Category: ff2011

Simon Pampena in The Probability Drive – The Maths Behind The Lucky Country

Simon Pampena @ The Science Exchange (Auditorium)

7:15pm, Thu 24 Feb 2011

As regular readers (yeah, right) may know, I trained as an engineer and mathematician… and whilst I’ve let those skills atrophy with age, I’ve remained interested in comedy that dares to verge into sciencey areas. And, way back in 2001, I had the good luck to see Don McMillan perform some of his engineering-focused, Powerpoint-driven standup material… and he was fantastic, rattling through statistic after one-liner after laser-like corporate observation at a rapid rate of knots, barely leaving me enough time to catch my breath between chest-heaving guffaws.

So, as far as I’m concerned, the bar for science-based humour is set pretty high.

And I initially thought that Simon Pampena (a Math Ambassador, no less) would clear that bar easily. Bounding onto stage singing Brainiac (to the tune of Maniac) was pretty bloody funny… but the seeds of doubt were planted when the song went overlong, clearly outstaying its welcome.

Song over, Pampena leaped into motormouthed coverage of the various statistics of events, comparing the likelihood of winning the lottery to the chance of being struck by lightning. From there, he starts addressing the maths associated with The Lucky Country – or rather, those addressing sport.

In between a few too many references to Nick Riewoldt’s cock (rooster cut’n’paste, ahoy!), he looked at the “best” country in the Olympics – when calculating Olympic medal tallies per capita, Jamaica (with their stellar track and field teams) take top spot.

So far, so good.

Pampena then associates that standing with the high murder rate in that country – and jokes that, because of the need to escape mortal danger, the two statistics may be related.

And that feels like a bridge too far, y’know?

The “mathematics” behind Stephen Bradbury‘s win in the Winter Olympics felt flimsy, at best, as did his quest to prove which sport possessed the better players: snooker or darts? Despite interesting glimpses at the physical target areas involved with the accuracy of each pursuit, no consideration was given to the associated biomechanics; to have each sport present a “something” value of 0.27% felt specious. Luckily, there was a cheap joke – “add beer” – to throw in at the end that made the endeavor less worthless.

And whilst Pampena’s fascination with pi was eccentrically amusing at first, it really didn’t warrant an incredibly protracted sequence that saw him drag an audience member onstage, dress them in an uncomfortable-looking pi costume, then drill them for five minutes to get them to learn pi to ten decimal places.

Simon Pampena is clearly a smart guy; he’s also pretty charming, and his stage manner is immediately likeable. It’s just that a lot of his mathematical analysis felt dubious, even to my born-again-layman ears; or maybe it was just the fact that he was motormouthing so fast that he failed to explain things sufficiently. But at least the flawed analyses erred on the side of humour, and his re-purposed version of Fuck Tha Police (or was it Straight Outta Compton?) was great.

Sadly, however, he failed to match the aforementioned Don McMillan’s humour or precision; and when I snaffled more grins via the guy sitting behind me (clearly a hardcore mathematician – but even more obviously a comedy show novice, conversationally answering every rhetorical question posed from the stage), I can pretty safely say that I was a touch underwhelmed by The Probability Drive.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Telia Nevile @ The Tuxedo Cat – Blue Room

6:15pm, Thu 24 Feb 2011

After having experienced a snippet of Poet Laureate Telia Nevile during an earlier Santoni Caberoni show, I was very much looking forward to seeing the rest of her show; and as Nevile springs onto the stage, school uniform neatly pressed and schoolbag in tow, her face flickers between the intensity of the misunderstood poet and the delight of naive youth.

As our poet protagonist recounts her trials and tribulations through high school, we’re introduced to a cast of stereotyped characters: the jocks that jostle, the stoners that inadvertently accept, the best friend’s Mum who runs the sanctuary of the tuck shop. But the storyline, delivered with knowing faux-innocence, only facilitates the true hook of For Whom the Bell Tolls: and that is Nevile’s poetry.

In truth, her rhythm stutters and splutters all over the place… but it’s still brilliant fun, and wonderfully entertaining. For every snippet that feels too sweetly twee, there’s something like the brutalising The Darkness Inside to redress the balance; Telia’s ode to sport (or her aversion thereof) is really clever, and her closing (graduation) rap is a genius full-stop on proceedings.

