Reviews of Katherine Ryan, Nish Kumar and more from the 2015 Fringe

A major change to Chortle’s reviews in 2015, as we introduced half-stars to try to add at least a little more subtlety to the blunt tool of the star-rating system. And nobody scored the perfect five, even if there were a good showing of four-and-a-halfs. Sam Simmons won the main Edinburgh Comedy Award, Sofie Hagen the best newcomer and the Gilded Balloon’s Karen Koren took the panel prize. Here are some of Chortle editor Steve Bennett’s reviews from that year…

Spencer Jones Presents: The Herbert in Proper Job

Who would have thought that today, in 2015, one of the funniest performers on the world's leading magnet for cutting-edge comedy artists would be, essentially, a prop comic.

But Spencer Jones's joyful show transcends all negative, cheesy images of the genre because of the hilarious imagination he applies to every one of his crazy skits – and the the child-like delight his alter-ego The Herbert takes from just mucking about.

Like Tommy Cooper, he has the funny bones to get a laugh merely from his entrance, before he's said a word. He grins inanely as he struts weirdly on to the stage with his pudding-basin haircut, budgie-print shirt – and no trousers. The surreal opening dance he performs to an earworm of a song he composed himself is probably the most hilarious three minutes on the Fringe. The second most hilarious is when he pulls up that garish T-shirt for another brilliant physical image, as he makes his belly whistle and chat.

You can compare him to the like of Mr Bean (obviously) and Reeves and Mortimer, but while Jones is a worthy successor to such forebears, he does something unique across the worlds of physical comedy and surrealism. It's a show jam-packed with raw, funny images, as this man of thirtysomething, going on seven, makes puppets out of household objects – and even his own body. There is so much invention, but so little sense.

And for all the character's naivety, chinks of the real world sometimes shine in; from his 'geezer' brother not understanding how this could be a job, and his wife fretting what impact it's having on their child, and their household budget. In explaining this, he speaks in strangulated snippets of sentences, just enough to get the gags across and let us fill in the gaps – a struggle to communicate verbally that adds to his childish charm.

The show narrowly misses the magic five stars as it feels spent a little before the end of its already brisk running time, but until then we are treated to some of the most insanely funny moments at the festival.

Any review is sure overanalyse the magic. The Herbert works on a much more primal level than most comedy… it's funny because it just IS; and no explanation can do justice to the experience of watching this ebullient lunacy.

Katherine Ryan: Kathbum

With most comedians, more personal the subject matter, the stronger the jokes. Yet for Katherine Ryan, the opposite applies. Her vicious acid-queen putdowns of celebrities zing with a vitriolic passion that closer-to-home stories of her taste for inappropriate men, the shithole of a town she came from and single parenthood can’t hope to match.

Perhaps we don’t really want to see the real her; the ice-cold bitch is what sells. She even makes sport of her thick skin, offering a twist on the common stand-up trope of reading out the vicious online abuse she received – in her case, after upsetting the entire Philippines on Mock The Week. Given what she doles out, Ryan can barely complain about what’s directed back at her, though this section is something of a lull in an otherwise impressive show.

Early doors she raises a comparison with Joan Rivers, thanks to an outrageously bad-taste one-liner that the late New Yorker would surely have appreciated. These celebrity swipes are brutal but brilliant, as she skewers the likes of Peter Andre, Mo Farah, Katie Price and Cheryl Fernandez-Versini, the ‘nation’s sweetheart’ who you’ll never quite see in the some way again after hearing Ryan’s grotesque impersonation. Drum-tight and relentless, these jibes tend not to be just gratuitous; significant points back her jibes against the former Mrs Cole, Bill Cosby (obvs) and the Twitter spat between Taylor Swift and Nicki Minaj.

This section seamlessly segues into being about Ryan herself, as she takes us back to the grim dead-end Canadian town where she grew up in the shadow of a petrochemical works. She definitely didn't fit in – hence her permanent flight to London – but her family, and especially her sister’s friends, seem to thrive in the normality. Again, there’s more to this than first meets the ear, as the stories have a lot to say about conformity.

Life in the UK hasn’t always been a bed of roses for her; and there are some nice cockhead-shaming stories of blokes she’s been out with, even if a couple – about a peculiarly specific and intimate compliment; and about the hangups of a slightly younger guy – are milked a bit too long. Still, they deserve it.

Family stories also include Ryan’s six-year-old daughter Violet, who seems destined to be a comic, too, given that a) she’s already inherited mum’s withering wit, and b) been subject to a childhood trauma, via a dead rabbit and Ryan’s wimpy parenting.

In the end, many of Ryan’s strands are tied together neatly in a practice maid-of-honour speech she needs to make at her sister’s wedding next month. If it goes ahead as per this draft, she’s unlikely ever to be invited back to town.

Nish Kumar: Long Word... Long Word... Blah Blah Blah... I'm so Clever

An increasingly potent political comedy powerhouse, Nish Kumar has built some passionate and bold arguments for his third solo show, driving a wrecking ball through capitalist excess and the thinly-veiled bigotry of the ‘haves’.

But on this night, his performances will be remembered not for his vaunting intellectual liberalism… but for a couple of audacious toilet breaks from the audience.

Needing to cross the stage, the first man approached very close to the comic, almost dancing around him – ‘a pisso doble’ as Kumar called it in a witty ad-lib – while the second chose his moment at the end of a passionate, highly charged rant, perfectly destroying the dramatic impetus Kumar had built up. Both interruptions were handled skilfully, and with good grace, creating bonus jokes for this night alone, showing what a skilled, unfazeable act he is, and adding more playfulness to an hour largely concerned with taking on big issues.

