The COMEDY CHANNEL Short Film Festival (FringeTIX)

14 Short Films @ Palace Cinema

3:00pm, Sat 24 Mar 2007

Ooooh, a collection of short films! And we get to vote for them! Hurrah!

The opener, Lights! Camera! Action! is a bawdy bit of fun, and set the bar high. The second film, Drought, presented its hook far too early, and dragged on far too long to be a contender. There was some simple stop-motion plasticine animation in Beyond the Fridge, some giggles in the cartoony Rude Words 4 Kids and The Lecture, and retro-cheese in The Time That Time Forgot.

But let’s move on to the contenders: Bad Timing was short, sweet, and the uncomfortable moment lasts well into the following short; Pig Latin was a great bit of child/police transposition, and it was good to see this Fringe had at least a little piece of Lawrence Leung with his film Howard Flu. Another bunch of familiar faces appeared in Ridiculusmus‘ Carl & Mark, and Charmed Robbery brought the “festival” to a close with a beautifully sweet bit of romance, set amidst a bank robbery.

For me, though, Chequered Paint – one man’s cunning ploy to escape a speeding fine – brought home the silver, pipped only at the post by S.G.U., one of the shortest films and the closest to my heart. Special Grammar Unit, correcting posters and graffiti and spreading their message through subliminals – brilliant.

Once again, though, the event is tarred slightly by a fuckknuckle audience. I don’t know whether it’s because admission was free (and hence perceived to be “value-less”) or because of changing opinions about the sanctity of the cinema or because kids these days just don’t give a rat’s arse about anyone else, but for fuck’s sake – there’s no reason to be talking throughout the entire screening. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Jo Stone Concert (FringeTIX – one night only)

Jo Stone @ Holden Street Theatres (The Studio)

11:00pm, Fri 23 Mar 2007

I’m currently sitting in the Holden Street Theatres’ bar waiting for the doors to open. There seems to be two groups of people here; everyone seems to know someone from one of these groups. Except me, I stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t know who Jo Stone is; after all, I’m only here because I felt like supporting Holden Street, and because it wasn’t much of a commute after Red Sky. And the Guide blurb…

An informal solo gig, influenced by Cocorosie, World Music and Motorhead, mixing samples from a computer with acoustic guitar, vocals and bad saxaphone. Original classics like Glenn, covers from Morrisey, Debbie Gibson, Joss Stone and Aerosmith, using the saxophone and Opera to ‘break-it-down’. Not to be missed.

…didn’t sound altogether rubbish.

Still – I’m walking into this one pretty much blind. And, as I mentioned, I’m feeling pretty alone, though I’ve just noticed another chap sitting by his lonesome. After a bit of head scratching, I recognise him as one of the What I Heard About Iraq ensemble; best not chat to him, then, lest conversation turn to that.

The doors open, and the two (large) groups of people – plus me – wander into The Studio.

Later:

Jo Stone arrives atop a motorbike, befitting her posters. She’s a looker – she possesses that lovely Mary-Louise Parker thin-nosed dark-hair mystique that I find quite alluring. She quickly explains the premise for this performance – whilst in Berlin, her name was frequently being mistaken for Joss Stone, so she decided to exploit that fact. And so she performed a number of songs (including a Joss Stone cover), both singing, playing guitar and – very occasionally – sax. And dear god, her sax was bad.

But here’s the thing – the whole performance was played like one big joke. Obviously everyone present (besides me) was already “in” on the joke, because there was much laughing and hooting and hollering at the bits that – were this a ‘serious’ performance – would be utterly cringeworthy. The horrible sax, the spectacularly bad dancing by the (non-Paulo Castro) beardy bloke, the painful DVD backing movies. But the joke was delivered with such confidence, such pizzazz, such surety, that it was easy for the unaware (ie, me) to get caught up in the humour, too.

So, despite the fact that I was definitely on the outside looking in here, this was twelve bucks well spent. A very odd experience, though; and I’m not sure whether I want to be seen to condone the subsidy of other people’s in-jokes. But this one just worked.