Nevile’s schoolgirl charm remains utterly convincing, with well-weighted shifts in intensity as she transforms between the heroic poet (with powerful stares burning into the audience) and the oddball outsider. Lou Sanz’s direction is faultless throughout, keeping the pace of delivery up and maintaining interest from start to finish. In short: I loved it.

As we leave the venue, Telia is hovering (in character) to thank people for coming; as she slyly pressed a “secret” note (the programme) into my hand, she softly cooed “how nice was it to have you sitting in the front row?” while flashing a shy grin, eyes lowered but peeking up, sparkling.

Consider me smitten :)

Lanie Lane: Alone & Intimate

Lanie Lane @ The Spiegeltent

10:00pm, Wed 23 Feb 2011

I knew nothing of Lanie Lane prior to tonight’s Spiegeltent gig, save her cute-as-a-button photo in the Fringe Guide; but it’s fair to say that I’ll be hunting her out (in as non-stalky a way as possible) at every opportunity in the future (maybe at A Day On The Green, perhaps?).

As per the subtitle of the show, this was a very intimate performance featuring just herself and her guitar (and red accordion, which perfectly matched her lipstick). From the vocally percussive joy of Bang Bang, through her smattering of covers (including a fantastic rendition of Candy Man), to the sparse and poetic ode to her guitar Betty Baby (which reminded me of my beloved Jess Ribeiro), Lane’s selection of songs continued to delight. Her most impressive effort was left until the end, however: exercising masterful control ever the audience, she had the entire Spiegeltent standing and singing a soft underlay for her vocal lead on What Do I Do – sure, it’s a cheap way to get a standing ovation, but it was a truly wonderful experience to be a part of.

And throughout, Lanie was as cute as a bug’s ear, with her playfully coy stage presence never once losing her cheeky smile – and that tooth! Gorgeous :)

Consider me a (massive) new fan.

Snout

Box City Theatre Company @ Gluttony (The Bally)

8:30pm, Wed 23 Feb 2011

I loved Box Car Theatre’s Inanimate Eats Rage last year – it was a wonderful maelstrom of noise and humour and violence that had a real heart. So when writer/director Malcolm Sutton sent me press details about Snout, Box Car’s new production… well, I felt chuffed and excited.

We arrived at The Bally just in the nick of time this evening, and were only just able to sneak into our seats at the back of a two-thirds full venue and note the overalls-wearing, snout-sprouting guitarist to the left of the stage who provided (gorgeous) aural texture throughout the performance. The lights dropped, and suddenly we were surrounded by a discordant choir of piggy snorting as the cast scuttled around the tent noisily.

Spotlights pick out a pink pig, a blue pig – and a brash tale that touches on racism, corporate greed, and… ummm… probably other stuff. As with Inanimate Eats Rage, it’s very loud and shouty as our porcine protagonist battles genetically-modified peer pressure. There’s tons of pig puns and lots of anger.

But, unlike last year’s production, it just didn’t engage me as easily. Or, indeed, at all.

Despite the obvious effort put into the costumes – with silicon piggy adornments and lashings of body paint and garish overalls – there was no real opportunity to identify with any of the characters. The occasionally violent foray into animal slaughter was visually indiscernible from our unfortunate position, but it certainly sounded like a brutal and unfocused barrage.

And, unfortunately, the three words running around my head for most of the show were: “What the fuck?”

As previously mentioned, there were certainly some great aspects to Snout: the live guitar was fantastic, and the presentation was colourful and assured. But the content… well, if the production itself wasn’t confused, then I certainly was.

Brief Encounters

Heartspace Theatre Company @ Nexus Cabaret

7:00pm, Wed 23 Feb 2011

The premise of Brief Encounters is certainly enticing – six ten-minute plays, each of which aim to create an impact, but not outstay their welcome. And so I found myself lured to Nexus (in the company of a nearly full house) – but, upon looking at the programme, one problem is apparent straight away:

There’s only five plays listed.

And, as soon as the lights drop and the show begins, another problem raises its ugly head:

None of the plays are really much good.

