Comedy news: Such Small Portions's review

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What can you say about Jeff Dunham that someone, somewhere, has not already said? The U.S comic is an Internet phenomenon. According to some estimates over 300million people have tuned into his various U-tube clips (which also ranks them the 8th most watched of all time) while the reams of viewer’s comments could give War and Peace a run for it's money.

Yet for such an internationally recognised ventriloquist Jeff Dunham is little known in the UK. He rarely ventures overseas so this, his first UK gig - a one-night-only appearance at the Hammersmirh Apollo - is a treat.

For anyone unused to his comedy, Dunham uses a range of characters from Walter, a cantankerous old man to Achmed, a failed suicide bomber to run through a series of sketches on comtemporary life.

Dunham started well enough, with a good quip about landing himself in hot water at an airbase when their flight was redirected but as the puppets came out something began to take hold. The jokes were coming at the same pace but I found my laughter waning. There was something in Dunham’s set which simply didn’t sit right.

A dig at the French here, some contrived material about marriage there, more monotonous material which materialises women, and so it went. The more I listened the more I became enthralled. How long would Dunham go on taking the same line?

I was hoping to find a hint of irony in the jokes but none materialised; which was when the realisation came. This wasn’t comedy it was simply crass.

For more than one of Dunham’s characters the wife, or simply any female, became the butt of the jokes. There was no equality in the humour, no self-criticism which accompanies a lot of the better gender comedy. This is a real shame as Dunham is obviously able to deliver some excellent comedy and there were some good jokes, but they were lost in the ether of misogynist commentary.

And it wasn’t just sexism, Dunham seems ready to use ventriloquism as a conduit to insult any race, religion, nationality, or social type except, of course, the ‘White Caucasian Male’, which brings me to his Achmed character.

For a long time comedians were too worried to breach the 9/11 taboo and Dunham does provide a voice for that, which is good. But to use ventriloquism as an excuse to be prejudiced is poor. The idea that his character Achmed the suicide bomber is not a Muslim because he has ‘Made in China’ printed on his arse is utter nonsense. The genesis of the whole sketch can be viewed as a cultural reaction to 9/11 – which, as the inspiration Achmed, was a watershed moment for Dunham’s own career.

But Achmed is part of, not a response to America's war on terror. The character isn't funny per se, he's a fall guy for jokes on Osama Bin Laden made popular by his tell-tale quip “I’ll Kiiill You”.

While any attempt to ridicule fanatical religion should be encouraged, it feels that Dunham's helps to belittle the whole Islamic culture. It is cheap comedy that appeals to the America which is intent on looking outward to explain it's problems, rather than judging itself.

A similar kind of humour works on South Park, but only because the whole point is that Trey Parker provides a much cleverer critique of U.S mainstream culture, a counterbalance to the overzealous Neo-con conservatism which would sooner see the wife chained to the sink.

I am not against the use of characters to push the boundaries of comedy or say very controversial things, far from it. Comedy is a vitally important part of social criticism, but if a comedian is prepared to take this route his work has to be of an exceptionally high standard, otherwise all the comedian achieves is to cement social stereotypes in an audience’s mind and his work can be used for the wrong purposes.

Bernard Manning is an example to every comedian. Sure, the comedian may be the nicest man on earth, but if his comedy is bigoted and misogynist then what is the point? The joke ceases to become a joke, it becomes a vent with which to spread intolerance in the public sphere.

To be fair the audience loved it, but it was an overwhelmingly American audience which was convinced of Dunham's genius before he stepped foot onstage, while the laughs came with the same zealous enthusiasm and racuous applause last seen at the Nuremburg Rallies.

The UK either isn't ready for the macho chauvinistic jokes or, more likely, we moved on a long time ago.

Tim Clark

(Original review was posted on April 11, 2009)

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Fancy a night at the bingo? Or how about something more refined, like the theatre.

Perhaps the new play written and directed by Neil Bartlett, a seasoned veteran of the National, the Royal Court and the RSC?

Hold on – you can have both at the same time, “Everyone Loves a Winner” is both an engaging, expertly crafted piece of theatre and a wild night out at the bingo all at once.

For the Manchester International Festival this year, the city’s Royal Exchange theatre (situated right inside the ancient building that used to be the biggest trading room in the world) has been transformed into the Rex Bingo club.

And, as luck would have it, they’re running a cheap and cheerful credit crunch special to draw in the punters.

Featuring a friendly cast of mainly old, female bingo addicts, a burnt out compere (Ian Puleston-Davies), a brisk house manager (Sally Lindsay) and three jaded teenage employees, Barlett’s play covers the gruelling 13 hour day that bingo hopefuls and employees spend in the glitzy, neon world of the Rex Bingo club.