Red Sky (FringeTIX)

Paulo Castro @ Holden Street Theatres (The Studio)

9:45pm, Fri 23 Mar 2007

As the house lights drop, the stage is illuminated by the soft grey glow of a TV’s static. Paulo Castro, a diminutive bearded chap, sneaks onstage and moves to the TV. There’s a darkened fumbling as he struggles to get a VCR working to start the show. At the time, it feels like a massively fucked-up opening; in retrospect, it feels utterly appropriate.

The video displays iconic scenes from the death of communism; Castro watches them intently for several minutes before switching the TV off in disgust. As the lights come up, we see him clad in a dressing gown; moments later, we ascertain that he’s playing a woman. Bugger it, here’s the Guide’s description of the show:

Denying the collapse of GDR-Berlin, a communist mother telephones her son to convince him to return home to the Soviatic lifestyle. Her attack against communism and the West is imminent. The mother is Paulo Castro. With a ten day growth, he presents this tragedy in slippers and a dressing gown.

The set is sparse, as one would imagine it to be. Castro is constantly ringing his/her son, initially offering sweetness, before exploding with rage, yelling down the phone to him. Likewise with the police, as he/she tries to cajole a return to socialism from within his/her own apartment. There’s elements of desperate self-mutilation – burning his/herself with matches, attacking his/her groin with a hot lightbulb – until, in desperation – Castro poisons him/herself, collapsing on the floor; the stage lights drop, but music plays on. It’s a weird and uncomfortable ending, sitting in the dark with a folksy east-european tune playing gently in the foreground; Castro snaps the light on to formalise the end of the show, and we’re done.

There was a lot of giggles throughout this performance from the half-full audience, but I’ve no idea why. I saw few elements of humour, and a whole shitload of sadness. It felt terribly, terribly bleak, an old woman unable to cope with the changing world and the fact that her son was never returning home. Maybe I completely missed the point; but the pervading sadness of the piece coupled with the visual disparity in characterisation (not to mention the somewhat unbelievable dialogue) wouldn’t lead me to recommend Red Sky.

(And now that this entry has been written, hopefully I can get The Fixx‘s song Red Skies out of my head. It’s been plaguing me for days.)

Adam Hills – Joymonger (FringeTIX)

Adam Hills @ Thebarton Theatre

7:30pm, Fri 23 Mar 2007

I’m an hour early for the show, so I park my arse in a corner by an unopened bar. It feels like a Saturday. I type a bit of bollocks about a few shows – you know, trying to clear a bit of my backlog – when a pretty blonde leans into the collection of seats I’m hogging – “anyone sitting here?”

“Nah, feel free,” I reply. She sits. I glance at her; she looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her.

“Seen anything decent at the Fringe?” I query with my well-practiced opening.

“No, I just flew in today.”

“Holidays, or Artist?”

“I’ve got a show.”

Ah, it’s clicked. “You wouldn’t happen to have a show at 5:30 tomorrow, would you?”

“That’s FIVE O’CLOCK” grins Ali McGregor.

“See you there.”

And so Ali and I had a lovely little chat about the carnie (carny?) lifestyle and support system, about different Fringe shows and personalities, about… stuff. She was utterly charming with a gorgeous smile, and as I wandered off to take my seat for Adam Hills, she said “Enjoy the show!”

“Which one?” I threw back, “Adam’s, or yours?”

There’s that grin again – “Oh, my show rocks,” and there’s a twinkle in her eye.

And so to Adam Hills. Not having seen him since 2000, I was staggered at how massive his fan-base is now. Then, he was playing to maybe 50 people in Nova 3; now, to a chock-a-block Thebby Theatre. And there’s a reason for that: he makes the audience feel good.

