I’m so old I saw Terry Johnson’s warped comedy the first time round in 1994 when David Haig and Zoe Wanamaker played the main couple, whose marriage breakdown was played out against a backdrop of middle-aged men obsessed with deceased entertainers. Two decades on it now feels very much like a period piece - it includes a remark about a mobile phone that can remember 12, yes, 12 numbers – but a very funny one.
This time it is Rufus Jones as sexually obstinate Richard and Katherine Parkinson as his wife Eleanor, who wants a baby. In an early scene which sets the tone for the awkward events ahead Eleanor has to follow her sex therapy instructions and massage Richard’s naked body everywhere but on the genitals.
Respect to Rufus Jones for baring all and laying onstage on his back. I sat in the gods when I bought a ticket to see David Haig do this so don’t recall much detail. I was about five rows away from Jones, who resembled Alan Howard when he was served up as dinner at the end of The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. I now feel I know him better than his mother.
From this farcical fever pitch point the action settles down a bit. It is April 1992 and Benny Hill has just died, To pay tribute the Dead Funny Society is having a do at Richard’s house. Nick (Ralf Little), his wife Lisa (Emily Berrington, currently in Humans) and Brian (Steve Pemberton) pitch up for the festivities.
Extra laughs come when everyone turns out to be in costume. Nick does Hill’s “Sirry Iriot” routine, Brian is Fred Scuttle and Jones does a bit of Ernie The Fastest Milkman In The West in a blond wig that is very good even if it makes him look more like Boris Johnson than the pioneering TV comic.
But behind the hilarity there is excruciating pain. Lots of it. Eleanor knocks back the martinis and becomes increasingly sour. There is sexual infidelity. Brian has a revelation. There are even problems with the society – a splinter group has set up a rival Hill tribute night.
The action deftly switches between slapstick, comic banter, bittersweet exchanges and confrontations. The stunted men can only really communicate by shouting catchphrases – “Mr Grimsdale!” – at each other. Lisa is caught in the middle and Eleanor looks on in increasing despair. The scene is soon set for a major showdown.
There are echoes of Ayckbourn here and also echoes of Abigail’s Party – the action is all set in a single suburban lounge – but Dead Funny goes to different places. The easily digestible gentle jokes and references to old comics are a jolting contrast to the angst.
It is hard to mix farce and tragedy but Johnson pulls it off. When a custard pie hits someone in the face you chuckle but also feel like crying. Other set-pieces, such as the recreation of a Morecambe and Wise song or Ralf Little telling a smutty Max Miller gag are more straightforwardly comic.
While Jones and Parkinson dominate, this is very much an ensemble piece and everyone plays their part so well it would be unfair to single anyone out, though Jones really comes to life when he breaks into various comic impersonations. Despite the risk that it might have felt dated, Dead Funny works on various levels. There are laughs of course, but Dead Funny is so much more than a comedy.
Until Feb 4. Tickets here.
Picture by Alistair Muir.
