TWO men and two women, under the name of Desperate Optimists, are presenting a very offbeat 70 minutes of comedy called Indulgence at Arthouse. One of them opens the proceedings by rooting their performance in the strange case of Anna O, a patient of Freud; and we're off on a mirthful debunking of popular psychotherapy.
This one bloweth where it listeth. One of the men drops his trousers and underpants, revealing all, and tells us gravely that he has been wanting to do something like this for a while. He feels better for it, hopes we all do. But he senses a change in the atmosphere of the theatre, and hauls everything back into place with quiet dignity.
A woman reads from a feel good book, be at one with nature, love yourself and so on. She interleaves the readings with what may be described as a shaggy squirrel story, set in an American small town church with Pastor Bob in the pulpit. Again, she protects her ego by thinking peaceful thoughts, such as dancing with Bambi in the forest, and trips ludicrously around to music.
The second man feels compelled to dress as a woman and go into a wild gypsy flamenco, or whatever. Afterwards, he removes a small crystal ball from his sock, and tells us that we are fated to be secure and happy, and to age gracefully. Sincere congratulations to us all. Other psychic explorations include the terror of the first kiss, and an odd encounter in a toilet.
I can only give the flavour of the intellectual and physical gyrations of K Michael Weaver, Leslie Hill, Joe Lawlor and Christine Molloy, sophisticated fun with a difference. They deal in transient material, and I don't expect it to haunt my mind tomorrow; but tonight I'm laughing.
