Actor, writer, director, producer and beekeeper Charles Barrington is a man of refined tastes and prodigious talent. Tales of his successful and decadent career are delivered with pomposity and wit. The only thing is, not a word he says is true.
Barrington would have you believe he is the son of a successful stage manager mother, who is best known for having renamed the Royal Albert Corridor a “hall”, and a greeting card philosopher/comic book writer father, though their careers pale in comparison to the great Barrington’s.
The stage is set with a small table covered with a black cloth, upon which stand signifiers of taste and personality: an empty bottle of cheap scotch, an Oscar statuette, a jar of homemade tomato jam, a metronome, and a glass of red wine he holds for the duration of his performance.
Barrington reads his opening monologue from behind a curtain, in his faux British accent. He arrives on stage to Beethoven, dressed in a cheap suit, cravat, and thick black sunglasses. He immediately apologises to those who have seen him before.
He capitalises on laughs as cheap as his taste in scotch. Barrington succeeds through his talents of observation and, his favoured comedic device, self-deprecation. He’s the first one to point out the jokes that fail, which tend to precede moments of great humour, consistently delivered with impeccable timing.
He talks metaphysics and Sartre, philanthropy and professional wrestling, how he once performed Shakespeare during a cockfight in Indonesia, and his novel adaptation of the film Lord of the Rings.
Moments of inconsistency and his occasionally stuttered delivery seemed almost intentional, but occasionally threatened the comfortable momentum of his performance. Such moments however, were largely concealed by the strength of his finest material.
It’s ironic that Barrington will probably find fame with an act dependent on his lack of it. His anecdotes are dense and fantastic, and repeatedly moved his small audience to hysterical laughter.