Like Steve Coogan's previous live video, Live 'n' Lewd, The Man Who Thinks He's It shies away from Coogan's earlier impression-based stand-up, and instead showcases a number of comic characters: smutty shop girl Pauline Calf; nervous comedian Duncan Thickett; Portuguese pop sensation Tony Ferrino; unemployable drunkard Paul Calf; blunt, oblivious chat show host Alan Partridge; and the self-absorbed comedian Steve Coogan.
At the beginning of The Man, in one of its many faux-interviews with Steve Coogan in pretentious actor mode, Coogan vows that this show will be "different from all those other live videos." This promise is somewhat upheld, but at a loss for the viewers at home.
Coogan the Actor
By 1998, Coogan's The Man characters were all fairly well-established, having had their own series, shorts, or at least previous video appearances. For Alan Partridge, this meant having a well-known catchphrase and the expectation that he would get down to some chat, but for the other characters as well, a formula seemed to have developed for their stage performances. Pauline Calf, as she did in Live 'n' Lewd, crassly discusses her wanton lifestyle, and then reads an excerpt from her newest book. Duncan Thickett botches his attempts at the latest fads in comedy (including some meta "character comedy"). Tony Ferrino deplores matrimony, and then sings some songs winking at infidelity. Paul Calf drunkenly mumbles about unemployment and females. Alan Partridge has a chat and then sings a "medley" from a female vocalist's oeuvre (this time Kate Bush). This is quite a variety of very different performances, but for anyone familiar with Coogan's work, it's no surprise. A first-time viewer might giggle at the fact that crude Pauline Calf has written a book; a Coogan aficionado is just waiting to hear the name of her newest Mary-Sue character. Someone unfamiliar with Thickett might cackle at the fact that someone so out-of-touch is even attempting to do observational comedy; the well-versed viewer just wants to see what embarrassing bit of personal information he will give away in his attempts to relate with the audience. The characters themselves – much like Tony Ferrino's song selection – have become variations on a theme. Who will Paul Calf insult? Who will Alan Partridge awkwardly interview? These are humorous routines, but for a Coogan enthusiast, they are comfortable comedy, as comfy and familiar as sports casual clothing; nothing new or exciting here.
In order to fulfill that above-mentioned promise to be unlike other live shows, The Man Who Thinks He's It features many cut-aways to "Steve the Comedian," as well as bits with his fellow performers Julia Davis and Simon Pegg. The inclusion of co-performers is a key change from Live 'n' Lewd, and The Man depends heavily on them for its laughs. Julia Davis plays Pauline Calf's homely best friend, Tony Ferrino's soon-to-be-late wife, a feminist singer Paul Calf mistakenly invites to play a song, Alan Partridge's depressed, bulimic guest, and herself. Though Julia Davis is always a funny presence, rather than refresh Coogan's characters with some on-stage banter, her roles seem to just interrupt the sketches, and then drag them on without many actual jokes written for this interaction. With Paul Calf, Julia Davis performs a quintessential man-hating tune, and Paul just lazily dances around in the background. With these other characters to rely on, the center of the show – Coogan's creations – seem underwritten. The aforementioned same-old formula is used with a new friend in lieu of new jokes.
In their interview interstitials, Davis and Pegg paint a portrait of Coogan as a very self-obsessed, but desperate man. In one moment, overhearing Simon receiving big laughs while emceeing, Steve asks Simon not to tell that joke next time. This is a humorous poke at the egotism that comes with success, but it is also the only time we get to see Pegg in his emceeing role, unlike John Thomson as Bernard Righton in Live 'n' Lewd. With these frequent cutaways to documentary segments, once even interrupting Tony Ferrino mid-song, The Man Who Thinks He's It definitely does not feel like any other live show: it doesn't feel like a live show at all. The lampooning of the Comic Steve Coogan has become one of Coogan's funniest devices (in The Trip, Cock & Bull, Coffee & Cigarettes, etc.), but here, it's used almost too much. Like the addition of co-performers, the frequency of these documentary interstitials stops seeming refreshing and new, and starts to feel like a crutch to distract from an otherwise lackluster bill of performances.