Christopher Durang’s Mrs Sorken leads off with a meandering and unconvincing introduction to the concept of “theatre” – and while Laura Zanini’s recurring role carries a convincing primness, the content didn’t conjure any high hopes for the rest of the production. At least the second play, Alex Broun’s Exiting, was at least a touch amusing and carried a twist in the tail, though the direction was loose and sloppy – the characters must have been traveling in the longest elevator known to man, such were their verbal wanderings.

Dr Fritz or: The Forces of Light (by David Ives) was more amusing still, with Laura Arjona playing the surreal doctor with tongue planted firmly in cheek; unfortunately, her voice wasn’t strong enough to imbue the character with any depth or power, and the rapidfire back-and-forth dialogue often felt contrived and flat. Jason Katims’ The Man Who Couldn’t Dance was the most identifiable piece for me: I could see so much of myself in the titular Man that it was scary. But some of the dialogue between the Man and his ex was so spectacularly cringe-worthy that it almost felt offensive, undoing any goodwill it managed to conjure beforehand. The final piece – Arabian Nights – shared the same playwright (David Ives) as the earlier Dr Fritz, and suffered the same problems: fast-paced he-said-she-said fell flat, and the quirky-for-the-sake-of-quirky idioms were not able to redeem it.

Repeated appearances by Mrs Sorken don’t help proceedings at all: her additional interludes of comic relief whilst the stage was being reset only served to remind you accumulating averageness of the production. Sadly, the promise of Brief Encounters was completely let down by most aspects of the execution, with only a few positive aspects lingering in the memory – far outweighed by the volume of disappointment.

The Journey Home: An Interplanetary Guide to the Solar System in 3D

eResearch SA @ 3D Vislab, Physics Building, University of Adelaide

11:00am, Wed 23 Feb 2011

I don’t know what I was thinking: planning to see an 11am show the day after a late-night/early-morning comedy gig? Foolish, I thought, as I hid behind my sunglasses amongst a river of parents-and-children (in approximately equal measures) in an entirely too-bright corridor in the Physics building at my alma mater. I was dead on my feet.

The lack of foresight was amplified as I took my seat on the edge of the back row, giving the enthusiastic youngsters the opportunity to grab the prime front-and-centre seats. Of course, the kids sat there with their twelve-foot-tall Amazonian parents, leaving me constantly craning to view the big silver screen at the front of the Vislab. And, of course, the wider angle also played havoc with the 3D effect – the computer hardware that drives The Journey Home includes a neat polarised projector (that I guess must be similar to the one used by the 3xperimentia crew). So I now know that wearing polarised glasses over one’s normal glasses in a not-quite-dark-enough room on a sleep-deprived day is not the best basis for compensating for poor seating choices.

Anyway – The Journey Home is a guided tour through space, narrated by the chap who navigates through the computer-modelled universe from the computer at the back of the Vislab. The movement through space is really quite nice – free of the embellishment of special effects that one might expect at some sort of populist science fair – and the 3D (when I could sit still long enough to appreciate it) was quite subtle: again, functional, rather than flashy. And it’s a pretty reasonable tour of our Solar System, scooting past each of our neighbourhood planets in turn, before a quick trip to the nearest stars, and an inevitable look-how-insignificant-we-really-are summary.

The visuals are fine, and the tour itself entirely within the bounds of expectation; but the narration was chock-full of references to old sci-fi shows – 2001 and Space 1999 both contribute visual models and snippets of dialogue that were lost on the youngsters in the audience. Not that they necessarily would have heard the accompaniment; they all seemed to be far too busy chattering to their parents, explaining all the things that they assumed their parents didn’t understand. And, normally, that would have annoyed me no end; today, though, it was perfectly fine, and indeed enjoyable… because they were doing exactly what I did when I was an enthusiastic space-loving child.

Of course, I don’t think I would have asked the questions that dominated the Q&A session at the end of the journey – “how long could a dog live in space without air?” preceded the inevitable “why is it called ‘your anus’?” But that just added to the nostalgic charm of this event for me; seeing these kids that reminded me so much of myself, and hearing those questions that reminded me of things I’d heard from others in my formative sciencey outings, left me with warm fuzzy reminders of simpler times.

Ha Ha Comedy Late Show

Alan Anderson, Ross Vosvotekas, Jacques Barrett, Moataz Hamde, Amos Gill, Marcel Lucont, Dr Brown, Jarrod Fitch, Gary Bradbury @ Worldsend Hotel (Beer Garden)

11:30pm, Tue 22 Feb 2011

It’s been nearly a decade since I last attended a comedy show in the Worldsend beer garden, and not a lot has changed; there’s still the laidback feel and incredibly lax approach to “ticketing”, with the evening’s performers lazing around tables at the back.

