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An Evening Of Playback Theatre, The Brunswick, Hove, May 18
Sometimes theatre is so bad it's good. This was just awful.
Picture, if you will, three actors with all the charisma of a glass of really flat shandy, soliciting anecdotes and then turning them into the kind of skits you'd expect your three-year-old to improvise if you'd asked for a diatribe on her life so far in the style of Anton Chekhov.
Andrew, Helen and Jules (although they could have been Rod, Jane and Freddy) just didn't seem to have anything which marked them out as entertainers, save the unflattering camel's toe leggings and disturbing kids' TV tops.
Andrew, in particular, was so lacking in range that he seemed incapable of offering any facial expression other than that of a tramp startled by a fire alarm.
I can't remember anyone suggesting scenarios involving tramps or fire alarms, although I must admit to nodding off during a couple of turgid interactions from the only audience in England which could have made the actors appear interesting.
My mum's cat is more quick-witted than this trio. And he was killed by a car eight years ago.
Whose Line Is It Anyway without the jokes. Or any discernible point.