Pierre Novellie protests that life is getting harder for observational comedians because, in these siloed times, we have so few reference points in common. It would be a more persuasive theory if he didn’t begin his show with two of the most relatable topics known to comedy, becoming middle-aged and moving to the suburbs. He’s clever and funny on both, mind you, and throughout a show that, at least for a while, cleaves to familiar tropes of thirtysomething standup: fussiness about dishwasher stacking; fear of turning into a “crusty old colonel”.
You might incline to the conclusion that the South African-born Brit is a better writer than he is a performer. His one-liners are frequently dazzling (“I played rugby at school the same way that horses fought in the war”) but his show is formally conventional and his delivery a little stiff. I spent a portion of the show thinking along those lines, until the sheer quality of Novellie’s routines in its second half bulldozed my resistance. His grumpy riff on how people dress in airports, with a droll sidebar on Winnie the Pooh’s couture, is fun, but pales next to its succeeding section, on the game of chicken Novellie played with the cleaners in his Melbourne hotel.
