Ben Elton, Harold Pinter Theatre, review: motormouth is the voice of sanity in a world gone mad
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Ahead of making his entrance in a new show that marks the 40th anniversary of his stage debut and his first West End run, Ben Elton announces himself as ‘the godfather of modern stand-up comedy’.
It’s pure arrogance, loaded with knowing hubris, but he’s got a point. For my generation, glued to the box in the 1980s, he didn't only invigorate the sitcom, he was the primary face of assertive, if flagrantly smug youth, seizing on stand-up’s punkish possibilities.
We could do with a bit of that fire right now. Fully apprised of the fact that he’s no longer a young Turk and comically aware of sounding like a grumpy old git, Elton nonetheless offers forthrightness in spades. His two-hour set reminds you why he mattered, why we still need him, and what stand-up can do: identify cultural trends and hold them, mirthfully, up to the light.
The timing of this foray is awful, yet the stuff of legend, given that the West End is in a state of omicron-assisted collapse. Elton, 62, praises the first night attendees for ‘bravery’, and embarks on a lung-busting act of morale-boosting. In terms of volume of words and ideas, this is a tour de force; there’s not a single Pinter pause to be heard.
“We’ve got a lot to get through,” he declares, as he enlarges on his theme – his confusion about the modern world. He is the incarnation of the bewildered common man.
Can one casually use the word ‘man’ anymore, to describe him or anyone else? The most risqué riff, at the end of the first half, moves on to the new battleground of gender identity versus biological sex. And, while he pays respect to the sensitivities involved, he ultimately throws us the life-line of simple humour. “Can you multitask? You’re a woman. On the other hand, if you believe you’re not only the best driver in the family, you’re the best driver on the planet... you’re a man.”
Radical? Technically not. He’s alert to the ironies of being pushed into reactionary positions by the ageing process (he’s very funny about the ubiquity of sex on TV, and its lack in his own bedroom) and the onward march of political correctness.
But the unabashed fulminating feels fresh as he rails at needless petty innovations – such as the plethora of craft beers and gins, or the rise of sourdough bread and shared menus – and more substantial changes: the destruction of the high street, the dominance of the internet. He rails at the deeds of Tim Berners-Lee and Steve Jobs with a venom he used to reserve for Margaret Thatcher, who now gets granted a grudging admiration for her principle.
It could all get too indignant for its own good, but it’s offset by a self-mocking awareness of its boggle-eyed, cab-driver garrulousness. Monotony is cleverly countered: there’s no standing stock-still in the shiny suit of yore. Instead he wears a polo shirt and accompanies his turns of phrases with a ballet of doddery movements.
At the end, we get a stark warning about a possible return – in our post-truth times - to the dark ages: “Galileo is back in the dock”.
Elton is valuably raging against the dying of the enlightenment. Though no swansong, it feels like he’s passing on the baton to the youth of today to take a stand.
Until Dec 30. Tickets: benelton.live
