It's that time of year again: the Cranston Cup Theatresports grand final - in which some of the best improvisers you will ever see (until next year's Cranston Cup) battle it out for the prize of best people who can make stuff up on the spot and entertain you in the process - is taking place at the Enmore Theatre tonight.
In honour of it, I interviewed Bridie Connell - not just a brilliant player and performer (she was one of the multitude of talented Sydney Uni alumni Michael Hing produced at the recent Sydney Fringe Festival) but also a teacher of Theatresports. But I'll let her tell you all about it…
The Cranston Cup
Dom Romeo: What do you do?
BRIDIE CONNELL: I teach a lot of impro, and I’m an actor and writer.
Dom Romeo: When did you come to impro?
BRIDIE CONNELL:I was very lucky; I went to one of the few primary schools that had a Theatresports club. A lot of high schools have it, but I was lucky that I got a taste quite early. I did it all through high school and I really loved it. When I went to uni there was no impro and I really missed it, but then I moved to Sydney to finish my degree, and there was such a big scene over here for it that I fell back into it after a few years of having a break.
Dom Romeo: Were you mostly educated in New Zealand?
BRIDIE CONNELL: I did all of my high school and primary school there.
Dom Romeo: I do not detect a New Zealand ‘ick-cent’.
BRIDIE CONNELL: My mum’s an Aussie so we’ve always had a mixture of accents. It’s weird because when I go home to New Zealand to see my family, they tease me for sounding like an Australian but some of my friends here still pick up on words that I say with a bit of a Kiwi accent. So no matter where I go, I get teased for my voice.
Dom Romeo: In a way it’s an advantage: to always be an outsider means you can always be making fun of something as an observer…
BRIDIE CONNELL: Yeah, I guess so. It’s not like we speak a different language in New Zealand but when I moved to Sydney there were a few moments, even on stage, where I’d say something – a phrase that we say in New Zealand that just hadn’t made it across here – and there’d be an awkward moment where they were trying to work out what I was saying.
Dom Romeo: When you started improvising out here, you would have looked like an amazing newbie, when really you weren’t a newbie at all.
BRIDIE CONNELL: I had done it all through high school, and it was quite fun because I had had a break for a few years, studying in New Zealand. It was one of those nice things, like riding a bike: I got back into it so quickly and I had so much fun immersing myself in it again.
I was really nervous to start again though. I felt really rusty. And I hadn’t improvised with all these people at Sydney Uni before. It was scary going into my first jam, and my first time on Manning Bar stage because I just didn’t know anybody. That was actually one of the reasons I picked it up again: to meet people.
Dom Romeo: Even though New Zealand and Australia are close in many ways, are there any differences in the way we improvise and in our senses of humour?
BRIDIE CONNELL: I think, in New Zealand, a lot of our humour is sort of even more laconic than it is here. Flight of the Conchords is very typical of the sort of thing that you see a lot in New Zealand: a lot of awkward humour, a lot of laconic stuff, blokey jokes. And that definitely happens here, but more so in New Zealand.
I think that because I had come from doing Theatresports at a high school level in New Zealand, it was totally different kind of standard, so when I moved to doing uni Theatresports in a different country, it was like being hit over the head: people were so much wilder and tackled topics that we never had in high school and the standard was so much better.
Content-wise, there was a bit of difference, but the main thing I noticed was that suddenly from high school to university, it was a whole new world: no holds barred, do what you will…
Dom Romeo: You also do this for a living.
BRIDIE CONNELL: I teach Theatresports and host Theatresports at Sydney Uni, and I teach at quite a few high schools – I run Theatresports clubs and co-curricular drama. So I perform a lot, and I teach even more.
Dom Romeo: Does that mean you’re always working, or always playing?
BRIDIE CONNELL: Sometimes it feels like work! But I’m quite lucky that it is so much fun that I do really enjoy it and it doesn’t feel like work most of the time. There are some students who are more trying than others, but most of the time it’s just so much fun, particularly because I work with such a wide age range. I teach five-year-olds, right up to people in their 30s I get so many different types of students so it’s always really fun, and there’s always something new every day, so it’s really nice.
Dom Romeo: And you run the University of Sydney Theatresports program?
BRIDIE CONNELL: Yeah, I took over from Steen Raskopoulos at the start of this year and I co-host with Tom Walker, who’s in my Cranston team.
Tom Walker and Bridie Connell
Dom Romeo: I was on campus when Rob Carlton was handing over to Adam Spencer. I think it was Gabby Millgate before them. I don’t know if there were many women in between (and apologise to anyone I’ve overlooked).
BRIDIE CONNELL: I was thinking about this recently – I know that Rebecca De Unamuno used to play, I don’t know if she hosted. Still, it’s the first time a girl’s hosted in a while, so that’s been quite fun, and a lot more women have been coming to the jams at Sydney Uni this year, so that’s been quite nice.
Dom Romeo: What’s the difference between teaching adults who are doing it for the first time at 30, and teaching kids?
