Adam Hembree, Ryan Patterson and Louisa Fitzhardinge in Completely Improvised Shakespeare. Image via Soothplayers.
Improv is hard. Improv that gets consistent laughs is harder. Adding the additional layer of improv in the style of Shakespeare, well, that’s a Herculean challenge, but one that the Soothplayers have been tackling for more than a year now. So hats off to them as they take on their second consecutive Melbourne Fringe season, but sadly there’s no wish to toss that hat in the air with joy during an uneven opening-night performance.
On the small, harshly lit space’s rudimentary stage, with no more than black velveteen as both backdrop and the tiniest of wings (almost for emergency use only), the cast of seven warms up before the gathering audience. Wearing their theatre-and-sillyness-loving hearts on their sleeves (to badly misquote Shakespeare), they begin establishing an upbeat mood with ostentatious stretches and vocal exercises. Their uniform costumes of billowing white shirts and knee-length black trousers suggest merry olde England, as does the off-stage mandolin player’s perky tunes (reminiscent of Blackadder season two). His continuo throughout the performance brings welcome atmosphere to the sparse setting.
One of the players, Dana McMillan, wishes the audience a good eve in very loose Shakespearian style – a sensible move, as it would be suicide to set the bar too high before the improvisation begins. She asks us for the title of a play that could have been written by The Bard. Horticultural impossibilities aside, methinks The Chicken and the Avocado an unlikely one, and the Soothplayers openly miss a beat as they contemplate its improbability.
Smirking, then actually laughing a little, Charlie Sturgeon steps forward and introduces the play creakily unfolding in his imagination, as the rest of the cast nervously crack up a little behind him. The never-to-be-repeated theatrical that ensues involves three men who love to cook, three sisters whose failing family fortunes are putting marriage beyond their reach, a couple of witches and a little sprinkling of magic. It is one part familiar Shakespearian comedy tropes including love, misunderstanding and mischief, one part modern sitcom, and a whole lot of absurdity. For every Elizabethan word, forsooth there is one that’s anachronistic, such as daddy, and for every rare, rather dazzling rhyming couplet, there are 10 moments when nothing is said at all as the actors’ mental cogs jam.
Sometimes there’s an uncomfortable air of panic about these pauses, particularly when Vidya Rajan stares into the eyes of another actor, hoping he or she will say something. At other times the pauses are quite amusing, because those in the spotlight are obviously having fun; this is particularly true of Sturgeon, as well as the enthusiastically theatrical Nic Spunde. Other notables are Katherine Weaver, whose madcap overacting saves the day a few times, and Owen Vandenberg, a calm performer with a ready wit who is sadly underused.
A functioning narrative is more or less maintained for almost an hour. The audience sometimes laughs, either because of the actors’ comedy skills or their willingness to make themselves appear silly. I for one am impressed by the occasional rhyme, poetic phrase or clever metaphor (most notably some suggestive banter ostensibly about chickens). Ultimately, however, we are only ever fleetingly spellbound by The Chicken and the Avocado, and at times it’s a little cringe-inducing. The cast isn’t evenly blessed with improv experience or capacity, or that simple but elusive joy that can get an audience on side when things go awry.
Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
Completely Improvised Shakespeare
DIRECTOR Andrew Strano
CAST Nic Spunde, Josh Hodge, Dana McMillan, Vidya Rajan, Owen Vandenberg, Charlie Sturgeon, Katherine Weaver, Brenna Dixon, James Ward, Stephanie Crowe, Adam Hembree, Scout Boxall, Shea Evans, Imogen Palmer, Charlotte Salusinszky, Melissa McGlensey, Ryan Patterson (rotating through season)
VENUE: Courthouse Hotel, Melbourne
DATES: 26 September – 2 October
