Ivo Graham: Motion Sickness

Ivo Graham is hurtling towards adulthood: he’s engaged, he’s got a mortgage - and he’s finally started buying his own socks. Motion Sickness is a smoothly crafted hour exploring one millenial’s growing pains, and the unexpected anxieties and delights that arise along the way.

Ivo Graham opens his show with an anecdote about riding in the cab - to use specific railway terminology - of a Chiltern Rail train. He mentions this not only as testament to his long love of railways (and being a connoisseur of the Thomas the Tank-Engine ‘literary’ series) but as a deliberate ploy to ingratiate his audience to him: ‘start with a brag, show ‘em who’s boss’.

Graham certainly is in full charge of his routine. Though the comic maintains some of his ex-public schoolboy awkwardness (he attended Eton, a place he describes as ‘repression inception’, where ‘anxiety’s on the curriculum’) Motion Sickness is a slick and well-structured show. This isn’t to say that Graham’s comedy is conspicuously methodical - this is not a show of contrived three-second laughs.

Motion Sickness moves with a natural flow which navigates between topics with a circuitous ease that is reminiscent of Eddie Izzard’s self-referential style; the ability to wind an eccentric anecdote back to an earlier, separate point while maintaining a cohesive narrative. Graham doesn’t reach quite as far on the journey, but his delivery is tight and avoids the potholes of ‘haven’t you noticed’ observational comedy.

Each anecdote is punctured with witty, divergent metaphors – recounting loosing his virginity as ‘reporting back from the Chelsea de-flowering show’ – which not only illustrate the sharpness of his humour, but make potentially dull subjects like purchasing socks or proposing (vomit was involved) funnier and more universally entertaining.

Although Graham quips about his privilege as an Eton-educated man, he constantly edges between endearing self-deprecation and studied arrogance, preventing either to predominate and become distracting. When discussing his recent mortgage, Graham ironically notes that he and his girlfriend are now ‘the only millennials who cannot afford to buy avocados because they spent too much money on property.’ He clearly understands his audience and his performed identity, and is able to play between the two with an astute ease.

The title of Motion Sickness might reasonably describe the vertiginous feeling of growing up, and the anxieties, decisions and responsibilities that accompany it. Illustrating the uneasy transition, Graham describes the possibility of entering parenthood while still a child (at heart) as ‘a Bugsy-Malone piece of immersive theatre’.

Motion Sickness was an hour of consistently, and genuinely funny, comedy – which included Ivo Graham’s secret to true happiness: three bags of Doritos (Cool, Cheese and Chilli) emptied into a single bowl, creating the ultimate ‘Do-three-tos’, and thus eliminating any decision anxiety.

Alleviate yourself of any decision anxiety, and just go see the show.


Originally written for Voice Mag


Suzi Ruffell: Nocturnal

Suzi Ruffell's Nocturnal is a joyous hour of stand-up which manages to create an atmosphere of hopefulness while discussing the dismal state of the world. Confronting internet trolls, pervy monks and the mundanity of hen-dos, Ruffell delivers her material with empathy, expert timing and the ease that only comfy shoes can afford. 

Suzi Ruffell loves doing stand-up. She loves, loves, loves stand-up. She tells us this at the very start of the show, after individually greeting each audience member as they enter the room. This creates an atmosphere of friendly familiarity: we’re all here to spend an hour in each other’s company, to enjoy our mutual appreciation of comedy.

But it is evident that Ruffell – or, ‘the Ruff Stuff’ as she refers to herself (it’s a nickname she’s trying out) – adores comedy without her even telling us. She seems to exude delight in her occupation, bounding about the stage like a child telling a relative what magical gift they received for Christmas.

Her energy and smile are infectious, even when she’s talking about internet trolls and homophobia and how the world’s become a little bit too much like an episode of Black Mirror. She seems to project empathy, sharing her own fears and paranoias with the audience so we can share in them: to show the audience that we are not alone in feeling anxious in the current climate, because really, ‘if you don’t have anxiety, I don’t think you’re concentrating’.

