Scott Capurro

Here’s the review from Chortle for my chat show, which appeared during its maiden run at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The new run, starting October 1, will be even more exciting. This review fills you in, come see it, I like the show. The new line up will appear on my site soon.

If any chat show is only as good as its guests, Scott Capurro’s new live venture looks promising indeed, with the likes of Ken Livingstone, Julian Clary, Brain Paddick and Graham Norton all lined up to join him at South London’s Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
But guests are only half the equation, and Capurro wouldn’t perhaps be most commissioning editors’ first choice as host, particularly when causing offence is a paralysing fear. Not only is his stand-up act so thoroughly filthy that he’d make the pre-Sachsgate Jonathan Ross look like Mother Theresa’s maiden aunt, but also his persona is so narcissistically self-centred that you’d think it would be well nigh impossible for anyone else to get a word in edgeways.
It turns out that he can be generous with the limelight, and in conversation with Jo Caulfield prompted plenty of anecdotes about her family – especially her brother the Catholic priest (cue lots of sniggering paedophile gags) – and opinions on the perceptions of female stand-up. This opening segment was amicable and moderately entertaining, but with his lascivious wit neutered, there was little to separate Capurro from any other attentive and confident interviewer.
In the second section, all changed. As Capurro interviewed cabaret artist Dickie Beau – following his mesmerising and moving turn lip-synching to a tragi-comic interview with a drunkenly defiant Judy Garland – the tables were turned as the host did more talking than his subject. We learned much about Capurro’s hang-ups, family and relationships - all told with the deliciously biting wit for which he is rightly known, but the talk-show aspect was all-but forgotten as the catty San Franciscan held court.
The balance was better with Jerry Springer: The Opera composer Richard Thomas - not a natural on stage but clearly an interesting interviewee, and the devilish star of that controversial production, David Bedella, who sang powerfully but gave nothing away in conversation.
In the final section came the man most had surely come to see: Graham Norton, hotfooting it from his changing room in La Cage Aux Folles. Waiting for him to travel in from the West End made for a long night - but the wait was worth it, as the ever-charming Irishman proved as cheekily entertaining as an interviewee as he is as an interviewer, regaling the audience with his impishly indiscreet showbiz confessions and pithily expressed opinions on the nature of his job.
The banter here flowed the easiest it had all night; with the well-matched Capurro and Norton batting the conversation back and forth like Forrest Gump playing ping-pong. This might have been Capurro’s first bash at a talk show, but by the end he had found his feet.
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern, however, might not have been the best choice of venue for such an experiment. Much of the well-lubricated audience at this predominantly gay bar, perhaps more used to seeing rambunctious cabaret here, found it difficult to keep schtum, proving distracting at best, disruptive at worst.
But maybe they - like Capurro himself - haven’t yet had time to quite adjust to the mechanics of this format.
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
March 19, 2009

Camden Fringe: Scott Capurro Goes Deeper
6th August 2009 until 8th August 2009 - 9 pm,
Roundhouse, Chalk Farm Road, London, NW1 8EH

If you’ve seen Scott Capurro before you’ll find it hard not to laugh on learning that this Camden Fringe show at the Roundhouse is entitled Goes Much Deeper. That, you see, is what the gay San Francisco comic does. He likes to probe. And ask questions other people don’t dare: Are kids ever really missing? Does swine flu prove the Jews are right? When will Obama wipe off the make-up? Are we using the death penalty in Texas on the right people? Charmingly uncouth, rip-roaringly camp and unflinchingly provocative, Capurro has certainly toned down a notch since being banned on Australian airwaves for “polluting minds” - but only a little. He’s still “vaingloriously poisonous” (The Scotsman) so much so that even The Mirror recently labelled him “evil” and called for his extradition. Audiences find themselves insulted and seduced in equal measure and you may at first laugh out of pure discomfort. But by the end you should appreciate the endearing, nay avuncular side of much of Capurro’s often important work, which indeed goes much deeper than mere shock value.

