Presented by Melbourne International comedy Festival
@Cinema Nova
WEDNEDAY 7th March (until March 18)

A part of me is cursing my decision to review this show; it’s nearly impossible to write about and convey how, or why, it works. But believe me, it does. It is absurdist humour at the very edge. If The Mighty Boosh overdosed on acid, gobbled a medicine cabinet full of pills and was let loose in a house of mirrors, it might be somewhere close to the marvellous insanity that inhabits this show.

In a way, I’d be happy to leave the review at that. I’d add in “Go and see it”, perhaps put in a more eloquent way, and send it in, 400 to 600 words short of my required word count. It’s not laziness let me assure you. It just that explaining the absurd is sort of like trying to sculpt a statue in the air with a chisel — you can give it your best, but all you’re going to be left with is a manic look in your eye. And a chisel.

But I’m meant to tell you why you should go and see it. Thus begins the formal review.

There is an inexplicable physics to telling jokes — push one far enough and it’ll start to work for you. It is under this premise that Paul Foot’s Still Life begins. We hear his voice, the obligatory offstage announcement. You know the drill, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please make welcome, X,” at which point X comes strutting onstage to a cacophony of applause. Only, this time, it doesn’t happen. Foot remains hidden, and we suddenly become privy to his musings on when is the right time to come out. As the minutes tick over, the awkwardness of the process — something Foot is clearly attuned to — starts to pile up. Finally, when you’re squirming in your seat, it breaks into hilarity. The crowd erupts in laughter, relieved, grinning. Because he’s got a laugh, Foot tells us, it might be worthwhile to stay behind the curtain a bit longer.

When Foot finally does appear from behind the velvet drapes of the cinema, he skips the stage completely, walking from audience member to audience member, explaining what, when he does come out, he’ll do to get the show started. This meta-humour, in which the show becomes the joke, gradually begins to gather momentum; offhand comments become integral threads to later routines, ridiculous games become the crux of the conclusion.

No. This isn’t working. I’m trying to get it, but my hands are getting sweaty and I’ve got very little to show for it. Perhaps a list is in order.

Throughout the show I experienced: lengthy, increasingly manic musings on the detriments of Pierce Brosnan opening a cockerel sanctuary; Foot’s alter ego, Penny, dry humping an audience member (pun intended) while screaming for medication and admission to a mental hospital; a recap of the show that included the recap within the recap; Foot speaking English, English/Gibberish and outright Gibberish, as dictated by the position of a toy horse’s head on a vertical plane; instructions for applause volume based on enthusiasm on hearing about the reunification of Prussia; a diatribe about the inability to have food allergies during WWI. Amongst other things.

If this hasn’t convinced you to go, well, I’m not surprised. But you should. If you do, I’d be more than happy to give you the invisible air sculpture I’ve made. And if you don’t… Well, I’ve got a chisel. That’s all I’m saying.