Ruffell takes us on several very funny journeys with her: down the rabbit hole of her insomniac ‘3am press conferences’, along far-reaching Twitter spats, to the ever-so-slightly homophobic small towns of Australia. And refreshingly, Ruffell talks about her sexuality without ever descending into self-deprecation: a line notably highlighted by Hannah Gadsby.

Rather, Ruffell talks about the pain of growing up gay, feeling strange and alone, while hopefully imagining a future where Simba and Pumba are out and proud, Elsa’s got a girlfriend and Disney creates a princess who wears suits and comfortable shoes.

Nocturnal is a truly joyous hour, and while Ruffell may be unable to ever relinquish her anxiety while we still don’t know if Britney’s okay, she seems to be having a wonderful time talking about it. If you’re worried about the state of the world at the moment (let’s be honest, that’s all of us) Nocturnal is for you.


Originally written for Voice Mag

Anchor

Anchor describes itself as ‘dance, physical theatre and circus’. The last descriptor perhaps applies, but not in an altogether flattering way.

Anchor opens with a voice over of spoken word, a faux-profound pondering of the nature of love (‘love is some strange, intangible, abstract force’). Then The Platters’ ‘Only You (And You Alone)’ starts playing, as Mehdi Duman, wearing only boxers, drags Elsa Couvreur, in only her underwear, across the stage as she clings to a belt. The first five minutes continue in this fashion, with the couple swapping roles and positions as they are dragged across the stage in alternatively awkward poses, back and forth.

All I can think is of how uncomfortable it must be, of the floor burns that must be accruing by performing day after day. They roll around on the floor, ostensibly intimating the nature of their relationship, and then break apart. She flings a sock in his direction, he hands her a boot. They dress, again painfully slowly, and feign checking their reflections in the ‘mirror’ of the audience. It feels like they are trying to fill time – an hour, after all, is a long time for just two dancers to perform.

Although I’m not sure you can really call this dancing. It’s movement, but there are limited portions of sustained flow, and even fewer passages set to music. After the first 15 minutes, it becomes clear what they’re trying to do: depict the heady falling and fresh obsessiveness of a new relationship; of not wanting to tear your hands off each other; of never wanting to concede in the ‘I love you more’ war.

But that’s all it takes. The attempted point is protractedly made, and the rest of the time is spent wondering how long they’re going to labour it for. I kept hoping for more dance, for the pace to pick up, for a revelation. But it never came: instead, an audio plays of the couple’s apparent first conversation. It is a cringe-worthy exchange that feels unnecessary to include: it is like when a friend starts a new relationship and tells you too many details, except without the emotional investment in their happiness.

The duo disappear off stage for about a minute while the lights are dimmed and Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ plays over the speakers, only to return dressed in matching inflatable dinosaur costumes. There seems no point in this, and the rationality of leaving your audience with minutes to spare until the end of the performance eludes me. It is ridiculous, in a confusing rather than entertaining way.

The show was fragmented, unified only by the consistent feeling of discomfort I felt throughout while watching. If you have an hour of your life to waste, go see this. Or recommend it to your horrible ex.


Originally written for Voice Mag

Elf Lyons: ChiffChaff

What do you get if you combine Mr. Bean, Liza Minelli and Bubbles from Ab Fab? No, I didn’t think I’d see those three in a sentence either, but then I never thought I’d see an hour of comedy which attempted to explain economic theory through song and dance.

Elf Lyons describes herself as ‘like everyone you’ve ever met on the night bus’. I’ve had some strange encounters on the night bus but never have I ever had a woman dressed as an ‘aggressively winsome’ Liza Minelli explain economic theory to me via song before. And yet, here we are.

I thought the title, ChiffChaff, might’ve been a piece of local idiolect that I was unaware of, but having Googled it, it turns out to be the name of a bird (the show has nothing to do with birds.) This idiosyncrasy seems appropriate for an act which attempts to dissect fiscal responsibility and microeconomics through cabaret, hula hooping, and some slightly questionable mime.