I’m number one Critics’ choice pick in Time Out magazine. And in the London Paper. And in the Ham and High! (Not sure what that is, but it sounds delicious.) The show, Scott Capurro Goes MUCH Deeper, is meant to be fun and frothy till then end when I, metaphorically, gouge out my own eyes.
The venue, the Roundhouse, is really lovely. But don’t expect air conditioning, or trains that run on time. Brit weather…oy vey. Let’s not spend too much time on it, it’s been done done done but it’s freakish how, when it rains, it’s hot, and when it’s really sunny, it’s freezing. Part of the ironic charm the English pride themselves on I guess. But you’d think they’d have the trains-in-the-rain thing down by now. When the tracks are wet, everything stops. Maybe it’s the english version of a fiesta, only you’re on a smelly, damp train. Where’s the hammock? Where’s the salsa? Where’s the tequila??? And where is that smell of poop coming from? It had better be me!

About my current show at the Roundhouse in Camden, Time Out writes:

There are some topics which just aren’t suitable for comedy. Luckily for us Scott hasn’t worked out which ones they are yet. He’s filthy, camp and utterly fearless. There’s also a huge amount of heart and intelligence at work in this show if you really listen carefully to what he’s actually saying.

See you there.
x

So here’s a link to some stuff we shot recently. Is last year recent? They’re three short videos. I know, putting them into one 6 minute blast might have been better, but they are relentless. You might need a break. Hope you enjoy them. I hope? Oh god, I just realized, I don’t care if you do or not! I enjoy them, and that’s the only thing that matters to me. What on earth is wrong with me???
Watch and find out.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=qa50A1O7KDY
or
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7onxyudCYKM
or
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKjTwAoYjiU

Another amazing update: My friend Lizzie Roper and I are doing a podcast that’s naughty. Not sure how you find it on your pods, but you freaks are all a lot better at avoiding reality wearing headphones than I. I’m sure you’ll find your way.
Just watched myself again. Laughed at the dwarf stuff, or to be more accurate, I RE-LIVED the dwarf moments. Good news: I look thin. Bad news: I’m aging rapidly. Good/bad news: Dwarves ain’t picky.
OH! and I’m at the Camden Fringe next weekend, august 6 - 8, performing at the Roundhouse in Camden. Come on bitches, go there! Support the…Brazilian I live with. I do pay for everything, however my flat has never been cleaner. He demands a clean flat, and I like mopping in a diaper, so it’s a happy home.

He’s also doing a show at the Camden Fringe. See him. See me. Be proud.

“If you are not planning to head to Edinburgh, then you are highly recommended to check out the 4th annual Camden Fringe. Fast becoming the best performing arts festival south of Scotland, it boasts new, full-length shows from some of the best comics working today.

Founded by the unstoppable Zena Barrie and Michelle Flower, the first Camden Fringe took place in August 2006 and included 57 performances by 22 acts over a four-week period. It has grown rapidly since and from 3rd - 30th August and will include 399 performances of 118 different shows. Zena and Michelle produced comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival from 2002-2006 and have run the Etcetera Theatre in Camden (one of London’s best small theatres) since the beginning of 2004, so it comes as no surprise that the standard of comedy on offer is extremely high.

This year you can see shows from some of the best comedians working in the world today. If you thought comics like Ricky Gervais pushed boundaries then nothing will prepare you for Scott Capurro. Having won the coveted Perrier award in 1994, the San Franciscan comic has gone from strength to strength while refusing to sell out, making each show more uncompromising than the last. He is, in my opinion, the bravest and funniest comedian on the circuit.”

And demanded their money back, after staying and menacing from the front row for one hour. They laughed when I used dirty words, and played along when I flirted with them, assuring me that ‘We don’t have queers in Alabama.’ I know. I sprang a woody too.
Then they waddled off politely like bitches to the box office and begged for their cash.
Why don’t retards go see strippers?