He opens the show with a bit of crowd fun – selecting an elderly couple from the front of the crowd and having them escorted to the royal box, then running to the back of the theatre to grab the people stuck in the worst seats and escorting them down to the vacant seats of the aforementioned elderly couple. Lovely – and considerate :)

He has a bit of fun with his Auslan Interpreter – which was reminiscent of his 2000 shows for me – before launching into a show about… well, nothing in particular, and laughter in general. If there was an underlying theme to the show, it was of eschewing absurd bureaucracy – but this rarely impacted the material. We were privy to the creation of a rather risqué “grey area” joke, a bit of tomfoolery with Banjo Paterson’s Clancy of the Overflow, and some dancing on the roof of cars. He introduced us to his artificial foot (wacko – you learn something new every day!), got a massive roar for thanking the Spicks and Specks fans, and closes the show out with a storming rendition of Advance Australia Fair – to the tune of Working Class Man.

Magical.

Now, a few things have changed over the years; I remembered him as a very clean-tongued young chap; he’s got no problems letting fly with the four-lettered words now. But they’re rarely used in a rude way, more in the Billy Connolly-swearing-as-punctuation manner. See, the thing about Adam Hills is that he’s just plain funny. He doesn’t rely on sex or crudity for his material, it’s just… fun. Lots of fun.

I get a grin now just thinking back to the feeling of the show :)

Break (FringeTIX)

Orsino Images(!) @ Holden Street Theatres (The Arch)

5:30pm, Fri 23 Mar 2007

It’s a bleak and spitting afternoon when I dash the final few metres to the Holden Street Theatre bar, grab a snack, and kick back to read RIU and eavesdrop on conversations. One such conversation interests me, so I interject and start shooting the breeze about all manner of Fringey things with Paul Hogan, who’s associated with Scrambled Prince Theatre Company. Nice quiet chat, then it’s off to the show.

There’s very few people in – maybe a dozen punters on top of the other actors from Trouble In Mind. And it starts promisingly – Ben Whimpey (who played a nurse in that aforementioned show) plays himself and his parents through the cunning use of a video screen and a heap of quick costume changes. He outlines the premise for the show – he’s still living with his Christian parents, copping the expected marriage pressure, so he invents a fictitious fiancé to get them off his back. One lie begets another, a marriage is mooted, the house of cards gets built… until he decides he needs to get some professional help to alleviate the problem he’s created for himself.

And suddenly, the show turns from “average” to “pile of shit”. Suddenly, we’ve moved from a tightly-scripted AV-driven banter piece to a rambling, sloppy, unprofessional improv graveyard. My old mate Paul Hogan appears from backstage, balls-deep in the under-utilised Lizzie, drops her, then starts addressing the audience at will, essentially ignoring the plotline for extended periods. Initially attempting to create an audience connection via contrived local references (“Southmark” beer? oh please – though that’s indicative of the level of care put into this section of the show), he then launches into several tirades against the Advertiser reviewing team; normally, I’m on-side with any artist that wants to sledge the ‘Tiser – but sometimes you’ve just got to swallow your pride and say “nope, they’re right on the money there.” Sometimes even the Fringe Reviewers can spot a shit show and call it a shit show. And believe me, at this stage the performance was beyond shit.

The improvisational aspect of the show had the Scrambled Prince kids in the audience cracking up, which led to Hogan offhandedly talking to them from the stage – this made me feel like I was watching a high-school drama class. He dragged a couple from the audience to join Ben and Lizzie onstage, and you could see the discomfort on their faces. It was all unconvincing, very slapdash, very unprofessional, and it reeked of don’t-care-itis. Hogan, especially, looked like he’d just finished talking to me and run onstage – no wardrobe, no change in mannerisms.

The somewhat interesting first chunk of the show was completely overshadowed by the huge turd of UNPROFESSIONAL “improvisation” that followed. In fact, the only positive thing to come out of this show was the fact that I had some warm fluffy thoughts about an old Uni-crush because of the woman pulled out of the audience. Thanks, Linh – I owe you a drink for the distraction :)

Invasion Of The Spool Snatchers (FringeTIX)

Jaimie Leonarder @ The Mercury

9:30pm, Thu 22 Mar 2007

Many years ago, I used to watch The Movie Show on SBS religiously. I loved David & Margaret’s banter and arguments, and – most importantly – I identified with them. Whilst neither really matched my own tastes, I knew that if David loved the premise of a movie, but complained about the handheld camera, then I’d probably dig that movie.

