Barnaby Fishwick and Will Hislop multi-task as performers, writers and directors of Some Funny and their collaborative relationship is passionate. They’ve spent many hours together writing and rewriting, laughing and not laughing. “It has strained our relationship,” admits Hislop, “this will be our first and final collaboration”.  He is tired of having to drag Fishwick’s sketches up from their “seedy depths”; he says they simply possess “inferior levels of Funny”. Fishwick retorts that he is “hurt and disappointed” by Hislop’s remarks. When I ask about their expectations for the show, Fishwick tells me plainly that “if the audience get more than Some Funny they should be fucking grateful really.”

Despite some creative disagreements at the top, the five-person troupe works well together. Barney Iley, who moonlights as the director of the Oxford Revue, assures me he enjoys the rehearsals saying “Barney and Will constantly encourage us, and we get to put any suggestions in a suggestion box”. I ask if I can see the suggestion box, and he points to the JCR dustbin.

In terms of comedic style, it’s difficult to pigeonhole Some Funny. Hislop’s previous experience with musical stand-up sets him up well to include certain musical numbers in the production – “It has been alleged that there may be maracas involved”, he says. Of the style, Hislop says modestly “We’re creating a whole new brand of comedy. It’s a melting-pot”. “There are five cooks and lots of broth,” adds Fishwick enigmatically. The stylistic diversity seems tactical; Iley explains the aim was to “maximise the frontiers of comedy, in order to maximise the funny.”

“Tarantino Classics” was a first taster of the fresh, creative comedy offered by Some Funny: a series of fast, sharp, hilarious mini-sketches presenting familiar children’s stories in the style of Tarantino. Despite the excessive violence of these sketches Barney and Will assured me that the show is only 12A rated. Their comedy is “mature, but not gratuitous.”

The Chaps are also not afraid of grappling with intellectual content in their work. ‘Freud’, a “subtle exploration of Freudian theory in sketch form”, proves the Chaps are not afraid of challenging their audience. “We’re aware it’s quite high-brow but we aim to push intellectual boundaries first, and to entertain second”, Hislop muses, tongue firmly in cheek.

Other sketches include ‘Downton Abbey in ADHD’ and ‘Snooker Commentator’, social commentaries more accessible to the average Oxford viewer. Elements of the absurd inject some sketches with a Pythonesque feeling, but their sketches also incorporate darker humour, physical comedy and of course musical interludes. A professional jazz pianist will feature. The selection of props is equally eclectic: watch out for an AK-47, a severed arm, and a cosmonaut suit.

When asked about corpsing – laughing while on stage – the Chaps admit this is a danger, particularly given the likelihood that they will be “enjoying the sketches more than the audience”. They quickly add that they’re “self-deprecating because [they’re] just so hugely confident.”

And the Chaps have reason to be. Expect music, expect parodies, expect gender-bending, and definitely expect much more than “Some Funny”.

★★★☆☆
Three Stars

I approached Ashurbanipal with not-a-little trepidation, duly warned that it wouldn’t in any way pander to tastes for gritty realism, being a medley of Classically-inspired tragedy about the eponymous Assyrian king, dance-like movement drawing from Japanese Noh Theatre and soundtrack splicing soporific sections with blasts of heavy metal. I have to say I came from the experience rather excited, even if the puzzle of why combine these particular disparate elements hadn’t been quite resolved.

Perhaps, “why” is unimportant; the play seems to ask implicitly to suspend questioning around those buzz-words “justification” and “relevance”. At its best, the stage becomes dreamscape which engages us intuitively. During a divining sequence where actors represent astrological motions and arcane powers, under flickering lights and a murmur of music, they seem to be transformed by their fluid yet mechanical movement, going at different speeds and in different shapes. Not an area of skin showed on stage, all covered by paint or clothing, contributing to this transformative effect.

Vocal tone was similarly transformed: the king (Timothy Foot) resonant dominance, the queen (Abigail Adams) intoned emotionalism. Indeed, these two deserve particular credit for entering especially effectively into the symbolist qualities of gesture and movement. Such heavy artifice and choreography meant, however, that even the slightest line hiccup or step out of rhythm became accentuated. I was also not entirely sure about the transitions in the play; lights would suddenly make blinding changes, aggressive heavy metal shake you out of all comfort. I’m all for being shaken out of comfort, but it sometimes felt gratuitous. I hasten to add, though, that the heavy metal tended to complement what passed on stage: with the choreography, it suggested, at once, controlling divinity and dark, grotesque human nature being its own downfall.

Despite the emphasis I’ve placed on the abstract qualities, there was certainly a narrative to follow, one of Ancient Assyria, that most rare of theatrical subjects. Nevertheless, the old familiar, indeed timeless, themes crop up: fate and free will, order and chaos, trust and betrayal… In fact, these big ideas seem gendered alongside the male/female conflicts the play centres on, not perhaps in a particularly original or progressive way – it ends up being, of course, feminine wiles that attempt to destabilise male order – but I suppose it gives unity.  As script-writer, Selena Wisnom’s language ought to be praised for its lyricism and was really complemented by expressive choreography.

