★★★★☆
The first time I saw Nina Conti’s ventriloquism act was not long after her American counterpart Jay Johnson (still best known here for his role in the sitcom Soap) had breezed into the West End with one of the most captivating live performances I have witnessed. Conti was good then, but the idea of her ascending to Johnson’s level seemed fairly remote.
So much for predictions. Conti’s latest offering is devastatingly witty and full of daringly unscripted flights of fancy. She giggles endlessly and occasionally flirts with disaster as she summons members of the audience to help her on stage, yet the evening turns out to be a masterclass in pure showmanship. Ventriloquism is too often dismissed as naff or old-hat. Watching Conti is to realise that the art form is timeless.
Don’t be deterred if you are allergic to audience participation. Even the biggest show-offs have little chance of upstaging the star once she fits the half-mask that turns each participant into a leering, disjointed humanoid. Manipulating her guests’ mouths with a cable while juggling several accents, she creates an atmosphere of swirling semi-bedlam.
Her ability to improvise dialogue between her guests is breathtaking. The sight of a respectable doctor suddenly being transformed into a bitter wannabe pop singer was just one joyous moment among many. Alter-egos, tics and vendettas are conjured from nowhere and, on this occasion, the dancing that brought the main segment to a triumphant climax generated more laughter than a hundred episodes of Strictly.
Conti’s regular puppet, Monk — a morose, foul-mouthed monkey — was relegated to a supporting role, casting smutty remarks in all directions and orchestrating a droll hypnotist routine at the end of the first half. Throughout Conti cleverly toys with that central conceit of ventriloquism: is the puppet-master really in control of her creation? Sometimes you really do wonder. A frazzled figure in her yummy-mummy miniskirt, she is the antithesis of the suave, bow-tie wearing, all-knowing vents of light entertainment’s heyday.
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The one lapse came in a curious body-suit sequence at the close, which quickly and half-apologetically ran out of steam. Never mind. We were still wiping the tears from our eyes after the earlier mayhem.
Box office: 0844 8156131, to March 12