Anyhoo, David & Margaret bailed on SBS for the ABC, but SBS decided to keep The Movie Show name alive, but freshen the formula with three younger reviewers. “Ooh, that’s exciting,” I thought, “I’ll give that a bash.” And I watched an entire episode – up until one reviewer used the word “didactic” for the second time, whereupon I figured that these people were never going to speak to me in the same way. I’m a simple man; esoteric language impresses me not.

One of those new reviewers was Jaimie Leonarder, and he’s decided to bring a season of film-related goodness to the Fringe. The one night – this night – that I was able to scrape in a screening, it just happened to be a screening of what Jaimie calls “the funniest film ever made”, For Your Height Only.

I arrived at the cinema a touch late, walking in to find Jaimie’s face projected onto the screen. It’s a documentary about him caring about the Sydney homeless and having his work appreciated by Mike Patton. And I sit there thinking “erm, OK, this looks like a personal puff piece.” Sure enough, when the doco’s finished, Jaimie takes to the stage and says “so that should tell you a lot about me”, name-drops Patton again, then talks about how he’s got a DJ gig later this evening, and how stupid SBS management were to not screen his documentary. Introduces a friend who attempts to stand whilst bellowing out something unintelligible before collapsing back into his seat, a bit more namedropping, and then – finally – For Your Height Only.

It’s bizarre. Really fucking bizarre.

A James Bond-spoof movie originating from the Philippines in the early eighties, the secret agent superstar of For Your Height Only is… three feet tall. A midget with stunningly bad hair. Most of the usual Bond bits are there – gadgets (lame gadgets, no less), women a-plenty – we only seem to miss the car chases. And the suave nature of any Bond… hell, even Timothy Dalton makes Weng Weng look clumsy with the ladies. And the bloody awful english dub does no-one any favours.

The latter half of the movie is protracted scenes of Secret Agent 00 shooting endless bad guys until his gun jams, whereupon he resorts to the time-tested-and-true kick to the balls, followed by a kick to the head. Occasionally there’s a swing from a handily-held machine gun that allows a kick to the stomach – 00′s tricks know no bounds. There’s a stunning(ly bad) jetpack sequence, an even more incredible umbrella-inspired escape (prefixed by the most ludicrous Secret Agent Super-Lover sequence ever seen), and the final boss battle with Mr Giant… jesus. Let’s just say that film like this can’t get made anymore.

So the movie’s over, I’m in a jovial mood, then Jaimie smugly takes to the stage again, explains how this film is funnier than the rest of the Fringe (based on the one comedy show he’s seen), and mentions his DJ gig again. And again. Criticises SBS for not screening more movies of this calibre – “I’ve laughed more at this movie than at the entire Fringe.” And promises something cool and unique when we return from a five minute break. Ummmm, not me – my big head doesn’t like being in the same room as another self-aggrandising twat.

Nice film, shame about the prat fronting those responsible for bringing it here.

Best of the Fest (US, UK & Ireland) (FringeTIX)

Dave Johns, Andrew Stanley, Eddie Ifft @ Arts Theatre

7:45pm, Thu 22 Mar 2007

One of approximately 37 “Best of the Fest” shows at the Fringe this year, this one made The Shortlist on the basis that I’d heard good things of Eddie Ifft. That, and I love the Arts Theatre – it really is a lovely venue. And I could just wodge this show in – as long as it ran on time. So I asked the lady manning the Box Office “are they sticking pretty much to schedule, finishing around 9pm?” She replied, completely unhelpfully, “oh yes, they usually start wrapping up about quarter-to-half-past nine.”

Shit. This might require a cab-hop to the next show.

