Jackie Mason is a reminder of how comedy used to be. Instead of the easy interchangeable rants we get from British comics - rich versus poor, state versus private, bankers versus benefits - Mason's targets are you and me. If you're Jewish to boot, God help you. His culture is merely the prism through which he views and measures all human endeavour. Everyone gets it in the neck.
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| The Mason's Arms |
Dressed like a schnorrer in what look like a cheap jacket, trousers and shoes, he shuffles on stage with hair starched and stomach first, the delivery so low-key that when the first ball is thrown, there's no time to duck. Race, colour, age, sex, sexuality, sport and stereotypes come under scrutiny - plus an Irish joke that sticks a bit. Through the cringing and the laughter is a ceaseless deconstruction of the contradictions of modern life.
His new skits are dry observations on Afghanistan, the Olympics and the Milibands, and his views on racism and marriage are laced with painful truths. His gift for turning rhythms of speech into a beatbox-type blah-speak results in gloriously un-PC skits around a French waiter, an Indian doctor and Henry Kissinger.
In conclusion: Mason is in his seventies and visibly tiring. Some riffs are perennials, but it's still very, very funny. This may be one of the last times a British audience gets to enjoy his pure professionalism and outrageous - fearless - style.
References
Bruce Dessau revew in The Evening Standard
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