Mark Watson: The Infinite Show
We all know of that witty bloke down the pub – the one who has us crying tears of mirth into our beer with his anecdotal hilarity. Some of us think that we are that bloke. It’s a peculiarly British tradition woven into the fabric of stand up in this country, in sharp contrast to the character studies of the French or the wisecracking Americans. For a couple of hours we willingly suspend disbelief, happy to share in the conceit that a performer is doing little more that chatting away, ruminating on life with a bunch of mates, largely making up as he goes along.
Mark Watson is surely the master of the art - not only is much of his material genuinely improvised, but even that which is prepared feels like it's moulded to fit each audience in front of him (not least those from Diss, a town that seems to quietly obsess him). A lot of what went on during the nearly sold out opening evening (“I admit it,” he confides, “Thursday was probably hubris") of his three night run at the Playhouse was improbably odd, and unless the couple from Wisconsin turn up every night, thrillingly unique. Watson seemed as surprised as anyone that listing the states of the United States in turn, in an effort to “guess” where they were from, was quite so funny. The fact that someone from the audience bagged the right answer first time after seventeen fails was typical of the serendipitous comedy he seems to magically draw out from those around him. Whether it was pterodactyl noises, octogenarian euthanasia, or Keira Knightley’s overbite, he seems to have the uncanny ability to not just be funny, but make his audience funny as well – he is like a great host working the room of a brilliant party.
Even when he introduced prepared material it felt less like an act, and more like a pal sharing a familiar anecdote. It was telling that, when he said to those who have turned up at the Playhouse for the second time this year that they may have heard some of this before, instead of feeling cheated, they look thrilled to be in on the joke to come. And make no mistake, he can do jokes - the one with the bee and the sink and the spoon is a well-crafted gem. But for the most part he evokes empathy as much hilarity, a theme he continually returned to. His protestations of the truly awful sounding Center Parcs, his over-reliance on his mother, or his guilty disdain for his son’s behaviour, are all funny because they feel true and universal. He is a performer that raises a knowing smile as much as belly laugh - one that is witty as often as he is funny.
Unusually for Watson, he was also unafraid to tiptoe into darker territory, with a frank admission that his life was currently a mess, tangled in an acrimonious divorce. It led to a disquieting silence that was only partly dispelled by a riff on mobiles. Lamenting the loss of pay-as-you-go phones on the basis they limit the fury and frequency of vicious texts was funny, but was also pretty grim stuff. He proved masterly at marshalling the mood of the masses away from these dark waters, and soon had us chuckling again with his mum’s candid and belated revelation of Banky’s identity, but the abiding resonance was of a man reaching out, and trying to puzzle out, where it had all gone wrong.
Watson’s disarming persona belies the skill with which he handles this sort of light and shade – with the possible exception of Stewart Lee’s clinical dissection of the tropes of comedy, no one is better at playing with the form. He delighted at an audience member leaving early, self depreciatingly wondering why we hadn’t joined him. He teases us with the promise of an interval that is repeatedly postponed, and then when it comes, he peeks from behind the curtain, lights still up, filling up in on what is to come. He even warns us of his impending sales drive when it’s all over – that he’ll be out in the foyer flogging dodgy old DVDs.
“Just avoid eye contact,” he advises. “I promise I won’t come home with you.”
The truth is that eye contact could happily been made, as we all know, and as Watson’s warm, embracing, performance makes clear. The abiding message of his infinity show is best captured in the hundreds of cards scattered across the stage, each one completed by folk who have already seen him, and soon to be complemented by those that have been filled in tonight. At a Mark Watson gig, we are all members one another, happy to spend time with a man who is a consummate performer, a master of his art and, perhaps most importantly of all, a jolly decent bloke.
