Dark take on the world of finance
Gilded Balloon Teviot (Venue 14) JJJJ If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em is more or less the ethos behind Tomás Ford’s Craptacular. Ford is Australia’s premier electro-cabaret weirdo, a past master of experimental beats, frenetic hysteria and on-stage borderline meltdowns, but here he embraces the cheesiest of cheesy pop songs in the name of broadening his appeal. That’s the idea, anyway – the reality, as he acknowledges at the top of the show, is “this hour’s gonna be pretty weird. But we’re gonna have fun”.
And so we do. Ford welcomes us with the nervy excitement of a party host, raising the energy, testing out his bespoke tech and giving advice on clapping strategy as a gathering storm of a soundscape rumbles over the horizon. His opening number, AC/DC’S Thunderstruck, is driving enough to get things pumping and offkilter enough to keep things strange; Ford’s delivery is edgy, endearing and compelling all at once and the twin video screens that frame him offer both atmospheric ambient effects and sarcastic realtime commentary. The set moves through ABBA, Rick Astley, Dannii Minogue and Hanson in a range of differently bizarre registers, from unexpected reggae to dystopian barbershop. Each is accompanied by a costume change, from tartan jumpsuit to cockatoo-brocaded jacket.
Craptacular offers the pleasure of over-familiar songs rendered endearingly odd. But, music aside, the main joy of the show is in the social dynamic Ford instigates, taking us from clapping to voguing to more ambitious things. If you’re expecting a run-of-the-mill knees-up, Ford’s off-the-rails style might take you by surprise. But let him do his thing and you realise it all comes from a place of love. Resistance is a waste of time anyway. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Get weird. And have fun. BEN WALTERS Pleasance Courtyard (Venue 33) JJJJ An office tragedy disguised as a clown comedy, this deceptive show is full of surprises.
Four horrified faces twist on four figures, hunched behind a desk. Their rigid suits render them genderless and interchangeable. Finally they speak: “So”, “OK”, “Right”, “Great”. And yet somehow this is enough to convey the stressful, banality of the office life they’re willingly trapped in.
Stocks are counted, shares are shared, but one thing remains consistent: the panicked look that fills the characters’ faces, accentuated and made grotesque. And whenever one of them can’t take any more, there’s always one to snap their fingers or clap their hands. There is, it seems, camaraderie to be found within conformity. and let a strange man tell you a story. This is a sort of Jackanory for grown-ups and it is great fun. Nick Revell’s stories are a fantastic device to do some satire, some politics, some observational humour and a load of silliness.
In the hands of a lesser talent thiswould be a mishmash of comedy styles and subjects. Revell puts them together and weaves a story around them. So he gets gentle satire about the middle classes and a crisis over new season broad beans, racism, the Kardashians, how aesthetics affect moral judgment and bad beer all locked into a tale of how a cat called Lily nearly took over the world.
Just roll with the craziness past smart houses and holistic vets, reconditioned UXB drones with PTSD and quite a lot of rat-related nastiness. Nick pretty much has the ‘surreal fiction for adults’ genre to himself and he is its master. I left thinking I wish they would put it on telly. KATE COPSTICK
Characters live out the stressful, banality of the office life they’re willingly trapped in
It’s a strange and static dance, within which there are occasional bursts of spontaneity; of tearing up does not hold back. Her show is an orgy of gross-out comedy, with simulated sex acts and confrontational interactions with the audience. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
The first time I went to see her this Fringe she sent the audience packing when they weren’t getting into the joke.
But the second time she pulled them into her orbit, dragging them on stage to take part in dance routines, dressing them up and licking and hugging them when the plot demanded it.
Astonishingly, there is a plot. Candy Gigi is Becky Rimmer, a spoilt, entitled 12- year-old who is determined to have the best ever bat mitzvah – the Jewish ceremony where a girl becomes a woman.
Becky Rimmer is a loud, precocious grasping little nightmare whose family have suffered for years from her outrageous demands.
Audience No 1 was traumatised by the foul-mouthed and sexually graphic spectacle of Becky Rimmer spinning out of control. Audience No 2 loved it.
Candy Gigi is a performer who takes risks. But she is too reliant on whether her audience is willing to get caught up in her schtick. CLAIRE SMITH papers and breaking free to the rousing sound of classical music.
These are enlivening moments that find joy from the excitement of rebellion. But soon the look of fear in the characters’ eyes returns: this is a place where the only kind of celebration allowed comes from making money and facilitating corporate greed.
Occasionally, a strange man wanders into the office, carrying a sack, in what appears to be an innocuous act of replenishing a stationery cupboard but which is ultimately revealed as something far more shocking.
There’s a pertinent political point at the heart of what could easily be just another cute clown show, and it sits behind a flimsy metallic door.
An audacious, anti-capitalist ending brutally strips away the comedy – and asks us to consider to what extent we’re prepared to turn a blind eye to the unethical acts companies commit and that, through our hard work, we implicitly support.
It’s a topical message, but one that’s delivered with a punch as well as a smile. SALLY STOTT