Absit iniuria verbis

Review: Smoker

In Reviews on March 10, 2010 at 3:37 pm

First published in The Tab, 10 March 2010

The Footlights’ Smoker audience is the most obliging, generous and compliant audience of any comedy show I’ve ever seen. To the point of complicity. At least at the Howler, the acts know if they’ve been shit; at a Smoker, everyone is applauded with the same raucous enthusiasm you’d get from a room filled with your friends. Which is, of course, exactly how the Smoker audience is constituted.

It dawned on me yesterday, as I cast my eye over the bar in the ADC, how dreadfully close-knit the Cambridge comedy ecosystem is. You only had to listen to the “Darling, how are you?”, the “Sweetheart, lovely to see you!” and the “You were wonderful, babe!” to realise it. I’ve always hated ostentatious mutual admiration, but the luvviedom in that bar was something to behold. Lanky sycophants in skinny jeans, wanky cardigans and retro specs. How very predictable, and how very tiresome.

Review: Julius Caesar

In Reviews on March 9, 2010 at 2:14 am

First published in The Tab, 10 March 2010

My God, the wine was awful. The wine in the interval, I mean. We’re not just talking David Hyde Pearce-style “Oh my God it’s just called ‘wine’,” or even out-of-a-box gyppo juice. (It wasn’t, anyway. I saw the bottles.) To give you some idea, I was accompanied to the theatre by a friend from Serbia, who said it was worse than Moldavian vinegar. I don’t know what he means. Maybe you do.

I’m sorry to go on, but I can’t help it. One over-enthusiastic gulp was all it took; now I may never sing again. I tried when I got home; bottom G stuck in my throat. I’ve been gargling with salt for two hours now, and if anything it’s getting worse. I left Wolfson a baritone and came back a counter-tenor. FitzTheatre wine. Just don’t.

Review: Shine

In Reviews on March 7, 2010 at 3:03 pm

First published in The Tab, 6 March 2010.

Watching a tap dancer try to be sexy is a deeply uncomfortable experience. Particularly when, as happened last night, they’re set against blisteringly hot contemporary booty-shakers. It’s Cliff Richard versus Britney; Celine Dion versus Mariah Carey; West Side Story versus Grease.

You see, tap dance isn’t cool. That hot girl in the nail bar you’ve wanted to get on since sixth form? She does street dance. Your local librarian, the one with the squint and the perfectly centered ponytail? Yup, you guessed it. Tap.

And it isn’t just me: I could hear groans of agony rippling around the auditorium every time the lights went down and we heard the tell-tale tippity-tap of Mandy from the Reference section. I’m sure it’s fun to practise – not that you’d know it from the rigor mortis grins last night. Perhaps it’s even fun to perform. The problem is, tap is simply unbearable to watch.