Scott Capurro Goes MUCH Deeper
Recommended
Soho Theatre, 21 Dean St, London, W1D 3NE

Are children ever really ‘missing’? Is Obama really black? Can the homeless get any hotter? Scott is back on the road with a new show, which promises to offend you and make you laugh in equal measures. He’s a filthy and fabulous comic with more heart and intelligence than nearly any other comic on the circuit, which makes him a killer queen! Hot!

Scott Capurro: Goes Much Deeper (Nominated as BEST show on Londontown.com)
Soho Theatre, London
25th May 2009 until 30th May 2009
http://www.londontown.com/references/directory/images/title_editors_pick.gif

Anyone who has seen Scott Capurro live before will find it hard to suppress a wry smile on learning that his new show at Soho Theatre is entitled Goes Much Deeper. Given the charmingly uncouth, rip-roaringly camp and unflinchingly provocative nature of the San Francisco comic’s routines, the connotations are plain to see - especially when you have already witnessed Capurro flirt outrageously with a married Frenchman perched somewhat unfortunately in the front row during one of his gigs. In short, Capurro offends easily but, arguably, endearingly - although try explaining that to the Edinburgh Festival crowds who walked out following his “Holocaust Schmolocaust” quip in 2001, or the one man who he said should “die of Aids”. As he once told The Evening Standard: “I don’t give a shit about those who don’t like my work.” This may not sound like a barrel of laughs, but when Capurro gets it right - and recent evidence suggests he has calmed down somewhat from the controversial figure who was banned from Australian airwaves after being accused of “polluting minds” not so long ago - he really hits the mark. He’s come a long way since starring alongside Robin Williams in Mrs Doubtfire as cross-dressing “Aunt” Jack and picking up a Perrier Award the following year as best comedy newcomer, and if you watch his honest and personal show now, you’ll finally understand that Capurro does in fact go much deeper than you may have first thought.

I’ve enjoyed writing for this magazine, but all good things must fade away and die. Or something. But don’t worry. Hopefully some other glossy mag will hire me and underpay.
see you at the soho theatre? may 25 - 30. it’s in london, cretins.

GT
June 2009

At a Paris book lunch, the fashion writer rattling on about red carpet dresses couldn’t really grab the crowd in the corner. But then they were young and sleek and local. A chatty Canadian lady with shoulder-length hair wasn’t in their radar.

During supper at George’s, atop the Pompidou Centre, I sat next to her and watched her teeth. She must have had 80. They were glowing, but not as impressively as the Eiffel Tower, which changes from still yellow to sparkly silver. It glitters, every hour, like a disco ball. Our seats were powder pink plastic. The waitress wore Versace. Can Paris get any more camp? Carrie Bradshaw wannabes inhabited every table. The food, like their male companions and their conversation, was irrelevant.

The writer told us, “It’s very important to have boundaries. I have a friend who writes about her family, and they’re angry. I mean,” She continued, “I did write about my ex husband. Twice. For the Observer. But I don’t now. I mean, I have, reluctantly, for the Times, but divorce isn’t chic. I think there’s more interesting creativity happening. Like Oscar night.”

Our bill was huge, to me. But I’m broke. I paid my portion in coins. A drunk gay sat across from me and every so often he rolled his eyes back so far the pupils almost disappeared. He’d met every name the Canadian lady dropped. She quizzed him about a designer’s mother. She was desperate for an interview. Once again the Eiffel effused.

After pissing asparagus juice, I watched my reflection in the snakeskin sink’s mirror. My eyes seemed insular. I looked lost.

Later, at a cramped, fashionless gay bar, a tiny Gaul told me George’s was for wankers.

“And this place?” I was petulant.

“Oh,” he sipped his beer bottle, which was almost bigger than his head, “I never come here.”

And yet here we were. The French are as enigmatic as addiction. And almost as coy.

“Do you speak French?” It’s the only question the French ever ask.

