Theatre in Review: Garry Starr: Classic Penguins (Studio Seaview)Some clowns perform without a net; Damien Warren-Smith performs without his pants. In Garry Starr, Classic Penguins, he is clad -- if that's the word I want -- in a black swallowtail coat, an Elizabethan ruff, flippers, and that's it. And let's just say he works, strenuously, with what he's got. Garry Starr is, apparently, Warren-Smith's alter ego, although the show says nothing about this. Classic Penguins is his putative salute to the old-fashioned Penguin Classics paperbacks with the orange covers and iconic avian logo, mostly found in used bookshops. It is, in fact, the thinnest possible pretext for a series of low-down burlesque gags, many (if not all) of them with an anatomical bent. The piece has harvested awards from Adelaide to Edinburgh on the fringe-festival circuit; it's a world where you've gotta get a gimmick, and boy has he done that. In an interview with a Scottish newspaper, he notes that "completely stupid" is "what I aim for." Mission accomplished, Damien. Of course, Warren-Smith works his nudity to the (ahem) bone. There's plenty of swinging genitalia (in the tribute to Moby Dick, natch), and you can just imagine what he does in the Breakfast at Tiffany's sequence, when "Moon River" comes on the sound system. At one point, an intrepid audience member -- one of many drafted into the onstage chaos -- retrieves a tiny Little Prince action figure from Warren-Smith's rectum. To be sure, that person wears surgical gloves. But, given this bit and others -- Warren-Smith flying into the auditorium perilously close to our heads, bodysurfing from the first to last rows, and transferring half-eaten grapes to audience volunteers in mouth-to-mouth encounters -- the question persists: Is this the first entertainment that should come with a post-show blood test? Suffice to say, Warren-Smith (or Garry Starr, if you will) is a man without shame, his sense of humor entirely transgressive and almost entirely based on bodily functions. (There's the moment when he inhales a cigarette and expels the smoke from...no, no, it's too horrible.) All of this is performed with a disarming innocence, although if you wish to substitute "childish," I won't give you an argument. The show's appeal lay in figuring out just how far the star will go, and, in all honesty, the audience at the performance I attended cheered him on, laughing lustily. I was in agony. Even to my stony heart, Classic Penguins offers occasional laughs. In my case, some of the most amusing audience participation bits involved a good friend who happened to be seated in the front row. If that's favoritism, so be it. (Arguably the most shocking aspect is the willingness of the paying patrons to get involved in some really squirrelly activities in public, in at least one case stripping to the nude.) The best bits are gone in a flash: A tribute to John Fowles' The Collector involves Warren-Smith passing the hat and raising a surprising amount of cash. The next book displayed is The Communist Manifesto, which cues an instant redistribution of wealth. A sight gag devoted to the most literal interpretation of Brideshead Revisited is, admittedly, hilarious. A brief "nature video" depicting migrating penguins who are also hard-working authors is a surrealist gem. And, under Cal McCrystal's tight, precise direction, Warren-Smith's hold over the audience is absolute; it's the kind of charisma that can't be faked. The show is as slick as it can be, aided by the chases and ballyhoos of lighting designer Lily Dawford and a procession of sound cues that includes classical music, country tunes, and several film themes along with gunshots and penguin squawks. (Oddly, no sound designer is credited, although Camille Denholm is listed as the associate.) But if silliness were sugar, one might leave Studio Seaview in severe diabetic shock. Classic Penguins leans much too hard on immature provocation and not nearly enough on wit. It ends with the backstage crew shedding their clothes to join Warren-Smith in the choreographed finale. The audience loved it, but all I could think was: I see London/I see France/I see Damien's penis dance.--David Barbour 
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