But this evening’s Ha Ha Comedy show was not so much about the comedians themselves, nor their performance; no, it was more about the audience. Or rather, the eighty percent of the crowd that appeared to be staging a family reunion at one of the front-most tables. Because the presence of a stage, and the performers on it, was only of secondary importance to them.

Which meant that each and every performer had two battles to fight: the usual battle to win the audience over, and to communicate over the top of the incessant chatter from that table.

Emcee Alan Anderson’s thick accent raised an eyebrow or two on the table, and conversation was curbed somewhat as they tried to discern what the angry Scot was saying. But earlier performers Ross Vos and Amos Gill didn’t stand a chance with their less-ranty delivery style; the family reunion conversation resumed, and it was difficult to even hear the performers over their hubbub. It was heartbreaking to see these fledgling young comics have to deal with such brutal disinterest.

Moataz Hamde got them onside only momentarily, but there was no mistaking Jacques Barrett’s utter disdain for the situation he found himself in – and, more pointedly, the people talking over his act. Now, I already knew that Barrett had some fantastic material, but the barely disguised viciousness with which he attacked The Family just made him all the more appealing.

Marcel Lucont, however, had The Family eating out of the palm of his hand with his wry material. Maybe it was his French disdain, or his dry indifference, or the way their slurred heckles barely made any impact; regardless, Alexis put on a masterful display of unruly crowd management which really was a pleasure to witness. It proved to be the one segment in the entire evening where the performer/audience relationship felt appropriately balanced.

But it was not the most memorable spot of the evening, no… because then Dr Brown took to the stage.

After guiding one of the cackling Family up onto the stage, Dr Brown’s humiliating clowning had the Family cracking up… before he encouraged his volunteer to lightly slap his cheek. The volunteer did as suggested, but Brown’s quickfire slap in response was crisp. Hard. The crack of hand-on-cheek jolted my eyes wide open, and a dark little thought crossed my mind… what if this all goes wrong?

With the most insincere of mimed apologies, Brown lay the man down on a bench… then tried to sit on his head. The man struggled, sat up in anger; again, Dr Brown’s gentle hands-up apologies placated him, but the good doctor’s eyes told another story. Eventually the man as coaxed into laying on the bench again… and Dr Brown again tried to sit on his head, more forceful in his attempts to hold the man down. A struggle ensued, culminating with the man running from the beer garden to the jeers of the rest of The Family. They turned back to face Dr Brown, barely a sound to be heard; he shrugged, and walked offstage.

I was gobsmacked. I was convinced that what I’d just seen, on a bad night with a litigious crowd, was tantamount to assault. Sure, I was laughing my arse off – but as I exchanged a greeting and a few quick words with Dr Brown as he left the venue, I asked: are you OK? aren’t you worried about the ramifications of that? Again, he just shrugged, and ambled off.

The Family were more subdued now… but Jarrod Fitch’s dark and winding jokes with cleverly terrible punchlines started to get a bit more noise out of them. An ugly noise. Gary Bradbury wrapped things up with a bit of his saxophonic humour, and then we all wandered out into the night.

As I walked home at 1am, I felt sorry for a lot of the comedians… and I also wondered whether Dr Brown would be available for the rest of his season or not. But it was an interesting gig, with a lot of local talent and some quality visitors. It just happened to be in the presence of a largely shit crowd.

Awesomely Awkward

Dave Campbell @ The Maid

9:30pm, Tue 22 Feb 2011

Despite Dave Campbell being a local lad, I’d never seen him perform his stand-up before; a great title, and intriguing photo, had me fixing one of his handful of dates into The Schedule. After a quick stroll from The Bakehouse, I wind up sitting in the front row of the wide back room at The Maid, coaxing the other patrons forward; Beth rolls up late, and we have a little chat and catch-up. She waxes lyrical about Campbell, raising my expectations…

Campbell takes to the stage, and there is something decidedly… odd about his presentation. With an awkward stage manner – physically uncomfortable and ill-at-ease with himself – he opens up with some amusing family admissions (his parents are siblings, making him his own cousin!) before his material devolves into a collection of mildly entertaining anecdotes.