BRIDIE CONNELL: The wonderful thing about teaching at uni is that everyone wants to be there; they’re there voluntarily rather than, it’s last period Friday and you had to pick an activity and you chose this. Everybody’s there because they want to be there, so they’re really passionate about it.
A lot of the time people get into it just for social reasons, or as an extra-curricular thing, to meet people – so there’s a really, really nice environment at uni with the older group. It’s almost like a friendship group hanging out and jamming every week, which is really nice. With my younger students, it’s a lot more structured and regimented. It’s still a lot of fun, but there are a lot more structures in place around what we learn.
Dom Romeo: Is it harder for adults to free up part of their brain and indeed, their body, to accept offers and to play?
BRIDIE CONNELL: You see with a lot of older people, when they start out, definitely, there’s a process. When they finally have that moment where something switches over in their brain where they really start to accept offers and understand it, it’s awesome. But there definitely can be a bit of resistance, and a little bit of holding back at first.
That’s what’s so refreshing about working with the little kids. Even though, obviously, they’re not hugely experienced and they don’t have a lot of technical skill, they don’t care: they will do scenes about anything and they’ll just take risks. I always come out of class with these amazing stories from all the kids. They have huge imaginations and just don’t care what anybody thinks, which is nice, because the older people at uni are more conscious of what people will think of them or how they’ll be perceived.
Dom Romeo: What are the differences between playing Theatresports at a professional level in competition, and just playing for fun?
BRIDIE CONNELL: That’s a good question. First and foremost, if anyone was doing this purely for the competition then I doubt that they would make it into the final because one of fundamental principles of Theatresports is that you are just mucking around, having fun. I always tell my students this when competition time rolls around: the minute you start counting your points or focussing on the competition elements, it’s a big mistake because you stop focussing on your play and you stop taking risks and being free.
The competition is definitely fun and important, and it’s a great way to learn really quickly and get feedback from judges, but I think the more relaxed you can be about it, the better. All the teams that are playing the Cranston final this weekend are approaching it from a ‘let’s just have fun on big scale’ attitude.
Dom Romeo: So you’re saying that once you start ‘competing’, looking for angles to get ahead, you’re almost losing the whole reason Theatresports exists – to play and discover new things.
BRIDIE CONNELL: Absolutely. It just interferes with your mindset. And I’ve gone through that before. I’ve done shows where you really want to make it to the final round, and you start thinking about that. But as soon as you do that, you start to get tense, and relaxation is so important in Theatresports, to be in the zone. That’s not to say that people aren’t competitive; everybody would like to win the Cranston Cup, and everybody wants to play as many rounds as they can without getting eliminated, because we all want to play. But first and foremost, we all want to have fun, and we all know from experience that the more relaxed you are the more fun you’re having and the better your score will be anyway.
Dom Romeo: One of the reasons Theatresports was developed was to get away from ‘shtick’ – the comfortable bag of tricks we all carry and fall back on. There are times, even when improvising in Theatresports, when players ‘get comfortable’ in the ways they play, sometimes to the point where you can almost certainly predict the character they’ll pull out and the way the improvised scene will play. Should they try to get away from that? And if so, how?
BRIDIE CONNELL: You definitely should get away from that because impro in its purest form would mean that we couldn’t be predictable. And that can really be frustrating for a fellow player or the audience member when you can predict the way a scene will go because you’ve seen a player bring out that character before. That’s one of the reasons I enjoy working with little kids, and one of the reasons they’re so good at Theatresports: they have such boundless imaginations that every time they do a scene it’s totally different.
I’ve been thinking about this concept of patterns and habits this year with my students. One of the things we do at high school and university level is an exercise that’s rapid-fire coming up with as many characters as you can really quickly: a set of two characters, then you change, and you change and you keep changing. You’re meant to get to bare minimum ten characters. But after about four or five characters everybody started to falter. The exercise totally exposes the fact that we have default characters. I do too: I have types of scenes that I’m more comfortable with, characters and accents that I tend to go to. But the more we’ve done that exercise, the more we’ve stretched our minds a little bit to find different types of characters to play. As well as that, there are some players who do the same sort of things physically, so we’ve really focussed them on doing different things with their voices to get them out of their comfort zone a little bit.
Dom Romeo: There are times when there are props available on stage and there are players who always look for a prop for inspiration – sometimes, I feel, to the detriment of their improvising.
BRIDIE CONNELL: I’m not really one of them. Sometimes you’ll get the perfect prop and it will really help you, but I find Theatresports is so fast-paced that when I rummage through the prop box to find something perfect for the moment, the moment’s passed. I’m not quick enough with the prop to do it. Some people just love them, particularly the physical players – they find things to help them be even bigger on stage. It works for some people, but it always just stresses me out.
Dom Romeo: Tell me about a time you did something on stage that not even you knew you were going to do – that took you by surprise, as well as the audience and the people you were playing with.
BRIDIE CONNELL: Those moments are the reason everyone keeps doing Theatresports! It’s a bit like a drug: sometimes the highs are so good – those moments when the whole team just clicks and they’re totally on the same wavelength.
