“Above all, this is a comedy showcase with plenty to laugh at”
We start with a few basic rules of dating. But, despite their comic value, not ones that we really want to take on board. The protagonist – a character called ‘The Manny’ – is supposedly enjoying his lifestyle. By day he looks after posh kids and his nights are filled with casual dates. The lack of joy or purpose is unconcealed. Deliberate even. He won’t allow himself to feel anything substantial or lasting. “I’m falling for her – I’m going to get hurt” encapsulates an attitude borne of some deep-seated wound, or fear. The reasons behind this are not explored, which makes Sam McArdle’s job of winning the audience over that much harder.
But he succeeds. McArdle, the actor and writer who has brought this one-hander to the stage, also brings the required self-deprecation, initially, for the audience to root for such a self-destructive character. And more than the required amount of humour, albeit of the darker variety. The obvious comparison is ‘Fleabag’, but there are also definite shades of Nick Hornby’s ‘About A Boy’. “The Manny” is inspired by McArdle’s personal experience of being a male nanny, working for rich single mums in West London. Early drafts were written during lockdown, so it is inevitable that the themes of loneliness and detachment are going to rise to the surface.
Just as he is resigning himself to a life passing by without any real purpose, the Manny meets Molly, a once-hopeful actress who is now just as disillusioned with her life as he is with his. She sells beetroot brownies in Borough market, as opposed to playing Cleopatra on Broadway. The two are drawn to each other. Meanwhile, in his parallel existence, he meets Michael, a precocious seven-year-old Right-Wing child with no father figure. Until the Manny comes along, that is, and they both have lessons in life to deal to each other. Mel Fullbrook’s sharp direction shifts the action between the two scenarios with the seamless precision of a film editor.
The show runs into difficulties, however, when the character of the Manny truly starts to unravel, and the premise of the comedy becomes muddied. As McArdle digs deeper, he exposes fragments of the subtext, but doesn’t pull them up to the surface. It is clear that the Manny has ‘issues’ and although it’s not explicit, the term ‘mental health’ is never far from his lips. And it is not clear whether societal pressure or the increasing use of dating apps is being blamed for the characters’ lack of connection. These people are hurting in some way, and while we can relate to the situations, it’s not easy to relate to the characters. The ‘Manny’ himself comes full circle – which is a touch unsatisfying as it offsets any sense of self-realisation, redemption or of a journey we can empathise with or connect to.
But maybe we aren’t supposed to over analyse. Above all, this is a comedy showcase with plenty to laugh at. McArdle has the art of entertainment off to a tee. With his comic timing and easy demeanour with his audience, he has the expressiveness of a true raconteur; which is a precious gift in itself.
“It’s an interesting premise, and a great format in theory.”
There have been plenty of meditations on the problems with social media and influencers. And there have been plenty of stories told about the ugly truth behind fame. Fame Whore has as stab at both. And though we’ve seen these ideas many times before, there’s a complexity and messiness to this one which sticks with me on my journey home, and which ultimately makes it worth a watch.
Becky Biro is a hard-working drag artist, showcasing her sass and silly song-writing across the city. But she finds herself caught between wanting to do the right thing and promote the rights of the underrepresented, and being completely and utterly selfish, taking what she feels she deserves without consequence.
Having been rejected from Drag Factor year after year, she decides the only way she’ll be accepted is by gaining an undeniably massive and committed social media following. But how to go about it?
The show is split in to two main chunks: ‘1. Becky Biro is a good person and all of this just happened to her’, and ‘2. Becky is a total bitch, and this is what she really did’. It’s a great way to split up the narrative: first we get to know Becky, we’re on her side. Then we get down to the gritty truth.
This is the kind of drag I love, on a shoe-string budget, but with plenty of extra touches to keep our campy spirits up. A brilliant nod to Drag-Race star Sasha Velour’s shaking out her wig to reveal raining petals is a particular highlight.
Alys Whitehead’s design- a mirrored floor, a colour-changing ring light, and a glittery blue curtain- set the scene, but ultimately, Gigi Zahir is the show. Zahir, aka Crayola the Queen, is magnetic as fame-hungry Becky. Touting shallow nonsense- “Beckly Biro is delicious and good tasting but also nutritious. It’s not just donuts for dinner!”- so fluently, it’s as though the person behind the drag has been completely lost under that enormous blue wig. But Zahir is also a dab hand at dropping the façade abruptly, if only for a moment, so that we see the honest, whimpering desperation.
It’s an interesting premise, and a great format in theory. The trouble is, it’s a half hour too long, and ends up being a bit of a drag. Whilst Zahir is fabulous, and writer Tom Ratcliffe has moments of charming vitriol, the story just isn’t really meaty enough for 90 minutes straight through.
