Short but staggering first read of the year. The set up is simple: an evening class for comedians. An aging stalwart of the scene teaching them. And an upcoming showcase that will potentially lead some of them to the big time. As the stage direction reads: “Adults will return to school and the school will do its sullen best to accommodate them.”
It’s paradoxical, as in some ways the play is dated in its frame of reference - the revered name drops of Frank Carson, George Formby etc. are now less godfathers of comedy than they are distant ancestors, remembered predominantly by specialists and hardcore enthusiasts. Yet in the age of debate over what is ‘unsayable’, the ethical question of the play burns with contemporary urgency.
The central struggle that the group have is to maintain the values that their tutor, Waters, has tried to instil in them, especially when faced with a crowd that isn’t sympathetic to them. Coming at a turning point in 1979, when alternative comedy began its reign and dethroned many of the more ‘traditional’ comics, Waters is a beautifully drawn mediation between two times. He’s a familiar face of the old clubs, but with a social conscience which aligns more closely with the up and coming comics at the dawn of the 80s.
His thesis is that we should be making way for a more thoughtful, more introspective style of comedy. He asks his students: “Do we fear ... other people... so much that we must mark their pain with laughter, our own with tears?” He values laughter as a powerful force, even characterising it as a “bullet” later on in the play.
Challenor, his ex-colleague and now-talent scout begs to differ though, proclaiming: “One thing you’ve gotta learn - people don’t learn, they don’t want to, and if they did, they won’t look to the likes of us to teach ‘em.” Griffiths’ stage for the night becomes not just a contrasting collection of comedians, but a battleground for comic ideology. It asks the question of whether comedy has any social responsibility at all, or if it is indeed a mindless, primal reaction we shouldn’t think about too hard.
One of Griffiths’ most impressive talents is his ability switch the dialogue’s comic tenor dependent on who is speaking and the context. During the first and last acts, the comedy is derived from the naturalistic bustle and banter of the evening class, barbs and gags bouncing between the men. But during the second act, he performs a virtuoso juggling act, delivering several comic monologues for each character which cover the gamut of club styles; observational, music hall, anarchist, and most depressingly prominent, racially charged bigotry. He manages on the page alone to dial up and down the acts to whatever is required dramatically: bombing, flagging or succeeding.
The eventual conclusion is quietly devastating, as the line between comedy and personal conflict becomes harder to distinguish, and Waters’ thesis is put to the test. And as it happened, I found myself remembering something.
A few years ago, I went to see Jimmy Carr do a gig. I’d grown up watching his comedy mainly through viral clips viewed in school lunch breaks with friends, material that at the time seemed taboo breaking and exciting. As I got older, the shock value of that stuff wore off, but I always thought of him as a fairly reliable joke crafter.
But seeing him live was an eye opener about context. There was something exhausting about the disparate succession of shock jock gags flying. Something about the way they were crafted with the aim of being ‘edgy’ but with no real thought driving them beyond a visceral reaction. Something almost mercenary. This isn’t me having a pop at Carr or finding any of the material offensive - I think he’s a talented entertainer overall, but there was a lifelessness to the material when strung together so loosely.
Perhaps more tellingly, there was a moment where he asked the audience, ‘what do you think of Donald Trump?’, clearly with an expectation there would be groans of disapproval. However, amongst the crowd, there were a number of audible cheers and murmurs of appreciation. I’ve no idea whether it took him aback at all, but it stuck with me.
Though I’d previously dismissed any links between comedy and real-life thought as frivolous, it felt like there was some correlation there; a connection between the mentality that laughs at a stereotype joke, and the kind that actively supports using those stereotypes in political rhetoric, as the current US government is doing so effectively to marginalise and divide.
It would be insulting to call Carr’s material easy, as there’s lots of great jokes in his shows - including the one I saw - but when I read Waters’ final monologue, something brought me back to that room and that nagging feeling in the back of my head that something was off about the experience overall.
It’s this sensation that Comedians does such a thorough job picking apart. It is a look at why we laugh, and why the people who make us laugh do it at all. It shows the way in which laughter is a concern of class, of race, of gender and of empathy, even when we try to divorce it from them. To do so without feeling preachy, or overly sensitive, is the mark of a tremendously deft playwright, who can harness multiple comic registers with absolute authenticity.
Oh, and I suppose it’s worth saying - it’s very funny too.