I had a great experience about five years ago, in the final scene in the high school grand final. It was a plagiarism scene: all the lines, characters and settings are stolen from all the other scenes that had been played earlier that night. It’s a bit cheeky and it’s so much fun. But towards the end of the scene – it wasn’t a musical or anything but somebody started to sing a poem in a scene and everybody just got up. All the other teams got up and suddenly it was an impromptu musical. It got a great score and the audience loved it. I always remember it because to me that was the perfect summary of how important the concept of ‘the team’ is in Theatresports – everybody just supported each other and got up. It was amazing. The audience was floored that everybody in the space of about three seconds got on stage and jumped on one idea and took it to the extreme. It was so much fun.
Dom Romeo: It’s amazing when everyone gets the same idea and is on the same wavelength instantaneously.
BRIDIE CONNELL: It’s so organic, too: you can’t force it. It’s so amazing and it’s so much fun to play with people you meld with. Whether it’s because you know each other really well or you have similar styles, when that happens – when everybody just magically is on the same page and knows what’s going on – you can’t beat it. It’s so rewarding as a player and as an audience member.
Dom Romeo: If you didn’t have Theatresports in your life or as a way of life, what’s one thing that would suck in everyday life?
BRIDIE CONNELL: In high school, if I’m thinking back a bit, I was really grateful that I did Threatresports.
I actually started it because I was a debater, and I gave that up many years ago because I enjoyed Theatresports more. But I got into it because I thought it would help me with my debating, to think on my feet. And the more I did Theatresports, the better I was at thinking on my feet. So in high school, I would say the answer to that question is, I would have gotten so many more detentions. Because I could think on my feet I talked myself out of so many detentions and punishments in high school – more than anyone else in my year – which was great. But for now, the thing that I’m most grateful for in terms of what Theatresports has given me, is just general confidence and playfulness in everyday life.
My first ever Theatresports coach, when I was little, said, the people who played Theatresports were just better at life for those reasons: you’re more playful and imaginative and have more confidence. Whether or not you want to be a professional performer, I really do think that what Theatresports gives you is really valuable.
“Will this end with me beind date raped?” Michael Hing responds to my initial offer of an interview
over a home-cooked meal. Instead, I make him the Mafia compromise: a meal he
can’t refuse in a public place where neither of us has the clear advantage. Although
I have slightly more, since it’s a pizza place in the shopping strip where I
work. But as no firearm has, to our knowledge, been strapped behind the
cistern, and neither of us comes out of the john with just our dick in our hand, it’s
still clearly the right decision. (I’ll see your Gen Y ironic rape gag with a
Gen X pop cultural reference, Hingers!)
“I’m a filthy
vegetarian,” Michael warns, avoiding the option to share an entrée or split a
family vegie supreme. “I don’t mind separate pizzas, whatever’s easiest for
you. I don’t want to cause any trouble…” No trouble at all. Hing’s exquisite
taste and tiny appetite means I get the best of both worlds. And our long
conversation ensures I’ll need it.
Although it seems like
he’s been around for a relatively short period of time, Michael Hing’s been
involved in various modes of comedy for ages; he’s done just about everything,
his disproportionate hunger for comedy seemingly outweighing any other need or
desire in life. If there’s any
interesting new movement or trend happening in comedy, chances are Michael will
be somewhere close to the centre of it, since most if not all roads lead back
to Hing. Particulary at this year’s Sydney Fringe Festival where Hingers seems
to be producing or appearing in some 20-odd shows, making it very much a Sydney
Stand-out elements of
Michael’s comedy include his need to outline an informed socio-political
position. He’ll rant, but the rant will be backed up by facts. On a personal
level, however, he specialises in a line of self-conscious, nerdy absurdist
self-deprecation – but the self-deprecation is never racially based. That, he
eschews with an almost Richard Dawkins-like fervour. Which is where I most
often want to take issue, because even if the so-called ‘wog comedy’ and Asian
permutations thereof are unsophisticated, they still serve a purpose.
Unsophisticated people deserve to enjoy a laugh, too. But we’ll get to that,
and just about everything else, in good time.
My first memory of
Michael Hing was of that self-conscious Sydney Uni kid with the dreadlocks,
giving Raw Comedy a go. Twice. Within weeks of each other. First as a solo
stand-up, then as part of a kind-of-‘sketch’ double act with another Sydney Uni
kid called Neal Downward. The double act was more memorable than the solo
stand-up since it cleverly – perhaps too cleverly – deconstructed performance itself. Metacomedy. Earning Hing and his partner, Neal
Downward, a bit of coverage in MX when
they made the state semis. Next thing I know, Hing and Downward are producing a
sketch troupe consisting of a whole mess of Sydney Uni kids, called ‘The
Delusionists’, in their self-titled show for Sydney’s Big Laugh Festival and
the Melbourne International Comedy Festival.
The Delusionists, (l-r when they first appear): Ben Jenkins, Alex Lee, Steen Raskopoulos, Benita de
Wit, Paul Michael Ayre
“That was all within the same six month period,” Michael acknowledges:
“a pretty quick turn-around!”
