The Death of Stalin

A few years the Conservative government pushed hard for an Anglicised version of history. Former Education Secretary Michael Gove argued that the history of the British Empire wasn’t widely taught in school, and when it was its portrayal negative. Gove is right in some respects: the British Empire was hidden away in the school curriculum. Like sex, it simply wasn't British to talk about it. We knew it existed, but it wasn't something for young ears to know about. I differ to Gove though: the reason we don't learn about it is out of shame, not modesty.

The empire that we were taught most about in school was the Soviet one- a brutal epoch that saw rights curbed; freedoms curtailed. Nothing like the British Empire, we thought: Britain gave the world its railways. If it wasn’t for us, the closest they’d have got to rail travel is doing the locomotion. But those crazy Commies. They used their train tracks malevolently. Sending opponents to Siberia to work the labour camps. If we’re judging the Empires by rail-lines alone, it’s clear the British were much kinder. This was my secondary school logic. Now I’m a bit older I just realise the British were better than the Soviets at controlling the narrative: people think the British Empire was benign because its consequences didn’t befall its people, the hardships happened to others in distant lands; the Soviets, on the other hand, killed their own. If you shit on your neighbour's doorstep, you won't smell the stink. If you shit in your own living room, your housemates will ask questions. Whether you recognise it or not though, a turd remains a turd. An empire isn't a great thing whomever is operating it.

Thankfully, this man is no longer in charge of British history.

The Soviet Empire was formed following the Second World War when Georgian born, Joseph Stalin, set about establishing an Iron Curtain. With the British Empire dwindling, Churchill saw the threat in Stalin accruing more and more power. (As with Hitler, Churchill was good at recognising despots). During his thirty years in power, historians put Stalin’s death toll at 50-60 million. His Iron Curtain an iron fist that pummelled one to the ground. Some died from starvation, victims of his economic policies. Some died from gunfire, victims of his maniacal purges. With his brainwashing and political cleansing, Stalin was impossible to topple. Only death, that great equaliser, could overthrow him. When he died, the citizens of the Union did not know what to do. Living under a tyrant for so long gives you two choices: live in love or live in fear. Many chose Stockholm Syndrome. So- quite perversely - they mourned the passing of a nightmare. Those, on the other hand, who hadn’t fallen for the captor were too frightened to rejoice: the Grim Reaper, after all, isn’t a revolutionary leader- just because Stalin died didn’t mean his replacements didn’t share his vision. After Stalin's death, no one knew how to react. This uncertainty is the backdrop to the film, The Death of Stalin.

The film begins in a concert hall. There is the sound of wondrous classical music. Then, there is the sound of a telephone. The producer picks it up and is told that Stalin wants a recording of the concert. The only problem is they haven’t been recording it. Now, to any strong and stable leader you could say, “Sorry, Theresa. This is a live production. It's ephemera that can’t be packaged and distributed. It’s beauty exists only in memory.” And Theresa would probably say, “Don’t worry. I’ve come to accept disappointment.” She would then put the phone down and move on to her next failure. However, Joseph Stalin wasn’t a man you said ‘no’ to. Joseph Stalin was a man you said ‘yes’ to, regardless of whether ‘yes’ was possible or not. So the producer tells the Kremlin that they have the recording ready for them; all they need to do is pick it up. Having dug his own grave, the producer must now set about saving his skin by demanding the orchestra play again. With tensions high, the conductor collapses, throwing the whole recording into chaos. Officials are sent on a life and death mission to find a conductor before it’s too late. With a conductor now in place, the recording can be done again. Everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief. They’ve been granted a reprieve: Stalin won’t kill them … today.

'Play like your life depends on it.'