“No. I have a future.”

He stares. Irony isn’t his strong suit. But Parisians adore thin ties and sarcasm.

“Do you have an American flag on your lawn, like Obama?”

“I have an Obama on my lawn. And a Sarkozy in my toilet.”

I’m not even sure what that means, and actually I think Sarkozy is hot. But frankly, my boutique hotel room has one narrow bed, and I’m not sharing it with anyone who disrespects Obama. Not even with Sarkozy. Him, I’d finger in the shower.

The hotel staff is new and obviously trained by some corporate moron to be nice.

“Did you have a good evening?” I’m asked at breakfast. Their smiles are like grimaces. They grip the coffee kettle so hard that their knuckles are white. The tip I leave behind is stared at blankly, as if I’ve deposited a semen sample. I almost buy a Paris mug at Starbucks, until I notice the girl serving me has one eyebrow up. You can’t change custom. Why Americanize French service? Parisians aren’t rude. They’re passively aggressive, but that has kept their city in tact.

At Brasserie Lipp, the lighting is so bright I think it’s closing time. My food arrives quietly, the waiter is ancient and invisible and thankfully without a nametag. There’s fuss, then a profile sweeps by. She’s in black sequined trousers and sports a bright red something on her lapel. It’s Kate Moss. My two friends disagree. But I can hear her common chatter over the buzz.

She’s encased in entourage. Her female friends are younger and more beautiful, but no one cares. They flank the table like bodyguards, while Kate performs for diners. She’s quite gregarious, but then the French adore her. Her French mocks them. It’s a win/win.

She doesn’t eat. She is quite tan. I walk by the table several times. She leans forward and laughs as men come and go. They squeeze in to be close to her, only to be replaced by another designer or a different conceptual artist. She’s 35 and rich and I want to crawl inside her body and molest every person at her table.

Next morning, my bags are packed early. I would usually email my mother and give her all the details, avec photos. Once home in Hackney, I’d call and she’d ask, “Now honey, remind mom. Who’s Katie Moss?”

I miss my mother’s laugh. It’s like time isn’t passing. This I suppose is grieving. Shutters drawn, I curl up.

I wish it were a year from now, and some of this pain had passed.

Scott Capurro
GT
May 2009

My Mother, Donna, has died, and perhaps I shouldn’t be writing about this, but I have no idea what else to do.

Everyone who knows that my Mother has passed asks, “How are you doing?” My sister Liz and I laugh privately about this. Our days are so humorless; we appreciate anything remotely near levity. What should we say? Do neighbors really want to know? OK then, here you go: We’re in great pain. Our best friend is lying in a mortuary. My heart actually aches, like it might split in two. I lie in bed at night listening to it beat loudly. So loudly, I wish I could harness mine to my Mother’s heart, so hers could beat again. All that mushy stuff makes sense. My heart is, figuratively, broken. Liz and I walk in circles in our Mother’s living room, searching for our cell phones.

Donna had boxes of photos, which my sister and I are trying to arrange, chronologically, for viewers at her wake. I’m surprised how disorganized these boxes are. The photos are in good condition, mostly, but they’re stuffed and stacked and some have been torn in half, removing an unwanted relative. My mother was usually very neat. She was a Capricorn. But then she was never typical.

I write ‘was’ like I believe she’s dead. But I don’t. Not completely. I’m not crazy. I’m not hearing her voice or anything, although frankly I wouldn’t mind. Some part of me, however, keeps thinking, I have to call Mom, like she’s waiting, somewhere, to chat.

I don’t believe she’s now a tree or a leaf or a picnic table. I don’t think we change forms. I have no human experience of this. What I am sure of is that I’ll never again hear her sing Happy Birthday, which she did, into my answering machine, every year. I have the most recent recording in my flat in London, and my hands shake every time I walk by my landline. I want to listen, but it will just remind me that the only person who never asked me to change, who never wanted me to be anything else than who I am, is now ash.