What happened was, a year earlier Ben Jenkins – who would become one of
the Delusionists – made it through to the Raw Comedy National Finals. Hing’s
housemate, a high school buddy, was friends with Ben, so Hingers ended up
seeing Jenkins in action and thought “I could probably do that” and gave it a
“I didn’t have the drive, performance ability, talent and experience Ben
had,” Michael recalls. “And I was really, really new and Raw might have been
the second time I’d done comedy.”
“I forgot most of my set that night, and stood
in silence in the light.”
What was interesting was the night’s feature act – the professional
comic who entertains the loyal audience as a kind of reward for having sat
through a dozen newbie amateurs – was Nick Sun. And he more-or-less “did
exactly the same thing, which is, come on into the light and be silent and not
know his jokes.”
“When Nick Sun did it, it was hilarious because it seemed like it was
deliberate. When I did it, it was like, ‘what are you doing…?’”
The rise and rise of Michael Hing began with a couple of improv classes
towards the end of 2005 – which makes complete sense since Theatresports and
the tradition of improvised comedy have been strong at Sydney Uni just about
forever. Peripheral involvement with that year’s Arts Faculty Revue whetted his appetite; Hing directed the Architecture Revue the following year. “I
didn’t perform, but I wrote a lot for it,” he says, admitting that his early
attempts at comedy are a little embarrassing now. “It was terrible. I was
consciously trying to do stuff that was different to everybody else, but it was
a case of ‘you have to learn all the rules before you can break them’.”
Hingers did try to be different: whereas the first commandment of
University Revue seems to be ‘Thou Shalt Taketh the Piss Out of Other
Faculties’, under Michael’s watch, rather than take on Engineering, Education, Science and Arts, the Architecture Revue sought to be “‘different’ and ‘crazy’ and ‘out
there’ and ‘whoooooaaaah!’” Without sufficient experience the result, according
to Michael, was “this weird mess of ideas” where, of the 90-minute show, “maybe
40 jokes were funny and 50 million jokes were terrible”.
To be fair, every sketch show is hit-and-miss unless it’s put together
some five years into the participants’ careers, where they can draw from the
best of everything they’ve done thus far. And even then, the best sketch shows
are the British ones where there’ve been several series on Radio 4 before the
best bits thus far are chosen for the debut television series. You don’t know
that when you see that television series; it just looks like someone amazing
has come out of nowhere to work comedy magic.
Be that as it may, John Pinder – Aussie comedy pioneer who’d helped
found the Melbourne International Comedy Festival way back when and was still
consulting for television producers and heading up one of Sydney’s numerous and
disparate festivals (The Big Laugh Festival at the time) – happened to see the
“I don’t really understand what was going on,” Hingers says, “but for
some reason, he liked it and gave me a bit of money to put together a sketch
crew to be a part of that year’s Big Laugh Festival, and from that, do the
Melbourne Comedy Festival’.”
Thus, The Delusionists came into being.
Remember, by this time Pinder and producer Chris McDonald had created a
‘best of the university revues’ live show called The Third Degree, which eventually became the Ronnie Johns television show.
“The Third Degree already had
a format, so we came in at a time when the exact theatre that they were in –
the Kaleide Theatre at RMIT – was free, and there was what John described as ‘a
gap in the market’, which we filled,” Hing recalls. “People had heard of The Third Degree and wanted to be a part
of that experience in terms of sketch and discovering new comedy, so in our
first year, we had a lot of ticket sales that we didn’t really deserve.”
Undeserved perhaps, but definitely earned. When you go down to Melbourne
with a sketch show, you have a mass of performers as well as crew – a small
army that can cover all the bases when flyering punters on the street in the hope they’ll come see your
show. And it did seem they knew what they were doing, even if it was mostly
front and bluster. But Hingers comes clean:
“That was mostly copied from the model these guys were running. They had
all these rules and tips that they gave us, so we weren’t going down completely
‘fresh faced’, although, to all the people who didn’t know us, it was like,
‘who are these kids who have come down and sold 200 tickets?!’”
It’s not like they hadn’t done it before, really. They’d flyered
strangers for their uni revue, and the had the likes of Dan Ilic and Jordan
Raskopoulos – Third Degree and Ronnie Johns veterans – teaching them
stuff. The result? A good first show that earned a three-and-a-half star review
in The Age. They were overjoyed. “The Age! The paper! It came and saw our
show!” Michael recalls.
At this stage of his not-quite-career, despite an initial foray into Raw
Comedy, Michael Hing is sticking to writing and directing rather than
performing. And having cool dreadlocks, I suggest. “Yeah, and just being a real
weird dude,” he adds.
