[2014047] Late Night Comedy at The Producers Bar

[2014047] Late Night Comedy at The Producers Bar

A grand total of fourteen comedians (over two shows) @ The Producers Bar

One of the nice things about a new Fringe is discovering the new venues that have opened up around town, and one of the more successful was found in the revitalised Producers Bar; Marcel Blanch-de Wilt (and cohorts) managed two pleasant performance spaces (as well as hosting a great late-night bar, which provided one particularly memorable evening). And, every Saturday night, Marcel himself hosted a late-night comedy ensemble in the side bar.

11:35pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

First signs as I approached The Producers this evening were daunting: loud dance music pounded the drunken dancing revellers out on the footpath, and for a moment I thought the Late Night show had been consumed by a dance party. It transpired that the management of The Producers had organised a bit of a club night – fair play, and a tidy earner for them, no doubt – but had honoured their comedy commitments.

After negotiating the dance crowd to grab a ticket (and negotiating the increasingly unruly pavement crowd to get inside) I was surprised to find that the ‘Bar was actually reasonably well shielded from the doof-doof music being cranked in the beer garden. And almost as soon as Marcel pranced onstage to warm the thirty-strong audience, we all discovered heard the pivotal person of the night: drunk Rachel, sitting in the second row, and never short of slurred commentary.

Marcel battled valiantly with Rachel, tempering her inclination to interrupt at every opportunity somewhat, successfully muting her with incredulity with his Fun Facts About Bears. The first act – Alex Wasiel, seen in last year’s Aggressively Helpful – let the audience goodwill dissipate a little too much before repairing the damage with some hug-related material (I much prefer Hard Hugs to Pump Hugs), but luckily Rhys Nicholson was his usual sparkling self, lifting the mood of the room with his wonderful recollection of a gig at a lesbian rally in Newcastle. And then Timothy Clark came to the stage armed with an astute observation of the dance club’s poster: “the club’s called ‘Poof Doof’,” he announced, before reading the fine print: “‘A gay club for homos’.” That alone was worth the price of admission.

Neil Sinclair produced one of his more surreal pieces of work (resulting in the consumption of gay swan meat), before Leo Kearse rounded out proceedings with a few laughs, but nothing notable.

In all, a reasonable show… Nicholson alone makes any show worthwhile, and Clark only needed thirty seconds to earn his keep.

11:35pm, Sat 1 Mar 2014

I’m not in the best of moods heading into this show: a real hodge-podge of shows during the day, coupled with some disappointing interactions with other people, had me in a bit of an introspective funk. But a fascinating lineup lured me out and, with no Poof Doof party in the beer garden this evening, the vibe around The Producers was more to my liking than on the previous visit – surprising, given the proximity to the Clipsal gates; I was assured that there were very few rev-heads in this neck of the woods.

Indeed, there were less than a handful of racing team shirts in the audience. Marcel opened up again with material that’s becoming familiar, but no less fun; Angus Hodge was the first of the guests on the bill, and had a decidedly flat opening before conjuring a few good-natured laughs. But the skies opened up and rained down a torrent of What The FUCK with the arrival of Stuart Daulman (one of The Wizard Sandwiches), whose standup delivery was unexpectedly bizarre. Babblingly incoherent levels of over-the-top mannerisms. Quite spectacular to watch, and would have been potentially suicidal had there been more Clipsal fans in the audience. A must-see in any lineup shows.

The amazing Demi Lardner brought her usual oddball self (though, after Daulman’s performance, she almost seemed normal), and her “threw my life away” joke is still gold. Angus Brown inexplicably came onstage with a towel – it wasn’t that hot, surely? – and rattled off a tasteful tale of shitting himself on a submarine; Jason Chong trotted out his familiar gym racism material.

Sarah Bennetto appealed to my country upbringing by talking about her small-town years at Swan Hill (where a commonly-heard pickup line is “there’s one, get her!”), and Danny McGinlay brought his familiar alpha-male presentation onstage (whilst recognising the three Clipsal lads in the front row from an earlier gig). And then came my current comedic hero, the glorious Jacques Barrett, who one-upped Angus Brown’s towel by adorning himself with a beer mat. Opening with his dogs-versus-cats joke, he called out to Marcel to suggest some followup material; Marcel bumped the honour to me, so I yelled out “blueberry muffins!” “You’ve given the joke away,” Barrett called back, before leaping into that fucking brilliant routine (albeit slightly truncated).

It’s pretty hard to complain about a lineup like that, and with such amazingly high highs – Barrett, Daulman, and Lardner all smashed it – I left The Producers in a much more buoyant mood than I arrived. The power of comedy, right?

