I hate comedy. Preening stand-ups have abdicated any sense of moral responsibility, preferring to comment on the supposed differences between the genders rather than address the socio-political malaise that has led to the modern economic meltdown. The Fringe is submerged beneath a tidal wave of grinning male egos that have all the charm of the passer-by who tells you "cheer up, love, it night never happen".
Thankfully, Serate Bastarde is more than just funny. The subtle word play and timing that comedy needs is sometimes lost in the translation from Italian. There are moments of slapstick hilarity - three women pouring Berlusconi's sperm over themselves, and the entire Fez and The City short - but what has been left behind is a smouldering fury that shoots at American imperialism, moronic celebrity and the gradual destruction of Italy by a government that doesn't understand "conflict of interest".
By the time that they quote Bill Hicks in the finale, Dionisi have successfully subverted the sketch show format, reminding us how it can be used for the bleakest satire that is both darkly funny and absurdly familiar. They never quite rant: the Sex and the City parody avoids becoming too explicit, even when the toothsome foursome are wandering around in full burqas, and the Burn Victim Beauty Pageant sends up celebrity TV with attention to detail and a lovely nastiness. A sense of frustration is palpable. Yet it is nuanced and precise, aware of its own culpability and only occasionally hitting too easy a target.
The Infinite Pleasures of the Great Unknown is seductive and frustrating: it rejects structure, begins before the audience enters and continues after the audience is ushered out. Infinite Pleasures is multi-media - the performers' movements are relayed on a large screen that separates them from the audience - and bracing.
The audience is encouraged to walk around and inspect the auditorium, even leave and come back. Popcorn has been scattered about the seating, a convincing police-man wanders around, inspecting the set while a taciturn security guard guards proceedings.
On stage a fictional company, Troupe Mabuse, are caught in a perpetual loop of terror and anxiety. These repetitious tableaux and short choreographies are based on King Lear and The Testament of Dr Mabuse, but both sources are incoherent. The passages from Lear have been garbled: Mabuse plays on-stage, invisible to the audience.
None of this is really important. Bock and Vincenzi aren't telling a story, but creating an atmosphere, a haunting spectacle that resonates beyond the immediate experience. As theatre, it is dull and weird. By inviting the audience to wander about, they move beyond theatre, creating something mysterious and austere.
Like a segment of a David Lynch film in the flesh, like wandering upon an alienated cabaret, Infinite Pleasures lurks at the threshold of understanding. Sudden moments of activity - a brief dance to some reggae or a Gothic camp rendition of Beginning to See the Light - engage, but then retreat to leave behind more mystery. This really is one for the dedicate
I really used to use short sentences...
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