Presented by Alana Minnelli

DeLuxe

Review by Jaymes Durante

Cosy, unadorned and barely meters in diameter, Deluxe would be a daunting venue for even the boldest of comedians. Like a micro-coliseum — planks for chairs, crowd leering inward waiting to be entertained — it’s alarmingly intimate, and no doubt intimidating.

Thankfully, Alana Minnelli’s Fringe World (and comedy!) debut spins any doubt or discomfiture into a warm air of self-assurance. Emerging without fanfare from behind a curtain and launching into a take-no-prisoners hour of anecdotal comedy, it’s clear she’s a natural storyteller, humour and disarming candour just organic offshoots to her gift of the gab.

Quickly dispelling the totally reasonable assumption that we’d mistakenly rocked up for a gaudy Liza tribute show (she understands Fringe World’s popularity amongst sophisticated gay men), Minnelli acquaints us with the crux of her show. It’s a question, one that her mother asked when she returned home from parties and which follows her into her thirtieth year: “Did you meet anyone you liked better than yourself?”

The answer is no, of course. Minnelli might self-depreciatingly shrug that she was raised with the confidence of someone more talented and attractive than herself, but that wholly earned and deep-rooted poise is clearly a boon for her, both on stage and in life.

She walks us through her parent’s intrepid romance, her mother’s late road to Judaism, her excruciating 30^th birthday, and a sexual misadventure involving Grindr, a ticking body clock, and a used prophylactic filled with — well, figure it out.

There’s also an invisible craft to her Minnellium that’s somewhat enveloped by its memoir-like structure. It’s well written, filled with witty, Perth-specific humour (a certain set of North Perth traffic lights play a pivotal role) that’s delivered with a swift Brooklyn bite, and while some jokes (not many) falter, you can’t take the personality out of them.

Minnelli winds up with news of an interstate tryst, and perhaps even a potential encounter with someone she liked better than herself. But the show’s not about finding value in others. During an audience sing-along to John Mayer pseudo-masturbation anthem ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’, she briefly disappears, only to return in a Ken Done swimsuit sifting sand through her hands, laughing away clumsy dates and bad romances of the past, and giving us all a lesson in self-love.

Comedy’s a fickle game. A foothold in the funny establishment can cost budding comics eternities of unrewarded toil. Minnelli decided on a patient inroad, and now, having accumulated thirty years of misadventure, she’s ready to spill the beans on stage. Not a late bloomer, but a funny girl who knows that honest comedy comes from experience.

The Epic doesn’t look epic at all. It’s just two bodies on a barely lit stage, standing among some miniature mountain ranges that function as set design.

O’Branagain and Hogan, who’s billed under his poetry pseudonym, Scott Sandwich, aren’t too concerned with appearances.

While both performers are clearly well versed in performance and theatre, The Epic showcases a united love of poetry and spoken word.

 These two admittedly “silver-tongued” individuals are in search of meaning, making us laugh while they try to figure out what exactly our modern audiences can take from some old, and some new, epic tales.

The Epic gets down to business without much introduction, asking some monumental questions early on.

Great fiction is all lies, as our hosts say, like Santa Klaus, stories don’t have to be true to wield cultural power.

Scott Sandwich, rather heroically, dives right in to Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey, deciding that Odysseus is actually a “dirty, criminal mastermind”. Perhaps Odysseus is the template from which many celebrated modern anti-heroes draw their inspiration.

O’Branagain’s rejoinder to this revelation is more philosophical and even more ancient. With her intense monologue, she brings to life the original mythic poem, The Epic of Gilgamesh, the god-king who struggled with everyday human problems: achieving immortality and the meaning of existence.

Scott Sandwich brings us back down to earth by detailing the heroic exploits of Vin Diesel’s character in The Fast and The Furious movie franchise, a modern example of when an epic tale, absurdly and tragically, merges into reality.

Like all good double acts, O’Branagain and Hogan enjoy working off each other’s energy. They take it in turns to address the racial politics behind zombies, the lack of strong female characters in western narratives, and whether or not they themselves could be engaging in cultural appropriation by telling foundation stories from other cultures.

While some of the jokes did come off as clichéd, The Epic engages in a level of self-critique and satire that is refreshing.

The Epic points our attention towards language and the ancient art of storytelling, but O’Branagain and Scott Sandwich are careful to avoid taking themselves too seriously.

While they tackle the difficult themes and politics that great stories often do produce, their approach is irreverent and playful, keeping the content relatable and critically aware.

The Epic is a highly successful blend of social satire, cultural criticism, theatre and spoken word by two accomplished artists.

The Epic runs until January 30 at PICA Performance Space, Northbridge. Tickets and show info are available here.

Russell harangues the audience through his bewildering, 50-minute, narrative-free fever dream with ceaseless energy, a cocked eyebrow, and more than a little self-satisfied archness. We’re introduced to smooth-talking pianist Carlos, conspiracy theorist Martin LeBlanc, and TV serial actor Grey Mendelson (best known for his two-nosed character, aptly named Double Nose). Emperor Caligula mans the lift, joined momentarily by diabolical film director Werner Herzog.

While a worker vacuums to the chilling strains of Nickelback’s ‘Figured You Out’, a nearby visitor has a whirlwind tryst with a potplant. Far from your Chateau Marmont, Russell’s Tokyo Hotel is for outcasts and ingrates — a wasteland for Hollywood’s dejected majority.

Russell’s vigour and enthusiasm are blind-siding, but he’s able to use the awkward energy of the intimate crowd as creative fuel for his improvisatory skill. His tenure at Chicago’s prestigious Second City manifests very clearly in his ability to turn an uncooperative silence into a riotous in-joke for the audience to share.

The one-man show’s best moments follow in this vein of ramshackle adlibbing. When his door, his only set piece, buckles, Russell begs to borrow a set of keys from the audience to unjam its broken handle. Understandably grudging to offer up their keys, he assumes homelessness of the most of us. His humiliation is compounded by a sound technician fed up by his spur-of-the moment antics. With impeccable timing, she declares, “You’re such a d**k.”

Riffing on the dormant charm of great inns from the annals of pop culture and Old Hollywood lore — think the Grand Budapest, or perhaps even the gothic grounds of the Hotel Transylvania — Russell displays avaricious ambition in attempting to pack his Tokyo Hotel with as much character and eccentricity as possible.

Its overabundance of content works heartily in its favour. It’s a show that makes very little narrative sense, but like a comic tornado, it uproots your bearings and drags you upward to its maniacal infirmary.

It is, however, a fairly exhausting ride. By it’s end, one might be tempted to pull a Barton Finkand burn the whole joint down to the ground. At the Tokyo Hotel, a short stay is just long enough.

Ben Russell in the Tokyo Hotel runs from January 25-30 (except January 26) at The Blue Room Theatre in Northbridge. Tickets available here.