[2014046] Vicious Circles

[2014046] Vicious Circles

Weeping Spoon Productions @ Tuxedo Cat – The Wine Underground

9:45pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

Fun fact: ever since hearing the Sex Pistols in high school, and thence witnessing the glory of The Great Rock’n’Roll Swindle, I’ve been… well, interested in anything surrounding the Sex Pistols. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a fan, but I love learning about the concocted phenomena of the ‘Pistols… and hey, I hunted high and low for their version of Johnny B. Goode. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that Malcolm McLaren’s rambling monologue was the first Adelaide Festival show I ever saw.

Long story short: after the précis promised a theatrical tussle between the pivotal Pistols (and surrounding characters), I was dead keen on seeing Vicious Circles.

So keen, in fact, that I was front-of-queue as we assembled out the front of the Wine Underground. After descending the stairs, I noticed that there was already someone sitting in a front row aisle seat; ah, I thought, a plant. I took the seat directly across the aisle, and soon wound up in conversation with a bubbly lass (and, later, her beau) who – with three (lifetime) Fringe shows under their belt – felt that they were pretty old hands at this Fringe malarkey.

But when Sid Vicious stumbles – in a flurry of flailing limbs – onto the set (a messy collection of detritus with a grimy bed at its centre), amid a loud and caustic stream of profanity, I could feel my previously chirpy neighbour tense up. When Sid yelled “What the fuck you looking at?” towards the previously identified plant, I felt her reach for her partner’s hand; when Sid threw a can at the plant, then leapt off stage to assault him, she cowered.

And I grinned like a loon. This was exactly what I wanted Sid to be; Patrick Rogers nails the desperation and commitment and goofish cluelessness. And when Kathleen Aubert’s interpretation of Nancy purred onto the bed, bedraggled and needy and devoted and desperate for drugs, she was exactly who I expected her to be. And Johnny Rotten… wow. If there was ever a better, more sinister and scowling and sneering and contemptuous personification of punk-era Lydon, I would love to see it… because Shane Adamczak (who I’d previously only ever seen in his much sweeter Zack Adams persona) is perfect. Absolutely perfect… and Rotten even pointed out my hair from the stage and gave me (what I interpreted to be) a sneer of approval.

Sadly, the only character that really failed to connect was that of Malcolm McClaren: Charles Mayer certainly tried to get the self-important haughtiness that epitomised McClaren’s character in the Swindle, but it didn’t quite work… and nor did his physical presence. The fact that he mistook me for a woman as he prowled through the crowd didn’t win him any plaudits from me, either.

With a trio of incredibly strong characters, the show could almost write itself: it’s largely a battle for the control of Sid’s will, with Nancy appealing to the hedonist side of him, Rotten to the anti-establishment punk-purist, and McClaren to the… well, McClaren’s only interested in what’s best for McClaren, really. There’s some fantastic scenes (that I suspect bend the truth quite liberally) as the battle for Sid hots up, with a destructive demise almost inevitable.

But here’s the thing: such is the bile and venom being (sometimes literally) thrown around on stage that I rarely felt safe – my neighbour’s partner was surprised by Sid’s jostling and awkwardly fell backwards in his seat to the ground, causing a bit of concern from all around. It felt like danger was only a script-line away, and even the more tender moments between Sid and Nancy were on a knife-edge of tension. Even the dismissal of the audience at the end of the show had a snarl to it, as we were pushed into the night with a dismissive “fuck off!”

I expected a punkish show about the punk movement; I got an intelligently written piece that leveraged the populist ideas of the movement in the best possible ways. Add on three outstanding performances, and Vicious Circles was just perfect Fringe theatre.

[2014045] Stuart Bowden: She Was Probably Not A Robot

[2014045] Stuart Bowden: She Was Probably Not A Robot

Stuart Bowden @ Tuxedo Cat – Raj House – Room 1

8:30pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

I’ve had a bit of a soft spot for Stuart Bowden’s work since I was lucky enough to be invited to a performance by The Lounge Room Confabulators; his solo show that year, The World Holds Everyone Apart, Apart From Us, was an incredibly atmospheric storytelling experience. But I must admit to being surprised to see him collaborate with Dr Brown in a kid’s show; however, after seeing She Was Probably Not A Robot, I can kinda see where Bowden was heading there.

Because Bowden really, really reminds me of Dr Brown in this show.

It’s not just the bushy beard and eyes that shine with the confidence and knowledge of a thousand ways to make you laugh with just a tilt of the head; it’s in the style of his performance, too, with comical mime playing a significant part in his presentation. And that seems almost deliberately at odds with the tone of the narrative: after a worldwide catastrophe, Bowden wakes to find that he is the last living person on earth.

