Shane Torres is an exceptionally evocative Texan storyteller, the sensitive brother in a trio of Mexican-Irish orcs, with an almost irredeemably deadbeat father and a saintly mother who most likely kept her son far too close to her. Wisely intoning that rock bottom is never absolute, that there is always more give in the depths of suffering, his Fringe debut is a finely sketched portrait of a catastrophically dysfunctional family and the circumstances that led to him awkwardly retrieving takeaway dip from his mum’s ashes. Torres is eminently capable of the fusillade of gags beloved by US late-night shows. But for his Festival bow he exploits the gentle curve of a narrative arc and the catharsis of processing his loss nightly, unflinching from the sadsack aura that envelops him.

Helping his rogue dad move all his worldly possessions from the second family home he’d destroyed into a hostel full of the disturbed and scary, the comic pretty much lands upon the dictionary definition of bleak, attributing so much meaning to the material possession of a single spoon. There’s a sizeable degree to which the audience is being held witness to Torres’ trauma first and foremost. Yet he’s such a gentle, gifted raconteur that it’s more than forgivable.

Shane Torres, Assembly Roxy, until 30 August, 6.50pm; picture: Mindy Tucker.