The daughter of an economist, Elf (real name Emily-Anne) has incorporated her childhood lessons in economic theory into an hour-long one-woman show that uses a variety of props and personas to entertain – and educate! Lyons opens the show by shouting the beginning of Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities. The delivery, apparently, is a technique taught to her by her aforementioned father.

Elf engages with the audience, delivering instruments into the hands of luckily eager members, and requesting two compete in a race to blow up a sex doll the fastest. Only one of them has a hole in it - this, she says, is a metaphor for capitalism. There are many an absurd extended metaphor, and it’s somewhat delightful just trying to follow the winding path of them.

Elf isn’t afraid of the truly ludicrous, of aggressively gyrating or adopting – and sliding between – ridiculous accents. In a single sentence she seemed to drift between German, Cockney, American, Chinese, and an odd ‘sexy baby’ which only reminded me of Catherine Ryan’s impression of Cheryl Cole.

Elf is an expert at using her eyebrows to charm, and potentially hypnotise, the audience. With lids bedecked in glitter, she stares and winks and flirts at the audience, manipulating her face into an apparently unlimited array of expressions. She riffs of the elfin, coquettish-economist persona she has created for the show.

Yet in Chiff Chaff, Lyons also confronts the reality of being a millennial attempting to carve out a career in the arts, while working zero-hour contracts and paying £800 a month rent to live in a South-London flat ‘made out of black mould’.

It is an excellent, wonderfully bizarre hour of comedy and economics which doesn’t lead to deflation, and a perfect example of the creative luminescence the Fringe allows to shine.


Originally written for Voice Mag


Gyles Brandreth: Break a Leg!

Break a Leg! is a whimsical hour in memorandum of a bygone age of show-business, through which Brandreth romps with a biographical flourish.

On the velvet curtain-backed stage, there is a small table, on which there is a book (Brandreth’s own), a typewriter, and a skull. It’s the same kind of prop set up that indicated an episode of This Is Your Life, except here, Gyles is interviewer, interviewee and the story-prompt cards all in one.

The show is structured almost like an autobiography, amply peppered with celebrity remembrances and invocations of his heyday. It is a show about Gyles Brandreth, but more than this, it is a show which situates Brandreth on the wider stage, populated with stars of radio and screen alike.

From Laurence Olivier to Frankie Howerd, Hayley Mills to Benny Hill, Brandreth has an interesting anecdote. They are varied and amusing, and Brandreth’s infamous Radio 4 tones perfectly deliver these stories, which range from sharing a stage with Olivier to meeting Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Oxford (where a studio at the Playhouse is now named after them).

Considering Brandreth publicly opposed Scottish Independence, his appearance at the Edinburgh Fringe might have been a little testy. But his reception for Break a Leg! was warmly welcoming, the audience evidently filled with veteran fans, well-versed in the bredth of Brandreth’s wide-stretching career. At 23, I was one of the – if not the – youngest people in the audience. However, Break a Leg! - Brandreth’s celebration of the actors he knew, grew up with and influenced him - is able to transcend its historical moment by virtue of the presenter’s contextualisation and charismatic storytelling.

Having said that, Brandreth denounced modern filmstars as being ‘vegan virtue signallers’, and the generational gap further showed with his opening number, a gentile rendition of Noel Coward’s ‘Don’t Put Your Daughter On the Stage’ - a song which would likely strike a millennial audience as patriarchal and patronising, considering it advises “Mrs. Worthington” her daughter is fat and ugly, with a squint and a ‘too developed’ bust.

However, it must be said that Brandreth is cheerily self-aware and more than ready to send himself up. Break a Leg! mocks his lack of success as an actor, his distaste for his own voters as an MP, and his current employment as the face of Stannah Stairlifts. The show is an entertaining romp through British entertainment history and Brandreth’s wide reaching career, sure to be of interest to any and (nearly) all Radio 4 listeners.

Written for Voice Mag