Sunshine on Putty: The Golden Age of British Comedy from Vic Reeves to The Office. Ben Thompson

Sunshine on Putty: The Golden Age of British Comedy from Vic Reeves to The Office - Ben  Thompson


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      The French philosopher Henri Bergson’s 1900 intellectual landmark Le Rire – helpfully translated into English as Laughter in 1911 – is most celebrated for its contention that much of what is considered comic can be boìled down to moments where ‘the human reduces itself to the automatic’. In a less frequently quoted passage of the book, Henri makes the seemingly straightforward assertion that ‘to understand laughter we must put it back into its natural environment, which is society’.

      ‘Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo,’ Bergson notes. ‘It can travel within as wide a circle as you please; the circle remains, none the less, a closed one.’ To illustrate this notion, he uses the example of travellers sharing a joke in a railway carriage while another passenger sits across the aisle, forbidden by basic etiquette from joining in. ‘Had you been one of their company,’ Bergson chuckles, ‘you would have laughed like them.’

      Obviously this was before mobile-phone radiation had fatally eroded our conception of personal space in public places, but when you consider the peculiarly modern spectacle of individuals on buses or trains performing virtual stand-up comedy routines into Nokia handsets for the benefit of faraway friends, while flesh and blood audiences of complete strangers sit around them in stony silence, it actually underlines the truth of Bergson’s observation rather than undermining it.

      ‘However spontaneous it seems,’ Bergson argues, ‘laughter always implies a kind of secret freemasonry.’ If you could mark the points at which this freemasonry either breaks down or is particularly strong, you would end up with a kind of dot-to-dot relief map of the national subconscious.

      Based – as it is – on how much, in terms of ideas or emotions, a performer is able to share with their audience, comedy can teach us a great deal about who is swimming with society’s tide and who is swimming against it. Consider in this regard the following two incidents of live onstage trauma: the first reassuringly trivial, the second rather less so.

      Rory Bremner got rid of his original Scottish accent in response to social pressure applied within the English public school system, but soon learned to pick up others in its place. A few years later, after this facility had turned into a career, the BBC’s determination to keep him in a light-entertainment strait-jacket pushed him to Channel 4, where he made a startlingly successful transformation (at least in his own mind) from boyish purveyor of sports commentators and weathermen to diamond-hard political satirist.

      Away from the safety of the small screen, however, the construction of appropriate showcases for impressionistic virtuosity can still be a perilous business. In the first flush of his reinvention, amid the plaintive cry of the Essex gulls at the elegant Southend Cliffs Pavilion, Bremner’s inaptly confident ‘Does anybody here listen to Radio 4?’ is met with a fairly crushing silence. What price a dazzling impression of crusty, rugby-obsessed, radio sports eminence Cliff Morgan in the cold, hard world of the east-coast riviera?

      The second incident involves Scott Capurro – a raffish, catty, minutely boss-eyed, gay comedian from San Francisco, who briefly set down his picnic blanket on the banks of the British comedy mainstream in the early to mid-nineties. The high point of his career was probably an appearance on Pebble Mill, where Alan Titchmarsh asked him the immortal question ‘So you’re a gay comedian, how do you go down in America?’

      The fun in a Capurro live show comes from a consensual over-stepping of the mark. (‘Are you heterosexual?’ he taunts straight audience members. ‘Really? You were the last one I would have expected.’) The edge comes from our – and his – awareness of how easily consensus can turn to conflagration.

      At an early live appearance at the Hackney Empire, a gang of rough-looking individuals in the front row begin to get restive about five minutes into Capurro’s set. One of them calls him a ‘faggot’. Capurro says: ‘I want to love you – help me.’ The situation simmers and then gets uglier. People at the back of the crowd start to shout at the people in the front, one of whom gets onstage, grabs the microphone and roars in fury and bewilderment, the scar down the side of his face pulsing eerily, ‘What is it, are you all faggots?’

      The rest of the audience shouts ‘Leave! Leave! Leave!’ – at first tentatively, but then with increasing fervour as the Hackney Empire remembers its former status as the home of alternative cabaret. Eventually, the front row gets up and storms off en masse, Capurro’s taunts – ‘He wants me!’, etc – ringing rather half-heartedly in their ears. The violence in the air has hobbled the comedian’s instinctive bravado, but though visibly and understandably shaken, he still manages to have the last word: ‘Oh, I was wrong, it wasn’t the gay thing…It was the Vietnam thing.’

      At Last, The Theodore Hook in 1812 Show

      In the mid-1960s, when John Cleese and a group of his up-and-coming acquaintances (including the brace of comic colossi who would later be known as The Two Ronnies) were looking for a title for their shiny new topical TV revue, they called it At Last The 1948 Show in a bid to sum up frustration (previously and more vehemently expressed by their non-Oxbridge-educated role model, Spike Milligan) with the slow-moving institutional nature of the BBC.

      Any true appreciation of what is or is not golden about the Reeves/Office age will have to avoid overestimating the differences between this and other periods of comedic endeavour. Especially as one of the main creative themes of the period will prove to be reconnection with preceding generations after the supposed ideological breaches of the 1980s.

      Consider the brilliant career of nineteenth-century rabble-rouser Theodore Hook, editor of such outspoken publications as John Bull and The Arcadian. A. J. A. Symons’s 1934 biographical essay15 outlines an armoury of comedic attributes which will not be unfamiliar to comedy aficionados of the present day.

      Alongside the mid-stream political horse-swapping of the aforementioned Mr Rory Bremner (‘his power of producing in parody a complete House of Commons debate, imitating one speaker after another…taking off Peel, Palmerston or the Duke [of Wellington] without a moment’s pause’), the eagle-eyed might discern the poker face of Jack Dee (‘his extreme power of keeping a straight face when all his listeners were eclipsed in mirth’), or the institutional subversion of Chris Morris. (Taking up position on an empty cart by the roadside, Hook once posed as an itinerant preacher. Having assembled a suitably rustic audience, the metropolitan mischief-maker ‘suddenly altered the tone of his voice, thundered the most appalling curses at the throng and ran for his life’.)

      Even the legendary drinking prowess of Johnny Vegas gets a look in. Symons describes Hook ‘drinking experimental gin and maraschino cocktails by the pint with an American bon vivant, before dining soberly at Lord Canterbury’s where he ascribed his poor appetite to “a biscuit and a glass of sherry rashly taken at luncheon”‘.

      This is not to say that life was necessarily richer or more satisfying – comedywise – in the early 1800s, but it is probably worth bearing in mind that the late twentieth century was not the first historical moment at which the professional laughter-maker has loomed large in our culture. The medieval scholar Erasmus disparagingly described the mid-thirteenth century as a time when ‘Fools [i.e. jesters] were so beloved by great men that many could not bear to eat or drink without them, or to be without their company for a single hour’.

      The picture of the wearer of cap and bells painted in R. H. Hill’s Tales of the Jesters - ‘Stealing titbits from the kitchen, falling into fits of violent fury without reason, breaking furniture and crockery, fighting with the pages and worst of all giving himself insufferable airs’ – will not be wholly unfamiliar to anyone lucky enough to have spent time with Britain’s turn-of-the-millennium comedic élite.

      Elements of unexpected continuity are just as rich a source of fascination in the history of comedy (or, indeed, anything else) as unarguable new departures. To achieve a true understanding of the achievements of the Reeves/Office epoch, it will be necessary to delve deeply into the historical (as well as the comedic) background of the previous


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