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The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Entertainment
Brian Logan

Jordan Brookes: Fontanelle review – heady mix of uneasy laughs, sexual candour and Titanic spoof

Masculinity in crisis … Jordan Brookes in Fontanelle.
Masculinity in crisis … Jordan Brookes in Fontanelle. Photograph: Jennifer Forward-Hayter

If you were picking a comedian likely to branch out into musical theatre, Jordan Brookes would be far, far down your list. This former Edinburgh comedy award winner has spent a career plumbing the recesses of his psyche, and emerging with twisty experimental comedy that never lets its audience settle. Miserable, sometimes; Les Misérables, never. So imagine the surprise – delight, even – to find the 38-year-old dabbling in song-and-dance in Fontanelle, which responds to his disappointment at a recent Titanic musical by having a crack at his own.

For Brookes-watchers, the very premise is a hoot – but there’s more going on here than a spoof musical. That, indeed, is barely going on at all. We get only shards of the Titanic show: half a song here, a stray chord there. The rest is characteristic Brookes: a standup show with the markers of standup stripped away, the better to generate unease as an odd barefoot man roams the room, holding forth about “anal play” and his unresolved masculinity.

That, perhaps, is where the Titanic comes in. Brookes is interested in the process that turns tragedy into entertainment and, to test those boundaries, there are teasing jokes about 9/11 and the recent ill health of Céline Dion. But the Titanic disaster also opens up a conversation about the “brave boys” who sacrificed themselves so women, children (and dogs!) may be saved. Is that a useful template for masculinity? Is anything?

It’s up to you how seriously to take this inquiry into male wellbeing: Brookes’ tongue lingers precisely on the border marked “in-cheek”. If you want uncomplicated laughs, enjoy the excerpts from his just-so iceberg-calamity musical. If you want something more complex, there are ruminations on ego, oblivion, and how much more we might care for one another if, like babies (Brookes’ new nephew among them), we all had soft patches on the crown of our heads. Cue mime of our host being penetrated at both ends of his body: Brookes’ trademark queasy sexual candour is very much intact here. One doubts a West End transfer beckons for his not-quite-a-musical – but in fringe terms, it’s a blockbuster.

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