He searches in vain for other survivors, and resorts to conversing with Veronica (his dead girlfriend’s head on a hobby horse) and Jasmine the dog, before encountering Celeste – a being from another planet who takes on a life of her own as Bowden twists his voice into a quirky alien tongue.

As with all of Bowden’s work, there’s an overwhelming sense of whimsy to proceedings – thinking back to the dark nature of the content, that in itself a pretty impressive feat. His performance – especially his physical presentation of narrative mime – is impeccable… though, as noted previously, almost Dr Brown doppelgänger-ish. But She Was Probably Not A Robot is also a far more mature piece of writing than his other shows; there’s no lapses into lowbrow humour, no insertion of cheap laughs. And that makes this dark, touching, absurd, and beautiful journey of a man just seeking some normalcy a real treat.

[2014044] WOODCOURT: Spoils

[2014044] WOODCOURT: Spoils

Woodcourt Art Theatre @ The Coffee Pot

7:00pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

Once more up the stairs to the top of The Coffee Pot to perch on the not-as-uncomfortable-as-you’d-imagine milk crate seating; this time the “set” at the northern end of the room has a sense of class to it. A bathtub, back and centre; the front is dominated by a wooden frame through which we view proceedings. It’s almost as if the frame… well, frames the bathtub as the centre of the action.

In and around the bathtub rotate four housemates; their dialogue is conversational ephemera. It’s almost as if we’re watching a modernised version of Seinfeld, with the bathroom taking the place of Jerry’s kitchen (and the bathtub the counter). The topics of their discussions are lightweight and instantly forgettable; in fact, the only one I can recall had something to do with action figures.

But there’s a strong thread through the entire show of an unattainable desire, represented by The Beach; an aquatic theme permeates many segments, and the bathtub is no mere window dressing. Characters reveal surprise nudity from the tub, or have breath-holding competitions, or sit three-abreast within its waters, legs dangling over the sides. The tub facilitates their social interactions… but nothing really ever happens.

That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy myself; indeed, I had a good many chuckles during the show, and was solidly entertained. I just felt like there should have been something more substantial come of these conversations… as a result, I walked out of Spoils wanting to like it more than I actually did. All the elements were there: plenty of off-the-wall non-sequiterial banter between strong kooky characters, with a visual aesthetic that felt refreshingly open and honest. But something just didn’t click for me; maybe I’m just too old to cling to some of the mini-rants, or maybe I was just in an odd mood… regardless, there was a tangible sense of disappointment as I left. I’m just not sure whether it was in myself or the play.

[2014043] Out Of Print Book Club

[2014043] Out Of Print Book Club

Damian Callinan & Tim Overton (with Jon Bennett, Cal Wilson, Sammy J) @ Ayers House Museum – State Dining Room

4:30pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

The Out Of Print Book Club was firmly in the “Maybe” column of The Shortlist; it wasn’t until I was talking to Meg (a producer for In Canberra Tonight) outside FringeTIX on this sunny Saturday afternoon that I was spruiked for the show – and the guest lineup was too good to ignore. Jon Bennett and Sammy J? Sold… and even Cal Wilson appealed as part of an ensemble.

There’s an impressive audience for this performance, with the… er… stately Dining Room in Ayers House almost uncomfortably warm. At the northern end of the room was a small stage and a grand piano; a tuxedoed Tim Overton tinkled the keys whilst Damian Callinan introduced the concept: it’s a Book Club meeting, with the five attendees discussing books that never existed.

Callinan guides the conversation, encouraging the three guests to express their opinions on several fancifully fictitious books; the bulk of the show focussed on a series of books featuring a man who loved his ute. Initially intended as a promotional device, as the book series progressed the panel’s increasingly silly ideas – usually introduced in an attempt to push one of the other panelists into an incredulous corner – took the premise on a wild ride of its own.

There’s a few good questions from the audience that colour proceedings, but this show really relies on the guests (and Callinan’s prompting). Bennett appeared unflappable early, only to burst into laughter at some of the predicaments that Wilson and (especially) Sammy J threw at him; Sammy J appeared to act as the straight-man of the three. Wilson’s chirpy enthusiasm kept things bubbling along, too, and Callinan’s clipboard-fuelled prodding of the panel was solid. Only Overton’s presence seemed to be wasted; ivory-tinkling aside, he contributed little to the conversation.

The Out Of Print Book Club turned out to be a bloody fun way to spend a sunny Saturday arvo (the rising temperature in the Dining Room notwithstanding). I reckon that it’s a great opportunity to see the more lyrical storytellers from the comedy community strut their stuff, and I’ll be keeping my eye on the lineups in the future.