This first scene establishes the terror that Stalin wielded. Everyone was terrified that one wrong word, gesture or action could signal the end of them. I appreciate that this doesn’t sound like the basis for great comedy, but in Iannucci’s hands he shows how brittle Stalin’s ego was; how farcical his trusted lieutenants. Indeed, the scene I described above was actually more ludicrous in real life: officials actually had to recruit a third conductor: the first fainted (as above), the replacement was drunk, thence the third and why the concert goes ahead. Iannucci then had to edit history to make the Soviet Empire’s wildest excesses seem less absurd. You get the feeling in fifty years time, when a film is released on Donald Trump filmmakers will have to do the same.

After the concert hall, it isn’t long until we see the titular happen: the death of Stalin. When a giant oak falls in a forest, a thud soon follows. The same was with Stalin. Away at his residence, he collapsed to the floor. The guards outside the room heard the sound, but feared entering the room without permission would be the death of them. Instead it was the death of Stalin. Not found until the next day, doctors were too late to revive him. Despite one final sign of life, he died. With Stalin dead, his Committee were plunged into active inertia. The communist chicken had been cut, but his political body remained: their running to and fro, caught in a landslide of prevarication and hysteria is the backbeat of this satire.

The curtain comes down.

A band playing on without their lead vocalist inevitably causes problems. Having backed Stalin for so long, it’s understandable that some want to honour his legacy and perform the same tunes; it’s also understandable that some want a volte-face, an opportunity to change focus and sing a different song. This power struggle is the hilarious centre-point of a film where grown men make seismic decisions on the hoof, and political alliances are formed in the toilet. If you enjoyed The Thick Of It, you will find much to love here.

Despite the political gambles Stalin’s cronies make, Iannucci never forgets the stakes at play. He shows how Beria, Stalin’s spymaster, used complete power to abuse women. He reveals how Molotov’s flip-flopping hurt the people closest to him. He depicts how Khrushchev’s climb to power came off the back of dead civilians. These are horrible men all guilty of terrible crimes. By laughing at them we take away their power.

Putting the 'ire' into satire, Armando Iannucci

Through The Death of Stalin, Iannucci has defaced Soviet history. Instead of staring wide-eyed at this rogue’s gallery, we leave the cinema thinking what infantile buffoons these men are, whose tantrums though caused the loss of innocent lives. 

At a time when Trump and Kim Jong trade insults over Twitter, the film is a warning to stay alert and pay attention.

Death of Stalin is still open in select cinemas.

Paddington 2

When the trailer for the first Paddington came out, I remember turning to The Girl and saying, “This looks shit.” Cut to a few months later and the film is five star feted. My hero Mark Kermode has described it  ‘a family treat.” And my loved one declares, “You were completely wrong: Paddington is amazing!” Like Michael Fish and the great storm, I’m question my prophesy. I know I must prepare to eat humble pie. (Oh, how I hate humble pie! The crust is soggy. The filling dry. The whole combination an abomination. Not something to savour, but masticate. Humble pie, oh it's the worst!)

At Christmas she bought it for me on DVD, and it was every bit as funny, heartwarming and beautiful as she and the critics said. Also, at a time when refugees were being castigated for having the gall to leave their war-torn homes for places where they weren’t under constant threat of death; here was a story of an immigrant being accepted in Britain.

Written by Michael Bond, following the Second World War, Paddington Bear found celebrity early. Such was their success, Bond was able to retire from his BBC work (he was once a camera man on Blue Peter) to devote time to writing. The first film is similar to Bond’s first story in that it describes how Paddington arrived in London. 

Born in darkest Peru, Aunt Lucy sends him to the UK in hope of a better life. Eventually, he’s found at Paddington station by the Brown family, who come to christen him with the aforementioned. It’s not long before Paddington is embroiled in Crocodile Dundee escapades, having to contend with escalators and train systems. Although he gets himself into scrapes, the family love him for the flavour he brings to their lives. To all extents and purposes, it’s an advert for immigration, promoting the notion that Britain benefits from open borders.  (I do worry Paddington worries too much about assimilating though. First, there’s his honey-coated British accent: what’s happened to his Spanish? Then, there’s the blue duffel coat: what’s become of his colourful South American identity? Finally, there’s the marmalade sandwiches- this is a British citizenship test too far. No one born outside of this country should have to eat marmalade. I know Paddington is content with his British life, but I do hope he visits the Peruvian restaurants in Soho from time to time, just to avoid being called an Uncle Tom – or the equivalent – by his birthland.) 