Each of the punters live in continuous cycle of hope and disappointment, each with their own special dream of what they’d spend their money on should they ever have that elusive big win.

For all its levity – the bawdy quips, song, dancing and even an ironic Greek chorus - the play doesn’t hold back on its social message: this is a sharply observed tale of Britain’s dispossessed.

What makes the experience work so well, though, is that the audience also gets a taste of what the players are going through; because everyone watching also has a chance to play and win up to £200.
It’s an easy trick, but one that can’t help but keep you enthralled; and one typical of the innovation that is going on across Manchester this month—in music, sculpture, architecture, theatre and visual art.

While you may not be able to top Glastonbury for live music acts or Edinburgh for traditional stand-up comedy, Manchester’s festival offers something dizzyingly original.

There is something for everyone: from De La Soul to a Rufus Wainwright opera to a riotous procession choreographed by Turner prizewinner Jeremy Deller, featuring a Scouts marching band, goths, emos and a whole dynasty of rose queens from Stretford.

For those looking to have their expectations confounded and their imaginations stretched, the lesson is simple: don’t miss out.

The Manchester International festival runs from 2nd July to 19th July. For full details visit www.mif.co.uk/

For tickets to Manchester and many other UK destinations visit Virgin Trains.

(Original review posted in July 2009)

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And so the creative feast that is Latitude finally arrived last weekend, with or without the threat of a deluge from above.

It is difficult not to be overcome with some kind of star syndrome at Latitude, although the musical highlights aren’t on a par with the likes of Bruce Springsteen or Blur at Glastonbury, for a small festival it is able to attract a really strong celebrity crowd.

The festival site is so small that you end up spotting people at every corner. Whether it is Will Hodgson and Mark Thomas taking time out at the side of the Literary tent or Ed Byrne heading into the woods to check out some contemporary light performance, or Andre Vincent planning a late night romp through the Latitude site looking for material for the Early Edition, the most overheard line has to be ‘that’s that actor/actress from you know, from that thing on TV/Radio...’ and so on.

But one person in particular has taken Latitude by the horns this year and that man is Robin Ince. His show Robin’s Ince’s Book Club is on so often he may as well open a bookshop and get Dylan Moran to run it. Part of me wonders whether he has, as the infamous Moran has disappeared from the comedy bill altogether, possibly to purloin Ince’s books from the Literature tent stage in some undercover subterfuge with Bill Bailey in tow.

But back to the Book Club. Ince’s show appeared no less than 15 times (some counts 19, to be honest were not entirely sure) over the weekend and Robin even managed to find time to drown out the Pretenders with a set at the comedy tent as well. Simply put, Ince is the festival equivalent of Waterstone’s: You see him on every corner.

At times it does seem that Robin Ince’s book club is an excuse for more stand up. Josie Long, despite her obvious ability, did repeat a lot of her routine set that we’d seen at Glastonbury only a few weeks before.

But what Ince does manage to do is bring his guests out of their comfort zone to produce some, at times, excellent material.

Ok, we know that this kind of approach doesn’t always work, but without Ince keeping her on stage I don’t think I ever would have seen Long find a way of ad lib part of her previous set in an excellent new way with a skit about the perverted way marketing campaigns want women to return to an almost pre-pubescent state: ‘Come on women, it’s your duty to get rid or it, shave it all off, you owe it to your men,’ she pleaded before moving on to deride the Harley Street Medical Clinic’s plastic surgery posters.

The resulting hilarity got a deserved round of applause and highlighted why the Book Club is the creative muse that it is.

The highlight of Friday though had to be a set by Kevin Eldon as his poetical alter-ego, Paul Hamilton. An excellent orator, part of Hamilton’s appeal is the way Kevin Eldon plays the Hamilton character with such deadpan humour that his demeanour alone is cause for a quick chortle, but Hamilton is more than that.

Hamilton plays openly with the audience in a manner I last saw from Daniel Kitson. He can spend close to ten minutes laboriously taking suggestions for an improvised poem from the audience before simply giving up saying ‘it doesn’t always work you know’. In the hands of a lesser comedian this is a recipe for disaster but with Hamilton the audience are thrilled to be disappointed.

Ince is humble about the Book Club phenomenon, once describing it as 'a place to fail without fear and hopefully discover something interesting on the way' but there is no doubt that what it does best is break new ground for new audiences, which is what new comedy needs most.