My suggestion: see Ashurbanipal, indeed as much for the potential it demonstrates for wider diversity in theatre. You may share my “not a little trepidation” – but is that not symptomatic of all the best drama?

‘An Inspector Calls’ is an open and vocal criticism of social values, and comment on social responsibility. You do not go to Priestley’s play expecting a laugh-along, and, quite true to form, this is not what you appear to be offered.

The play is allowed to speak for itself, as I am told, both in regards to the original idea (it still remains stalwartly focussed on human obligation), and in regards to the artistic side of the production. There is black tie a-plenty, evening dresses similarly, and a decanter full of port. 

With regard to the artistic vision, the staging is very, well, ‘staged’. I say this not in a derogatory, or even negative way, simply as a way of conveying the picutre-like arrangement of characters which greets the eye. It looks as if a smocked artist, easel in tow, has set their models ready for the canvas.

This can, of course, lead to some problems, one such being that, on occasions, the scene is almost too picture-like – which can lead to its being a bit static. This is, in part, the fault of the script, which necessarily demands much of this static-action (if I may be oxymoronic) from many of the actors. Where two of the characters are conversing, three, four or five may be on stage, and so evolves the hard task of still capturing the building pace of the play, while remaining sedentary.

For the play is incremental. I saw as much with the juxtaposition of the amiable beginning of the ‘nice little family celebration’, against the hugely confrontational later scene from Act Three. At one point I even jumped, as things got so heated.

And the acting seems to generally gauge this building and brewing nature of the play. Those (such as Raphaelle Vallet’s Shirley Birling) who seem timid or at least unthreatening under the guise of the situation before the Inspector’s exposé begins, slowly transform as you approach the zenith of the emotional tensions that lie under the surface. Eric Birling (played, with notable versatility, by Felix Lehane) for example, begins as the ‘squiffy’, almost comic, member of the family, but shifts from this persona into a centre of morality and immorality, which seems to involve impressive amounts of shouting.

At this late stage in rehearsals, perhaps with a few moments of slightly jarring inertness, the show runs pleasantly along these bubbling undercurrents of tension, boiling over at the right points and simmering with equal aptness.

Ten years ago this Christmas, The Office came to an end with a two-part special after two full series. The sitcom, penned by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, has since become the most successful British comedy of all time. I spoke to five of the actors, ten years on, about their experiences of the show.

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Ralph Ineson, who played Chris Finch

Hi Ralph. How did you come to the part of Chris Finch?

When I was first sent the sample scenes, Finchy came over as a spivvy, cockney, white-boy-geezer type, but it was more interesting to have him as a Yorkshireman and to give him a bullying twist.  

I look back on it very fondly, and I’m reminded of it every day of my life. It was a nervous time for me – I’d never done comedy before, as I’d mainly been in drama, so it was quite nerve-wracking.  

It was quite cathartic to act as Finchy, but it was also exhausting. To say his lines to people’s faces, it erodes your soul a little bit! I did want a shower when I came home from work to wash the character off.

Did you have any feeling that it was going to become a huge hit, despite the underground start it had?

I don’t think you could ever predict the success it’s had. It would be very strange if you could spot those shows.

When filming series one I talked to Ash [Atalla, the producer] and asked him what he hoped for the show. He said he’d like it to be the new Royle Family – which got nine million viewers on BBC1 and was a cultural phenomenon. Everyone knew it was ridiculous for a little show about people working in an office to achieve success on that scale, and I remember smirking to myself at the suggestion. 

Everyone liked the Royle Family because everyone watches TV with family and so it works universally – but families aren’t in offices, so I couldn’t understand how it would be successful on that scale. 

How do you look back on the project?

On one level, Ricky and Stephen were doing something very different, as that style of comedy [mockumentary] wasn’t prevalent. It was the first show to do that style. It tooks lots of rehearsal and long takes. It was a very exciting, creative set to be on. Brent’s a fool but he’s a harmless fool who’s misled. They brought Finchy in to show Brent’s not actually a bad guy, compared to Chris Finch. 

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David Schaal, who played Taffy (Glynn)

Hi David. When you looked at the script did you think it could go far?

No, not at all, I thought it was a load of shit. I was actually annoyed because I auditioned for the part of Finchy. As an actor, one day you’re on top of the universe and the next day you feel like you want to quit – when you’re young there’s not much in between. It’s very black and white.

To me this was another piece of shit job, the daily fee wasn’t great, and it just reminded me that I was a shitty actor and my career was going nowhere. But I was an idiot back then because I didn’t realise how lucky I was.

I was devastated that I got what I considered to be the consolation prize: the warehouse manager, when all I could think about was that I wanted to play Finchy. In the end they just wanted a Northerner for that part.