Michael Bond and bear.

It’s funny isn’t it, deconstructing children’s stories? A lot of alternative comedians could get at least twenty minutes out of doing a routine on Paddington as product of cultural colonialism. (I’ve chosen a fairly mainstream subject for today’s blog, but through this section I’ve still found a way to alienate the public. I do it mainly because I worry that I’m just a successful blog post away from being asked to appear on I’m A Celebrity. If vlogger Jack Maynard can go into the jungle, then I need to do everything in my power to diminish my online appeal. I appreciate my brand is strong, so it’s important I maximise these bracketed diversions to stop it growing any stronger.)

Paddington 2 is the sequel to Paddington. (This pointing-out the bleeding-obvious joke is the kind of thing that will keep the reality TV execs at bay.) And you know what: Paddington 2 is the funniest film I’ve seen this year. I loved The Big Sick and enjoyed Get Out, but Paddington 2 is in a class of its own. And I know what detractors will say: they’ll see it's a kids film, it can’t be that funny. They’ll say you’re nothing more than a kidult, enjoying childish movies in a hopeless attempt to reclaim your youth. They’ll say you’re an idiot. Because these people aren’t intelligent enough to come up with three coherent arguments. Well, those fictitious people, contrived by me to add drama into the piece, are wrong.

Paddington 2 is written by Paul King and Simon Farnaby, two creative that worked together on The Mighty Boosh. (Interested now, aren’t you hipsters?) King directed 20 Boosh episodes and Farnaby featured in them. With Farnaby having appeared in Horrible Histories, Dectectorists and House of Fools, he’s a man that knows his onions. Together, the pair have woven a British comedy that has slapstick for children and sight gags for adults. With its farcical fun and literary puns, it reminded me of Nick Park’s Wallace and Gromit, only here you have a greater reservoir of feeling to go alongside it.

King and Farnaby.

The sequel begins with Paddington happy at home. He’s loved by his family and by the community. Everything appears to be going to plan. Yes, he worries about Aunt Lucy in Peru, but with her birthday on the way he’s sure he can find a present that will show how much she means to him. Visiting an antique shop, he sources a beautiful pop-up book that showcases London’s landmarks. Aunt Lucy always wanted to see London – here’s her opportunity. So Paddington must do what all bears must when saving for a gift: undertake a series of low-paid jobs to secure the necessary income. Catastrophe inevitable ensues in the barbershop, where his approach to male grooming comes out of the sheep shearer’s manual. A window-cleaning job is more up his street though, as he puts paw and backside into making it a success. With the money earned, he can now afford the book. But fate has a wicked way of conspiring against talking bears. Earlier at the opening of a steam fair, Paddington announced to ribbon-cutter Phoenix Buchanan (Hugh Grant) his gift plans. Little did Paddington know, but fading actor Buchanan wanted the book for himself. Now he knows where it is, he can steal it from right under the bear’s nose. This is what he does. In the ensuing foot chase, Paddington is arrested for the break in. Paddington has been framed, caught in a bear-trap of a thespian’s making.

Hugh Grant

The scenes of Paddington in prison are priceless. Again, the best of British comedy comes out to play with Tom Davis (Murder on Successville), Jamie Demetriou (Fleabag) and Noah Taylor (Submarine) all providing hilarious support. Most funny though is Brendan Gleeson’s Knuckles McGinty. Knuckles is the head chef and chief bruiser of the prison. Behind bars, his word is law. The slop that he serves would leave Oliver begging, “No more.” His cooking is a crime worse than murder. Paddington armed only with a marmalade sandwich manages to win him round. The camaraderie that ensues is mined for wondrous laughs. Just hearing a prison hardman say "chocolate roulade" was comedy to my ears.