The following year, of course, the Delusionists return to Melbourne with
The History of Everything that Ever
Happened. Ever and sell out some 23 of their 25 shows, despite being on at a
ridiculously early timeslot. There are suggestions that TV is interested,
though nothing immediately comes of it. Although, the major difference this
time is “we get a two-star review from The
Age, and they call us homophobic and racist and the rest.” According to
Hing, “that really hurt” because they were all “crazy, left-wing, politically
correct people” with “totally innocuous jokes” that “weren’t even about race or
gender”. Indeed, Michael stresses, indignant, “it really hurt to be called homophobic when
we’re the type of people who go on marches for this kind of stuff. We’re Sydney
Uni students. Don’t you understand? We vote for the Greens!”
Ah yes. A half-decade or so earlier, they’d be rich kids who could
afford, in time, to be ‘chardonnay socialists’. Understood loud and clear. But
that doesn’t make them any less funny. Or politically incorrect necessarily (although,
I resist pointing out, this interview did begin with a date rape gag, ‘ironic’ and/or
‘absurd’ as it may be). If the Delusionists were guilty of anything, it was of
being a bit too clever-clever.
Still, it served as a lesson to Michael Hing in
his formative years.
“That’s when I first
started thinking about how careful you have to be with your comedy in terms of
what you’re saying and what you’re doing. The onus isn’t on the audience to
interpret it. The onus is on you to give them a message that they couldn’t
possibly misinterpret. You dictate how they interpret you. It’s all on you.”
After that year, Hing quit the group to
concentrate on solo comedy.
“I was too insecure to work in a group,” he says. “I’m not performing,
so I’m thinking, I’m not the funny one; they’re getting all the laughs, I’m
just writing jokes.” By this stage, the Delusionists were a strong troupe of
performers, and as such, pretty much directed themselves. “I’m like, ‘you know
what, I really want to do my own thing now. I want to go back to Uni and do
drama and some other stuff, maybe finish my degree, I don’t know.’”
Back to Uni
That’s an interesting diversion at this point. What exactly was Michael
studying? The plan out of high school was to follow Mama and Papa Hing into
medicine, because Michael was a pretty smart kid.
“But then it turns out I’m not smart enough to do that,” Michael says, “so
after six months of that I move to teaching for about three years.”
After teaching, Hingers tried his hand at counselling. “I go on a school
counselling prac and I expect it to be ‘oh like, hey, talk about your feelings
and stuff’ and on the first day it was, ‘my mum’s an alcoholic, my dad’s a
heroin addict, what have you got for me?’ I was like, ‘this is out of my
league!’ so I ditched that because there was no way that I could really help
Six months of architecture ensued. And then an
attempt at a philosophy degree.
“The point is,” Hing says, “I never graduated.”
Hang on, Hingers. You’re an Asian kid. You have an intellect. Both your
folks are high achieving doctors. How do they feel that you need to be a clown?
“They are amazingly supportive of this unmitigated bullshit,” Michael
says. Although his routine is littered with jokes about his parents
disapproving of his life choices, “in reality,” he insists, “they are just
amazing. For example…”
Before he launches into his example, Hingers
falters and has a second thought.But then says, “Yeah, I’ll talk about this,” and carries on.
“I had an opportunity two years ago to audition for a television show
which never got made. It was a sitcom. I got asked to audition for the part of
this Asian character who spoke in a weird accent and did a lot of Asian jokes…”
If you know Michael Hing at all, or have seen him on stage, you will
almost certainly know that this is anathema to him – playing the
self-deprecating, comic-relief, cheap-laugh Asian. And yet – sitcom. Television
work. Income. Perhaps fame.
“I was kind of not sure about what I wanted to do or whether I should do
it, and my dad was like, ‘Michael, you didn’t do uni because you don’t want to
have a real job; if you start doing stuff like this that you’re not passionate
about and don’t believe in, that’s like having a real job. You need to do what
you want in the way you want to do it.’”
Cool dad, huh!
“That is one of the biggest influences on what I am trying to do,”
Hingers acknowledges. “My parents are super, super supportive. Ridiculously so.
To the point where it is almost irresponsible. Now I’m doing fine and don’t need
support, but if I ever did, I think they would help me out.”
Moving on from The Delusionists while remaining friends with the cast
and crew, Michael began to concentrate on his own comedy. He took another stab
at Raw, making it to the state final. “That was when I realised stand-up was
the thing I’m not terrible at,” he says. Still, his career trajectory was
somewhat bound to the sketch comedy troupe.
“All the shows we’d done down in Melbourne, they were partially funded
by the University of Sydney Union,” Hingers explains. For the uninitiated, the
Union is the body that administers much of the cultural life of the student
body, and one way in which it does so is by funding cultural undertakings.
However, Michael says, after two years of financing a small army’s interstate
incursion, the Union woke up to itself.
“They were kind of like, ‘Hey, you’re going down to Melbourne with
thousands of our dollars and we’re not getting anything out of that’. So for
2009 when we wanted to do it, we said, ‘You know what, to prove to you that
we’re doing something for culture on campus, we’ll start a comedy room on
campus that’ll do a show every week and we’ll mix between doing stand-up and
sketch and improv and story telling and musical comedy and plays and everything
and we’ll literally do a different show every week’.”