In The Man Who Thinks He's It, Coogan is of course funny, but his characters (including "Steve Coogan" himself) have all had more hilarious, fresh, and enthusiastic performances. The Man showcases consistent, comfortable comedy, but you'll find nothing brilliant here.
20 June 2011
I'm Alan Partridge - Sidetracked by a Need for Laughs
In On the Hour and The Day Today, the character of Alan Partridge is introduced as a bumbling, easily exasperated sports reporter. The audience gets a more focused look at him with his "failed" chat show Knowing Me, Knowing You... with Alan Partridge, but the character does not really come into his own until the sitcom I'm Alan Partridge.
Sometimes mistakenly labeled as a mockumentary, I'm Alan Partridge is immediately removed from that label by its use of a laugh-track. In KMKYWAP, the audience sits in the same studio as Alan's, and he often reacts to their laughter as though to heckling. With IAP, the handheld camerawork does somewhat mimic that of a documentary, but that non-diegetic tittering causes a riff in the realism of the show, as Coogan and other cast members time delivery in accordance with the track. Partridge is thus occasionally portrayed as a bit more of a "doof" than he might have been otherwise, in his "hamming it up" like other sitcom characters.
In the first series of IAP, though the laughtrack is a bit jarring, there is still a melancholy to Alan Partridge. Episode to episode, Alan acts like a buffoon in different and varied ways, but the series is connected by an emotional motif – by Alan's fear of failure, specifically in terms of his chat show's renewal. This is represented visually by a recurring dream sequence, depicting Alan gyrating in a strip club for the BBC's Tony Hayers and other television executives. Alan will often act like a fool to try to avoid this nightmare, but as the other characters (particularly Sophie and Ben of the Linton Travel Tavern) know how outlandish Alan is acting, the realism is reaffirmed. Realism is not a necessity for a comedy show, but as Alan Partridge was initially conceived as a lampoon of a particular type of media personality, it is important for him to be grounded in reality. Thus, the world is not wacky, but a desperate Alan Partridge is. This is particularly revealed when, so determined to please some Irish television executives, Alan shows them to the house of a random fan in lieu of his own, and that aficionado ends up being an obsessive stalker. In IAP, however, even this "crazy" fan pales in comparison to Partridge's reactions to him.
The first series meanders in terms of quality, with the best episodes directly connected to Partridge's terror of being unsuccessful, and the worst wandering from this theme with empty and thus pointless jokes. (In "Basic Alan," a bored Alan makes for a bored audience.) The last episode brings the series to a nice close, with Alan so desperate for his career not to die, that he uses a dead man's hand to sign a contract. The cackling audience does not know whether Alan will succeed, but they do know how low he will stoop to ensure it.
In the second series of IAP, filmed five years after the first (2002), Alan is immediately brought back to his "roots" in the premiere, by giving a talk at his childhood school. But these are roots the viewers know nothing about, having never been established in the first series or before. Likewise, this episode is largely about exposition – Alan's career got somehow even worse, he had a breakdown, and he got fat — all sort of "funny" things that would leave a man as fragile as Alan shattered. Instead, Alan, having "bounced back," careens around, acting doofy as ever. Yet unlike the first series, in which almost every character seems to act as a rational foil to Alan's out of touch personality, a parade of guest stars enter into the world of IAP, each seemingly trying to outdo Alan with their wackiness. There is Alan's young Ukranian girlfriend Sonja (Amelia Bullmore), who in her broken English constantly plays practical jokes that even Alan knows are shamefully unfunny. There is Stephen Mangan as Dan, a seeming younger incarnate of Partridge's personality. Yet no longer is it crazy enough just that there exists another human being with Alan's god-awful disposition, and Alan ends up the saner one of the pair, as Dan is into orgies and "sex festivals." The undercurrent of melancholy in first series is replaced by a more "tragic" back-story, and "front"-stories obsessed with Alan not just embarrassing himself, but everyone else embarrassing themselves as well.