Tim Clark

Such Small Portions at Latitude Festival, in association with National Express

(This review was originally posted in July 2009)

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"A lot of you have jobs", muses Dylan Moran at one stage during this firecracker of a performance. "I read about that."

The Brixton Academy audience probably did have jobs, mainly - although it was Brixton, so there's no guarantee - but they were all privileged to be watching someone who is very, very good at his. This was an object lesson in standup, in the old-fashioned comic virtues of making us see the ordinary details of life through a different filter.

That's not to say he stuck rigidly to his comfort zones, the familiar and the everyday. He was happy to wander further afield for material, into politics and satire and elsewhere. Who could disagree with the description of Silvio Berlusconi as so crooked he sleeps on a spiral staircase?

He discussed science - he was the first to study the effects of injecting bees with marmite, apparently - and faith: in fact his take on the religious was a thing of beauty ("So you believe in a fairy. Good for you; go on, have a biscuit. Just don't try to tell me how to see the fairy").

But while he is excellent even when off on these topics, back on his favoured, homely territory he is a force of nature, a sight to behold when in full flow.

Some of his best stuff is on youth and age, men and women - despite only being 37, he expresses bafflement at the young and their handshakes "that take three-quarters of an hour". Men are only interested in sex, women only interested in curtains - so nature, in its wisdom, gives them children, which ruin both.

Many comics do flights of surrealist fancy or observation, many trade in misanthropy and faux confusion. All Moran is doing is using familiar parts in a new way.

But that is far from a criticism, because he does it so well. He infuses it all with a shabby charm that is utterly disarming - if all men wanted to be James Bond, and all women wanted to bed him, all men want to have a pint with Moran and all women want to pick out a set of matching quilt covers with him.

Throwing the inane and the mundane together with gleeful abandon ("Is it always bad to have chunks of ham in your urine?" he inquires of his GP), he creates something unlike any comedian working today.

More than that, and at the risk of hyperbole, it might just be better than any comedian working today as well.

Tom Chivers

(Original review, December 2008)

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Sammy J and Heath McIver’s foul-mouthed puppet show could be touted as Avenue Q’s offensive Australian cousin. With a brigade of excitable press reviews singing its praises and a barely a seat empty at the Leicester Square Theatre in London, it was interesting to judge if a bunch puppets and a skinny Aussie could live up to the hype. And, happily, in the most part it did.

This is a fairytale with a drama degree and a potty mouth, with a plot seemingly based loosely on The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (purposeless hero finds portal to new dimension under his kitchen sink, enters and is transferred to an oppressed feudal neverland, meets a sidekick and decrees to save the day, mainly in song).

Sammy is a smiley, fun guy, launching his way through a variety of risqué camp numbers like a broadway lead. His opening number, the only set in the human world, is a lament to stolen innocence, brilliantly titled ‘Fuck You Disney’.

Touching on Walt’s penchant for Hitler’s brand of fascism, it sets the tone perfectly for the debauchery that is to come. It also highlights the shows reliance on vulgarity, and the complete rejection of sublety.

The show has received almost unanimous praise in the past year, and even those not wholly impressed have noted it its ‘word-of-mouth hit’ properties.

It seems inevitable, as is often the way with cult shows, that it may be nothing more than a well-produced gimmick. However, Sammy’s overegged acting treads the right side of saccharine whilst McIver’s puppetry is truly fantastic.

Probably the biggest compliment you can pay to The Forest of Dreams (in fact to any puppet show) is the genuine affiliation you feel towards the puppets.

Three brilliant and unrelated cutscenes are interspersed in which a depressive pigeon is mocked by another because his wife has left him, or flown the nest if you’ll excuse the pun.

These scenes are so good that you wonder whether the show would work better as a series of sketches. The same can be said about the few occasions where the fourth wall is broken and things seem to go wrong – these are the genuinely innovative comedic moments and you wish Messrs Jay and McIver had called in Paul Whitehouse to tend to the gag reel.

But the main gripe with The Forest of Dreams is the insistence on the not-always-funny buddy-movie plot device between Sammy and Farlo which takes up most of the stage time, leaving the best characters – who include a cocaine-snorting, orange-faced King and a bizarrely sinister tree with a nasty sense of humour – with little time to squeeze the best out of the pseudo-fable.

As the plot develops along clichéd fairytale lines, it climaxes with Sammy leading an animal rebellion against the King.

The results are less Peter Pan and more Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Fun, filthy and, in parts, quite forgetful, this is a Disney parody of immense accomplishment which stays on the right side of shock-value gimmickry. And although perhaps not quite living up to the hype, The Forest of Dreams is still the best puppet show in town.