And so, out of the need to fund a final Festival foray in 2009, Project
52 was born. “We didn’t realise that what would become Project 52 would be the
greatest thing we’ve ever done and one of the coolest things that we’ve ever
been involved in,” Michael says, quickly pointing out that he’s “not the only
person” behind it. “I do a lot of the boring admin work for it, but it
certainly is a five-way group who run it.” The team includes Ben Jenkins, Carlo
Ritchie, Steen Raskopolous and Tom Walker. “Carlo and Tom are the people who
probably make me laugh more than anyone else in the world. I understand their
minds, and they still make me laugh all the time.”
It wasn’t an instant success, of course: some nights were packed
out. Other nights the comics outnumbered the audience. “There were some grim
times for us,” Hing acknowledges. “There’d be eleven people in the room,
and ten comics, and it’s going to go forever and it’s gonna be terrible and
I’ve got to tell some first year I’m really sorry, he can’t go on because there
are too many comics. But by the end of the first year, a small crowd for us
became 60 people.”
It certainly helped Michael develop as a comic, having to front up each
week, often in front of largely the same group of punters. He had to have new
material each time.
“It’s perfect when you’re young and you have a million ideas and you
have to write them all down,” Michael reckons. “I say like I’m some old guy now…”
I am some old guy now, and I can say the one night I got to perform
there, it was chockers. Admittedly, everyone apart from Hing – and me – was
some undergraduate doing material about Star Wars, Lord of the Rings and Harry
Potter, but it was a great night. And then I couldn’t get another go, because
word got out that it was the coolest room in Sydney and visiting international
acts were climbing over each other to get some stage time. Although Michael has
a far more touching story about Project 52’s growth in prominence.
In Memoriam, Jordan McClellan
Some time into the room’s second year, on the night of Sydney
University’s Theathresports Grand Final, a student called Jordan McClellan,
who “did a lot of improv stuff” with Hing and co, was tragically hit and killed by a taxi on his way home.
“It was really serious and really, really sad,” Michael recalls. “That affected
a lot of people and changed the way we did comedy. It really changed a lot of
One change was the renaming of the Theatsports Trophy. Steen
Raskopoulos and Tom Walker, who run the Theatresports program, renamed it The
Jordan McClellan Cup. But one of the “more offbeat things” to come out of it,
according to Michael, occurred as a result of them googling Jordan McClellan’s
name, to see how his death had been reported.
“We found this blog by someone called Sidney Critic who had been writing
about us for 18 months. We had no idea. He reviewed all our shows. So there was
this great memory of our friend who had passed away. That was really cool.”
Sidney Critic went on to name Project 52 the best comedy room in Sydney.
“I think other comics must have read that blog or something, because when we
started up in the second year, the people who wanted to get on weren’t just
open mikers and friends, it was proper comedian people.”
But that’s just the stand-up night; there is far more to Project 52 than
stand-up, which takes place on night a month. Steen Raskopoulos runs ‘The Impro
Den’. “It is – and I say this
having watched a lot of impro – by several standard deviations the best
improvised comedy you’ll see in Australia” – Michael insists.
‘Story Club’ is the story-telling night run by Ben Jenkins. “It’s part
of a new trend that’s been happening for a couple of years,” Michael says,
acknowledging story-telling rooms run by the likes of Kathryn Bendall (‘Tell Me A Story’) and
Michael Brown (‘Campfire Collective’). The point of difference for Story Club, Hingers explains, is
that people literally type a story and read it out of a giant book. “So there’s
no performance element to it the way you would tell a stand-up story. It’s more
of a writing and performing process, and they’re on a theme. It’s as really
good way to break in, when people don’t feel confident in performing, they can
And, finally, there is a sketch night called Make Way For Ducklings.
“It’s probably the funnest thing to ever do,” Michael insists.
In addition, Project 52 runs other themed
nights where the comedy is about a specific – often nerdy – thing. “Like our Game of Thrones night. Recently we did a
‘would you rather’ discussion. It’s license to do whatever we want. We’re not
locked into doing stand-up every week, like other rooms are.”
Makes me want to run away and join Michael
Hing’s circus. They have the most supportive milieu. “It’s not even just
students,” Michael insists. “It’s a specific kind of student.” The room has a
capacity of 130-odd. “We don’t like turning people away,” he says, “but there
are nights when we say, ‘There are people who shouldn’t be here, could they
leave…’.” Such people, according to Michael, aren’t going to “get into the
spirit” of the room’s comedy. He reckons they’re people “who want rape jokes
and ‘edgy’ comedy” (said the man who suggested dinner-and-interview might serve
as the prelude to unwanted foreplay. And afterplay).
2012 was the first year Michael Hing took his own hour-long show, An Open Letter to Rich White People
Concerning Their Role in the Downfall of Civilisation, to the Melbourne
International Comedy Festival “because that’s how the Australian comedy
industry works,” he acknowledges. Whereas in America you develop five minutes
of material, building it to 10 and then 15 and then twenty, on your way to an
hour, in Australia you “do comedy for a bit and then you do an hour-long show
at a Festival”. Though not necessarily ‘ready’ to take on the solo show, there
were indications that it was time – “a bunch of weird things” starting to
happen from the beginning of the year.