[2014042] Door

[2014042] Door

Josh Croall @ Star Theatres – Theatre 2

2:00pm, Sat 22 Feb 2014

A circus show with only two performances on the same day… out at the Star Theatre, no less? I must admit, it was nervous about committing to this show… but I found myself awake and aware, and with few other options presenting themselves I decided to bite the bullet: I grabbed a ticket at the FringeTIX box office, hopped on a bus, and scuttled down Sir Donald Bradman Drive, fully expecting to be one of only a handful of people who turned up for this performance.

But when I arrived at Star Theatres, I was pleasantly surprised: if Theatre 2 wasn’t sold out, then there were no empty seats to be seen. Parents and children filled the place out in equal numbers (with a smattering of grey topped grandparents thrown into the mix). And I started wondering why they were here – was this a friends-and-family deal, or were they attracted by something in the Guide? (Some subsequent research led me to believe that maybe some of these people were here because of performer Josh Croall’s successful Pozible campaign).

And when Croall takes to the stage, I’m initially a little… well, underwhelmed. He’s only seventeen years old, and he’s performing solo – and, at the start of the show, he was clearly nervous. There’s no physical presence early on, just a young man in an exuberantly coloured vest unconvincingly creeping around the stage before passing through a door – a door which, the pre-recorded narrative tells us, is a mystical door that grants access to the trials he must pass in order to become a Hero. These trials included juggling and feats of balance and strength.

I don’t mind admitting that, early on, I sat back a little bit grumbly – I’m slightly hungover, I thought, and I’m watching a circus piece that only just approaches the competence that I’ve come to expect from a Fringe show, and is labouring under a Campbellian narrative.

But then something changed; Croall’s confidence seemed to hit him all at once. Suddenly the boy on stage became a far more convincing and engaging performer: juggling four, then five, various-sized objects became exciting, and even the dance segment – full of flips and movements requiring flexibility and strength – avoided any sense of cheesiness. And whilst his juggling was sometimes a little rough – a result of the low beams over the stage, which knocked (and even captured) his juggled objects – the manner in which he acknowledged the mistakes to the audience left no-one unwilling to give him another chance at the trick.

As a solo piece, Door was probably a little light on content… but I still wound up leaving remarkably upbeat. As a Cirkidz graduate, Croall makes a remarkable ambassador, and would be a solid performer in a group setting; regardless, he still deserves massive respect for performing a solo circus piece with such (eventual) confidence.

[2014041] Shaggers

[2014041] Shaggers

Nik Coppin, Lisa Skye, Jacques Barrett, Christian Elderfield, Larry Dean @ Austral Hotel – Red Room

10:00pm, Fri 21 Feb 2014

I was surprised to learn that this was my first Shaggers show for many years; previous shows had been good value, probably due to the more focussed nature of the ensemble. And, once again, Nik Coppin emcees the show, and – based on his interaction with the decent-sized crowd that had gathered in the Red Room – it’s evident that the Shaggers brand has built up a bit of a following… there are plenty in the audience who have returned to Shaggers after previous shows for more sex-laden stories.

Coppin’s material is on the more timid side of shagginess, but Lisa Skye soon kicked it up a notch. Her tales from moderating phone sex chat lines start slowly, but her readings of pickup lines get the audience onside. And that creates a good mood for Jacques Barrett.

Now, regular readers (hah!) should know that I love Jacques Barrett. In the absence of Nick Sun (who I’ve sadly not seen in nearly five years), he is easily my favourite Australian comedian at the moment; and for his Shaggers spot, he used his superb Dolphin Girls material… I must have heard those stories at least half-a-dozen times now, and they don’t lose any of their appeal. It’s amazingly good material, relayed with a superb sense of timing; Barrett is still a must-see.

British comic Christian Elderfield was up next, and understandably struggled in Barrett’s wake. Opting for “shock” tactics, his recollection about receiving a painful (and damaging) hand-job was worthy of a cringing smile… whereas his cunnilingus shit-chin tale was gigglingly gross.

The final comic for the night was the Scotsman Larry Dean, who joyously discussed being a “manly”-looking gay Scot (who happened to have camp-looking straight friends). With a wonderfully open and honest delivery, he discussed the act of coming out to his family – the trepidation of his approaches, the humour in the familial responses. Warm and funny, Dean proved himself worthy of another look.

In all, this was another great Shaggers experience. Barrett was his usual exceptional self, Skye and Elderfield entertained without outstaying their welcome, and Larry Dean showed exceptional promise – so much so that I now feel guilty for not having seen his full show this year. And, for an ensemble show, that’s a pretty good result.