The problem is that, despite a healthy dose of abstract content, Campbell’s jokes just felt… well, unformed. He’ll fling a non sequitur out there – dinosaurs, or otters, for example – that will raise interest, but then fail to follow through; it’s almost as though the unexpected absurdity of the change in direction is the joke.

And sure, my “quirk” quotient was satisfied in hearing a scrawny, strung-out, rockstar-black-clad chap with disproportionately large boots and belt buckles say “otters” a lot… but when my biggest laugh of the set was the result of seemingly accidental intonations (“What’s the worst thing about supermarkets? …fucking children”), I found it hard to reconcile the one-time child genius with the performer onstage.

Despite a strong finish to the show – a rapid-fire two-minute summation of his entire life – I was left feeling that I was the awkward one… because other people in the audience seemed to be having a hearty chuckle, and I was just not feeling it. And, as I left The Maid, I had the weirdest sensation: I had the sudden thought that, maybe, the jokes being told inside Campbell’s own head were infinitely funnier than the ones we were privy to. And whilst I love that idea, it didn’t make for a good experience for me in the audience.

Rocket Boy

Attention Seeker Productions @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

7:30pm, Tue 22 Feb 2011

In a way, Rocket Boy (often confused in conversation this Fringe with Rocket Town – sorry Dee!) feels like the polar opposite of the previous show in the same venue: where Womb Division was a confronting mix of brutality and absurdity, Rocket Boy takes a curious premise and creates a warm, heartfelt, and personal production – but almost overcooks itself in the process.

Ten-year-old Jessica is a new girl in a new town; shattered families are the norm in this world. Escaping from her home and exploring her cul-de-sac, she becomes innocently fascinated by the Lieutenant – a similarly-aged boy who is building a rocket in his back yard. His motivation for building the spacecraft (out of household junk “found” in neighbour’s yards) is also the need for escape; despite his almost laser-like focus on the construction of the vehicle, Jessica’s flurry of questions inadvertently reveal a common ground between them. As a pompous and pipe-wielding Narrator keeps the audience up-to-date on the character’s internal monologues, the conversationally blunt Lieutenant blunders his way into emotional congress with the resolute Jessica; by the time the Christmas lights have been added to his space craft awaiting lift-off, the bond between the children has become tangibly close, and almost unbearably delicate.

A relatively young adult cast is used to play the pre-teens, though Andrew Jackson’s Narrator has a more mature presence, with deliciously deep tones accompanying his (occasionally perversely suggestive) description of proceedings. Lauren Farquhar’s Ivy, Jessica’s best friend from another town, provides the bulk of the comic relief, with her selective relationship advice (inexpertly translated from the pages of Dolly) perfectly delivered with naïve focus.

Unfortunately, the two principles – Kaitlyn Mahoney and Julian Webster – are almost too good in their roles, with the immediately charming sense of familiarity drowned by an overdose of sentimentality and whimsy. Their performances are fine – but at times there’s too much emotional treacle to wade through. And in the end, despite the overall polish to the production, Rocket Boy really left me feeling a bit conflicted – tickled by nostalgia for childhood innocence and playful exploration, but somewhat pained by the overload of twee.

Womb Division

Wild Duck @ Bakehouse Theatre – Studio

6:00pm, Tue 22 Feb 2011

I think it’s pretty telling that, despite all the Fringe performances I’ve seen over the last fifteen years, the first thing I wrote after having seen this show was “what the fuck.”

I distinctly remember doing so. I remember exiting the Bakehouse’s Studio with a big sloppy grin on my face, scurrying into the little sitting-room across from the Studio’s box office, and pulling out my phone explicitly to quickly tap out “what the fuck.” Because Womb Division left me in that wonderful delirious state of overwhelmed confusion, safe in the knowledge that I had just witnessed something great.

But let’s take a step back: Wild Duck, their programme tells me, is a small ensemble of VCA graduates. The cast of four introduce themselves as marketing executives, eager to improve the efficacy of their message; with scant regard for elaborate plotting, they engage on a perilous journey into The Wastelands to try and discover Paul Newman’s Secret Formula for Perfect Advertising. Their travels lead to encounters with a seemingly random collection of characters (Tim’s Hair? Bizarre) that are facilitated through quick costume changes, and are always delightfully silly. And, whilst the cynicism is cute (the world is round? advertising in the womb?) and laughs are free-flowing, it’s all performed straight with an honest commitment from the cast… even if the set, props, and costumes are deliberately lo-fi.

