Jacob Grunberger spends a lot of his one hour show talking about a subject as intimate and private as his phallus (the show’s title has been shortened to cut off “my d***”), and yet despite that, we still struggle to connect with the performer as he shares an unstructured and wandering narrative hurrying through themes of grief and substance abuse. He forgoes audience eye contact for a pensive gaze into the distance, the edgy comedy is forced and rushed in its delivery, and the 60-minute play comes to such an abrupt conclusion it feels half as long.
The problematic pacing is, unfortunately, exemplified in the joke behind this play’s title being revealed to us prematurely, as a result of a PowerPoint presentation on a TV screen upstage skipping a few necessary slides. We’ve all been there, sure, and so I’m not going to criticise a natural slip-up too harshly, but it does mirror Noel Wallace’s direction around Grunberger’s clumsy comedic timing. That’s because so many lines follow a rhythmic flow which prep us for the upcoming punchline, but every time it is made far too quickly and in the same dry, unvaried tone.
Take Grunberger talking about famous exports from Essex – Helen Mirren, Maggie Smith… and? The rule of threes suggests the last one will be more underwhelming (it’s Olly Murs), but his name is uttered so flatly it fails to utilise the subversion of expectations integral to this kind of humour, which is so often immature and at odds with the more serious demeanour being established by Grunberger. Even when a gag is more a matter of wordplay, there’s no intonation or emphasis to highlight the wit.
When a performance is so contained, it’s those moments where things are a lot more lively that our attention and focus is reenergised. Grunberger is a talented rapper, performing with a rhythm, liveliness and emotiveness we so desperately needed to see in the remainder of the play.
And there’s a reason why I’m avoiding talking about the plot in detail – that’s because there’s hardly one at all. Adopting a chronological approach to scenes, Grunberger starts with memories of boarding school, bed wetting and the loss of his father at an early age, and then moves on to conversations around sexual intercourse and drug consumption. It ends with what should have been the climax, talking about the “shadows” representing his mental health struggles.
Grunberger loves a metaphor, and talks about “all the world’s a stage” being a great example of the literary device with little explanation as to why. A scene about meeting his girlfriend Rihanna – yes, like the singer – uses umbrellas to illustrate the sacrifices made in a relationship (giving someone your umbrella means you will be exposed to the rain), which is a clever way of putting it, but appears shoehorned in just for the sake of an awkward sex joke.
Metaphors are quite the ethereal literary device, providing visualisation and symbolism for what is often a plain, natural experience. Interpretive dance sequences and movement in between dialogue go some way to convey additional meaning (Grunberger curling up into what almost resembles the foetal position, as audio plays discussing his father, is a simple example), though this play still doesn’t really say anything beyond its string of unconnected anecdotes.
Its title, also a reference to circumcision, could well have been about masculinity – so often needlessly associated with male genitalia and its size – and his loss of a father figure, but unfortunately it is instead a bit of a let down. Pun very much not intended.
★★
Stop Trying to Look At… is now playing at the Canal Café Theatre until 31 May. No access performances are scheduled currently.
Images: Rankin.
Disclaimer: I was invited to watch ‘Stop Trying to Look At…’ for free in exchange for a review of the performance as a member of the press. I did not receive payment for this article and all opinions stated above are honest and my own.
Liam O'Dell 