Halfway through an 'unreasonable expectations' tour of the UK's most cavernous theatres, Doug Stanhope reflects on his relationship with Edinburgh. It was his hit appearance at the city's 2002 Fringe Festival that first earned him recognition on these shores and, according to the comic, he's been desperate to commit career suicide ever since. Unsuccessful on this front, he now vows never to return unless he really needs the money, weary of travelling and meeting the constant demand for new material. These claims would be taken with a pinch of salt if made by any other comedian, but Stanhope's act is based upon an unflinching, almost confrontational honesty. Whether audiences like him or not, there’s no doubt that they believe him; this may be our last chance to watch the American iconoclast in action, at least for some time.
Bemused by the British notion that comedy shows should have narrative arcs and thematic through-lines, we are promised an uneven set tackling whatever the performer deems worthy of discussion. Thus, he begins by justifying his vendetta against Telegraph columnist Allison Pearson with whom he is currently embroiled in a Twitter feud. His tirade against Pearson, who opposes a severely disabled man’s wish to terminate his own life, is fierce and compassionate, Stanhope expertly articulating the sheer horror of paralysed Tony Nicklinson’s situation. A startlingly frank routine on the part that he played in euthanising his ailing mother goes too far for some pockets of the audience, but is wholly consistent with the comic’s rational and pragmatic world view. When on form, Stanhope is as electrifying as stand-up gets.
The problem with tonight’s show is that there are two sides to his audience and, though he’d never admit it, Stanhope panders to both. Some admire his willingness to explore uncharted comedic territory and to express contentious viewpoints with conviction. Others simply enjoy his heavy-drinking, irresponsible persona. When laughs peter out following the aforementioned routines, he turns the gig around with some tedious but well received musings on why he likes to get drunk. Similarly, a divisive attack on the Occupy movement segues into several minutes on how he has nothing against gays, but doesn’t like to have their sexuality rubbed in his face, a declaration familiar to many an armchair homophobe. “Just be a real guy!” he bellows. Is Stanhope a lazy genius who refuses to shy away from cheap laughs, or a bar-room philosopher, incapable of filtering his worthy thought processes from the bad? After a relentlessly poetic and surprisingly patriotic conclusion to the evening, all that's clear is his mastery of the form itself. Whether his powers are used for good or for evil, we surmise, rests entirely on the man's own whims.
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