Remember When? Nor Do I.

A pair of female Sloans eulogise working-class pastimes, a couple of dumb presenters sell increasingly useless products and bursts of radio urge the purchase of mundane items to the lowest common denominator: all performed with vigour but made wearisome by repetition.
Godliman and Lane are competent comedy actors, interspersing their show with video and audio clips and persistently attacking mindless television, manipulative advertising and patronising media personalities. If their targets are easy and caricatured, rather than closely observed and original, they still maintain energy and a rapid pace.

The most imaginative sketch is the self-referential finale, a video of celebrities endorsing their show, but too often Godliman and Lane exaggerate their satire, expanding solid ideas into absurdity until they lose their bite, or repeating a theme into predictability. A pair of female sloans eulogise working-class pastimes, a couple of dumb presenters sell increasingly useless products, and bursts of radio urge the purchase of mundane items to the lowest common denominator: all are performed with vigour but made wearisome by repetition.

There are plenty of belly-laughs and concise individual sketches. However, over an hour, the material is spread thin and only the variety of formats holds the attention. Godliman and Lane are promising, but this show feels like an audition rather than a fully-realised act, despite the savagery and bitterness beneath the amiable surface.

Braving a spontaneous show, he reveals quick wit and confidence: he builds an easy rapport,

supported by the crowd's enthusiasm.

Hampered by technical mishaps, Carey Marx cannot present his usual show, but he relies on a classic strategy: getting drunk and improvising. He serenades the audience, uses props and recycles gags, all the while commenting on his Edinburgh experiences and his own comedy processes.

His material is self-consciously shocking, attacking everyone from albinos to the disabled, carrying off outrageous jokes with wry charm. He discusses the challenges of being offensive- the biggest laughs in Scotland, he notes, clear a room in Canada- while his self-effacing warmth redeems his obnoxious observations. Braving a spontaneous show, he reveals quick wit and confidence: he builds an easy rapport, supported by the crowd's enthusiasm.

He is a masterful stylist, gracefully switching from surrealism to sardonic irony. His relaxed delivery avoids gratuitous nastiness, although his improvisations lurch between subjects and the set is fragmented. Rambling rants about 'political correctness' and the power of swearing are predictably dated, and the broken projector forces him to rely on old material: yet he holds attention for a genial hour. Marx's presence and imagination suggest that his full show could be outstanding.

He never adds anything to the essentials.

Covering three films in an hour, The One Man Star Ways Trilogy monologue is long on exposition but short on wit. A virtuoso performance and a remarkable feat of memory, it fails to connect emotionally.

Charlie Ross tears through the trilogy at break-neck pace, reducing the heroes into repeated gestures. With so much plot, there are few opportunities for humour beyond the obvious jokes about the subsequent movies or Darth Vader's racial identity. Confused scenes of flapping arms and kitsch posturing are never more than mildly amusing. Luke Skywalker, recast as a petulant teenager, provides a rare running gag, but most laughs come from Ross' physical interpretations of non-human characters.

Relying on the audience's knowledge of the films, the interpretation lacks imagination: the most charming sequences happen when he stops acting and reveals sweet enthusiasm. By 'Return of the Jedi', he loosens up and considers absurdities and the movies' context, yet he never adds anything to the essentials.

The crowd are delighted by the energy and grateful for the humour: the successes are due more to Star Wars' popularity than any creativity or poignancy.