“I broke up with a girl who
I had been dating for years. I started working at a university as an adult
instead of as a student lay-about.” It was, he says, part of that coupla-year
cycle where h panics a little and thinks he has to decide whether he should persevere
with comedy or pack it all in and try to get a real job.
“I gave myself to the end of the year to decide,” he explains: “If I’m
just doing one or two spots a week and only a couple of gigs a month are paid, then
I’m going to focus on my career and do stand-up as a hobby. But if by the end
of the year I’m doing stuff that I really like and I’m really proud of what I’m
doing, then comedy is the thing I’m going to do.”
Focus on your ‘career’, Hingers? What, pray,
tell, was the ‘career’ if it wasn’t comedy, midway through 2011?
“At the time I was booking bands and the
Roundhouse, at the University of New South Wales,” Michael says. “I was like,
‘I can be a booker. And do comedy as a hobby’.” Of course, Michael gave that
all away, and his non-comedy employment nowadays consists of teaching digital
marketing and media at said university part time, “even thought I don’t have a
degree and I’m not qualified at all”.
Aiding the transition from part time amateur
comic to full time professional were the collaborative shows Michael had been
creating for earlier Sydney Comedy Festivals with Patrick Magee. A founding
member and stalwart of Comicide, the
other sketch comedy troupe operating around the same time as The Delusionists, Magee was in many ways
Hing’s perfect foil.
Their first show, 2010’s Illustrious Physicians of Romance, set out “to teach you everything
you need to know about love in an hour”. A sample routine involved grabbing a
punter from the audience and calling up their ex-girlfriend in order to try and
win them back over the phone. The show arose out of Hing and Magee’s respective
obsessions with women at the time. (What? And your long term relationship
faltered, Michael? How? Why?)
Their second show, the following year’s Orientalism was a sustained “rallying
cry against ethnic comedy” – one of Hing’s bugbears. Although Michael is still adamantly
opposed to ethnic comedy, he can at least acknowledge that “60 minutes is a
long time to be preachy about something”.
These shows weren’t necessarily good prep for
Hing’s one-man show. “They were mostly improvised and they were more sketch
than stand-up,” Michael explains. “They changed every night because Pat Magee has
an inability to maintain focus on stuff, which is what makes him super funny a
lot of the time. It also makes him highly emotionally volatile a lot of the
time, as well. He is seriously one of the smartest, funniest, cleverest people
I’ve ever met and worked with. If he ever bothered to commit to doing comedy
forever, he’d be great.”
Given that Patrick’s currently in the UK
pursuing comedy, chances are he’s well on his way to achieving that greatness.
As for Michael, the process made him realise he had a number of stories he
wanted to tell, and so it was time to do his own show. Its first incarnation was I’m Only Doing This Because They Won’t Let Me Be A Rapper at the 2011 Sydney Fringe Festival.
Half a year on from the Melbourne Comedy Festival, Michael’s attitude to
his season is telling.
“I came back from Melbourne with a good amount of money from doing
comedy,” he says, “which felt really, really cool.”
So comedy as career instead of hobby, then. No need to get qualified to
teach digital media and marketing after all.
“At the same time, there was stuff in my comedy that I didn’t feel very
proud of. I was doing some jokes that I thought were lazy, and some easy gags.
I felt a little bit guilty because I was using easy tricks – in about three or
four parts of my show – to get laughs.”
Oh, Hingers, ever the purist. He sometimes got laughs not by telling a
joke, but by using “just the rhythm of a joke, and the word ‘f*ck’.” What comic
has never been guilty of that? Your job is to make them laugh. Did you make
them laugh? Good. No problem. Unless you’re competing in a [Raw] comedy
competition, in which case, be concerned that the jokes are below your judges’
standards, rather than your audiences’. But even then, it doesn’t matter: the
point of doing comedy is to make the audience laugh, not to win competitions.
And the point of doing comedy competitions is to make the audience laugh, not
to win competitions.
Still, Michael makes a convincing argument:
“For the first three weeks, where I’m selling out some nights and
getting great reviews, it feels great.”
Why wouldn’t it? That’s every Melbourne Comedy Festival debutante – and
veteran – comic’s dream.
Uh-oh. Chortle is the über-comedy critic, the comedy critic sine qua
non. And Hing confirms that Chortle essentially said, “‘Hey, dickhead, you’re a mad, lazy writer who should be
trying harder, cos you’re cheap’.” Hing’s paraphrasing, of course; Chortle is far more articulate than
“I read that and I think, ‘He sees through everything, and it’s
true’. And the reality is, any other achievement that I feel proud of, is
meaningless. So I come back from Melbourne with money that I’m not
uncomfortable to have, but think I should put it towards something cool.”
Good man, Hingers. I think I speak for almost everyone when I say I’m
never uncomfortable to have money, and I always think I should put it towards
something cool. But I’m never as cool as Michael, who has put his money to the best
possible use, producing fringe festival shows of several of his comedy peers.
