Edinburgh Fringe comedy review

Rob Auton has never had a problem cracking open the window into his soul. Yet the everyday wonder of opening one's eyes seems like a topic tailor-made for his poetic, existential musings.

As the Yorkshireman's profile has steadily risen, his rooms have gotten bigger and his preoccupations less narrowly idiosyncratic and more universal. The rudimentary nature of his props have all but disappeared, a wordsmith's sheaf of notes, casually flourished, notwithstanding.

Instead, in the Assembly Roxy, he dramatically emerges out of the darkness between evocatively lit banks of candles, a romantic, throwback with his long hair and beard, surely destined for more supporting roles than that of bad performance poet in an episode of Cold Feet. In that tiny part, his full-hearted living in the moment was contrasted by the professional disinterest of the cast the second the camera cut.

Elsewhere, in a typically enchanted appeal to the majesty of the Moon, he's suddenly cast in full spotlight, the distinction between the slick stage show trappings and his down-to-earth, versifier-of-the-mundane persona well found. When Auton hails the Moon, it's both an awe-inducing heavenly body and an opportunity for him to enliven the night of drunkards with his prized telescope. A bard of the people, charging only a modest sum.

Call it stand-up belatedly catching up with mindfulness, but I'm fast losing count of the number of comedians this Fringe who ask audiences to close their eyes, focus on their breathing and relax at the top of their show. I don't mind it one bit, even if it's often tongue-in-cheek. Auton's a more beguiling spirit guide than most, though he qualifies the meditation by confirming that his style of comedy won't be for everyone and needs a bit of upselling.

Jumping ahead of the reviews, he's less interested in punchlines and meeting expectations, he maintains, than exploring the human condition. At his peerless best, each of these aspects coalesce beautifully in a thought inspired by him visiting the grave of Sylvia Plath, the sublime ache of mortality and legacy instantly undercut by brutally funny rejection.

If The Eyes Open and Shut Show has a point, it's in drawing a distinction between seeing and perceiving, seeing and really seeing what's around us, the misnomer of whale watching when nature does not perform for our benefit. How many men receive socks and underwear each Christmas and yet pay scant regard? Auton amusingly observes successive hidden depths in the annual ritual. 

The wisdom of Eckhart Toll, the growling lyricism of Tom Waits and the ecstasy of religious faith as a vicar overcome by their spiritual duty – these are the setups for Auton's flights of fancy. Often, you'll seek in vain for those elusive punchlines. But he turns this deficit into a positive when he entertainingly reflects on his parochial, peculiar humour reaching an uncomprehending America through online videos, to widespread confusion in the comments section.

Regardless, you can't help but feel warm towards him and everyone around you as he relates an incident of polite, contagious humanity in a lift, his participation curtailed because of the lingering influence of manifestly ridiculous, still powerful, old wives' tales. And when the hirsute six footer is repeatedly confused for babies in a cafe, with only minor contrivance in the retelling, well, he's almost as loveable as the middle-class infants.

That's never, ever been enough for a punchy hour of stand-up, with quite a few of Auton's observations simply dissipating in a vapour of semi-poignancy, his more ardent critics not entirely wrong.

Equally though, when he arrives at his summarising conclusion, he's more empathetic, pithily persuasive, delightfully expressive and yes, clear-sighted in his take-home message, than most comics manage in an entire career of awkwardly bolting meaning onto disparate routines.

Review date: 16 Aug 2024
Reviewed by: Jay Richardson
Reviewed at: Assembly Roxy