Enos after the boerewors

Is Marcel Lucont’s surname misspelt? As in silly bunt or the cat?

Or did someone simply forget to take out the Eurotrash?

The French comedian works hard at having us believe this is so. He is your out-and-out,  self-absorbed, self-confessed nihilistic, suave, sex-starved, chain-smoking mysoginistic, total tosser.

In other words, a modern Western man.

The crowd seemed to thinks so, and enjoyed it.

And you couldn’t get a harder times lot. Sunday night in the city that has to sleep it off at some point. Apparently Long Street after we moered the Wallabies was a bit of a moerfest in its own right on Saturday night.

My bed-ridden pard, Steve Kretz, claimed it was the pizza he ate at Percy’s during the game, but he never once complained about the Windhoek draughts we were slukking flat out. Get better Stevo, we have shows to review, fresh cowdung with which to blog the stoep.

Ya, Sunday night blues had set in and Lucont (can’t say the name without imagining he chose it purposefully) is telling us slowly — and in a dik French accent so stereotypical I found it hard to believe — that we should all have as much sex, drugs, and rock and roll before the whole kakhouse goes up in flames.

He picks on a couple in the front row (jeez, who sits in the front row in comedy?) and toys with their relationship and sex life, and the gags flow like the good glass of red wine he actually klaps on stage.

His views on children and population explosion are quite vile and apt. His crack about the French prime minister outraging the nation by taking a whole year to have an affair struck me as predictable.

The problem is that we have grown up with so many French stereotypes that when the real deal steps up on our stage and affirms them, it’s kinda unbelievable.

Perhaps we are not used to laconic delivery where the self-examination of the nation is subtle, accented, and delivered with quiet effervescence.

We like our comedy loud, raw, gutsy and parochial, brewski. This guy is like the enos after the boerewors.

And perhaps that’s why this Lacont is a new and interesting addition to the braai. And I suspect he is rather dishy, if you like your comedian’s young, dark, and slathered in a blatjang-apricot suit.

Theatrically, I particularly enjoyed the barefoot on ponte stance. At the bottom of all this smooth, sultry delivery, the tension in those toes tells us about labour; audiences appreciate seeing artists working hard.

I did find some of the heavily accented punchlines a little indistinct, but I am his worst audience member, an aging, Eastern Cape umlungu with surfer’s ear. Shame.

The performance is polished, but perhaps the schmoozy tone can be a bit too flat – the final skydiving video got me going,  because we see more vividly the freefalling chaos of Lucont’s pointless, wasteful, idiotic life.

I hankered for more fat fires on the grid, flames licking the purlins, clouds of acrid smoke, sacred tjops charred to ash before your eyes. He needs to throw his beer on the fire; just the occasional incendiary moment.

The audience had a hoot. Tara Notcutt next to me chortled at some of the lines, and despite a half-full venue, quite a few people crowded around his table outside to buy his CDs and books.

* Lucont is the 2013 winner of the Fringe World Award for Best Comedy Show.

 

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