Jesse Whittock

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Set around a flat, Scenes from a communal living is the the latest in a new series of improvisation shows to hit London's theatres this year.

Like many of the new style shows, the basic premise is to use a small amount of audience suggestions to shape an hour-long series of episodes which together could be seen as the flat-share from hell.

From awkward situations involving neighbours crashing your car, to flatmates dropping - and then smashing - the oven, each scene is made up on the night and acted out with barely a minute to think through the various sketches.

In most scenes one member of the troupe holds the audiences attention out front while the rest of the plot is thought up. It is obviously a well oiled system which allows a small amount of breathing space in sketches.

At times you were left wondering where the scene was going; the spontaneity of the show is laid bare and the audience are at the mercy of the comedians imagination - but this is part and parcel of improvisation, not knowing what is going to happen on any given night.

And luckily, the group are more than capable of coming up with comical imitations of everyday life which are at times ludicrous and at others vividly realistic.

Rachel Parris conjured up an excellent deliquent rich-bitch passing time with a phonecall to her father, while Rob Broderick’s portrayal of a love-struck Pizza-delivery-man-turned-stalker made for two of the highlights of the evening.

Sure, it is true that the world doesn’t need another comedy set around a flat, but Scenes From a Communal Living does have an actual connection to real life and with the familiar surroundings you’ll spot an ex-flatmate of some type during the hour-long series of scenes

For anyone keen to see how some of London's new improv troupes are setting the trend in improv comedy it is certianly a show worth checking out.

Tim Clark

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Most people haven’t picked up a HB pencil in anger since their GCSE Art class, yet there are about 20 twenty-somethings doing just that in a small, dimly lit basement at Sosho cocktail bar in east London.

They’re all playing MegaGames, a weekly audience contest at Tom Webb’s Comedy Cabin. In fact, they’re drawing him, with the best facing off against the winner of a round of Human Battleships in order to win ‘a T-shirt worth £17,000’ (or a £50 bar tab and entry into every Comedy Cabin until Webb is 92).

It’s a novel concept – who wouldn’t want to be open an envelope, scream ‘bang!’ and drop dead in a theatrical manner pretending to be a sunken ship?

Sadly, tonight there just aren’t enough people here. The turnout is disappointingly small, especially as the wonderful Josie Long has popped in to headline, looking like the South East London version of Little Red Riding Hood in her, erm, red hooded jacket.

To be honest, Long isn’t at her best, although she’s still a comfortable cut above most stand-up you’ll see for a fiver on a Thursday night. Her set's a bit ragged, pre-empted by disclosing she’s had a “shit day” - always a bad sign. However, her standard material is great, and, in some cases, sickly informative – did you know livening up your festive family dinner is as easy as switching the punchlines of Christmas crackers and asking your Gran to read the first? Dementia setting in, Nan?

Long has definitely been better than this, but she’s still a gobby gem of British comedy.

The excellent laughs-for-pounds ratio is also upped due to the sets of London Fringe Best Newcomer award-winner Jo Selby and the brilliant Norwegian comic Daniel Simonsen.

Selby, aka Tatiana Ostrakova (‘winner’ of an Anglo-Russian comedy exchange award, apparently), is a highlight. There’s no real scripted brilliance to her set, but it’s a highly polished act and well worth its award-winning credentials, honed Moscovite accent and perma-grin staying fixed at all times.

Simonsen isn’t billed to perform, but turns up to replace the Amused Moose award-winner Nas Osmanoglu, who’s been whisked off at the last minute. Luckily, the Norwegian (who looks far more Gallic than Scandinavian) is a more than able replacement, although some of the small audience find his awkward rambling style off-putting; Simonsen genuinely has a condition called social phobia.

Along the way, there’ve been glimpses of British comedy future (if we’re saying Long is British comedy present), by way of a short James Brown-lead skit from a strange dancing female mute whose name I don't catch; and Tom Craine, a self-styled ‘Hip-Hop mathematician’ (“I’m on point… decimal point”), whose name is an aptronym for his six-foot-seven frame.

Paul Sweeney, a guitar-wielding Dave Grohl lookalike, circa 1970 completes the up-and-coming element, but unlike Craine, doesn’t look like he’s got the material in him to break the big time.

The night culminates in a MegaGames Weakest Link final. At this point, we need a disclaimer: I’m one of the finalists. My drawing was awesome, or the best of a terrible bunch. Now I badly want that cash/bar tab.

