One of the great delights of the Fringe are the instant late night cult classics that set at the very least the insider knowledge alight - see The Elvis Dead or Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. I’ve got a pretty good track record at getting to those before they’re too big, but I never did manage to see Mr Chonkers. Until now!
It is weird seeing one of these shows outside of their designated context. Often there’s a late night giddiness that takes hold, so what changes seeing something like Mr Chonkers - a show that begins with a hooded monk with a big googly eye walking through the crowd giving fist bumps - at five in the afternoon? The text stays the same, but does the perception?
Obviously I have no counterfactual here, so, welp. In any case, god it’s a lot, a broken fire hydrant of gleefully straight-faced nonsense. Purportedly John Norris’ performance showcase, we run the gammut of accents, scenes, slapstick, everything.
It’s an intuitive kind of show, a gutteral thing rather than a considered thing. It hinges on Norris’ ability to elicit responses from the mildest of facial contortions or utterances - or even then, sometimes even less subtle, as he strains his neck in to form an ungodly number of chins.
It’s also a masterclass of tension, with audience interaction on a knife edge of comfort and discomfort, even going so far as to offer one audience member a bell to ring if it ever becomes too uncomfortable, on behalf of the room, and oh boy did Norris pick the wrong man there. All I had to do was offer him a bottle of water at the correct moment. Easy.