MICF – Part Two; “Insert Apocalyptic Movie Tagline Here…”: Comedy Reviews

The most beautiful of beautiful things (except Cliff Richard’s Wired for Sound) is to see the camaraderie between the talent during the festival season. Although there is a healthy dose of sibling rivalry and good old fashioned career envy, comics can be usually spotted this time of year catching up with other comics, seeing how they’re all faring. Congratulations and kudos are bandied round, and comics themselves are often seen in the punter pits. It’s good to see the old Tall Poppy BS no longer really exists; at least not outside the Town Hall on a Friday night.

Ol' faithful

Mighty Boosh/ Snuff Box’s Rich Fulcher’s rambunctious alter ego Eleanor took to the stage in true Fulcher fashion. Not content with merely appearing from backstage, Eleanor came bounding from the back of the room- full speed- and leapt onto the stage in a flurry of zebra print and frightening drag. Eleanor was a Mighty Boosh one-off from the abortion that was the Boosh’s third season (I don’t wanna talk about it, it’s like having flashbacks of ‘Nam) that has since become a fan favourite. Eleanor is, strictly and bluntly speaking, a Tour Whore. A groupie. A rock-star rogerer, etc. In the space of an hour, Eleanor teaches us how to be top-notch tour whores all on our own, which may or may not include fucking Mick Hucknall and bearing his ginger children.

The show took an odd turn about three-quarters in when Fulcher/Eleanor- who had been swigging from a seemingly prop goon box intermittently- became, shall we say, munted. Was this in character? It felt wrong, like a derelict backrub. Fulcher’s random, absurdist, zany humour is stomach-cramp hilarious for the first half hour or so but perhaps runs out of steam by the end. Although the line, “I once gave birth to a paper cut” still has not left me, and I feel never will.

Melinda Buttle, will you be my friend? For serious, you rock the shizz. Well, clearly, I can’t carry white Ebonics as well as Buttle- never mind, we have the real deal. Buttle stakes her territory in a land dominated by, let’s be honest, black men. But Buttle can rap like a mo’fo, ya dig? She has what my urban-music-inclined sister would call “street smarts”; as she rattles off stories of her tough gun dad fighting a derelict and trying to lose her virginity (different days), she keeps her audience enraptured by her friendly banter and (whether ironic or not, still terribly endearing) boundless self-confidence.

As I mentioned in my review, Oliver Clark is one-of-a-kind. Snug in his three-piece velvet suit, all powder blue and toothy, Clark chucks us in the Tardis and sends us somewhere Vegas, somewhere 1973, somewhere….magical. Though some do not quite grasp the comic’s shtick (not to be taken literally), it is still a joy for those who unashamedly love Tom Jones and Elvis Presley, and like imagining them as Melbourne comics circa 2010.

I’ve been seeing The Shambles for many years now; truth be told, I’ve been a long-time fan. Since their first Com Fest shows in 2006, after graduating from small screen (Channel 31 Melbourne, can I get a woop woop?) to stage, Sos, Valvo and Lynchy have been bringing their tried-and-true characters to audiences for several Com Fest runs now. The show, Live At A Ballroom, is still belissimo; the lads have cut such fine comic timing and chemistry together over the years and, though still young, bounce off each other like old professionals. The jokes are still clever, dirty, hilarious and awkward. The characters, old and new, are honed to perfection.

My only gripe would be the overuse of some of the characters over the years, but for every long-time Shambles fan that has seen Judith Lucy or Skyline Man time and time again, there are scores who get a fresh, new laugh out of it (Skyline Man, especially, gets a laugh from me; perhaps because I live in Coburg).

Catherine Deveny- Cetified Atheist

Dave Jory really believes in knowing your audience. By the end of his hour-long show, Men Are From Mars (Women Have No Penis), knew intimate details (including loss-of-virginity age) about his punters, and then some.

Jory took the sometimes disastrous approach of allowing his audience interaction to fill much of the show, with smatterings of observation in between. The whole men-and-women-are-so-different angle could’ve been trite but Jory has that friendly, mate-like vibe that takes you away from the average sex-comic. Although the show lacked an eventual kapow that left the evening memorable, sixty minutes in Jory’s comedic open forum, punters airing only-slightly-soiled laundry, was a delight, like an éclair.

Melb muso John Nelder of Mr Brady and Sammy J

Sammy J and puppeteer Heath McIvor (or Randy, in case you, like me, for a moment thought the purple ventriloquist aid was a real person) took out the coveted Barry for their Ricketts Lane show this year, and well deserved. For those who missed out, keep an eye out for Sammy J and all associated; he’s doing big things ya hear? Ricketts Lane is a musical spectacular and heartfelt story of broken friendship- as well as an opportunity to see Sammy J in women’s lingerie, giving a stripper pole a work over…not a euphemism- and was a straight-up joy, start to finish. Period.

We love Jess Love

My final Com Fest effort came in the form of Jess Love and her sideshow spectacular And The Little One Said. No wallflower be she; Love spins a macabre tale of sadism, roller-skates and child-like elation. Love puts I and my belly to shame; whether she’s spinning ten hula hoops around her person at once, or flipping herself all over hopscotch squares, or lying on broken glass- she is Cirque de Amazing!

The awkward interval where Love attempts to hock merch and fairy floss breaks the fourth wall somewhat, and makes the awkward-meter reach The Office proportions, it leads into a dazzling skip-rope display, accompanied by a dark take on a childhood tale. Love brings us into her childhood garden; but much like Wonderland, all is not what it seems. Nails fall from the ceiling and beautiful girls cough up blood; inanimate objects seemingly take on life forces of their own and what seems like gleeful fun becomes sinister. But the show is too brilliant to care about the darkness; in fact, embrace it.

Another year, another Melbourne Com Fest done and dusted. The Leunig-adorned pink banners no longer drape the Town Hall; lines no longer snake around the corners of venues in wait for precious tickets; one can no more fill one’s evening with fairly inexpensive belly laughs, unless one is lucky enough to have particularly hilarious friends. My advice for next year? Take a punt on something you haven’t heard much about, but find interesting; you might get a great surprise. Also, don’t just go see the international headliners- you never know what fine comedic brains are sharpening their tools in an alley bar near you. See you next year!