My sister is miraculous. Somehow, she manages to look after her daughter, Olivia, and chose a church, talk to a priest and pick an urn. When shown the urns, my stepfather just stared. Liz pointed to a lovely Egyptian patterned jug, black and gold, which my mother would’ve actually liked, and then moved on to other arrangements. She knows the urn isn’t the subject, and it’s not the problem. The problem is that our Mother, who helped raise Olivia, has succumbed. Loss is terrifying.

What’s going to happen next? Who will I call when I need a recipe, or hand holding, or a practical resolution? My Mother would often say, “I wish I could tell you something to make it all better.” Just hearing her voice cooled me.

She died peacefully, thankfully, in her sleep. She’d been ill for a while, and though she was able to look after herself and her husband, Liz and I discussed what we might do if Mom ever needed full-time care. We never came up with a plan. Maybe we knew our mother was too thoughtful to put us in that position. She was also strong willed. She had a ‘do not resuscitate’ order. She did not want to wind up in a hospital, surrounded by hovering doctors. Her mind was strong, her lungs weak, and they stopped breathing out.

After having suffered for so long with respitory disease, I’m a bit thrilled she took her last leap painlessly. But she couldn’t have planned this, right? She loved her kids too much. She had company arriving on Sunday. Liz was on her way, with gorgeous Olivia, and Steven, my brother, was dropping by. I was in London, sipping green tea on the edge of my bed when I heard my sister cry, “We’ve lost her. She’s gone.”

My hand clenched my robe, and I looked down, my face twisted. I’d just joked with Mom whilst at the San Francisco airport, five days ago. I was proud. I could still make the funniest person in our family laugh.

That same woman, who outed me to myself, then sent out Indian runners to save me the misery of telling everyone else, is now living in her children. We’re what is left of her. I know this. I just don’t believe it.

But then that’s the benefit of a good editor. He put my thoughts together beautifully. i think when he asked me these questions, i was eating a sausage roll and running for a bus. So the glamour never, ever ends.

These are a few of my favourite things: Scott Capurro, comedian
The Scotsman
Published Date: 21 March 2009
FILM
REAR WINDOW
THIS is easily my favourite film – it’s really well acted, I think Grace Kelly’s angelic, and I love the way there are all these little stories and they all tie in. I also think it’s really amazing how you get to know so much about so many of the characters without even hearing most of them speak. It’s a great way of using film. Often I see films and I think, “why am I watching this in a cinema? Why isn’t it a play or a book?” But with Rear Window it’s almost all completely visual, which I think is great. I saw Slumdog Millionaire and it’s visual too, but it’s an MTV video, you know? The recent film Doubt, starring Merryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman, was also very clever in the way it worked visually, but to be honest, neither of those films is really in the same league. Every time I watch Rear Window I see something in it that I didn’t notice before.

BOOK
THE SECRET HISTORY, BY DONNA TARTT

I was absolutely captivated by this book and after years in the Hollywood wilderness it now looks like it’s finally being made into a film, with Gwyneth Paltrow as producer and her brother Jake as director. The writing’s really strong – in fact that’s the thing that makes it stand out: some of the passages are incredibly smart and canny.

WORK OF ART
GUERNICA, BY PICASSO

This is a huge, gorgeous piece – very moving and very modern but also quite traditional, in the sense that it’s a narrative painting, telling the story of a terrible atrocity. I saw it in Madrid when I was about 21 and I just stared at it for hours. I think it’s still as powerful today as it was when it was painted. A lot of people protesting about the Iraq war have used it because it still affects people in the same way.

• Scott Capurro Goes Deeper is at the Tron, Glasgow, on 27 March, tel: 0141-552 4267. Capurro will be hosting American Homecoming at the Stand Comedy Club, Glasgow, on 28 March, tel: 0870 600 6055. Both events are part of the Magners Glasgow International Comedy Festival. For more details, visit www.glasgowcomedyfestival.com