Behind bars.

Hugh Grant as the villain is perfectly cast too. Being a master of disguise, he steals the book in the guise of Dickens’ Magwitch. Later, we find he’s a master of accents too, jumping between Hamlet, Poirot and Macbeth. Often Grant plays the bumbling fop; here, he demonstrates versatility, playing more personalities in one movie than he has in his career. Stay to the closing credits too, otherwise you’ll miss further proof of his comedic range.

I loved what Simon Farnaby and Paul King did with Paddington 2. It truly is a film that walks that Pixar tightrope of being child and adult friendly. If you have a family, going is a no brainer. It’s after all, a more wholesome bear movie than Ted. If you don’t have kids, go anyway. I promise you will laugh all the way through – maybe have a little cry too. For me, Paddington 2 joins The Godfather 2 in being better than rarest of things: a film better than its predecessor.

Quite simply, Farnaby and Bird have made an offering you can’t refuse.

Paddington 2 is in cinemas now.

The Ayahuasca Diaries

A few years ago I was doing stand-up on a nightly basis. Being on the bottom rung meant turning up early to secure a spot. The best way to wile away the hours was to talk to other comedians. Sometimes this was lovely, other times it was not. Comedians by their very nature are egotistical shitheads, deeming their thoughts worthy of amplification. At open mic level it’s easy to forget sometimes you’re a small fish in a big pond. When a gig goes well you feel like the most popular kid in school. For comics who were picked last at school, this can induce feelings of euphoria and delusion. Delusion because although for that moment you may feel like the best kid in the town, in reality you’re a drop in the ocean, small fry against TV's whale sharks. A lot of right-thinking acts are aware of this. Some less so.

The whale sharks of comedy.

Home Counties born, Doug Stanhope bred, this clique of deluded comics were from a school of thought that thought ridiculing struggling amateurs made them in someway counter-culture. Often these big-I-am comics were successful on stage because they had the coked-up self-confidence of Canary Wharf, only with material that spoke Shoreditch Anarchist: “Aren’t bankers wankers?” Yes, I’m being reductive here. These comics were all more talented than me, but my view of them will forever be clouded by the arrogance they wore off stage as well as on.

The people that I always liked spending time with before a gig were comics that were from the British tradition of stand-up. People that didn’t attack topics head-on, but took a sideways glance at them. Comedy is suited to broad brush strokes because audiences enjoy hearing certainty during chaotic times. On the other hand, I've always appreciated comics that mirror the uncertainty of their audience. None of us have a clue of what’s going on, what it’s for and what it all means, so why should performers pretend they do.

One of my favourite acts to socialise with and watch was Benji Waterstones. Benji was my contemporary at the time, but was always better than me. Where he got to the So You Think You’re Funny final, I got to the semi-final. Where he got to the Leicester Square New Act final, I got to the quarter-final. Where he won the Manchester Beat The Frog competition, I now spend my days dissecting them. (EB White: 'Analysing humour is a lot like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested in it and the frog dies.') I’m delighted that his career has gone from strength to strength, with this past year seeing him selected to spearhead the Edinburgh AAA, a showcase for emerging talent. He’s also written his first solo show, The Ayahuasca Diaries, which he premiered at Edinburgh this year. All in all, Benji’s career is on the up and up. (Did you notice I used strength to strength, all in all and up and up within a few lines of one another? I’m the Andy Warhol of writing: doing something interesting with the cliché. And to think you don’t even have to pay to read this blog. You lucky things.)

Benji beating the frog, whatever that means.

I didn’t go to Edinburgh this year because I bought a house (The Girl’s money too, some inheritance as well, the bank contributed 80%, but essentially I bought a house), which meant I didn’t have the money to watch comedy in the summer like I normally do. I was therefore relieved when he sent a notification saying that he was bringing his show to London. (This always sounds impressive, but given he lives in London and just has to carry his laptop to the pub, I feel this utterance is nothing more than showbiz hyperbole.) Using brackets is a really bad habit of my blog writing and I apologise if the last few paragraphs have felt stifled by them. I promise not to use any more for the duration of the piece.