But it’s the end of the performance that contributes most to the post-show delirium – after all the giggles, all the craziness, the three male advertising executives discover a young virginal female. They surround her, and the atmosphere loses all sense of zany; a sinister chill slaps you in the face as the strobe lights kick in, only permitting you desperate glimpses of the greedy grabbing and pawing that follows…

And then the cast takes their bow. And I feel elated. But the thing is, I feel confronted as well… challenged. Slightly icky for having seen it, like I’ve been an accomplice in a seedy violation.

As I tap my notes out in the sitting-room, Tom Hobbs – one of the writer/performers – drops in, mopping up the last of his sweat from his efforts. I clumsily thank him (and the other Wild Ducks) for the performance, but broach the intent of the sinister climax; he smiles, clearly pleased that the question has been asked. “We wanted the audience to leave feeling dirty,” he says with heavy emphasis.

And that thrills me no end. It seems such a bold move after the performance that preceded it – cynical, sure, but light and abstractly fluffy – that I get the impression that it’s the result of a very risky experiment. But isn’t that what fringe theatre should be about? Throwing ideas out there and seeing what sticks?

Regardless: I loved Womb Division. And, with a talented cast who are able to turn on a ten-cent piece, I’ll most certainly be keeping an eye out for the Wild Duck crew in the future.

The Hermitude of Angus, Ecstatic

Slow Clap Productions @ The Tuxedo Cat – Red Room

10:00pm, Mon 21 Feb 2011

After having seen performer Vachel Spirason’s efforts during the opening night of Santoni Cabaretoni, I was really really looking forward to this; so were a lot of other people, judging by the packed Red Room. A big, comic-like book (that acts in concert with pre-recorded audio as a narrator for the performance) sat prominently by the side of the stage as we squeezed in…

In bounds Angus, disheveled under his Collingwood beanie, yet seemingly optimistic in his search for friendship and acceptance. The Book announces the chapters of his life in non-chronological order, a soothing ding-dong prompting Angus to turn a page to the next chapter; odd titles provoke curiosity in the scenes that follow, and in the characters that inhabit them.

The exploration of Angus and the characters in his life is accompanied by a great selection of music (helpfully recorded in the programme); and as for The Book itself, its bold lines and child-like aesthetic contrast gleefully with the finesse of Spirason’s performance.

Vachel is an intoxicating performer: his rubbery face and exaggerated movements provide immediate comic delight, and his ability to slip into his menagerie of characters (using just the simplest of costume props) is a source of amazement… witness his flip-flopping between Angus and his nemesis. The direction is spot-on, too, with barely a dull moment; if Angus isn’t attempting to copulate with a chocolate cake, he’s having his lunch comically cut by The Book’s ill-timed page-turning audio cues.

You might have gathered that I enjoyed The Hermitude of Angus, Ecstatic. Whilst it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting after the Santoni Cabaretoni appearance, that was for the best – Angus proved to be a well-rounded, sweet and likable character, and the manner in which his story was told was really quite clever.

Skin House

Quiet Little Fox @ The Tuxedo Cat – Blue Room

8:45pm, Mon 21 Feb 2011

The Blue Room has been transformed into a lounge room – a very homely, intimate lounge room – and it feels almost voyeuristic as we wander in, performers Kristina Benton and Fleur Kilpatrick already onstage. The dim house lights drop, and we’re immediately thrust (fnarr, fnarr) into a frank discussion of the sex industry. Prompted by Fleur’s queries, Kristina unfolds her life working first as a prostitute, then as a madam; it’s certainly a bold and impressive opening.

The only problem is that doesn’t really progress from there… and that works both for and against this production.