[2014040] Jon Bennett: Fire In The Meth Lab

[2014040] Jon Bennett: Fire In The Meth Lab

Jon Bennett @ Tuxedo Cat – The Wine Underground

8:30pm, Fri 21 Feb 2014

After my first Jon Bennett show last year, I decided to attend that any show that he puts on. His honest storytelling style makes it easy to connect with him, and his ability to conjure humour from the seemingly impossible has an addictive quality; you can’t wait to hear what happens next.

Fire In The Meth Lab opens with a letter to Jon’s brother, Tim, in prison; Jon bids him a perfunctory greeting, then announces his intent to write a show – this show – about him. Tim’s reply – and all subsequent replies, played between “acts” in the performance – grow increasingly profane in their insistence that the show not be written; needless to say, they fell on deaf ears.

Tim was in prison after having been busted for meth production (a replica of the wreckage of his “lab” littered the stage). The story of how he got busted was both funny and genuinely exciting, but what was even better was seeing Tim grow up; before the meth addict, before the man who worked for (and against) bikie gangs, there was a brother. A brother on a family farm, son of a Pentecostal priest.

There’s plenty of glorious nostalgia to their early brotherhood – I was called up onstage to help demonstrate their awesome “Belly Bucking” game – and, despite the cruelty of youth, there’s still a warmth to Jon’s descriptions of being bullied by his older sibling. Mind you, Jon gets (sweet, sweet) revenge by disclosing Tim’s bizarre obsession with Jason Donovan… including repeated callbacks to the Jason Donovan board game (which had some ludicrous questions).

Bennett’s tales rattle along at a rapid pace, and it’s obvious that this is not a show intended to butcher his brother’s character (Jason Donovan references notwithstanding), but rather to try and understand why he wound up making the life choices he did. And everything was fun and friendly and wonderful…

…until someone heckled him.

Heckled. At a narrative show. And the heckle was loud and rounded, like someone under the influence (of something) was getting annoyed that there wasn’t enough “meth” in the performance.

Jon’s first response was witty. His response to the second heckle was a stare. To the third interruption, a plea to sanity. The fourth? He referred to the heckler as his brother.

And I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

But the presence of that heckler in the room… well, that kept me on edge. And not in a good way; the outbursts, when they were coherent, were boorish. Banal.

And I thought about that heckler a lot. A lot. And I wondered whether the heckler was, indeed, Jon’s brother; if not, then attempts to claim so were misguided at best. If so… well, that means Tim has some real problems in social arena such as the one he found himself this evening – and that makes me a little bit sad.

Still, Jon Bennett’s storytelling style remains almost beyond compare: he can weave a wonderfully intimate – and wonderfully funny – tale out of any mishap involving his family, threading many such incidents together to form a wonderfully cohesive whole. But one wonders whether this show may become one of the many mishaps that spawns another tale in another show.

[2014039] Joel Creasey in Rock God

[2014039] Joel Creasey in Rock God

Joel Creasey @ Rhino Room – Howling Owl

7:00pm, Fri 21 Feb 2014

Joel Creasey’s show last year was brilliantly entertaining, meaning his return performance this year was a lock; however, too much undecided dilly-dallying around by the person who I’d committed to accompany left us struggling to squeeze Creasey in. The penultimate show was the best we could manage; still, at least that meant that we were likely to get one of the more polished performances of his run… and this show was positively gleaming.

After storming onstage to rapturous applause (and welcoming newcomers with a brief flurry of his viciously catty style and super-camp presentation), Creasey quickly sets things straight about his show’s title: he’s not claiming to be a Rock God, he assures us, but instead he intends to honour the people in his life that acted as his Rock Gods.

And, occasionally, he follows up on that.

But most of the time he just tells brilliantly orchestrated stories that left me a wobbly puddle of laughter. There’s tales about being let down by Play School celebrities as a child, and brief snippets from his school years (some of which were mentioned in The Drama Captain last year); there’s relationship stories, mostly involving adversity… which, of course, Creasey easily converts into funny.

Creasey manages to completely convince us of the awe he felt in being chosen to support Joan Rivers, with his backstage gossip tales garnering an almost lascivious response; better still was his description of touring with his mentor, Fiona O’Loughlin, with the chain-smoking lifestyle and aggressive support for each other generating humorous respect. And the pacing of the story in which he beds his mother’s Zumba instructor – whilst staying with his mother – is almost breathtaking.

Little more needs to be said, really: Joel Creasey is camp as hell, incredibly quick-witted, and fucking funny. I’m now convinced that he is one of those comics who will never have a bad show… not even in those redneck regional towns that would normally shun him. That’s another brilliant story, too.

