At one point during this first of four Wembley gigs, the vast video screens failed, rendering Michael McIntyre all but invisible to fans in the distant cheap seats. McIntyre's career, by contrast, shows no sign of breakdown: the cheerful standup has found the mass audience to whom his act was always tailored. But now that he's visiting the biggest venues in the land, I miss the warmth and spontaneous interplay with which he once leavened his orthodox observational comedy.
By his own admission, McIntyre gives hecklers short shrift these days. Tonight, there's a terse exchange with a tipsy gent – but otherwise it's non-stop, non-controversial chat about Ryanair, the Nintendo Wii and Dragons' Den. This stuff is pedestrian – there are traffic islands that spend less time in the middle of the road than McIntyre. Tonight's routines find him noticing that women who work in cosmetics wear lots of makeup, and that – believe it or not – people in restaurants often exaggerate their knowledge of wine.
At his best, though, McIntyre uses an unremarkable premise to launch into something more piercingly observed. Elsewhere, his USP is unshowy physical comedy. He mimes awakening after an awkward sleep and struggling to answer the phone with two dead arms swinging around his body. The performance reveals a distinctive comic persona, even as the material seems calculated to appeal to as many people as possible.