Away from the bladders of his ticket-holders; Kumar’s show is a series of escalating diatribes almost guaranteed to get applause breaks as they crescendo, but making smart points with insightful wit, wether it be on the poor economic lessons we’re teaching children by playing Monopoly or his response to those who feel ‘political correctness’ is stifling what we can say

In fact, those who fear and protest the ‘encroaching social liberalism’ – i.e. most of the press –  are the main target of Kumar’s exaggerated ire, including those who get het up about the prospect of a black James Bond and those who wonder why we ‘can’t’ make jokes about Islam. Just look at this week’s reaction to Songs Of Praise going to the Calais refuge camp, or the introduction of a black character in Bob The Builder (‘political correctness gone mad…’) to know his enemy.

Kumar reduces their arguments, prejudices and misinformation to absurdity by gleefully exaggerating and repeating their positions. It’s loosely akin to Stewart Lee’s approach, but swapping that dry, sardonic wit for a more fervent mockery.

Race plays a big issue, while he also mounts a staunch defence of some socialist counterarguments to the Tory status quo in a way that Labour have so far failed to do. But as he does throughout the hour, alternates the serious message with a silly counterpoint. He’s surely preaching to the converted at an arts festival, but nonetheless, he’s a relevant, well-informed and hilarious commentator on Britain’s social state.

John-Luke Roberts: Stdad-Up

Making jokes about ‘dead dad’ Edinburgh shows is probably more of a cliche than the emotive shows themselves these days. But John-Luke Roberts offers his own fiercely distinctive take on the subject with this ambitious, ambiguous show that lurches around the issues, and the laughs, in the search of something more honest.

The Radio 4 writer has been training with the Gaulier clown school in Paris, and the results are visible in the bold, silly way he opens the show with both props and nudity. He’ll read a Philip Larkin poem – later to become one of the motifs that he’s proud to point out – and introduce ideas such as the ‘bell of truth’, a clever device for what it reveals when it’s not pinged, as much as when it is.

Gaulier comes out again in the loopy way Roberts transforms into his Birkenhead-born father Dr James Trevor Roberts, with the comedian’s naturally warm and authoritative voice – which would be perfect for reading audiobooks – yielding to a loud Scouse squawk.

In this incarnation, Roberts Sr’s aggressive, abrasive delivery is ear-splittingly loud, with several audience members wincing with their fingers in their lug holes each time he hollered. Volume might seem like a trivial complaint, but when it’s physically uncomfortable to listen to a lengthly performance it’s makes it impossible to enjoy.

The dad ‘character’ reads out the succession of surreal, witheringly abusive putdowns that have long been the most entertaining staple of Roberts’ smart shows, but this time given a twist as they come from a domineering, harsh parent, who constantly orders the audience – and by extension his son – to apologise for a perceived misdeed. A volunteer is recruited to bear the brunt of this cathartic disdain, but we all feel it.

Meanwhile, Roberts Jr – smarting from a relationship breakdown that adds another layer of emotional fragility to the tone – mulls the way a joke is a moment of confusion followed by a moment of clarity. It seems that for life in general such resolution of uncertainty should be a good thing, but the comedian is not so sure.

This is typical of the compelling, thought-provoking, unpredictable tone of the hour, that doesn’t always result in laughs, not least because of the overbearing tension in the father-son relationship. But it always remains fascinating, both for its content and what Roberts is doing with the form.

True to the archetype, Robert’s consideration of that subject leads to an emotionally-charged finale, but not the one you might expect. Instead he’s left questioning the exploitation of real, complex people as comic stooges to confer emotional heft on stand-up material. He gets the same result, but via an enthrallingly different route.

James Acaster: Represent

He’s a serial award nominee for the Edinburgh Comedy Award, but never yet the winner, so no wonder James Acaster’s mind has been drawn to the world of jury deliberations…

The scaffolding of this, yet another virtuoso show from an bright and unique comedy mind, comes from his stint on jury duty; possibly real or possibly fiction – but frankly if you’re going to be concerned about how true Acaster’s words are, this probably isn’t for you.

He skips between relatable observational comedy – from the sort of people who drape their jumpers over their shoulders to a note-perfect description of inept romantic massage – and a slightly askance, semi-fantastical world. Yet even thought it’s tricksy and layered, it’s more straightforward that some of his previous high-concept shows.

The jury story allows him to to consider the quirks of his fellow adjudicators, releasing a swarm of separate routines which he eventually marshals into an effective whole. That nothing’s quite what it seems is apparent from his introduction, when he promises to spill the celebrity gossip he believes we’ve come for. But his definition of that subject isn’t quite the same as the rest of the world’s.

Acaster’s writing is sharp and original, both on the small details and on the ambitious scale of the whole show, shifting the sands under the audience’s feet in keeping with his own uncertainties. And showing how real callbacks are more than just the repetition of a phrase, but the clever foreshadowing of key ideas.

His peculiarly uncool fashion sense and congested delivery juxtapose with his faux ‘bad boy’ swagger, questioning that which needs to be questioned – even if that is minutely trivial. He’s delightful misguided: claiming little Pyrrhic victories as great triumphs, and assuming we’re always on the same page as him, even if he’s just made up a fable. His delivery also makes very bold use, possibly overuse, of silence – yet still manages to cram more into the hour than you thought humanly possible.

With a show this strong, the odds must be on Acaster making the nomination list again. Will he, like Al Murray before him, find that it’s fourth time lucky?

Answer: He was indeed nominated again, but didn’t win it

• Click here for all our reviews from 2015

Published: 23 Aug 2020