(Also, the former Linton staff-member Michael, someone whom Alan never previously seemed to like or be able to understand, is elevated to the spot of Alan's best friend.)
In the last episode of the second series, as Alan's book is pulped and officially regarded as a flop, the tragedy mentioned in the premiere is finally dealt with. As Alan is confronted with failure once again, he has a series of flash backs to his "Fat Alan" stage. He is invited onto a Christian radio show, and in an attempt to not look like the biggest dud there, he insults the other guest in increasingly rude ways. Yet instead of responding with some bigger, hammier reaction, the guest stops Alan like a rational human being would, and leaves. After five episodes of sit-com zaniness, a sense of realism is finally restored. There are many quotable lines in the second series, but had it maintained this more subdued approach, perhaps with a running motif of those flashbacks, it could have been a success beyond its punchlines.
Very funny series two scene... but this incident never comes up again, nor connects to anything.
The Christian radio host remarks on Alan's book ending every anecdote with the phrase "Needless to say, I had the last laugh." IAP's second series suffers from this obsession as well. In order for IAP to be not only funny but compelling, the characters do not need to try to outdo each other with their crazy hijincks and clever quips. The goofy, but more subtle Alan Partridge of The Day Today and Knowing Me, Knowing You can already bring laughs just with his exasperation. But IAP's second series, so desperate to make the audience snicker, largely dismisses realism and in doing so, reduces much character quality and consistency. And in a way, Partridge's fear of failure does come true.
Sometimes mistakenly labeled as a mockumentary, I'm Alan Partridge is immediately removed from that label by its use of a laugh-track. In KMKYWAP, the audience sits in the same studio as Alan's, and he often reacts to their laughter as though to heckling. With IAP, the handheld camerawork does somewhat mimic that of a documentary, but that non-diegetic tittering causes a riff in the realism of the show, as Coogan and other cast members time delivery in accordance with the track. Partridge is thus occasionally portrayed as a bit more of a "doof" than he might have been otherwise, in his "hamming it up" like other sitcom characters.
In the first series of IAP, though the laughtrack is a bit jarring, there is still a melancholy to Alan Partridge. Episode to episode, Alan acts like a buffoon in different and varied ways, but the series is connected by an emotional motif – by Alan's fear of failure, specifically in terms of his chat show's renewal. This is represented visually by a recurring dream sequence, depicting Alan gyrating in a strip club for the BBC's Tony Hayers and other television executives. Alan will often act like a fool to try to avoid this nightmare, but as the other characters (particularly Sophie and Ben of the Linton Travel Tavern) know how outlandish Alan is acting, the realism is reaffirmed. Realism is not a necessity for a comedy show, but as Alan Partridge was initially conceived as a lampoon of a particular type of media personality, it is important for him to be grounded in reality. Thus, the world is not wacky, but a desperate Alan Partridge is. This is particularly revealed when, so determined to please some Irish television executives, Alan shows them to the house of a random fan in lieu of his own, and that aficionado ends up being an obsessive stalker. In IAP, however, even this "crazy" fan pales in comparison to Partridge's reactions to him.
The first series meanders in terms of quality, with the best episodes directly connected to Partridge's terror of being unsuccessful, and the worst wandering from this theme with empty and thus pointless jokes. (In "Basic Alan," a bored Alan makes for a bored audience.) The last episode brings the series to a nice close, with Alan so desperate for his career not to die, that he uses a dead man's hand to sign a contract. The cackling audience does not know whether Alan will succeed, but they do know how low he will stoop to ensure it.
