally, longtime participants to Honnef’s work will recognise some of the repeated motifs: ancestrally bequeathed gifts, old books, boxes of strange items and occasionally surprising references to pop bands. It’s a jumble of ideas that feel familiar and strange at the same time. But this is a piece about memory and the redefining of memory, past and present; perhaps that’s the beauty and genius of the performance.
On the day of review, due to the near-oppressive heat and humidity, it was perhaps a necessity to have a fan running throughout the performance. This did have the side effect of occasionally swallowing up Honnef’s gentle voice, which, together with his accent, meant odd words were missed. However, with the cooler turn in the weather this may not present itself as an issue.
Honnef has again crafted a thing of strange, intricate beauty: an occasionally cumbersome but layered story of haphazard mysteries and abstract allusions. But one that is every bit fitted for the Fringe, and by now a welcome staple.