Melbourne International Comedy Festival review by Steve Bennett

Headliners, a revolving line-up of top-flight American comedians, used to be one of the bigger tickets at the Melbourne festival. But this midweek performance was probably at less than a quarter of capacity, though plenty of seats were curtained off to make it seem busier.

Those who did make the effort were rewarded with a decidedly mixed bag. Opening act Dave Merhenje had an appealing flow, a ball of high-voltage nervous energy promising a lively stream of consciousness, with expressive hand movements giving punchy emphasis. He seemed so promising, but if he had material, we saw precious little of it.

Instead he opened by talking sarcastically about the audience’s reaction, and barely left the subject, reminding us how disappointing we were to him throughout his set. Australian, like British, festival audiences are a lot more reserved than the typically excitable US club crowd, meaning laughs tend to be relatively short-lived with little momentum to fill gaps. But rather than delivering more gags to compensate, he did fewer, abandoning most of his prepared set to bitch about how odd we were, and to get embroiled in crowd work that bore little fruit.

Sorry if we, as an audience, didn’t live up to your expectations, Dave. But you didn’t live up to ours, either.

Second act Brooke Van Poppelen didn’t fare much better. This 30-something New Yorker seemed too much like another cookie-cutter observational comedian, with all-too familiar rhythms and topics, but relatively sparse with the punchlines. Themes include the thread that she’s a personal mess, out partying while her friends are settling down having children and brunch, while she comments on giant dildos, condescending adverts and laxative tea. And like that beverage, almost all these routines pass straight through you.

There’s more potential in stories about her family – the online video her mum made to audition for Survivor sounds hilarious, if only we could see it. And she notes that she and her brother, a religious minister, share the job of speaking in public ‘but my stories are true.’ Sadly that obvious gag is about as good as her formulaic set got.

Three cheers, then, for the brilliantly quirky Dave Hill, taking to the stage in dapper Paisley-pattern cravat, to regale us, after plenty of silly physical business, of his worldly adventures. In his mind, he would be a louche, ladies’ man – but his stories, and indeed his demeanour, reveal someone far more socially inept.

Indeed he gets his thrills from the in-built bidet on Japanese toilets, as drily described in a flawless routine that builds the ridiculous situation elegantly and with a laugh at every turn. He’s a charming, guileless ingenue with an outlook that’s distinctively his own and a collection of wonderfully entertaining anecdotes painting vividly funny pictures.

In contrast to mild-mannered Hill, Seaton Smith, pictured, offers a mesmerising, livewire performance, full of joy and amazing comic energy. He doubles up at his own jokes, clicks his fingers as if suddenly remembering a new bit of material and addresses the audience en masse as ‘crowd’ –  apparently small things all, but which combine give him a unique attitude. Closest might be a well-read hipster wired up on too many double espressos.

While his 1000-watt cheeriness is infectious, it masks astute social observations that can have a real edge or intelligence, while other gags are just funny stories wrapped in charismatic self-deprecation. Smith may be a new name to many, but I suspect that won’t be the case for long, as he’s a comic with unmistakeable star quality.

Review date: 3 Apr 2014
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett