No laughing matter

Comedians
Lyric, Hammersmith

Liberace, Live from Heaven
Leicester Square Theatre

They gushed, they cheered, they purred, they sighed. When a young Richard Eyre read Trevor Griffiths’s new play Comedians in 1975 he prounounced it ‘great’ on the spot. ‘Trev,’ said Rich, ‘you’re knocking on Chekhov’s door.’ Eyre’s production was picked up by an equally thrilled Peter Hall who transferred it to the National and from there it leapfrogged to Broadway. The director of this star-studded revival, Sean Holmes, read the play at 17 and he, too, was smitten. But were the crimson crushes of youth really justified?

Comedians is set in a Manchester evening class where six stand-up comics are being trained by Eddie Waters, a former star whose ambition has mysteriously faded. The first act introduces us to a suspiciously formulaic cast. There’s an Irish builder called Mick Connor, a Jew in flashy pinstripes called Sammy Samuels, and an Indian with a funny accent called, wait for it, Mr Patel. The only cliché missing is the Glaswegian welder called Kilty McSporran.

In act two the comedians perform their material at a bingo club. Their jokes aren’t funny. That’s the joke. For the performers this represents a huge challenge. To make the weakness of poor comedy hilarious would test a world-class clown and the cast aren’t really up to it. So we’re left with a lot of tatty old racist jokes. Like this. Pakistani accused of rape. Victim arrives for ID parade. ‘Yes,’ says Pakistani, ‘dat’s definitely de vun.’ There are two targets here: the figure of fun in the gag and the teller of the joke itself whose debased sensibility is the butt of our mirthful condescension.

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