In the second series of IAP, filmed five years after the first (2002), Alan is immediately brought back to his "roots" in the premiere, by giving a talk at his childhood school. But these are roots the viewers know nothing about, having never been established in the first series or before. Likewise, this episode is largely about exposition – Alan's career got somehow even worse, he had a breakdown, and he got fat — all sort of "funny" things that would leave a man as fragile as Alan shattered. Instead, Alan, having "bounced back," careens around, acting doofy as ever. Yet unlike the first series, in which almost every character seems to act as a rational foil to Alan's out of touch personality, a parade of guest stars enter into the world of IAP, each seemingly trying to outdo Alan with their wackiness. There is Alan's young Ukranian girlfriend Sonja (Amelia Bullmore), who in her broken English constantly plays practical jokes that even Alan knows are shamefully unfunny. There is Stephen Mangan as Dan, a seeming younger incarnate of Partridge's personality. Yet no longer is it crazy enough just that there exists another human being with Alan's god-awful disposition, and Alan ends up the saner one of the pair, as Dan is into orgies and "sex festivals." The undercurrent of melancholy in first series is replaced by a more "tragic" back-story, and "front"-stories obsessed with Alan not just embarrassing himself, but everyone else embarrassing themselves as well.
(Also, the former Linton staff-member Michael, someone whom Alan never previously seemed to like or be able to understand, is elevated to the spot of Alan's best friend.)
In the last episode of the second series, as Alan's book is pulped and officially regarded as a flop, the tragedy mentioned in the premiere is finally dealt with. As Alan is confronted with failure once again, he has a series of flash backs to his "Fat Alan" stage. He is invited onto a Christian radio show, and in an attempt to not look like the biggest dud there, he insults the other guest in increasingly rude ways. Yet instead of responding with some bigger, hammier reaction, the guest stops Alan like a rational human being would, and leaves. After five episodes of sit-com zaniness, a sense of realism is finally restored. There are many quotable lines in the second series, but had it maintained this more subdued approach, perhaps with a running motif of those flashbacks, it could have been a success beyond its punchlines.
Very funny series two scene... but this incident never comes up again, nor connects to anything.
The Christian radio host remarks on Alan's book ending every anecdote with the phrase "Needless to say, I had the last laugh." IAP's second series suffers from this obsession as well. In order for IAP to be not only funny but compelling, the characters do not need to try to outdo each other with their crazy hijincks and clever quips. The goofy, but more subtle Alan Partridge of The Day Today and Knowing Me, Knowing You can already bring laughs just with his exasperation. But IAP's second series, so desperate to make the audience snicker, largely dismisses realism and in doing so, reduces much character quality and consistency. And in a way, Partridge's fear of failure does come true.
17 June 2011
STEVE COOGAN: LIVE 'N' LEWD (1994) - Still Holds Up
In this 1994 live special, Coogan plays four of his characters (some less well-known than others): openly-polysexual townie Pauline Calf, nervous stand-up comedian Duncan Thickett, no-nonsense health and safety lecturer Ernest Moss, and the eternally-intoxicated wastrel Paul Calf.
Paul Calf's ratings certification at the beginning of the video.
A lot of the humour in these characters comes from knowing that in real life, Steve Coogan is a charming, handsome, funny man, yet he's dedicated himself to playing such unappealing roles. (Steve Coogan the Comedian is poked at with little "documentary" interstitials that bookend the show and fill the intermission.) Though all inherently depressing, there is a delicious variety to Coogan's comic creations, and whatever they lack in funny, they make up for in pure enthusiasm. With Pauline Calf, even if her slaggy "I've done him" mantra gets a bit trite, one cannot help but marvel at how convincing a woman Coogan makes — he's not pantomiming in drag; he's really transformed himself into a character who happens to be a lady. With awkward stand-up comedian Duncan Thickett, Coogan has perfected the "anti-performance": Thickett jumps about anxiously and constantly moves his hands, trying to compensate for his nervousness with an overzealous performance; he is a stage character totally not at ease with being on stage. Many of Thickett's laughs come from this Coogan / character juxtaposition: we know (even just from the Pauline Calf routine) that Coogan is a master of voices and jokes, yet Thickett is a terrible comedian, and a terrible impressionist. Occasionally Coogan allows Thickett an accurate impersonation, hilarious in that Duncan seems less realistic than his Neil Kinnock imitation. If ever a slow spot in these sketches, there's always comedy in trying to see Steve Coogan underneath his Ernest Moss glasses or Paul Calf haircut, yet the material itself is consistently hilarious.
