★★★☆☆
Everything I write ends up being about grief – I suppose this review only proves that point. HOLE IN THE WALL L’HOPITAL, created by Chicago-based comedian Brendan Tran, pays tribute to his late father. This is his Fringe debut and though somewhat scrappy, it is full of vulnerability that makes it a worthwhile watch.
Tran starts the set with a light tone, opening with a simple joke about aeroplane seats and punctuating each punch with a giggle. The routine was full of references to Star Wars, Wandavision, Game Of Thrones, and various TikTok memes: combining these in a way that only a Zillenial routine can.
There were a couple of jokes that I’m sure would work better for an American audience. Some of Tran’s references flew over the audience’s heads, including the price of a Subway foot-long, the lore of Chicago’s Lincoln Park, Jared Fogle (which I did admittedly know a bit about due to my mild Aunty Donna obsession), and repeated mentions of a baseball player whose name still eludes me. Tran was not oblivious to this fact: he made a point of following up many of these jokes with a quippy “that would have killed in America!”. I am a big believer in writing what you know and I do not believe that these references should be cut just for the sake of an oblivious audience. However, in a show that tried so much to connect with the people watching it, the highlight of the cultural divide on either side of the stage left me with an odd feeling.
I do wish that Tran had provided a bit more of a through line in the heavier section of the set: whilst the themes of grief and parenting one’s parents came across, the transitions sometimes felt a bit clunky. Despite this, the stories about Tran’s father shined through. The performer’s connection, not only with his late father but with the experience of grief, was palpable. These were the pieces which I enjoyed most: whilst not following the traditional stand-up format, they felt most true to the set and impactful for the audience.
The staging was suitably no-frills. Tran wore a smart grey button down, accompanied only by a bum bag and a water bottle perched atop a stool. The lighting shifts were subtle but appreciated: Tran’s performance was somewhat static at points and the tech, though sparse, ensured the show held my interest.
Tran himself appeared to be somewhat of a nervous performer. As someone who has been in Tran’s shoes, part of me wonders if this was because of the relatively small (but mighty!) audience. It can be tough to stand on a stage where you can see the whites of every audience member’s eyes – I wager it would make even the most experienced performers anxious. There were moments where Tran jumped ahead, repeated himself, stumbled over punches, preempted future jokes, and repeated himself. It is understandable that a show with this level of vulnerability would manifest itself in visible nerves, but I believe that more rehearsals would have helped to disguise the nerves and enable Tran to reveal them when they were needed for the set’s heavier sections.
I like to think I’m a performer’s audience member. I have never walked out of a show, I laugh loudly, I sit in the front and do my best to return the energy. Performing is exhausting at the best of times, and it is entirely true that a good audience can make or break a show, so I somewhat selfishly aim to be the audience member I would want to see. Unfortunately, my persona as the Perfect Audience Member somewhat conflicts with my role as a reviewer. After all, it is somewhat intimidating to see someone in the front row scribbling sentences into a little notebook in the dark. (In fact, comedian and Balliol alum Claire Parry riffed on this fear in her show I Am Claire Parry, by planting notebooks within the audience and gasping in shock at the sight of her reviewers.)
I like to think I’m a performer’s reviewer, then, too. So I will summarise the above in a takeaway, as Tran would call it: whilst the hour itself undoubtedly needed more rehearsal and polish, Tran succeeded in making the small Gilded Balloon room a place to share experiences of grief.
The Fringe is relentless. You’re often on little sleep, walking quickly down the street to avoid flyerers, changing your usual routes to avoid the worst of the windstorm, and arriving home with a new hairstyle courtesy of Storm Floris anyway. It is impossible to find a routine in a place this non-stop: maybe shows like Tran’s are what we need. Sometimes you find a small reprieve in sharing vulnerability, sitting in a small theatre, and breaking down the walls together.
