It’s comedy time! Hamish Parkinson is here to deliver us his ‘cool show’, even if he’s terrified, completely unsure as to how to make it work, and resorting to working through a hastily scribbled checklist of comedy tropes. 

What follows is an hilarious, skilful and increasingly unhinged deconstruction of the touchstones of stand-up comedy, from the big entrance and the chatty warm up, through to common joke topics and styles of performance, all culminating in a satisfying ending. The result: we bear witness to the construction, and deconstruction, of Parkinson’s show, even as he becomes a victim of his own setups. 

The conceit of putting together the perfect set through a paint-by-numbers* approach to Comedy Gold™ is a compelling and rewarding way to structure the show, but this is only half the joke. Through a cartoonish combination of crowd work, grotesquerie, and self-abasement, Parkinson goes further to cleverly denaturalise the familiar tropes of comedy.

He highlights the absurdity and awkwardness of the form itself, in which most comics (depending on their style) work extremely hard to create a warm, convivial and ‘natural’ atmosphere that, ideally, renders invisible the masochistic graft that goes into the preparation of such performance, let alone the weirdness of the situation itself and the complicity of the audience in maintaining the illusion. Comedy, here, is very serious business.

This show is extraordinarily funny and absolutely original, and Parkinson is a gifted clown with a beautifully dark sense of humour, an endearing stage persona, and a great sense of timing. It says a lot for him that he can begin by telling the audience, repeatedly, to fuck off, yet still have us completely onside and beautifully manipulated through to the end. I’m in quiet tears of laughter for at least the last ten minutes of the end, and not because I’ve been singled out to quietly ‘assist’.

Fly or Die is a bloody good show, but there’s an issue with the tech – although not the techie, who is a good sport throughout, even when being verbally abused by Parkinson. The sound levels are up alarmingly, almost painfully high, and given the low ceilings of the Mashina Lounge, this is exacerbated by having the speakers far closer than usual to the audience. While this in part applies to the music, it’s not until Parkinson ditches his mic about halfway through that I realise how much this wall of sound has worked to separate performer and audience, despite the intimacy of the space. Kill it or fix it, as ‘bung mic’ isn’t on Parkinson’s beautifully scrawled list of comedy ingredients. 

* My notes originally said ‘pain-by-numbers’, which would be equally valid. 

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Does he fly or does he die? A bit of both, I’d say. But Hamish Parkinson is experimenting here with his ‘personal clown’, and clowning has been described as succeeding through failure so either way he wins, provided his audience is fully enrolled in his quest. As his publicity puts it, his goal is “to become the greatest comedian of all time within an hour, or fail in a blaze of glory.”

There’s an ingenious bit, well into the show, where he uses a torch to summon forth the thoughts of audience members and, wouldn’t you know, when it lands on me I am reminding myself not to spoil his gags or the show’s surprises (oh, I haven’t just done that … have I?), so I’ll be more cryptic than usual.

The opening sequence is a masterpiece of build-up and anti-climax. Deliveries occur and will reoccur in multiple ways, thanks to local ring-in Eamon Marra. Simon on lights and sound also does a great job and let’s just remember he has feelings too. Anyway, back to the beginning: Parkinson’s entrance is theatrically ‘out of the box’.

There is a premonition of where we are heading in the shape of a finger-licking tasty cream pie. But first Parkinson, from Auckland, must greet us, in Wellington, properly: a task for which he needs a hand; both his and ours. It takes a while.

By the time he produces a check-list of what to do to succeed in his mission, he needs to have enrolled the audience more personally and intimately than he does on opening night. Certainly he connects with individuals but we all need to share those moments too and feel shared empathy throughout, for his failures to fully succeed.

Although Parkinson is entirely capable of speaking clearly when he wants to, there are times when he gabbles – e.g. “sobbytha” for “sorry about that.” I think there are times when he is purposely enlisting the Commedia convention Grammelot (speech gabbled at top speed) but in such sequences as the wonderfully convoluted story that involves cooking chicken – and much, much more – our concentration on untangling the words impedes our enjoyment significantly.   

Of course the sequence inspired by ‘Drugs’ on the checklist degenerates into a jabber of random thoughts that quite legitimately make no sense. But when his advice on how to stop bullying – to fulfil the Wisdom quotient – comes through clearly, it gets the good laugh it deserves.

There’s a running gag with phone calls involving an IT-challenged mother and a highly resourceful dog which pays off handsomely. Romance also comes into play in a way that will vary greatly from night-to-night, depending on … (you have to be there). And in the end – how shall I put this? – Parkinson strips all impediments away … As for the cream pie: again, you have to be there.  

Delightfully absurdist, Fly or Die is a very welcome departure from standard stand-up fare. Once audiences are fully connected to his quest, Parkinson will have a winner in his repertoire.

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