Dave Johns comes on to emcee. Late, I noted, when glancing at my watch for the first of four hundred times during the show. The crowd murmur dies. This likable (UK) Novocastrian sadly didn’t get much response from the audience, but let loose with some wonderful jokes on orgies, hitchhiker killing, and audience explanations. A very stop-start style, which can create uncomfortable periods of silence, but his “Arts Theatre burnt down in 1974″ comeback for the dead crowd was priceless. Buying presents for Goldfinger? Talk to Dave.

Irish newcomer Andrew Stanley comes out, and the audience immediately warms to him with tales of cricket. His rapid-fire banter about drunken happenings keeps things bubbling along, and – when every single one of his audience interaction bits takes an interesting twist (couples that aren’t, baldies are charity driven, people answering for other people, “you work as a CAR?!?”, psychiatry gone wrong), Stanley spends about as much time laughing as we do – and that makes for a massively entertaining set. Fabulous, fabulous stuff, and he’s made the “must-see” list for future Fringes.

The massive applause for Stanley as leaves the stage is soon muted by Johns’ return – “you’re enjoying yourself too much; Danny Bhoy’s been complaining about the laughter.” We soon learn that genocide is, actually, worse than Spam… but, once again, he remains criminally under-appreciated. He does ham that up, though, before introducing New Yorker Eddie Ifft.

Ifft is… ummm… a crude comedian. He starts with tales of masturbating on a homeless man on a bus, then proclaimed “if you didn’t like that, it gets much worse.” Australian mannerisms – speaking “orgasm”, cracking fats, and our white society – come in for some brilliant treatment; and then the tongue-in-cheek racist jokes start. And the heroin-smuggling baby jokes. He doesn’t delve into any topic too deeply, but he’s got a certain edge to him, and is definitely worth a look. But, towards the end of his set, a female audience member posed Ifft a (serious) socio-political question about the legal age of drinking in America; Eddie had the best response ever – “How fucking stupid is this fucking question?” Spot on, friend.

Sadly, I had to bolt out the door as soon as Ifft finished his spot, so I didn’t get to hear Johns’ wrapup for the night – which possibly included mocking of the short tubby guy running for the exit. I ran out onto Angas Street, hailed a passing cab who must have anticipated the short ride and sped away as I approached. Down to the Hilton, into a cab, apologising for the short ride to the Mercury. Cabbie seemed intent to maximise time waiting in the car, catching every red light he could. And then I discovered that I only had a fifty in my wallet. Which meant I had a yelling match with a cabbie and a $20 in one-dollar coins in my pocket as I ran into the Mercury.

Anyhoo – “Best of the Fest”? I think not. But this show was worth it for Andrew Stanley’s hysterics alone. That’s not to marginalise the contributions of Johns and Ifft – they’re all ace. And this is one of the few shows that kicks over onto April 1, so it’s not a bad bet really. As Dave Johns himself said, “What’s that Best of the Fest like? Well, it’s alright – if you like laughing.”

Museo del Grito (FringeTIX)

Velada @ Higher Ground (Main Theatre)

6:00pm, Thu 22 Mar 2007

At last – a really good show in Higher Ground.

Attracted by a beautifully obscure and enticing blurb in the Guide, I wander into Higher Ground to see women lying on the ground, a bloke playing keys at the back of the stage, accompanied by another chap just sitting on a chair looking pensive. For the entire performance. Seriously, I didn’t see him actually do anything, though I’ll concede that I was very often distracted. Odd.

But then the performance starts, and a narrator – introducing himself as The Scientist – takes to the stage and, with very deliberate movements and even more measure speech, guides us through the Mystery of Women – four acts, each a gorgeous vignette accompanied by stunning dance, each centred on one of the four female flamenco dancers. The (fabulous) oration and backing music lends a dark and mysterious mood to proceedings, and the dancing… oooooooooh.

The first act is stunning, dancers performing their own percussion with 7-foot pole stomping; Yasmine Nicholls’ Mermaid in the second act was breathtakingly beautiful, and the fourth act was simply gobsmacking – ascending to a massively FIERY finale that felt like I was being emotionally battered by the forceful wills of the four dancers.

