Weak script is saved by impressive puppetry
Back in the heyday of the puppet-peopled TV show, no one was safe from the bite of Spitting Image’s mordant satire. But after a tepid revival on BritBox, the march of the puppets on to the stage is a faltering one. It’s impressive to see 106 beautifully crafted puppets over the course of two hours, especially when manipulated by just 12 performers. But the jokes, written by Matt Forde, Al Murray and Sean Foley, consist mainly of a politician or celebrity saying the most obvious thing.
A smug trigger warning at the beginning of Foley’s production tells us that the show “identifies as funny”. It’s a languid little gag that presages plenty more anaemic satire along the same lines: Keir Starmer is boring, Nicola Sturgeon quotes Braveheart, Greta Thunberg is concerned about the climate.
There is a plot, though the show is aware of its unimportance – it serves more as a vehicle for bringing in an unceasing parade of puppets. King Charles is trying to restore the literal fabric of society – a pair of skid-marked underpants from M&S – and calls on Tom Cruise to put together a group of superheroes. They include Idris Elba and Angela Rayner. Putin’s here, Xi too, even Hitler, rubbing shoulders with Elon Musk, Taylor Swift and, obviously, Harry and Meghan.
It’s a strange mix of incredibly topical – Nicola Sturgeon’s lines swiftly rewritten in the wake of her resignation – and weirdly dated. Are we really still expected to laugh at jokes about John Major and Edwina Currie? But the writers are all men of a certain age, so perhaps it’s no surprise to hear ageing jokes. Part of the trouble is that the dialogue is pre-recorded, so there is no sense of timing. If the audience laughs too long, it’s impossible to hear the next line.
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To be fair, in its more demented moments it seems to have something to say: Paddington Bear is a ragged Peruvian drug-dealer, eyes practically falling off his head, while Suella Braverman is possessed in the manner of Regan MacNeil from The Exorcist, orgasming at the idea of repelling migrant boats.
And towards the end there’s a stretch when the show comes alive: Rishi Sunak and Boris Johnson sing the Edith Piaf standard Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien in front of pictures and headlines from the past catastrophic few years. Then Margaret Thatcher is dragged out of hell, in a nod both to Spitting Image’s most famous sketch (“What about the vegetables?”) and a warped scene from the classical Greek comedy The Frogs, as Thatcher casts judgement on her fawning, failing successors. In fact, the spirit of Aristophanes is alive throughout, as giant dancing penises and talking nipples (Carrie Johnson’s, if you’re interested) flood the stage.
It’s not always great satire, but at times it is great fun. The best thing is the puppets, which, despite their fixed expressions, seem to take on all countenances as their grey-suited manipulators dance them around the stage.
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