Ventriloquism was the red-headed stepchild of the fine arts in 1950s America. I know; I was lured by its dark promise as a young boy. But because any father could buy their hyperactive, loudmouth child a Charlie McCarthy knock-off, relatives often bore the brunt of many a nephew's showbiz fantasies. Which also meant that, a year later, these dummies were cast aside, no longer cool, staring mutely and accusingly, a precursor to unused guitars, freeweights, and ultimately abdominal machines made of cheap metal tubing. I'd wonder: who would still be interested in an arcane performance skill, albeit a true and subtle skill? And how would you revamp it, so it would still bear some charm, and have the requisite sauce to play now?
Strassman answers most of my prayers; he is an engaging-looking fellow, very winning and a little mischievous. His set is a labyrinth of tubing and scientific apparatus, which has odd cultural icons stuffed into the recesses, ready to be assembled for his pleasure. He begins by introducing his star turn, Mr Chuck Wood. He engages in the traditional double act, with Chuck starting off on an audience member; some very nice abuse. Then, in no particular order, a slightly paranoid slow-witted bear, his nationalistic, grumpy, xeno-phobic grand-uncle, a Borscht Belt beaver with delusions of grandeur and an inability to remember people's proper names. There are more characters, and the show expands to a multiple conversation between Strassman and his company. That alone is a reason for a ticket.
I'm a performer; previews have mistakes. Hell, even shows do in their run. And as an improviser, my hat is off to Strassman: he has his characters acknowledge the cock-up and hand it back to him, leaving him the comic egg to wipe off his face. I'm a fan of ventriloquism again - and a fan of David Strassman.
· Strassman is at the Pleasance Courtyard until August 29. Box office: 0131-226 0000.