Oh yes, this was an absolute blinder. One of the shows of the Fringe, methinks – and a gorgeous programme, too.

Kate Burr – Back In 30 Minutes (It’s @ Lunchtime) (FringeTIX)

Kate Burr @ The Griffin’s Head

12:30pm, Thu 22 Mar 2007

I loved the premise for this show – a quick chunk o’comedy perched within lunch hour, enabling office-bound peeps the opportunity to get some giggles in during the day. And, apart from an over-zealous ticketing person on the door who didn’t mind invalidating my tickets to other shows, this was a pretty successful performance.

Kate Burr, originally hailing from Port Lincoln, has a typical country sense of humour – broad, easy to laugh with, just straight-up laughs. Always staying on the safe side of risqué, she rarely veers into anything overly political or controversial, sticking with giggles centred on wordplay (what do you call a woman in bed with four men? Forni-Kate!) and girl’s football.

And you now what? That’s just fine – she delivers with a massive friendly grin on her face and seems utterly committed to just getting the audience to enjoy themselves – which, by all accounts, they do. And she cleverly arranges a standing ovation for herself at the end of the set by getting the audience to sing The Alphabet Song, firstly to the tune of Advance Australia Fair, but then to Queen’s We Will Rock You. Fantastic :)

I’ll be utterly honest here – I went along to this show actually expecting it to be utterly shit, just hoping that my ticket helped indicate a genuine desire for this kind of event (that is, short-burst comedy in accessible times). Thankfully, despite an inauspicious start, it was actually a hoot – the room was packed, there was a really good audience vibe, and Ms Burr was really quite personable and – dare I say it – enjoyable. Hopefully, this season was successful enough that additional comedians see the opportunity to win some friends by getting out of bed a few hours earlier.

Quite why various reviewers deride the show solely for being country-bumpkin-ish is beyond me; for fuck’s sake, you either laugh or you don’t. And I did.

No Vacancy (FringeTIX)

Canberra College Drama @ Carclew Youth Arts (Ballroom)

11:00am, Thu 22 Mar 2007

Even though Carclew is relatively close to my home, I was still sprinting to arrive on-time for this show. I got nervous when there was no-one else waiting, and could only hear a loud voice from behind the ballroom door. The door suddenly opened, and out came the producer for the ensemble, Ian Walker. He asked if I had a ticket, looked mildly disappointed when I replied in the affirmative, then explained that he was still waiting on a party of ten – would I mind waiting a couple of minutes longer? No problems, says I.

Ten minutes past the allotted starting time, in whisks Matt Byrne. “Matt Byrne, Sunday Mail” he announces without looking at Ian, without making eye contact as they shake hands. Those magic words gained him free access to a show he couldn’t be arsed rolling up on-time for. Not that I’m one to poke ridicule at Professional Reviewers.

And so it was that Mr Byrne and I were the only two people sitting in the front row – nay, any row – of the Ballroom for this production that, as indicated by the programme, is the result of “a good-old brainstorm about what makes us mad, sad or glad”. And, to be completely honest, the issues – the environment, social acceptance, consumerism – are presented in a somewhat simplistic manner, but at least there’s no ill-advised veers into contrived political commentary.

As for the performances – well, for a young cast, they play it relatively straight with a huge amount of enthusiasm and heart. The young Alex (Amy Porritt) is fabulously wide-eyed and innocent; the smokily sultry pouts of Anika (Jessye McGregor) likewise. The set is a simple set of five vertical screens, and the direction makes adequate use of them. There’s a sudden stop late in the play, where the audience is offered a choice for the progression of the play; I wanted to go with the ending that returned essential services to the characters – you know, be nice – but Mr Byrne wanted to go with the Bad ending. Surprise, surprise.

In the end, this was a competent piece of work by a talented group of youngsters. It avoids most of the pitfalls that student productions seem to fall into, and should hopefully prove a great experience for all those involved. Hopefully their season yields more than one paying customer per show.

