HOW TO BE A COMEDIAN

Greymouth Evening Star, 22 December 1945, Page 8

HOW TO BE A COMEDIAN

LUPINO LANE’S ADVICE.

Remember how the party roared, when you put over the character mon- ■ ologue of the Major from Poona? Andi what a hit the eccentric dance turned j out to be? “Honestly,” they said, “you 1 ought to go on the stage” (writes L. 1 V. Kapert, in the “Sydney Morning Herald.”) You can still go on the stage even if you have never done the Major from Poona. Comedians, according to Lupino Lane —who is one of them —are made as well as born. He has written a book to prove it: “How to Become a Comedian”. Lupino himself was helped by a long family tradition. The Lupinos have been playing the theatre and side-shows since 1642, and he reproduces a family tree showing the dozens of Lupinos and Lupino Lanes whose names have been more or less . well known to their generation. His own strict parents had the author himself doing a variety of dances by the time he was seven, and he man- ' aged a lot of his early reading while ■ sitting in the “splits” position. But not every comedian has that advan- ■ tage. Al Jolson and Eddie Cantor both became comedians after being trained for religious duties in the Jewish faith, ' and Will Rogers was originally a cowboy. Starting from brute fundamentals, sooner or later in your comedy career you will have to learn to throw a custard-pie. More important, you will have to learn how to stop one. Lupino’s first pie was not strictly cus_tard. It was blackcurrant —half a pound of blackcurrant pie thrown by “Fatty” Arbuckle with all his 20 stone behind it. Lupino went down on the flat of his back. The next one he ducked altogether. After you have conquered that trick, next you must practise falling down and looking funny. This needs self-discipline. The term “knockabout comedian” is never more aptly used than when applied to some of the unfortunates who have ended their stage careers with an injured spine, or broken legs or arms. A fall downstairs is always good for a laugh, if you must insist on getting your laughs the hard way. The professional advice is: First, avoid trying to do the trick on a narrow flight of steps. Second, do not try to go down head-first. Most effective method is to go to the top of the stairs, fall backwards so that the head and upper part of the body are over the top step, then continue with a back somersault, and hope for the best. (Remember: The show must go on.) If you do insist on going over the stairs head-first, it is wise to learn the acrobatic trick known professionally as the “108 fall.” You trip, throw the body in the air, turn half a for- . ward somersault and land flat on your • back. This is very difficult. Ben Tur- ■ pin used to do it in the middle of the ; traffic on the Hollywood. Bouevard—but then Ben Turpin was no ordinary comedian. I < INJURIES AND LAUGHS. (

As far as Lupino Lane, practical comedian, is concerned, these are simple stunts that have been tested over the centuries as sure-fire laughs. He does not worry why. Some of the more subtle analyses of comedy point out that any injury is good for a laugh provided it is not serious enough to attract pity. Stephen Leacock says that to the savage there is nothing so uproarious as someone’s broken skull. For our own audiences, it is wiser to keep to sitting on a tack, swallowing a whilstle, burning your fingers with a match, or falling without breaking any bones. Still another deep-seated long-

ing in the audience is satisfied when you smash up the stage properties, preferably something that looks expensive.

The budding comedian who goes to a good tailor and has an air of grooming and light-heartedness may prefer to become what is known in the profession as a light comedian—“evening dress or drawing-room type.” This type'has to stand fewer blows from custard-pies, but a few acrobatic tricks are useful. So are a few juggling feats. The light comedian should at least be able to jump over his walk-ing-stick, throw his hat .on to his head with his foot, and perhaps do some trick work on a musical instrument. It is the light comedian who wears evening dress and looks self-possess-ed. If you are the low comedian type you will get on better with clothes that are too big or too small, an enormous moustache (preferably one made of licorice so that it can be eaten in a rage), or grotesque make-up. Even for low comedians, however, the trend is towards simplicity. Red noses and trick wigs are less popular than they used to be.

If you are going to make a success of a line of patter, it is advisable to have some theme to hang the gags on. | Otherwise you are reduced to phrases like “That reminds me,” or too much of “I was walking down the street the other day when . . .” The conventional handy-sized act usually sandwiches the patter between comic songs each of which is introduced by a flippant title, such as: ‘I will now sing a song ito prove the theatre can be cleared in three minutes. It is called ‘Put away your tweezers till your eyebrows meet again.’ ” (Don’t look so reproach ful; it always sounds better on the stage.) Don’t worry about new gags, says old-stager Lupino. Try turning over and refurbishing the old ones. The comedian works on the assumption that a new generation of theatre audiences develops every seven years.

The only warnings are—avoid any reference to any physical impediment or deformity, and be very careful of your audience before tackling political gags. Finally, from the pure heights of the English music hall, he adds the caution that the “blue” joke is an easy way out, but it does not make for lasting comedy.