We’re sat in a circle set for a sexy seance — summoning instructions circulated. We complete them in reverse — a series of steps designed to prime us for the supreme silliness to come. A brave volunteer, as per written instructions, sacrifices themselves on the altar of good natured shame — the crux of any clown act worth it’s salt. We all release a collective scream.
Before George Fenn has bodily entered the space he is there in spirit, teaching a masterclass on the creation of liminal space. By the time he looms above us, spookily lit from behind, we already have a shared understanding of this strange world he has created — one in which the normal rules do not apply.
There are clearly people here for the ‘sexy’ aspect, the promise of theatrically relevant nudity. Fenn certainly has presence, appearing in sharp silhouette, his David Byrne shoulders striking an angle with his lithe form. If confidence is sexy, he’s got that in spades, strutting about issuing gestural commands like a cockerel surveying his brood. But as the show develops, or devolves, it’s clear that Fenn is making the classic bait and switch — poking fun at sexiness as a concept, playing with our expectations, pushing the joke as far as it will go…then a little further.
A theatrical alchemist, Fenn has the rare talent to create something utterly ridiculous yet very clever. Less sexy than toe-curlingly awkward, less Fringe in the ‘Stings than Cringe in the ‘Stings, he worms his way into our brains making it crazy, yet safe. There’s an element of consent in the interaction that is miles away from the experience of sitting in the front row of some stand-ups. Kept on our toes, there’s no knowing where he might go next, but we are captivated, invested. The sensual aspect — consensual misting, the heady smell of shaving foam or marmite — adds a layer of realness to the unreality, further dissolving the wall between audience and performer.
The cock spotters may be disappointed. He keeps his double undies on and I need not have sent my impressionable teenager away. We need to invest as far as part three to earn the full frontal, apparently. But as the spell breaks we leave sharing a grin, or a grimace, united by having willingly and wonderingly participated in George Fenn’s bizarre pseudo-seance.
by Rosheen FitzGerald