What was it like working under two unknown writers and directors [Ricky and Steve]?

When he did the warehouse scene – the ‘my dog shagging his dog’ bit – Ricky gave one of my lines to an extra, which pissed me off. The scene had no energy in it, it was boring, so I just laughed all the way through and Ricky was really pleased with that. But my initial reaction was that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what he wants. 

Then I saw the first episode on TV and I realised – this is actually pretty good. I had a similar feeling with The Inbetweeners [where David played Jay’s Dad, Terry]. I thought: these kids can’t act. But when I watched it back, I realised it was really good.

How did you feel about the comedy of the show?

Ricky’s comedy is one of brutality. The comedy of so many characters – Anne, Taffy – is very brutal, same as in his other shows like An Idiot Abroad. I think he’s a little bit of a misanthrope. Picking on pregnant women [Anne], for instance! There’s something a bit hateful about it; reducing the beautiful act of childbirth to someone ‘blowing his beans up your muff’ (Christmas Special pt.2). That’s quite dark. 

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Me and Ewen MacIntosh, who played Keith

Did you audition for Keith at the time?

There wasn’t originally a part for Keith, I was just one of the supporting cast. They wanted faces that hadn’t been on TV before, so it was like a documentary.

I was doing a market research job at the time and only doing comedy on the side, so it was a good chance to get away for six weeks, be involved in something that was vaguely creative. 

I was working in a call centre and management worked on a different floor, so unfortunately I never came across a real David Brent character in my real working life. 

Did anyone have an inkling it was going to be so successful?

We were all vaguely aware that the BBC weren’t that hopeful of it. They had undergone a regime change and it was notorious that the new controller of BBC2 [Jane Root] didn’t rate it, or really understand it. The ratings were losing out to Women’s Bowls, it was such a low key project.

The good thing about it was that the BBC pushed Ricky and Steve out to the studios in Teddington, so they didn’t have to deal with the bigwigs and could get on with the project on their own.

Was there a good atmosphere in the studio?

When Patrick [Baladi, who plays Neil Godwin] came in, it was great because he’s such a strange person. He brought a real energy to it; he’s so different to how you’d expect watching Neil. He was always mucking about. 

The show had a great atmosphere, there were no egos, and everyone had lunch together so there was no segregation between cast and crew. I definitely look back on it with fond memories. 

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Stirling Gallacher, who played Jennifer Taylor-Clark

Hi Stirling. What were your first instincts about the show?

When I first read the scripts I didn’t get it, so I gave it to my husband and he thought it was genius. When we started working it was great fun and I laughed a lot. But I remember thinking it would either come across as very funny, or as one of those sixth form revue projects where you think it’s hilarious but no-one else does. 

After episode two of series one, Jane Root, the BBC2 Controller, was on the verge of pulling it, but then the ratings quadrupled after episodes three and four. 

How do you think they managed to make it such a timeless project?

Ricky and Stephen were very smart about not overdoing it – they weren’t at all keen on doing the Christmas specials. The BBC wanted another series and everyone felt so strongly about Dawn and Tim, but they were hugely reluctant to give them a happy ending. 

The specials were their compromise. But they didn’t get caught up in the hype, and given it was their first big hit, it was a really brave, smart move to limit the show. 

Did you feel any affinity to Jennifer Taylor-Clark?

I didn’t believe Jennifer would tolerate Brent as much as she did – I wanted to play her much harder. It seemed she had known Brent for a long time and she knew he was a prat, but on the other hand part of her thought he had a good heart…though I couldn’t see it!

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Robin Hooper, who played Malcolm

Hi Robin. Presumably the show felt just like any other normal job at the time?

Yes, for me it was just about going in there to do your job. You don’t ever think you’re in a hit series. I had such a small role that I spent a lot of time eating biscuits in a small room waiting for my scenes!

After the success of the show ballooned, I was getting invited to all these glamorous parties. ‘Why on earth am I getting invited to them?’ I thought. I hadn’t watched most of the show myself and now people were stopping to talk to me. 

Did Ricky and Stephen, two unknowns back then, come across as very professional?

It was clearly a terribly important project to Ricky and Stephen. They spent so much time writing the script, but the BBC didn’t care much for the first series. There were also two other series based on an office environment which got cancelled at the same time.

Ricky was in his early forties and hadn’t really got anywhere, and Martin Freeman hadn’t yet come out of drama school – no-one really knew what to do with him. People thought he was quite weird really. 

Was it hard working with Ricky in a serious capacity?

It was so difficult not to react to Ricky ad-libbing his part. One scene was twenty-two takes of non-stop laughing. The whole scotch egg bit [with Keith] took a long, long time. 

The reason why the show works is because David Brent is completely human. He’s an absolute prat, but he’s human. We all know somebody like him, whether it’s our father, our boss or our lecturer.