Unfortunately, it might be the tension, it might be the fact I’m not quite sure what I’m doing, but I lose in mere seconds. Bye-bye fifty quid’s worth of overpriced Dark and Stormy’s and ‘seventeen grand’ t-shirt. It wouldn't have fit anyway.

Jesse Whittock

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Mayfair, more than most places, needs some comedy. Amidst the economic gloom hedge-fund managers and investment bankers probably need a laugh and Upstairs at the Masons, the only comedy cub in Mayfair, is trying to do just that. David Doyle heads along to find out if London's most exclusive suburb is game for a laugh...

Paul Foot is infectiously twitchy. As he jumps from his microphone at Upstairs at the Masons, ‘the only comedy club in Mayfair’, to a member of the audience, then to the back of the stage, then hops to a different member of the audience, he has a nervous energy that is absorbing.

He is the bastard child of Russell Brand and Anneka Rice with Pat Sharp’s Fun House mullet – except he is easily funnier than all three.

What makes a great comedian is less about how great their material is and more about what they do with their material.

Paul Foot talked for ten minutes about vans. More accurately, about when you wouldn’t see a van. For those who don’t know, the circumstances in which you will not see a van range from being asleep to wearing special van spectacles, which block out the shape of any van (as long as you move your head at the same speed as the van.)

Whilst ‘the occasions when you will not see a van’ is up there with home furnishings and someone else’s holiday in terms of mundane topics, Foot’s enthusiasm, wit and delivery means the audience is willing to go anywhere Foot’s addled mind meanders.

By way of contrast Stephen Carlin’s acerbic analysis of the mundane challenges established truths.

A perfect accompaniment to Foot’s cerebral fluidity, Carlin is stereotypically Scottish in his slightly hostile directness of style.

He also doesn’t mind flirting with controversy as illustrated when he pointed out that Joseph Stalin may have been a better dad to Jesus than Joseph of Aramathea - “he would have made sure they had a room in the inn."

The same bluntness is more surprising when it comes from rather sweet looking children’s BBC presenter Holly Walsh.

Pondering the entertainment industry’s use of ‘That’s show business!’ as an excuse for any mishaps that happen in front of the camera on stage, Walls examines if the same excuse would apply in other businesses – “That baby’s looking a bit blue – that’s midwifery!”

Walsh is charming in her examination of everyday life, but the length of her set, which could not have been more than ten minutes, left me feeling like I had barely gotten to know her before she was gone.

James Mullinger compered enthusiastically and managed to introduce some lively proceedings into the night but at times the crowd seemed unprepared to fully commit to the evening.

Yet, with a decent line up of good acts, Upstairs at the Masons provided enough mirth to make a few well heeled clients forget that they've just had to sell their Ferrari.

David Doyle

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Us Brits aren’t known for getting ‘sexy’ right. D Day, baked beans and queuing, yes… but sauciness? Rarely. Combine comedy with Britishness and you get some kind of bawdy Alan Partridge hybrid at best.

Or so this cynic thought. Moonfish Rhumba Presents… Dirty Love, hosted by the very British – nay Victorian - Dan Lees and Guy Combes, is it fact a feast of naughtiness. Their website describes the gig as a “special night”… “of the outrageous, sexy, hilarious and bizarre”.

Mostly, it reminded me that one thing we islanders excel at is mocking our baser functions.

Take Vicky Stone, who reworks Disney songs into such dainty ditties as “Beauty and her yeast”, or ‘Doctor’ George Ryegold, who sings about lovely things like gynaecology or rape – yes about rape, somehow managing not to cause any wincing from onlookers.

Dan and Guys’ closing number about how in an ideal world they would be ‘lesbians together’ also managed to navigate the tricky ground between hilarious and crass.

Before this reviewer starts to sound like some kind of post-modern Mary Whitehouse, the star of the night: Ronnie Rigsby – ex-children’s entertainer, should be touched upon.

This old Tommy Cooper renegade appeared on stage with a Tesco carrier bag, stuffed with pop up books and puppets of God and the Devil from his kid birthday party days.

He told me he was undressing me with his eyes, that as a reviewer I should be burned alive, and that I probably worked for the Bitch Gazette. He was bloody marvellous.

Other highlights included Ryegold’s ideas on how to use an obese man’s skin after a gastric band had been fitted (trampoline anyone?), Vicky Stone’s parody of the Claims Direct commercial, and Eric Lampeart’s slightly over-keen but good opening set.

And of course our hosts – mad, sexually frustrated, and with more chemistry than cheese and pickle.

Their act is unpolished on occasion, but you’ll be laughing so hard you just won’t notice.

To find out about future Moonfish Rhumba gigs…

Holly Falconer