Review: GARRY STARR: CLASSIC PENGUINS, Arts Theatre

There’s a fine line between genius and idiocy, and, in his determined effort to “save literature”, Garry Starr doesn’t so much walk it as perform the can-can on it wearing black tails, orange flippers and nothing else. In a show that drops jaws (and, in at least one case, drawers), he flaps through a catalogue of Penguin classics, bringing each to life in a gloriously stupid way.

The alter ego of Australian comic Damien Warren‑Smith is the very model of a modern clown. His top-tier education from Ecole Philippe Gaulier serves him well and means that his bread and butter is absolute absurdity; those expecting something less will leave somewhat disappointed. The only thing remotely predictable here is the constant pattern of selecting a book from a shelf of orange-and-black Penguins, showing us its title via a live video feed and Starr then giving us his own spin on it before he dashes the tome to the ground and starts over. 

Some skits are more obvious than others. Robert Drewe’s The Bodysurfers sees the naked Starr carried over the audience, passed from row to row until he reaches the back, while a magnificent two-foot leap is the result of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Others are far more oblique: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein becomes an unexpectedly dark cabaret as the performer poignantly sings Billie Eilish’s “What Was I Made For?” And his nudity is not there just for shock value. At least, not entirely. Hermann Melville’s Moby Dick, for example, warrants a bald cap, a familiar Nineties tune and an energetically windmilling of the penis.

The audience is a key component of Classic Penguins’ appeal. Even those in the pews who know and follow the first rule of cabaret are not immune from being involved in some fashion. The plucky volunteers invited up on stage take part in a variety of book-related tasks. These range from sitting very, very still with one’s head between one’s knees to stripping everything off. Starr's crowdwork is all done with supreme confidence and there's a real sense that we are always laughing with whoever is up there, never at. Be wary, though: the re-enactment of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island should only be attempted by the brave at heart or budding amateur proctologists.

Starr has form when it comes to these hour(ish)-long compendium comedies that make for perfect Fringe fodder. His …Performs Everything in 2018 saw him try to “save theatre” by rattling through thirteen flavours of stage action from nude ballet to pop-flecked tragedy. Greece Lightning (created to “save the Greek economy”) followed four years later, depicting various characters from the pantheon of ancient gods, half-gods and hangers-on. His pattern-based shows have a pattern of their own.

Francesca Moody (Fleabag, Baby Reindeer) has signed up Classic Penguins for her production company so try not to look too shocked if (or, more likely, when) she shepherds this to a small screen near you. Quite whether it will work in 2D as well as it does in 3D is debatable: how will the innate anarchy be translated by streamers apparently leaning towards so-called “second screen content”? 

Moreover, will Moody and Warren-Smith play it safe by having Starr go on a mission to “save” TV, music, cinema (none of which particularly need saving) and musicals? Even Mischief Theatre — who continue to make enviable mileage from their brilliant Goes Wrong formula with their new Christmas production — have branched out somewhat through critically-acclaimed hits like The Comedy About Spies.

Its clear throughout that Starr stands on the shoulders of clown giants and, in Puddles Pity Party, a giant clown. Like his body, this frenetic penguin lays out his influences for all to see: the terrifying menace that is Doctor Brown, the shameless slapstick of Spymonkey, Meow Meow's wicked unpredictability and the confrontational vulnerability of Red Bastard. 

But those looking for literary illumination can forget it. Unlike Salty Brine’s emotional and intelligent mashups of seminal books and iconic musical back catalogues, Starr skims the surface of the literary canon like a penguin on a belly-slide: slick, fast and utterly shallow. Neither the Fringe-friendly show length nor the TikTok tempo help. Insight rarely makes an appearance; titles are name-checked, mocked and abandoned before a single theme can catch its breath. Grey matter rarely matters here. This is literature as contact sport, not contemplation, and that’s both its triumph and its trap. Even with all its enormous fun, Classic Penguins is more of a shower than a grower.

Classic Penguins continues at Arts Theatre until 14 December