 So this is why I find myself at The Bill Murray pub on a Thursday night. Before I get onto Benji’s show, I should just add that the venue is something of a marvel. Funded by a Kickstarter campaign, impresario Barry Fearns has created something truly special. Purpose built for comedy, open seven days a week, it is quickly becoming the go to place for London comedy. With an artistic façade featuring Robin Williams, Eddie Izzard and Victoria Wood, the establishment is becoming a Mecca for comedy fans. The fact that most shows are free-on-entry (put something in the bucket though- you’ve got to give me a pass on that bracket, because that was a selfless one, as opposed to the self-serving ones of earlier) means that anyone can go, irrespective of what they earn. Benji’s show is on the backroom and three more will take place that night, meaning the turnaround is quite tight: we must score quick laughs in the craic den before the fuzz turns us out.

It's free and brilliant.

The Ayahuasca Diaries is based around Benji’s odyssey to Peru, where he hoped to find some kind of enlightenment. A psychiatrist by profession, Benji’s stock in trade is mental health. This stand-up show is therefore something of a busman’s holiday, as he inquires whether ayahuasca, a Peruvian hallucinogenic, can really alleviate symptoms of depression. The tale begins with Benji introducing his self-effacing personality. These self-deprecatory jokes are important: in the wrong hands, any comedy on drug-taking can feel a bit try hard, an exercise in “Aren’t I dangerous?” With Benji though it feels like he’s scratching a professional itch: can this drug really be the answer to mental health? Should I be referring my patients to Peru, as opposed to western pharmacies? More than that, Benji was going though a difficult time in his own life: lonely in love and London, the anxiety he felt as a younger man was exacerbated by 21^st century life. A shrink searching for a solution to his own mental health is the premise then for this stand-up show, a piece of situational irony handed to him by the comedy Gods. Benji doesn’t let his good blurb goes to waste: he runs with it, eliciting great laughs along the way.

For a first show it’s expertly structured. Like I said the opening establishes Benji as a mild-mannered, lovelorn NHS worker. How couldn’t you root for someone with that description? The middle is smart too: because in telling the story of his trip to Peru, Benji manages to work in tried and tested jokes using his diary framework. Before going on his literal drug trip, Benji was told by the Peruvian go-between that he must write a diary, outlining his past problems and phobias. This gives him a washing line to hang his old material on. It’s a clever move in a debut show as it means he’s got solid gold routines in the middle. A routine about the FAQ’s of a Tesco Clubcard is particularly funny, so too being kept on hold by the Utterly Butterly helpline. When we get onto the trip to Peru, Benji brings in his holiday snaps, which prove as enlightening as the drug itself.

The promotional poster for the show.

For me, this end material really showcased Benji’s skill as a craftsman. Here, he manages to blend great jokes (I met my shamam Willow. She talked a lot about energies, which the doctor in me was skeptical about until she told me ... I had good energy), comments on photos (a girl rivalling Bez in the gurning stakes is described as ‘a returning guest’) and trippy visuals (the best way of describing Benji’s drug trip reconstruction is to imagine Alan Bennett in an Aphex Twin video). The use of short film to accompany stand-up material reminded me of Tim Key, a comparison I’m sure Benji won’t mind me making. The coda of the show is wonderfully feel-good too. It brought to mind a really wonderful documentary where you’re relieved to see everything has worked out ok for the participants.

I know I could be accused of bias for writing about a friend, but I’m completely sincere in saying how impressed I was. Morrissey once sang, “We hate it when our friends become successful and if they’re northern, it makes it even worse.” I don’t mind that Hull born Benji is heading for success. He might be a better comic than me. But he'll never be able to use brackets like me. I'll always have that. :)

Follow Benji @its_benji. Here's his website too: http://www.benjiwaterstones.com