The characters are each introduced by John Thomson as Bernard Righton, a surprisingly entertaining (yet staunchly politically correct) emcee. The video also contains the aforementioned "documentary" bits with Coogan as Coogan, as well as faux-interviews with audience and critics (Coogan and Thomson), and some pseudo-pedantic narration by Coogan as Terry Wogan. These interstitials make the video (which lacks but needs no narrative) feel interconnected and whole, like one linked comedy piece instead of the mishmash of disparate characters that it easily could have been.
For an early venture in Coogan's career, Live 'n' Lewd holds up very well, unlike Coogan's earliest, impression-based stand-up, which can now really only be viewed as the raw, cringe-worthy beginnings from which his later work ascended. Yes, his characters still invite comparison with Coogan the comic (then and now), but that was intentional at the time; someone with no external knowledge is provided a Coogan persona with which to juxtapose his roles. For an early piece with jokes that sometimes falter, that sort of self-awareness/-containment really gives a timeless quality to the video. Even if Steve Coogan had never gone on to do anything else, Live 'n' Lewd would still be a stand-up special worth watching.
Paul Calf's ratings certification at the beginning of the video.
A lot of the humour in these characters comes from knowing that in real life, Steve Coogan is a charming, handsome, funny man, yet he's dedicated himself to playing such unappealing roles. (Steve Coogan the Comedian is poked at with little "documentary" interstitials that bookend the show and fill the intermission.) Though all inherently depressing, there is a delicious variety to Coogan's comic creations, and whatever they lack in funny, they make up for in pure enthusiasm. With Pauline Calf, even if her slaggy "I've done him" mantra gets a bit trite, one cannot help but marvel at how convincing a woman Coogan makes — he's not pantomiming in drag; he's really transformed himself into a character who happens to be a lady. With awkward stand-up comedian Duncan Thickett, Coogan has perfected the "anti-performance": Thickett jumps about anxiously and constantly moves his hands, trying to compensate for his nervousness with an overzealous performance; he is a stage character totally not at ease with being on stage. Many of Thickett's laughs come from this Coogan / character juxtaposition: we know (even just from the Pauline Calf routine) that Coogan is a master of voices and jokes, yet Thickett is a terrible comedian, and a terrible impressionist. Occasionally Coogan allows Thickett an accurate impersonation, hilarious in that Duncan seems less realistic than his Neil Kinnock imitation. If ever a slow spot in these sketches, there's always comedy in trying to see Steve Coogan underneath his Ernest Moss glasses or Paul Calf haircut, yet the material itself is consistently hilarious.
The characters are each introduced by John Thomson as Bernard Righton, a surprisingly entertaining (yet staunchly politically correct) emcee. The video also contains the aforementioned "documentary" bits with Coogan as Coogan, as well as faux-interviews with audience and critics (Coogan and Thomson), and some pseudo-pedantic narration by Coogan as Terry Wogan. These interstitials make the video (which lacks but needs no narrative) feel interconnected and whole, like one linked comedy piece instead of the mishmash of disparate characters that it easily could have been.
For an early venture in Coogan's career, Live 'n' Lewd holds up very well, unlike Coogan's earliest, impression-based stand-up, which can now really only be viewed as the raw, cringe-worthy beginnings from which his later work ascended. Yes, his characters still invite comparison with Coogan the comic (then and now), but that was intentional at the time; someone with no external knowledge is provided a Coogan persona with which to juxtapose his roles. For an early piece with jokes that sometimes falter, that sort of self-awareness/-containment really gives a timeless quality to the video. Even if Steve Coogan had never gone on to do anything else, Live 'n' Lewd would still be a stand-up special worth watching.
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