Edinburgh Fringe comedy review

Weird but confident is Tom Lawrinson's stated vibe. And that seems pretty accurate for a stand-up who likes taking his whimsy to some pretty dark places.

Not for him making obvious connections with the crowd, as he opens slowly with some interrogations about people's favourite supermarket meal deals, extrapolating entire personalties from the sandwich, snack and drink choices, invariably negatively. And he really splits the room along the lines of breast and formula-fed babies, marvelling that so many of us have had this conversation with our mothers. While, perhaps more freakily, many haven't.

It's crowd work designed to just ever so slightly keep you on edge. And he's happy when a group of lads decide it's not for them, casually wishing death upon them after they've left. He's a man who'll gladly give you a spare chair in the pub but insist you make his acquaintance to earn it, come into his world.

A silly, seemingly throwaway impression sets the tone, the innocent capriciousness of the setup suddenly spun into a psychological horror where Lawrinson shifts from pigeon to bird of prey, gaslighting an old lady for no other reason than shits and giggles.

Later, he becomes a cuckoo, exploiting a dating app, not for romantic purposes, but to inveigle himself into a cosy, settled family. He's a simmering, quietly intense manchild with an often bulging-eyed, penetrating stare, pained grin and a voice reminiscent of Reece Shearsmith's in moments of greatest exasperation.

Lawrison has previously been part of a Fringe play about a Harry Potter-themed sketch show gone awry and J.K Rowling's creation is a recurring preoccupation. Offering no notes for those not equally au fait with the boy wizard, he archly suggests that if the constant drive for new television and film adaptations doesn't keep Potter in the cultural zeitgeist for a while yet, Rowling trashing her relationship with her fans over trans issues ought to do it. He's clearly an enthusiast but can see the problems.

Critiquing the Tom Riddle plot twist in the Chamber of Secrets is a niche reference. But his faux-annoyance attracts solid laughs as he imagines Voldemort struggling to attract disciples in the alternative universe he's conjured.

Funnier and more imaginative though is the sex scenario he's fantasised around the Hagrid character. And a sustained assassination of David Tennant's performance in The Goblet of Fire, seethingly, persuasively argues that only a poshboy actor would have been granted that degree of scenery-chewing licence.

Lawrinson's class chippiness here is appealing, and directly follows a lovely bit about dogs that survived the Titanic. But it's really an excuse for some expressive physical mugging of his own, those bulging eyes and his propensity to roll his tongue and sensuously lick his lips to the fore. His spirit animal is almost certainly a Hogwarts house elf.

Whether it's Fringe fatigue or not, I couldn't tell, but he also has a habit of starting routines with a sigh. And he seldom seems to greatly care whether they fly or die, monitoring the crowd's reactions and threatening to withhold the third scenario in a contrived bit about friends cheering him up - their actions directed by children's television programming - if the audience isn't completely on board.

There are no real recriminations, just acceptance that he may not be for everyone, part of his shrugging, take-me-as-I-am persona. An unusual down-to-earthness about his flights of fantasy.

Indeed, given how much he indulges his nerdiness and perviness, his fey, cartoonish physicality and how indifferent he seems to the crowd, it's a testimony to his writing and stage presence that for the most part Lawrinson is effortlessly engaging. This isn't a debut that will blow anyone away. But it has enough quirky charm and oblique takes, with a strongly sketched character, to suggest considerable promise for the future.

Review date: 26 Aug 2023
Reviewed by: Jay Richardson
Reviewed at: Underbelly Bristo Square