The standup, writer and television presenter on the things that make him laugh the most
Patton Oswalt’s latest Netflix show is as good as standup gets. He talks about losing his wife and the challenge of telling his daughter her mum had passed. It’s beautifully dealt with and so funny.
Continue ReadingThe standup, writer and television presenter on the things that make him laugh the most
Patton Oswalt’s latest Netflix show is as good as standup gets. He talks about losing his wife and the challenge of telling his daughter her mum had passed. It’s beautifully dealt with and so funny.
Continue ReadingJob cuts at Funny or Die suggest making money from comedy videos is harder than ever – and some blame the social-media titan. But a new wave of creators are finding ways to thrive
Earlier this year, Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg announced major changes to the social network’s algorithm. “You’ll see less public content like posts from businesses, brands and media,” he wrote in, predictably, a Facebook status. “The public content you see … should encourage meaningful interactions between people.”
Less than two weeks later, longstanding comedy video website Funny or Die made another round of redundancies, after laying off roughly 30% of its staff in 2016. The website’s CEO, Mike Farah, vented his frustration, tweeting: “There is simply no money in making comedy online any more. Facebook has completely destroyed independent digital comedy.”
Continue ReadingNew Zealand’s ‘fourth most popular folk-parody act’ are on a sold-out arena tour. Is there a shrewdness behind the duo’s laidback shtick?
Few comedians ever play London’s O2 Arena and fewer still manage three nights in a row. Those who do tend to have some things in common: a relatable observational style, limited creative ambition and ruthless commercial savvy. None of which applies to Flight of the Conchords, perhaps the unlikeliest act ever to reach those airless heights of the comic stratosphere.
I saw Flight of the Conchords last week, warming up for their forthcoming arena tour with a run at the 140-seat Soho theatre. Watching their suite of kooky songs about medieval romance, piano-playing seagulls and spoon thieves, laughing at their low-key chat and minutely detailed interplay, the thought of their imminent transfer to arena stages was supremely incongruous. Not least to the Conchords themselves. “We’ll keep that in for the O2,” they’d remark, after this or that improvised quip or ramshackle moment of fun.
They’re so dry and so Kiwi. We’re at the bottom of the world, so constant self-deprecation is common in New Zealand
No matter how laidback they are, they always believed they’re good enough. They had their sights set on something big
Continue ReadingNew Zealand’s ‘fourth most popular folk-parody act’ are on a sold-out arena tour. Is there a shrewdness behind the duo’s laidback shtick?
Few comedians ever play London’s O2 Arena and fewer still manage three nights in a row. Those who do tend to have some things in common: a relatable observational style, limited creative ambition and ruthless commercial savvy. None of which applies to Flight of the Conchords, perhaps the unlikeliest act ever to reach those airless heights of the comic stratosphere.
I saw Flight of the Conchords last week, warming up for their forthcoming arena tour with a run at the 140-seat Soho theatre. Watching their suite of kooky songs about medieval romance, piano-playing seagulls and spoon thieves, laughing at their low-key chat and minutely detailed interplay, the thought of their imminent transfer to arena stages was supremely incongruous. Not least to the Conchords themselves. “We’ll keep that in for the O2,” they’d remark, after this or that improvised quip or ramshackle moment of fun.
They’re so dry and so Kiwi. We’re at the bottom of the world, so constant self-deprecation is common in New Zealand
No matter how laidback they are, they always believed they’re good enough. They had their sights set on something big
Continue ReadingComic Louise Reay is being sued by her estranged husband for revealing details of their marital breakdown on stage. Kathy Griffin went into hiding after her Trump joke. But without artistic freedom, we’d all be poorer
My lover has left me” I announced to the 300-strong audience. “I know I made my mark on him though, because the last night I was in his sheets, I had a really heavy flow.” It was the only period joke I’d ever make in the only standup set I’ve done. I was a student and had spent the Christmas holidays soothing a heartbreak by crafting painfully intimate jokes. I had waited, terrified, in the wings, for a group of boys to finish their sketch on Samuel Pepys and then blasted out in a minidress to the sexually explicit lyrics of a song by Peaches.
Later, at the bar, I was congratulated by everyone, including my ex, who had been sitting in the audience with his new girlfriend. He smiled at me in that very attractive way of a man who knows a woman has made a “fair point” at his expense. Part flattered muse, part noble sportsman, he took it so well, it made getting over him all the more difficult. It had been a damn good gig. And I hated every minute of it.
