MacIntyre has given the thing a crisp narrative shape, and each monologue is flecked with lovely bits of language and the kind of small, telling detail that turns anecdote into art. Tonally, however, the evening never moves off the starting block — each vignette covers the same, smallish patch of emotional terrain, and, perhaps inevitably, MacIntyre’s performance keeps hitting the same beats, and the emotional delineations between the stages of Kathleen’s life blur together.

Still. I don’t know if it was her glitz-tastic club shirt or the result of a play-dream (which occurs when brains clock out mid-performance due to boredom), but I think Oktem’s capable of more than she lets on. Perhaps by next Fringe she’ll have gathered enough constructive criticism and convincing self-confidence for something bigger and better than this Elephant.