Getting the gig going isn’t Stan Stanley’s strongest suit. His banter is stilted and he’s easily distracted – whether it be by a fly, a latecomer or a man eating crisps – without finding much comedy in any of it. At another gig it might work, especially one without an over-talkative punter front-row centre, but it’s an awkward start tonight.

But from those inauspicious beginnings, a quietly delightful stand-up routine slowly grows. Stanley’s forte is acting out moments of acute embarrassment, whether it be being smothered in his mother’s pendulous breasts, an uncomfortable roller-coaster ride with his mother-in-law or having his shorts inflate in a Jacuzzi. He mimes out the moments skilfully, especially his bewildered reaction to what’s going on around him, creating witty cartoon-like scenes from his own discomfort.

The cornerstone of this show is a childhood diary his father recently unearthed, allowing him to reminisce about his gaucheness on the sports field, describe dead pets with a callous bluntness that’s as hilarious as it is horrific, or confess to his membership of the Airfix model club. Yes, it’s more embarrassment, remembered in vivid detail.

This is one of the lower-profile shows in the festival: in a pub function room, early in the evening, running at just 45 minutes, so expectations may be low. And that works in Stanley’s favour as his funny but subdued physicality can sucker people in to an unexpected good time. Low-key, but effortlessly enjoyable.

Reviewed by:Steve Bennett
Melbourne, April 2009