Trouble In Mind (FringeTIX)

Scrambled Prince Theatre Company @ Holden Street Theatres (The Arch)

10:00pm, Wed 21 Mar 2007

Just before leaving home for the day, I mentioned to my SO – a former psychiatric nurse – that I was seeing a show based on a psych hospital. “Watch out,” she warned, “the nurses are all crazier than the patients.”

Essentially just a collection of psych-hospital vignettes (with a love story tossed in for good measure), Trouble In Mind has little in the way of plot. Initially, we think that we’re going to be following the trials and tribulations of Student Nurse Sarah’s first days on the job, experiencing the inside of a psych hospital for the first time, but that thread soon falls by the wayside in favour of the aforementioned love story. There’s wacky asides to the patients, some philosophical meanderings with angelic plumbers, and plenty of bumps and inconsistencies.

There’s a few problems with Trouble In Mind, the most glaring of which is the (perhaps necessary) cast recycling, with most actors playing multiple roles. That’s all very well and good, but with a few notable exceptions (Brydie Draffin-Taylor’s dull Sarah is a stark contrast against the wonderful pouty scowl of Tiffany) the actors are too overt, too obvious, and require a fair suspension of disbelief from the audience.

The other major problem is the young cast. Whilst some characters come across well – the Owen Wilson-esque plumber of Scolaighe Morrison is great, Cassie Ewing’s pill-dropping patient is gorgeous, and Paul William’s psychotic Bob simply owns the stage – other characters fare badly. Shamira Armstrong just looks too young to be in University – let alone a psychiatrist – and, as the female in the clumsy love sub-story, is too weak to lend any credibility to the character. Smashing breasts, though.

But, in the end, I’m not sure whether any of that matters; believability and credibility can safely be ignored when actors play for laughs, as they do here. And, by and large, it works pretty well – maybe the dumb plumber is too dumb, and maybe the love story is too twee, and maybe the fact that there was nothing on the clipboards that the nurses wrote on annoyed me too much, but them’s the breaks.

In short, this show was about par for the course when it comes to a young company presenting a performance at the Fringe. No real depth, a fair few smirks, requiring a fair bit of imagination from the audience, and criminally under-attended. Watch out for that Paul Williams chap, though – great things are destined for him.

Mark Watson – I’m Worried That I’m Starting To Hate Almost Everyone In The World (FringeTIX)

Mark Watson @ Nova Cinema 2

8:15pm, Wed 21 Mar 2007

I’m perusing the Guide. I see a show titled “I’m Worried That I’m Starting To Hate Almost Everyone In The World”. I figure that I may have just found a kindred spirit. I add the show to the shortlist.

And yet, as I wander into my fiftieth(!) event of this Fringe, I know nothing about this like-minded soul, Mark Watson. Luckily, he helps us out by going through a protracted introduction and explanation at the start of the show; giving us a primer to the Welsh accent that he leverages so well (given that he’s not actually from Wales). Enlisting helps from the audience, Watson encounters his first instance of crowd-mindfucking – people down the back volunteering friends sitting down the front – which is then followed by the Cherry Ripe incident(s), with rustling and gummed diction a-plenty.

The core of Watson’s show is based around stories that are triggered off the Seven Deadly Sins – which, in turn, are inspired by objects in the colourful sack he brings onstage. He riskily asks for audience members to remove random objects from the sack which, of course, continues the tradition of people nominating others in the crowd – something that brings him great mirth. Recollections of his first mugging, beggars, and the manner in which his father informed him that Father Christmas didn’t exist all generate huge laughs, and Watson himself completely cracks up at one stage because of a statement from one punter – which, itself, was worthy of the price of admission.