Without these freedoms we wouldn’t have Tracey Emin’s art, Amy Winehouse’s music, Simone de Beauvoir’s writing
Continue ReadingThe late satirical comic was an early name in an underpopulated subgenre and spent his life campaigning to protect children from sexual abuse
Since the birth of alternative comedy, many standups have challenged authority, defended free speech and called for political change. But there have been few who fought as hard as Barry Crimmins.
On Thursday, Crimmins’s wife, Helen, announced that the 64-year-old comic had died of cancer. “He would want everyone to know that he cared deeply about mankind and wants you to carry on the good fight,” she wrote via her late husband’s Twitter account. And it’s true: Crimmins devoted much of his time and 40-year career to helping others and fighting injustices, both on and off stage. He showed integrity and compassion in all aspects of his life and work.
Related: Comedian Barry Crimmins: ‘You can’t hate anybody until you hate yourself’
Continue ReadingSoho theatre, London
Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement return with hilarious dialogue and new songs that easily scale the dizzy heights of their best work
We knew months ago that Flight of the Conchords were to tour UK arenas. We didn’t know until it was upon us that they’d start with a week’s run at London’s bijou Soho theatre. The run sold out without a shred of publicity, and the show – 90 minutes of blissfully funny musical comedy – reminded us why. They’re a little greyer, a little less deadpan, and with more starry CVs than when they last visited the UK eight years ago: Bret McKenzie won the 2012 songwriting Oscar and Jemaine Clement featured in Moana and The BFG. But tonight, the pair prove with plenty to spare that when it comes to silly and sophisticated comic songwriting, there’s still no one to touch them.
For long-term fans of the erstwhile “fourth most popular folk parody duo in New Zealand”, the evening supplies an intense hit of pleasure. And not just nostalgic pleasure: most of the songs are new, and easily scale the dizzy heights of their best work. Seagull – a hymn to freedom that comes complete with metatextual commentary – seems to be sending up “free as a bird” cliches, before a hilarious reversal. Piano ballad Father and Son finds dad and boy singing in counterpoint – and at crossed purposes – about a parental breakup. “You never know how love will end,” sings Jemaine’s sad dad, “Just don’t let her spend time with your handsomer friend.” Neat how that gauche coinage “handsomer” makes dad seem even more ridiculous. But the track is tender as well as daft, like their earlier Bus Driver’s Song, revived tonight. Or like the best work of Tim Minchin – their only rival as musical comic of the century so far – whose spirit is summoned when Bret takes to his piano.
Continue ReadingThe comedian Louise Reay is being sued for allegedly defaming her estranged husband on stage. So should standups keep their private lives to themselves?
I’m not a confessional standup. I don’t know what I am. On the whole, I haven’t mined my personal life or relationships for comedy. Yet. Who knows what direction my work will take in the future? There is still time. I am only 46.
Not that I don’t love confessional standup. I do. It’s given us some of the most groundbreaking, pioneering comedy we’ve had and it’s hard to imagine what standup would look like now if Richard Pryor had never existed. It’s just not something I’ve felt hugely comfortable doing. I’ve told the odd routine about my “husband”, “children” or “upbringing”, but they’ve generally been lighthearted, hugely exaggerated, or untrue, and even then it makes me feel uneasy and anxious.
We should be able to express opinions however we choose – through words, mime, origami or baking
Related: Standup comedian’s husband sues for defamation over ‘provocative’ show
When I stumbled across Naked Attraction and saw six vaginas on display, I knew I was out of step with the modern world
Continue ReadingThe Old Market, Brighton
There’s no shortage of self-depreciating chatter as the comic looks back on a life of globetrotting in his touring show
‘I’m going to talk about my holidays, then I’m going to show you some slides.” No one can accuse Griff Rhys Jones of overselling his solo show, Where Was I?, an Audience With-style evening in which he reflects on a life of TV travel. The jokes at his own expense come faster than the rapids on the River Tay, just one of Jones’s adventures in the name of professional globetrotting. It’s as if this most blitheringly English of Welshmen is trying to excuse himself for having been paid to travel the world.
If judged by his account here, Jones brought no particular skill to his telly peregrinations, just a dose of pluck and a readiness to play the fall guy over and over again. Frequently, his efforts to climb a sheer rockface, tightrope-walk on a mountain ridge or dangle from the roof of a 30-storey building (even the clip gives you vertigo) are maligned by his director or outdone by a far braver cameraman. A running joke is made of our hapless, bruised or sodden presenter being asked “Griff, can you give us a look of triumph?” when at a humiliatingly low ebb.
Related: Griff Rhys Jones: ‘My best kiss? I kissed all the Spice Girls once’
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