“If you’ve come to see Neal Portenza, you can come in now! If you’ve not come to see Neal Portenza, you guys have really fucked up big time!” bellows Portenza through a megaphone, beret askew and weird action figure doll in hand. It’s a suitably abrasive and absurd introduction to one of the funniest and most surreal hours of comedy at the Fringe or indeed anywhere. He’s a born loon and instantly likeable from the word go.
Portenza excels in making the carefully-planned look chaotic, the successful shambolic. He rampages through his set from one throwaway gag to the next (often with plenty of props), regularly incurring the faux wrath of his technician Nathan. At the outset, he doles out a variety of water pistols and projectile toys to audience members, encouraging them to fire at will if he becomes too sexist, racist or just too shit. He will also involve the crowd as much as possible, sometimes for a five-second ridicule session, sometimes for a longer and even more embarrassing stint onstage.
However, the complete lack of malice in his mockery ensures that it never veers into uncomfortable territory. The gig is geared towards a younger audience, certainly, but those more advanced in years will still chuckle at the sheer lunacy of his character and the bizarre boldness of the non-sequiturs which flimsily hold the show together. It’s a car crash of a roller coaster of an hour, and it works flawlessly – despite (or perhaps because of) the innumerable flaws.
If you like your comedy straight-laced and tightly-regimented, this show is probably not for you – but then again, neither is the entire Fringe. Anyone who’s a fan of laughing themselves silly at the stupidest and weirdest of routines will absolutely love Portenza. For best results, bring your own water pistol.