Theatre

Messrs Comedy. They got the mess part right

Alan Hindle | Monday 13 September, 2010 10:30

“Comedy is a funny thing.” As a small child I once vowed never to write a review opening with that line. An eight year-old child aboard his father’s yacht, attempting to sail around the world blindfolded, I was a precocious kid, and when I made that blood oath, mashing sliced palms with the on-board pet chimpanzee trained to shake hands whenever required, I truly meant it. Now a grown man, creaking and bearded, blind and forced to be guided by that monkey’s grandchild, a surly, ingrateful creature that refuses to even take my hand but leads me by a slim chain around my neck, I understand that comedy is not always a funny thing. Sometimes, like an overstretched set-up with no punchline in sight, it just gets tiresome.

Sometimes comedy comes in fits and bursts. Like sailing an ocean of an evening, bumping unexpectedly into jokes like small, hilarious islands. Messrs Comedy, which has just wrapped up at Hens and Chickens Theatre, has many such islands, but large gaps of dead water between them. I just let the monkey take the wheel.

Written by no less than eight writers, only one of whom appears on the stage- actor/co-producer James Britton- one of whom sent his by email from California, there is little connection between the sketches except that the women performing in each are called upon to do little more than react. Even the one skit written by a woman has two women simply sat there staring at the one giving the monologue. The programme lists no director, so presumably the actors directed themselves. Which can be fine, but now we have a show distancing its writing, performing, directing and the performers are not allotted material equally, so the watery gaps between palm-treed chuckles widen and the monkey is getting bored and abusive.

The actors all seem like very funny people, doing their best to wring laughs out of the material given them. The writers all have optioned film scripts and eleven golden comedy awards each above the fireplace, but perhaps they should try performing their own material before expecting others to go out there and wring on their behalf. The Hypnotist by Nick Green had actor/co-producer Hugh O’Shea playing a hypnotist telling the audience to go to sleep. That was the joke. It almost put people to sleep. This is not a joke. Why would you do that to a performer?

Britton is the only one straddling both disciplines, and almost a third of the show was written by him. He doesn’t always score, but he has a higher rate of success, because he’s connected to what he’s doing. Whether this is actually two troupes waiting to happen, or a large team still needing to gel, there are possibilities here. At the moment we have a show during which no less than six members of the audience got up and left midway. It’s a long swim back to shore.

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