An unlikely pair sinking highballs in a prohibition-era speakeasy; a Chinese prostitute; a Contiki tourist who finds his true place in a monastery; a lascivious sandwich-factory owner: these are a few of the characters whose confessions, confidences and compulsions we encounter in Speakeasy.

The 60-minute performance begins with a vignette of two companions getting drunk and miserable on bootlegged liquor in a speakeasy (he silent and hopelessly awkward; she garrulous and hopelessly lonely). This is the only multi-character sketch, and it sets the tone for the monologues that follow: all the characters are, in one way or another, a little socially marginal, and they all have a tale, or, more often, a confession, to share.

The snug playing space fits this purpose. Tucked into a corner, with a bar and a couple of stools at one side and the audience seating wrapped to enclose the space, the atmosphere is intimate.

Creating a performance out of a string of vignettes presents a particular challenge: how do you give the performance momentum and create a sense of cohesiveness without a central narrative arc? I can imagine how a similar collage of cameos might feel haphazard and scattered. Here, though, we have more than a random collection of monologues.

The same vices and anxieties echo across multiple stories: cravings and obsessions (sex, cigarettes, fame); insecurities and fears (penis size, Voodoo paranoia, the decline of proper Ponsonby, plum-in-the-mouth vowels); attempts at intimacy, attempts at power; self love, self-loathing.

The three actor-writers – Andrea Kelland, Tom Sainsbury and Stephanie Johnson – tag-team to bring out a series of satisfyingly contrasting characters. All the roles are played with energy and commitment: the quieter, understated characters as well as the larger-than-life, slightly caricatured ones. Things are also kept fresh by the varying lengths of the monologues: none is too long (none drags), and the shorter, just-a-few-brush-strokes performances pick up the pace between the longer ones.

Andrea Kelland’s sleezy Kiwi factory owner is wonderfully grotesque – like a Topp Twins’ Ken, but more sinister. This is a great use of cross-gender casting.

Stephanie Johnson’s Auckland-resident Chinese prostitute has a quiet intensity. Johnson navigates the pitfalls of playing a character of another culture well: her halting English is not at all hammed up and her performance is both compelling and respectful.

Sainsbury takes on the most roles, from piss-head OE-ing Kiwi Bradley to Trayson, a fast-talking, narcissistic, very camp wannabe male model. These two are played almost as caricatures, but my favourite Sainsbury role is more nuanced. It’s the confession of a man whose anxiety about his small penis has isolated him from women and from tenderness. Sainsbury could have played this character as a send-up, similar to Bradley and Trayson (who we get the sense the actor is laughing at, along with the audience); instead, in this confession we see a character played quietly and humanely.

If there are things to pick at, they are minor: the odd Kiwi vowel slipping in to an American accent, the odd maybe-just-slightly overplayed moment. Overall, this is an engaging and surprisingly cohesive string of vignettes. Short and sweet, it’s an easy, enjoyable after-work treat.  

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