There’s nothing new under the sun, they say, so maybe this has been seen before. But the simple trick Trygve Wakenshaw pulls at the end of his show Nautilus – instantly, wonderfully subversive of mime convention – is a new one on me. I’ll resist the bursting temptation to describe it. Suffice to say, it makes a blissfully funny finale to a strong 80 minutes of silent comedy, which this week was shortlisted for the Edinburgh comedy awards.
Mind you, Wakenshaw’s audience is in raptures throughout. It struck me what a fine time this is to be a (good) mime artist, as a whole generation encounters what must seem – as it emerges from decades of chronic uncoolness – like an extraordinary new way to be funny. In Dr Brown’s absence, Wakenshaw – bleached hair, thrift-store suit - is its hip new icon.
The merest twist of his lean, angular body into another wonky shape – now hopping like a bird, now wriggling like a caterpillar – has his crowd purring with delight.
Happily, there’s more to the New Zealander’s show than that, as he splices together several improbable scenarios, and sets them spinning off in clown-logic directions. In one, a hungry man marries a chicken, then coerces it into the oven. In another, the singers of an Aretha Franklin number direct its chorus with mounting venom at a chap in the front row. One beautiful wordless set piece follows another, including the one about the dinosaur hunter unsure exactly how to mount his gun.
Once or twice, Wakenshaw’s physical business gambolled ahead of my comprehension. Far more often, skill, practise and off-beam humour combine to produce richly daft cartoons of saloon-bar goofballs and swimming messiahs. And then there’s that closing coup de mime, which mainlines the kind of funny you get when not just the rug but the whole floor and foundations are pulled right out from under you.
• At Pleasance Courtyard, Edinburgh, until 30 Aug. Box office: 0131-556 6550.
