My Kind of Michael

Michael Barrymore’s vertiginous fall from grace at the turn of the century remains one of the most profound about-face rejections of a national treasure in living memory. Notwithstanding his involvement in the murky death of Stuart Lubbock he has, after all, been largely cleared of wrongdoing, and yet he remains the subject of toxic conjecture and continued mistrust. All of which might explain the tiny audience for Nick Cassenbaun’s celebration of Barrymore’s talents at the Norwich Arts Centre. This was a great pity, as despite Cassenbaun’s frothy (and arguably wrongheaded) publicity blurb this examination of Barrymore’s appeal was altogether more thought-provoking and considered than “a playful tribute with gags aplenty”.
 
The central focus of My Kind of Michael was Cassenbaun’s childhood introduction to Barrymore’s talent by his Nan, who hardwired affection for the comic into Cassenbaun’s young brain. As much about familial connections and his Jewish upbringing as it was a run through of Barrymore’s biography, the show posed an interesting question; once you have decided someone is funny, how do you unthink that just because everyone else moves on? Using re-enactments of hesitant childhood performances, the wearing of silly wigs and a sprinkling of knowing musical cues, Cassenbaun’s made it clear that he understands the limits of Barrymore’s creaky old routines, but also that he can’t divorce himself from the muscle memory of how they made him feel at the time. He also makes clear an awareness of Barrymore’s contrary, erratic behaviour, framing an account of Barrymore’s exploits through the prism of capricious game show decisions. It was an effective device that, allied to considerable audience participation, lightened what might otherwise have been a heavy load.
 
With such a small audience one might have expected the logistics of encouraging people on stage to be a problem (and he was lucky to be gifted such a have-a-go group of people) but the effect of playing to a tiny crowd was curiously intimate and embracing. Essentially, everyone in the audience got a turn on the rides, be that dressing up in a celebri-tree or (in my case) being repeatedly kissed on the forehead by a stubble-chinned Nick. Some of the most effective scenes of this production were those featuring members of the audience, deftly given the space to be witty as they pretended to be Barrymore, his wife or his mother.
 
The show was not without its faults. The set was presumably intended as a pastiche of a game show backdrop, but was over elaborate and distracting. Andy Kelly came across as a personable fellow, but his musical contribution lacked focus or purpose. Most damning of all, the show took a while to get going and rather fizzled out at the end. If these issues had been the consequence of work in progress, they would have easily been forgiven. But far from being the show’s first outing, this was a year on from an Edinburgh run that garnered mixed reviews. It was disappointing that a performer who was clearly ready and able to tinker with the show (an unwieldy codicil about that Edinburgh outing had been tacked on the end) had chosen not to grapple with these structural weaknesses. Had he done so, by tightening up the narrative, by dispensing with some misfiring comedy business, and by concentrating on the plays central themes, he would have had something significant and meaningful to say about the fickle nature of fame and public affection. We still had an evening of knockabout fun with a charming host that was warm and inclusive, but how frustrating that, with a just a little more work and attention to detail, we could have had so much more.