The article below was a spoof article as part of our April Fools issue.

Sad Clown, Happy Reviewer

Review by Jeff Catanese

  Show reviewed March 1, 2001

The late Joey Michaels, who some say is the only improvisor doing anything innovative going into the new millennium, started this troupe with the intent of introducing the world to his ideas of “scripted improv” and an “every clown for himself attitude.”  That his ideas work effectively is not only amazing, but also a sheer joy to witness onstage.

Performing in the tool shed of a local botanical garden (invitations came via e-mail only hours before performance), most of the six performers seemed either drugged-up or somewhat zombified.  What a great advantage to this style of improv.

The group started with something they called “Freeze.”  This seemed to be simply a take on “Freeze Tag” in which the performers didn’t actually do anything in the realm of a scene, or even movement, but instead just stood still facing the audience and yelling “Freeze!” at the top of their lungs at seemingly random intervals.  This lent a disquieting air to the proceedings, especially when a member named only Octopus suddenly grabbed hold of the testicles of Zamboni (another performer), effectively preventing him from further participation in the night’s set.  Most groups would compensate by sending him off-stage and altering the set list accordingly, but not Sad Clown who demonstrated a great understanding of using what is given you.

Next, a girl referred to as Puke Face asked the audience for a suggestion of a non-geographic location, and as the audience screamed out suggestions Octopus began to write “Moustache Man” on an onstage chalkboard.  It was enigmatic until the entire troupe took the lip of the stage and shouted those words to an audience member who did, in fact, have a moustache.  They didn’t stop until the audience member allowed Puke Face to stick a pair of scissors in his shirt and cut his T-shirt from him.  The cast itself cheered at this.

A quick segue was provided as the cast donned the shards of the T-shirt on their heads and began a free form, “improvised” scene.  The scene content was in itself a trite examination of roommates moving out, but was terrifically fed by the use of the words “…up my ass,” tacked on to the end of each sentence.  A sample:

Carburetor: I guess the Billy Joel records are yours up my ass.

The Steve: You can have all the records if that’s the way you’re going to be up my ass.

Farrah: You guys have to quit this arguing up my ass.

The Steve: She’s right up my ass.

The next game they played was Parker Brothers’ Sorry.  This was not a standard improv game, but instead served as a welcome intermission to the hilarity, as the six of them sat around a table, only barely viewable by the audience, and played for 45 minutes.

After this they all went into the audience where an elderly lady that Farrah referred to as her Mom was goaded into taking the stage.  The game they played was untitled but involved Farrah recounting a series of grave injustices that a “parent” could perpetrate upon a “child,” and then the rest of the troupe getting suggestions of “what do you have on your person that we could pelt Farrah’s Mom with?”  The woman playing the mother was uncredited in the program, but displayed a fine acting ability as she wept, and actually bruised and bled.

Sad Clown capped of the evening with the classic World’s Worst.  Ingenious was the playing of a game within a game, as each suggested occupation had them all scrambling toward a script at the side of the stage, and only then coming out with gems that were in their words “worthy of Whose Line Is It Anyway?  The British version, and only those lines from Ryan Stiles, Tony Slattery, Greg Proops and Josie Lawrence.  Copyright 1996.”

To say the show itself was brilliant and daring would be an understatement and, in fact, the only reason Sad Clown is getting only 4 stars from this reviewer is because Zamboni, in the fetal position receiving the kicks of his troupe-mates throughout the show, defecated in his pants and was forced to fan his own stench out toward the audience.  Though this made for some fine theater, the stink put me off of the borscht that was served during the song styles set.  Still, a must-see is a must-see.  And if this is the touring company, I’ve got to see mainstage.