Erin Harrington reviews Class Act, written and directed by Andrew Todd, at Little Andromeda, Wednesday 17 April 2024.
Andrew Todd’s satisfying new black comedy Class Act might be better titled Corporate Comedy Confidential. ‘Class Act’, aka performers Ruby and Vincent and fresh-faced unpaid intern Caitlyn, are here to expose the inner workings of corporate comedy gigs, and this show tells the story of their strangest and most disturbing job. Todd is an experienced theatre and film professional, with a long involvement in professional improv. In a case of the truth being stranger than fiction, this economically-staged and very entertaining “semi-fictional” play is roughly 70% dramatization of real-life events, 20% wish fulfilment / revenge fantasy, and 10% fudging for legal reasons. In short, it is the opposite of #betterworkstories.
Class Act make their money performing as comedy waiters and roaming characters. They put together bespoke stand up and improv schtick to meet the needs of clients, the worst of whom are variously unreasonable, unimaginative, or drunkenly demanding. Privileged Ruby is gigging but dreams of making ‘real’ art, while Vincent, who has less of a financial safety net, is willing to do pretty much anything to make a buck. A pair are hired by American hotel magnate, 99-year-old rich-lister Gus, via his youthful fancy-pants wife Lorraine. Their brief: to stage an elaborate, abject, ‘comedy’ mock trial of Gus’s ex-wife Dorothy, all for the benefit of hundreds of rich and powerful guests at a high-concept fancy dress party in a stadium. You read that right.
The play explores the pressures of precarity in the arts, and the extent to which creatives are willing to debase themselves, and why. With fifty grand on the line, artistic differences give way to ethical ones. Ruby and Vincent have to decide how far they are prepared to go to get their windfall, and whether they are willing to back each other up as the whole thing goes from strange, to messed up, to completely off the chain.
Ruby and Vincent are played by Kathleen Burns and Dan Bain, two of the country’s most experienced improvisors, who probably have about 40 years’ worth of experience in being professionally funny between them. The pair play their roles with all the relish of people exorcising long-held demons. Connie O’Callaghan is terrific as talented NASDA grad Caitlyn, who’s waiting on a callback from RADA. She multi-roles her way through all the other characters: drunk punters, handsy audience members, and sanctimonious trophy wives. She also plays the frail but furious millionaire Gus himself, who’s like a gurning combination of Yosemite Sam and the geriatric, near-death grandpa from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
Increasingly bizarre shenanigans aside, the play deals seriously with the facts of life in a poorly-paid, unregulated industry that exploits highly skilled and well-trained people, in which the lowest common denominator is often the quickest way to make a living. It’s not that art and commerce can’t operate side by side, but that there’s a grimy transactional element to dressing up as French sommeliers, or roaming off-brand characters with shaky accents, or doing custom improv for drunk wine mums, in which the power balance between the haves and the have nots is way off. Key targets those people who are treated unfairly, but cope by exploiting others further down the pecking order. By the end, we’re offered a choice: the money or the bag solidarity*.
The opening night audience is stacked with theatre and creative arts professionals (the walking wounded), who experience a sort of collective catharsis. The opening of the show is essentially a play-by-play demonstration of the grubby carnie tricks of audience engagement, and it’s all in from there. There’s a litany of niche gags for those with sticky-handed knowledge of the industry – I burst out laughing at Ruby’s earnest desire to put together an experimental Viewpoints work – though I don’t think that that’s at the expense of a general audience. If anything, Class Act does a comedic public service in shining a light on all the ways that being funny for hire is, for want of a less crass phrase, incredibly fucking weird. The next time you think about hiring a roaming character, cruise ship host, or comedy waiter, consider upping their fee.
*Join your union.
Class Act runs until Saturday 20 April, 2024.
Flat City Field Notes 