[2014038] CJ Delling – Reality Bandit

[2014038] CJ Delling – Reality Bandit

CJ Delling @ The Crown and Anchor Hotel

6:00pm, Fri 21 Feb 2014

A friend had seen CJ Delling’s show early on in the Fringe; “I think you’d like her,” she had suggested, “she’s got some interesting material.” So, on that recommendation, I elevated CJ from the “maybe” section of The Shortlist, and settled into a second-row seat in a room that didn’t feel like its dozen-or-so audience members were really up for a laugh.

For the uninitiated, CJ Delling is a German-born comedienne: whilst she possesses the awkward lilt that the German accent tends to put on the English language, it’s rendered a little softer – friendlier, even – by her feminine tone and ever-so-slightly self-aware delivery. But her content gets me off-side early – even though it knows it was a joke, my brain refuses to let go of the fact that yes, CJ, there are good German comedians – and I struggle to engage with (attempted) laughs at the German language.

But here’s where I’ve got to make a bit of a painful admission. See… even though it’s only a week into this Fringe campaign, I’m already pretty tired. And so I may have… well, I’m pretty sure I dozed off. And usually a ten second micro-sleep is enough to recuperate and/or scare me back into alertness… but when I opened my eyes, slightly dazed, I think I saw one of the people in the front row turning to look at me… and Delling appeared to be giving me a bit of a silent stare, too.

That may have been a dream, though. I wouldn’t consider that a canonical recollection of events.

Regardless, with doze complete and everyone looking in the right direction, things seemed to pick up a bit. There’s a pervasive thread of material where Delling recounts her time spent as a Bondi lifesaver, some slightly quirky relationship observances, and – in a move that got me back on board – some fantastically breathless disbelief in the claims of homeopathy.

But the last five or ten minutes are Delling’s best. There’s a rush of callbacks late in the show, but the precision with which they’re set up is almost perverse: it’s fantastic to see such elaborate setups (and we’re approaching Rube Goldberg-ian status here)… but the clinical deftness of them is almost too clean. It feels like quality German engineering at its best: solid, dependable, but lacking a little soul.

And that’s how I felt leaving the Cranka after this show: like I’d seen someone who was well-versed in comedy, who had all the knowledge of the techniques and material down pat, but simply wasn’t able to inject the heart, the soul, the personality into the presentation. But, then again, maybe that was all there, and I simply missed it because I was snoozing.

[2014037] Gobsmacked

[2014037] Gobsmacked

Matt Grey @ Austral Hotel – Red Room

5:00pm, Fri 21 Feb 2014

A comedy show with just two forty-five minute performances at 5pm, that promises vaudevillian mime? Colour me interested. But “[t]here will be audience participation!” warns the précis for Gobsmacked, and it doesn’t take long for Matt Grey to come good on that promise threat.

It didn’t help that, as is usual with my Event Buddy, we were sitting in the front row. Still, at least I wasn’t the first one up… nor the most clueless.

…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

As we enter the Red Room, Grey is onstage in a trench-coat with an apple in his mouth holding a flimsy paper picture frame – he’s recreating The Son of Man. But few in the audience seemed appreciative of the visual reference – despite Grey’s wide and pleading eyes – and so, with the show underway, The Son leaves his painting and walks ominously along the front row, searching for his first victim assistant.

He chooses a woman with a drink in her hand; her friend cackles madly. Up onstage, Grey encourages her to hold a pose, then sticks objects in her hands and drapes clothes on her; a screen by the side of the stage shows a still image of a gallery painting (and I hate myself for not remembering which painting it was), and the juxtaposition between the live creation and the grand master’s work is silly… and rewarding. The woman’s friend shrieks with laughter.

I’m dragged up, instructed (through mime) to hold my arms out. I’m quickly wrapped in toilet paper, and for a moment I feel like I’m supposed to be a bloodied Christ character. Then I’m encouraged to yell out “I’m Spartacus!” – and the audience responds in kind.

Nice!

And that’s the style of the show in a nutshell: Grey plucks people from the audience, adorns and poses them in a manner that causes quizzical giggles, then drags a painting or pop-culture reference from left-field that causes genuine laughter. He’s dead serious about the “audience interaction” bit – a NERF gun makes a threatening appearance if his requests are refused – but he’s nice enough to hand out nice green apples to the participants. My only disappointment is that the photos – taken by an audience member who was forcefully handed Grey’s camera, and who consistently seemed to be struggling with the operation of the device – didn’t appear to be online.

Grey seems to market himself more as an entertainer for children, but there was a real polish to the manner in which he worked the decent-sized adult crowd in the Red Room this afternoon. I doubt anyone left the ‘Room without a smile on their face, and the gentle nature of his mime-based mocking left everyone in good spirits. And, whilst Gobsmacked could hardly be deemed an essential show, I’m bloody glad that I saw it; on the basis of the photos that Matt has posted online, I’m also keen to see one of his kid’s shows… they look like a lot of fun, too.

