It’s strange to think of a one-man show about an ageing stand-up comedian at the end of his career being such a gripping piece of theatre – yet gripping it certainly is. Brian Capron is captivating as the tragic loner, talking to the audience as he gets ready for his gig. In the simple set of a bulb-framed gap for a mirror with a tiny table and basic chair, he takes time to put on his lovely dress shirt with cufflinks, dinner suit, and bow tie. He belongs to the bygone era of comedy, to Morecambe and Wise, to Tommy Cooper, to Bernard Manning and to Ken Dodd; before alternative was even thought of: “alternative to what?” as he says.
What’s striking about this show is how much we glean from him in subtext, between the lines, in pauses worthy of Pinter, and the subtle actions he makes. He spits on a hanky to wipe a stain off his shoe, then his jacket, and then carefully folds it to put it in the jacket breast pocket with a corner showing: simple actions that tell us not only about his personality but his whole world. He presents as a gentleman, yet shows how low he has been driven, by not getting the breaks others have and by other life circumstances. This is a combination of his superb acting and the subtle direction by Rupert Charmak and the writing by Andrew Kay.
What’s refreshing is that our protagonist is not bitter. It could quite easily have been a bitter play which would have had far fewer layers and depths. He makes some really interesting observations, such as that many successful comics come from the north: with their tales of hardship and working class stoic jokes, while a southern accent seems somehow more privileged. As he talks more, he reveals far more about his life than he perhaps intends to: which again is a wonderful balance of writing, direction and acting.Each time he adds something we gain so much insight, into a really tragic tale by the end, encountering domestic abuse.
There is a gorgeously heartbreaking line he delivers with such perfect simplicity: about not having friends on the comedy circuit, and not talking to anyone about what was going on for him in his life as he didn’t want to end up being a joke in their act. The stigma, shame and guilt attached to such lived trauma is skilfully portrayed, and his breakdown is shocking.
Scott Gallagher provides the well timed comedic audio of the Club Manager through a loudspeaker piped into the ‘back stage of the club’. We know by his tone and the types of things he says what type of place it is: where strippers are the main acts, and orange G-strings are found in the toilets and their owners are tracked down. The light relief hits exactly the right notes, with a fun reference that comes full circle in the end.
It’s not easy to write a play that seems simple yet becomes richer the more you think about it. This is an unusual story, with a complexity that defies its staging: warm, funny, and galling. Brian Capron holds the audience in the palm of his hand, with gentleness and delicacy, as the man who has no idea how lost he is, and how funny he is when he’s not trying so hard.
The Lantern Theatre, Sunday 14th April 2024
Photos by Andrew Kay
