Festival (18)

Anthony Quinn
Friday 15 July 2005 17:50 BST
Comments

Your support helps us to tell the story

From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.

At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.

The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.

Your support makes all the difference.

The scene is Edinburgh at festival time, a honeypot of opportunity around which an ensemble of dogged and desperate characters congregate. A young hopeful arrives with her one-woman show about Dorothy Wordsworth; a Catholic cleric stages his own earnest playlet about child abuse in the church; a troupe of fey Canadian performance artists rent out a posh town house and trash it.

The main focus shifts between a radio journalist (Daniela Nardini) who's on the jury for a comedy award (the Perrier, though never named) and a bibulous Irish stand-up (Chris O'Dowd) who's out to seduce her, possibly because he wants her vote. Known to both of them is a strikingly obnoxious celebrity comedian (Stephen Mangan), who looks like Jerry Seinfeld but is surely modelled on a Brit. A slave to lechery and acute self-regard, he's poised for a big break in Hollywood but remains furiously competitive with anyone who might have a modicum of talent and meanwhile treats his PR as little better than a serf.

You can instantly detect something curdled about the tone from the soundtrack, when the skirling pipes meant to invoke Caledonian splendour start to blare like a siren: alarums within! The petty rivalries and resentments of Festival types bubble away like a witch's cauldron, and Griffin's careful stirring elicits a sulphurous whiff of misanthropy that most British comedy prefers to ignore. Film comedy, that is.

TV comedy, where Griffin made her mark with The Book Group, has come close to it with The Office, and you may have some fun spotting at least three actors from the latter doing bit-parts here.

It's not just the booze-fuelled profanity, either; an abrasive sexual candour, including hand-jobs, cunnilingus and something nasty up the back passage, has striven honourably for the film's 18 certificate. But as a narrative it doesn't really achieve the desired Altmanesque flow, and several of the minor plotlines feel very hit-and-miss.

But a big hand, please, for Griffin and her team for their Altmanesque ambition, and for those poison darts that fly straight and true. How I felt for the two comedians patronised into silence by the perky awards juror, who then leaves them with a sickening valediction. "Stay funny!"

Join our commenting forum

Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies

Comments

Thank you for registering

Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged inPlease refresh your browser to be logged in