I knew this would happen. Never had I any hope of sneaking through the Fringe without being lured in with its main asset: comedy. I’ve never reviewed a comedy show; the woman with the leather-bound gold-tinted notebook, poised to attack with her Parker pen, didn’t really make me feel prepared for what jovial delights were ahead. Anyway, here it is: I came, I laughed, I reviewed.
What strikes you about Riches comedy is the faith he puts in his audience: from asking them to give uncomfortable speeches – letting them sweat under the lights – to blowing raspberries on their unsuspecting bellies, he attempts to manipulate his audience to become, in his words, “a spectator in his own sketch show”. Does he succeed? Well, not so much. Riches has some quick wit to swat down audience members who don’t want to play ball, but sometimes his blind faith kicks the proverbial supports away from his comedy; his BMX sketch flopped painfully as he spent five minutes trying to light a match.
However, despite Riches apparent loss-of-control of his set pieces, and a rather weak sketch to end on, the comic atmosphere still clutched to the audience and, quite frankly, me. To describe it in two words: chaotic comicality.
(3 / 5)