Despite the fact that there was very little Hate to be found in the performance, I liked Mark Watson – a lot. He’s cheery, he’s amiable, and he appears to be very open and honest onstage; I definitely rank him as one of the better comedians this Fringe. Check out one of the oddest muted colour-combos in MySpace, too :)

Chronicles of a Sleepless Moon (FringeTIX)

the Suitcase Royale @ Bosco Theatre

6:30pm, Wed 21 Mar 2007

Walking into The Bosco for Chronicles of a Sleepless Moon is a somewhat familiar experience; the precarious piles of junk on-stage is eerily reminiscent of The Ghosts on Ricketts Hill. Good job, then, that Chronicles is also performed by the Suitcase Royale, in what appears to be a show at the other end of the creative experiments that they seem to employ.

Plot? Newsman is chasing the mad Doctor and The Butcher for a story he knows is there, and gets dragged into a scheme to map subterranean Australia using a craft powered by the blood of cows slaughtered by The Butcher (who’s on the run after killing his wife and mincing her into sausages).

Pretty much what you’d expect, right?

It’s an odd production in a way – most of the set is junk, but their intricate use and quick timing demonstrates what can be achieved on a shoestring budget, and the elaborate set-piece for their subterranean vehicle is cleverly built, allowing for everything from shadow puppetry to a tiny room to an elevated stage. Mix this up with some lovely drunken music (drums, double bass & guitar) and lots of humour (thump… DEAD), and you’ve got a mirthalicious winner of a tall tale.

Chronicles benefits from being a (more) complete performance than Ricketts; and, what’s more, it’s an entertaining story told by entertaining storytellers. It’s far from the best tale ever penned (or evolved – it would’ve been fantastic to have seen the evolution of this piece), but the manner in which it’s told makes this memorable.

Chopper – Harden the F*uck Up Australia (FringeTIX)

Chopper @ Royalty Theatre

10:30pm, Tue 20 Mar 2007

First up – yes, FringeTIX did include the rather descriptive “F*uck” in the title of this show. Some might say that the asterisk is now essentially pointless, but I think it looks pretty.

Chopper, of course, is a character on late-night comedy show The Ronnie Johns Half Hour – a piss-take of real-life criminal (and author) Chopper Read. And, to be quite honest, I didn’t think many people would be showing up at Chopper’s Fringe shows; I figured the late-night slot kept the show – and Chopper – out of the public’s awareness.

So I was quite fucking staggered to discover that the initial run of shows at The Bosco had rapidly sold out, and that spill-over shows at The Royalty (and, later, Thebby) had been scheduled. A ticket was snaffled, and I found myself approaching the biggest congregation of bogans I’ve seen since my only trip to the Australian Grand Prix many, many years ago. That group conjured more fear in me than my last 2am trek down a drunken Hindley Street.

Anyhoo, we’re in and seated a mere 45 minutes late, and the show begins; opening with the original Harden The Fuck Up video snippet, Chopper plows through a blend of live recreations of previous TV spots (the Heimlich Maneuver springs to minds, along with the closing Weather Report) and a little somewhat-new material. Mini-Chopper makes an appearance, performing a little psych-analysis on a very reluctant audience member, and there’s a fuckin’ lot of fuckin’ swearing.

I like the character of Chopper; his prolific profanity makes me giggle in admiration, and the mannerisms of the character are lovely (and even the real Chopper doesn’t mind Chopper). Since I’d not seen all the Chopper snippets from telly, a lot of this was new to me, but I dunno whether you’d be happy having seen most of the material re-created in a live setting. Then again, the Little Britain crowds certainly didn’t mind, did they?

In short: I laughed a lot. A very enjoyable show…

…except for the fucking mongoloid scraped-knuckle fucktard sitting next to me who thought it was a brilliant idea to discuss every fucking line of dialog with his female accompaniment (and no, that is not an exaggeration – they literally talked through the entire show). Seriously, after five minutes I turned to them to politely ask them to shut the fuck up, but noticed that he appeared to be fully capable of stabbing me in the head on the flimsiest of pretences – I chickened out. I later justified this (lack of) action to myself somewhat by figuring that I’m never likely to attend a performance with them again.

…and breathe. Here’s one last great bit of Chopper: Chopper’s Fuck Counter.