On the negative side, it’s almost as if Skin House plays all its high cards early; after the opening, there’s very little to jolt the audience for the rest of the show. But maybe that’s the (positive) point: by peaking early, a stable matter-of-fact platform is established for the tales that follow (which range from the emotionally intimate to the graphically physical); it’s all presented in an almost casual manner, just two girls chatting over a glass of wine. And, as you’d expect from such a conversation, there’s expressions of astonishment and incredulity punctuated with seemingly genuine, heartfelt laughter; and, to break the flow, the girls occasionally slip into song. Unfortunately, the almost predictable (and it feels so wrong to type that, given the autobiographical nature of the piece) revelation of sexual abuse is somewhat clumsily wodged into the narrative; there’s a decent ending to proceedings, however.

The set lends a comfortable intimacy to the conversation: the staging feels very much like a safe haven, somewhere to which Kristina would retire for respite. Maybe that was a deliberate stage direction, maybe not; but it certainly was memorable. But the other enduring memory is of the friendship of these women on stage; there’s a rapport, a genuine sense of connection between them. And that’s both heartwarming and – oddly – a little bit icky; at times, I felt like I was spying on a conversation I shouldn’t have been privy to.

Markus Birdman

Markus Birdman @ The Tuxedo Cat – Blue Room

7:30pm, Mon 21 Feb 2011

I like Markus Birdman. He’s a lovely bloke, a very open and forthright and friendly chap to talk to. He’s always up for a chat, his unique jacket making him an easy character to spot on the street.

Unfortunately, I saw him straight after an emotional rollercoaster – and that meant that I probably wasn’t in as receptive a mood as he deserved. In fact, I really struggled to get into the groove of his show early on… because Birdman isn’t really an “impact” kind of comedian.

In fact, I’d go so far as to call Birdman a gentle comedian. That’s not to say that he’s not filthy (the profanity gleefully came forth, though there’s precious little smutty material to be found), nor contentious (he freely pokes fun at religion); it’s just that he tends to be very humble and eloquent with his delivery. A shouty chap Markus is not.

Amongst his repertoire this evening was a series of tales from his teaching days, along with some banter targeting the British habit of saying one thing whilst meaning another. A little bit of critical analysis on advertising jingles helped things along, but Birdman’s best material centred on his daughter. Through tales of being mistaken for a paedophile when hiding behind hedges whilst playing with her in the park, to his willingness to stand up to his daughter’s naïveté (and, in the process, crushing her hopes and dreams), there’s always a glimmer of fondness in his eye that brings a big dose of heart to the jokes.

Sure, there’s some… ummm… oddities in his act: his airplane joke, where he recounts the second time he’d been physically attacked, seemed to go absolutely nowhere. I’m assuming that it was just a weak joke, rather than just missing a sidetracked punchline, because the last couple of minutes of the show was an avalanche of callbacks. And that torrent of closure was certainly a fantastic end to the show – sure, it lacked the precision of a Billy Connolly conclusion, but it was performed with an earnestness and honesty that befitted the rest of the show.

I’m just sorry I wasn’t in the most jovial of moods from the get-go.

Lists of Invisible Things

Scratch Theatre @ Nexus Gallery

6:00pm, Mon 21 Feb 2011

This was the first show I’d seen in the new Nexus Gallery space – a venue in which I’d only ever seen tattoo-and-grafitti-inspired visual art displays in previous Fringes. There’s now a tiny stage wedged in one corner, an equally-tiny “backstage” area for performers in another corner, and a bunch of really hot spotlights illuminating the space.

It’s important to preface this post with a bit of background information. Even as a large ocker sweary bloke, I’m not afraid to cry – at forty years of age, I’ve come to accept that emotions can well up inside me and express themselves in many ways. And I’ve even come to recognise the moments when I’m more susceptible to uncontrollable weeping – tiredness usually ups my emotional susceptibility, and being moody-drunk raises that a notch.

But Lists of Invisible Things had me weeping like a big blubbery mess at the end of the show… and with a full night’s sleep under my belt, and having imbibed only a quick half-price mojito from the Urban Garden Experiment in the Nexus courtyard bar, I can only pin the blame for my watery eyes on the wonderful material and even more wonderful performance of writer Caity Fowler.

Fowler plays a trio of female characters – the principle being the childlike Alice, the epitome of wide-eyed innocence, narrating her world through a squeaky-voice with heartbreaking naïveté. Alice’s mother and aunt also feature in other roles that are equally heartbreaking – but for completely different reasons – and all three women, all three moods, are handled with great delicacy.