[2014036] WOODCOURT: Jackson! Le diner est prêt!

[2014036] WOODCOURT: Jackson! Le diner est prêt!

Woodcourt Art Theatre @ The Coffee Pot

10:00pm, Thu 20 Feb 2014

“Part hypnosis, part self portrait,” suggests the blurb; “…about gaming, browsing and masturbation,” it goes on.

And that’s enough to pique my interest… after all, I’m into pretty much all of those things.

And so I find myself sitting in my third Woodcourt show with a much thinner crowd (a bit of a problem, given the room only holds about twenty), facing a screen that stretched from floor-to-ceiling, at the front of the “stage”. Onto that screen is projected…

…a face. Presumably belonging to the titular Jackson.

The face then takes us on an aural and textural journey that’s extremely reminiscent of many of the ASMR videos on YouTube; these all (seem to) share the traits of young people touching, scrunching, exploring arbitrary objects, whilst talking to the camera in an ever-so-slightly creepy quiet – yet earnest – manner. The face explores packaging materials for at least twenty minutes… and all the while I sat there thinking “Well, this is all mildly interesting, but…”

I freely admit: I just didn’t get “it”.

But then a countdown timer appears on the screen: ninety seconds start ticking away. And with each passing second, with each digit of the clock that whizzes by, tension rises; the anxiety induced by the finite duration becomes almost unbearable. The last seconds crawl by…

…And then, at the exact moment the countdown hits zero, there’s a click: the lights in the room come on. The latches holding the screen up release. The screen flutters to the floor. And, standing behind where the screen once was, is a man in a motorcycle helmet. He stands there a moment – was he looking at us, challenging us? – before he removes the helmet.

And suddenly, everything appears normal. The spell concocted by the countdown is broken.

Jackson – let’s just assume it’s Jackson – gives every impression that he’s engaging in his post-work decompression ritual. He dumps his helmet and jacket, and fires up his PC – one of the screens is prominently mirrored for the audience to observe. He fires up Minecraft and starts playing; moments later, a friend enters the game and they communicate via voice-chat. There’s a bit of small-talk between the two, before Jackson starts a lengthy monologue about Douglas Mawson… all whilst they continue playing. But once the Mawson story is over, Jackson’s friend leaves the game – he’s got other things to do – and Jackson shuts down his PC and…

…well, that’s pretty much it.

I’m still don’t quite get what Jackson! was actually trying to achieve. Was it just holding a mirror up to chunks of our current culture, searching for some recognition of absurdity? If so, I don’t know whether it really worked… but maybe that’s because it all looked so normal to me (the Minecraft bit, that is… the ASMR videos creep me out). But if that wasn’t the point, then I don’t know what to think… because it didn’t feel like Jackson! tried to actually do anything.

…Except for that amazing ninety seconds that bridged the scenes. That was an utterly compelling piece of theatre, and will remain in my memory for quite some time to come… but ninety seconds can’t support an entire show.

[2014035] WOODCOURT: Carly and Troy do ‘A Doll’s House’

[2014035] WOODCOURT: Carly and Troy do ‘A Doll’s House’

Woodcourt Art Theatre @ The Coffee Pot

8:30pm, Thu 20 Feb 2014

With my first Woodcourt experience being a pleasant surprise, I’d decided to try and see the other four shows they were putting on; A Doll’s House was the first of a double-header for this evening, and came highly recommended by a couple of friends who’d binged on Woodcourt early on.

But I’m not quite sure I share their enthusiasm… or, at least, the extent of it.

As we enter the Woodcourt room atop The Coffee Pot, Carly and Troy are quietly talking amongst themselves in front of a frame covered in brown paper that dominates the rear of the stage. Once the audience is all seated, the door closes, and Carly and Troy raise their voices: they’re keen on performing A Doll’s House, but they’re unsure exactly who wrote it… or exactly what the plot is about.

Once the connection with Ibsen is made, they start assigning roles: Carly, the more steely and assertive of the two, will play Torvald, and Troy is keen to frock up for Nora… and wants Beyoncé to dominate the soundtrack. Pre-production starts, and the two have wildly differing views on how the work should develop; with genders reversed, there’s an odd tension generated by Carly’s domineering ways, and the occasional videos taken during “rehearsals” (that are projected onto the set’s frame) add an additional layer of complexity to proceedings.

But the transitions between the play and meta-play often left me a little confused; I suspect a deeper knowledge of Ibsen’s classic (which I’ve only seen once before) may have helped out in that regard. As a result, I found Carly and Troy to be hard work at times, with the results not really worth the effort. Having said that, the set – what appeared to be a simple, brown paper-covered frame was actually a more complex hinged structure with doors and peep-holes aplenty – was a wonderful example of what can be achieved with no budget and a lot of ingenuity.

