Harry Hill

Harry Hill's new show is called Hooves; whether it's a horse worth backing is open to question. In the past, I've found his energetic pop-absurdism rewarding because it's been backed by considerable comic intelligence. And, sure enough, there are very funny episodes in this frenetic post-vaudeville floorshow. But there are also more instances than usual when Hill's silliness seems arbitrary.The trademarks arrive intact: Hill is still the overgrown schoolboy, his head half swallowed by outsized collars. After the break, he re-appears as OutKast's Andre 3000; demented snatches of popular songs are part of Hill's shtick. But the formula is slightly less successful than in the past. Several shaggy-dog stories begin intriguingly then peter out. Promisingly ridiculous ideas are disappointingly executed. A Swingball match between two hand-puppets threatens to be hilarious, but is slapdash. Of course, enthusiastic clumsiness is part of Hill's act; like Les Dawson on the piano, the incompetence is the joke. But this time, I watched his amateurish ventriloquism and breathless singing and wondered whether the skills might not be more impressive than their sending-up.The show's highlights come when Hill's wackiness is supported by preparation or calculation. His routine involving the puppet Gary ("my son from my first marriage") and a collapsible chair could be a slapstick set in its own right. And to see him croon John Lennon's Woman to a punter dressed as Hill's recently deceased gran is bizarrely poignant. Best of all, though, is the bicycle-horn xylophone Hill wheels on to conclude the show. When, with his band the Harrys, he parps out note-perfect versions of the national anthem and the White Stripes, the feat is both impressive, and supremely daft. That's a potent, if belated, combination.· At Beck Theatre, Hayes (020-8561 8371), tonight. Then touring.