A sign at the ticket desk for “Sketch-22” warns of “mature content.” The sign refers to the show's racy elements—comedy that relies on swearing, violence, sex, or drugs. But “mature” can be understood more than one way…
If you are not easily offended, “Sketch-22” is hilarious. I wore myself out laughing. I was just disappointed that “Sketch-22” alienated part of its audience with crude material when the truly “mature” content still had edge and still got laughs.
The video sketches that break up the evening are clever, well-done spoofs. The writing (for both videos and live sketches) is uneven, but you probably won't notice because where words fail, the performers don't. (A case in point: Josh Weale's dead-on take on his father David's storytelling. Phenomenal performance, weak script.)
The performers' delivery is energetic, well-timed, and focussed on the strengths of the players. In addition to imitating his father, Josh Weale does good work in drag and diatribe. Matt Rainnie offers self-effacing physical comedy, funniest when he does interpretive dance with a gymnast's ribbon. Andrew Sprague's relaxed charm adds a note of understatement where it's most needed.
Graham Putnam steals every scene he's in, whether he's playing a porn director snorting icing sugar, a nasty hip-hop Anne, or a deadpan Grim Reaper. His range and timing are a revelation. So is Rob MacDonald's, uh, satin underwear. Other than the partial nudity, Rob provides the show's most truly “mature” content, including a satire of Island songwriter Larry Gorman and a killingly funny lesson in “speakin' loike an OIslanter.”
Really, the show is so good in parts that I can't help but wish it were better. A director might have made the difference and helped the ensemble eliminate the cheap shots at the expense of easy targets. They need to drop the pop culture impressions and bad accents-other-than-the-Island-one (which risked being obscure, absurd, racist, or poorly executed). The show also runs long (“Sketch-22” is a great wordplay-based title without requiring 22 sketches). And, sadly, the weakest sketches, “The Hollow, Parts I & II” were used to close the first and second sets.
“Sketch-22” makes the important point that “Island culture” is more than kilts and ceilidhs and freckles and ice cream. Youth culture here is as alienated as it is anywhere, and globalized popular culture is as deeply imbricated. But the best sketches are smart, not smart-ass, about these facts.
“Sketch-22” is also very testosteroney and at times made me wish the Seagals were doing more dates this summer, or that we could see a revival of the “Drill Queens,” or “Shameless Hussies,” or “Safety in Numbers”—though some might call these shows too estrogenny.
I wonder about the gender divide in original Island comedic productions since the demise of “Annekenstein” . . . Can we truly achieve “mature content” with male and female writer/performers keeping to their own sides? Or is the Island comedy scene like a junior high school dance, waiting for the first boy or girl to cross the gym floor?
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