I left this show a little upset at myself: I genuinely thought that I would’ve found it much more enjoyable if I’d done my homework before going in. As it was, I could only appreciate a clever set and overt meta-theatre… but the depth of that meta-ness was lost to me.

[2014034] Gravity Boots: Can you believe we’re in a forest?

[2014034] Gravity Boots: Can you believe we’re in a forest?

Gravity Boots @ Tuxedo Cat – Raj House – Room 1

7:15pm, Thu 20 Feb 2014

At the start of this year, I made a couple of promises to myself: I wasn’t going to get sick during the Fringe (hence the fist-bumps, rather than handshakes, to people I met), and I was going to see Gravity Boots’ new show early and write about it in-season. And whilst I successfully avoided any sickness, and I did see the show “early” (hey – show thirty-four is pretty early for me), the writing thing… well, that didn’t pan out as well as expected.

Still, April’s not bad. Not too bad, anyway. For me.

On the back of that statement – and the two full Fringe shows that I’ve written about in the past – it should be abundantly clear that I love the ‘Boots. And after last year’s show delivered the goods (something of which I was concerned, given Paul Foot’s directorial involvement), I was bloody keen to see what they could conjure up under the guidance of someone for whom I have massive respect: Steve Sheehan.

And, after they took to the stage in overcoats with faces garishly lit by flashlights, I hesitated a moment – had they left the trademark white long-johns behind? Was the absence of their traditional garb metaphorically indicative of a more traditional approach from Messrs Cleggett and Lloyd-Smith?

Short answer: no. Within moments of starting their dialogue, it became clear that the ‘Boots were just as surreal as ever. Sketch after sketch of bizarre characters in nonsensical situations were flung at the audience, from anxious soul-hunting ghosts to slyly scheming arachnids to gloriously malfunctioning robots to drug-addled Victorian women…

Despite the fact that it constantly triggers the Absurd Overload alarms in one’s brain, the writing feels tight – the more I see of the ‘Boots, the more I realise that these sketches are not just brain-dumps of zany ideas. They’re crafted, and they’re crafted by mad geniuses, and – if anything – their output is becoming ever-so-deliciously darker. The imprisoned teddy-bear sketch was the only piece I’d seen before (in embryonic form), with the rest being all-new material; this just demonstrates that their process of churning out a new show of material every month is paying off.

It’s all still head-scratchingly bizarre, and on the few occasions that I sensed a conventional narrative thread emerging, some twist comes roaring in from left-of-two-suburbs-over-from-left-field. I will never tire of this surrealism, and I remain anxious to see what the Gravity Boots lads get up to next (nudge nudge, wink wink).

[2014033] Bekitzor

[2014033] Bekitzor

Liat Kedem, Bella Hone-Saunders, Jill Crovisier @ Salad Days Inc.

6:00pm, Thu 20 Feb 2014

Despite having wandered down Gilbert Place literally hundreds of times in my life, I’d never even noticed the doorway leading upstairs to Salad Days before; there’s a distinctly lo-fi aesthetic when inside, with seating only available via a collection of ramshackle chairs, cushions on the hardwood floors, or the occasional windowsill. With the performance space in the short end of the L-shaped room, it was a tight squeeze; Bekitzor‘s short season had sold extremely well, with the additional early shows selling out also.

The short (listed as twenty-five minutes, but I’d wager it was even shorter) piece opened with video projected on the far wall; fragments of movement break the figures standing with their backs to us. The three dancers of Bekitzor – from Israel, Australia, and Luxembourg – slowly drifted into the space, and the repetitive scraping of arms against the walls and floor had me fearing the worst (after all, experimental dance pieces in the Fringe can be pretty hit-or-miss for me), but things soon picked up.

With an ethereal soundtrack punctuated with off-kilter percussion (apparently provided by Swimming, a local band), the dancers used the space creatively; legs used the walls to create odd forms, the light from the projector used for shadow play, and there was just enough slapping of the floor with hands to break up the motion… but not enough to get annoying. The video footage, which set the pace of the piece, was also cunningly used; the dancers would not only drift in and out of sync with each other (when all three held vertical poses), but also with the dancers in the video – a wonderfully creative touch.

I really enjoyed Bekitzor; though bite-sized in length, it felt like a perfectly weighted morsel. It was hard to fault any of the dancers, but Jill Crovisier (from Luxembourg – I think!) not only stood out, but was also exceedingly sweet as we chatted on the way out. So – nice people, great dance, fantastic support from the audience… these things make me happy.