There’s little in the way of support – some glass jars, a butterfly necklace, and a lot of glitter – but that’s fine… Fowler’s performance remains the centre of attention. Her musical accompaniment is wonderfully directed, too – the percussionist maintains a blank expression the entire show, with the pianist almost imperceptibly swaying from side to side, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape in a smile of wonder.

Now, I don’t mind admitting that I kinda missed some early plot pointers, and spent much of this performance convinced that Alice was some kind of semi-autistic, synaesthetic savant – so when the punch to the performance came… well, I was caught off-guard and completely overwhelmed, and the tears flowed. But the ascension to the ending is so wonderful, so heartwarming, so beautiful, that when Alice picked up the phone with a joyful “It’s for me!” as the lights are killed with a click… christ, I blubbered. Proper chest-heaving, barely controlled emotion, a big grin on my face that caught some of those salty, delicious tears.

And I can’t think of any other show that has had me that joyfully emotive, through sadness and joy.

I loved Lists of Invisible Things, I really did. I told everyone I could to go and see it; I felt ashamed that I couldn’t / didn’t write about it in-season (not that I think the above words are much good; for a far better written piece, see No Plain Jane’s review). But I got to bump into Caity and her pianist at the Fringe Club after their final show and rave about how much I loved it… again, it hardly feels like enough.

Monique Brumby

Monique Brumby [ MySpace ] @ The Spiegeltent

10:00pm, Sun 20 Feb 2011

As regular (ha!) readers may be aware, I’m usually up for anything come Fringe time… I just have to be enticed, whether by word-of-mouth or (more often than not) a nicely-written précis in the Fringe Guide. And there’s one phrase that drew me to Monique Brumby – a storyteller considered ahead of her time. On the basis of that line, with no knowledge of her musical style whatsoever, I slotted her into The Schedule.

But when it was time to wander towards the Spiegeltent for the show, I was torn – because Marcel Lucont’s Chat Show was scheduled to feature Stevl Shefn and Fatima… and I felt a monumental longing for that show event. But the FringeTIX ticket in my hand weighed heavy with obligation, so I joined the SpiegelQueue instead of heading off to the TuxCat.

I was somewhat surprised at the truncated length of the queue when I arrived; next to the flood of Cantina patrons leaving the Garden, those dutifully in line for Monique Brumby looked comparatively lonely. A camera crew scoped the line, plucked out the girl standing next to me: what have you seen so far at the Fringe? what do you want to see? isn’t the Fringe/Garden awesome? My elitist hackles raised, I stepped out of the camera’s eye-line. Chatting with the girl afterwards, though, was a delight: she was an avid Fringe-goer, too, and – more importantly – knew of Ms Brumby, and tried to assuage my growing fears that I’d made the wrong decision this evening.

Once inside, with a fantastic seat secured, I turned around to discover that the crowd had filled out nicely; the Spiegeltent, whilst not packed, was certainly well populated. And when Brumby and her band – Sophie(?) on accompanying guitar, Nik on (wonderfully) sloppy bass – appeared, it was to much applause.

Now, Brumby’s banter is pleasant and friendly – there’s a few callbacks to the lack-of-drummer (“Shane didn’t have time to set up… so he’s out back, getting drunk”). And she’s got a great range to her voice, and an intriguing gravelly texture… but this performance just didn’t do it for me.

At all.

There were a bunch of people in the Spiegeltent that loved this show, and were utterly enraptured by every song they played – but I wasn’t one of them. I found her country-and-folk-tinged original material to be unengaging (where was the storytelling I was expecting?), and her covers left a lot to be desired; Luka wasn’t given enough air for its delicacy and poignancy to take hold, and Boys Don’t Cry was just plain ordinary – over-paced and under-emotive.

I left the Spiegeltent feeling really, really negative about this performance – which is why I’m glad to be writing this with over four months’ hindsight (since time seems to temper my negativity somewhat). Brumby and her cohorts are obviously great musicians, and their more uptempo tracks (like As Sweet As You Are) worked really well within the bounds of the trio onstage. But it was clearly the wrong gig at the wrong time for me; my head was at the Tuxedo Cat, and their music wasn’t enough to entice my thoughts back to my physical location. I guess it was a unique experience – and, after all, that’s really the point of all this Fringery – but it wasn’t really one that I’ll cherish.