But that’s the obvious, immediate penance – putting potentially
‘ill-gotten gains’ toward a greater good. Michael’s taking other initiatives as
“I don’t have a lot of strengths, but one thing I’m quite good at is
learning. I flatter myself to think I can learn quite well, so if someone I
respect, whose reviews I’ve read, says to me ‘this is a two-star show and you
need to work harder and not be lazy’, then I can click onto that being a real
And so for Hingers, it’s once more into the fray: among the multitude of
shows he’s involved with is the new hour of material, in development for the
2013 festival season.
All roads lead to Hingers
While ‘coasting comedian’s guilt’ goes some way to explaining why so
many roads lead to Hing – the ‘Sydney Hing Festival’ part of it, anyway – there
are still all the other undertakings he is and has been involved in.
For example, a couple of years ago one of the new hot young things of
comedy was a svelte Sydney chanteuse called Gen Fricker whose sinister
world view with conveyed via punk ballads sugar coated with a thin veneer of faux-naivete bookended with some of the most hilarious off-the-cuff banter you’ll ever have served up at you.
Another one of the many to arise out of the Sydney Uni milieu, Gen is clearly a
world-class talent in her formative years. Suddenly, Hingers was hosting the
breakfast shift with her on Radio FBi.
A couple of years previous, Jack Druce was the youngest Raw finalist
ever (dubbed ‘an embryo’ at the time by one slightly older – and possibly slightly jealous
comic). Now Hing is co-hosting one of the better comedian-fronted podcasts with
Cale Bain hosts an brilliant impro night on Tuesdays at the Roxbury
Hotel (the second best in the known universe, according to Hingers – but he has
a vested interest in the Impro Den, so it’s hard to call) and Hing is one of
A bunch of brash alternate comics have a weekly package of performance
anarchy called Phuklub – of which I’ve written at length. Guess who’s now a
regular there, too…
And virtually any cool newbie you see who is or was at one time a
student at Sydney University, rest assured, is a friend, was groomed by,
appeared in a revue with, or let’s face it, will one day regret never having embarked
upon a meaningful physical relationship with, Michael Hing.
There’s a reason why this is.
“If I want this to be my job,” Hing explains, “if I talk to my friends,
most of whom are comics, and they’re doing a cool thing, I want to be a part of
it. And I feel like I have a disparate amount of experience now that I can go
into any place and try and fit in with what they’re doing.”
And, more than wanting the constant challenge of trying to apply his worldview
and talents to each new comedic undertaking, there’s a far more fundamental and
“There’s no shortage of talented people in any comedy scene,” Hing says.
“All that separates me or anyone from anyone else is the amount of work that you
do. If I think I’m good and I’m gonna coast this out, there are any number of
more naturally talented people who can take my place.”
One of the forces guiding Michael, particularly in the way he helps
administer comedy to university campuses and beyond, taking newbies under his
wing as he investigates new avenues for himself and others, is to provide the
means of access that didn’t exist when he first hit the scene.
“When I was at uni and had a dream of doing stand-up, there was no way
that I knew how to go to the Mic in Hand on a Thursday night. If you’re a
student studying a science degree or whatever, you go, ‘oh, there are people at
my uni putting a show on every Wednesday night, and they’ve done shows in
Melbourne, and they’re doing gigs at the Comedy Store. If I hang around with
them maybe I can learn how to do this – how to get it done’. That’s a really
attractive thing to be able to offer young people. When I was in high school
and at university I didn’t know how to be a comedian. Now, if I can offer anyone
anything, it’s this: here is a night where you can get on and you can do
comedy, and if you like comedy, I can tell you who to talk to and who can help
you out. And now we get the people who run the Comedy Store coming by and
checking out our night. That’s really cool for me.”
Thus, Michael is producing 20-odd shows at this year’s Sydney Fringe
Festival because when he was at Uni he didn’t know how to do comedy, and now he
has a bit of an idea. Not just of how to approach it, but of the different
approaches you might choose to take. Indeed, Michael has several approaches of
his own that he’s putting into practice all at once – in a handful of shows.
“Ben and I have been writing together for six years now, so we have a
catalogue of 100 sketches. We’re gonna pick out 10 or 15 of them to call them a
And of course, there’s the solo show, Occupy White People, that’ll be the prototype of his
2013 festival show.
But the most political and personal one, by far, is A Series of Young Asian Comedians not doing Asian Jokes, which
features Jen Wong, Ronny Chieng (joint Best Newcomer at the Melbourne
International Comedy Festival this year), Alex Lee, Jonathan Lee and Aaron Chen along with Hingers. “We
all do 10 minutes each and no one mention race, no one mentions racism, no one
mentions immigration, no one mentions being Asian, no one mentions stereotypes…
nothing. It’s us doing jokes that have nothing to do with that.”
The stereotyped kid
Michael and I don’t quite agree on the ‘wog comedy’ issue. Being
slightly older, and remembering what an amazing phenomenon Wogs Out Of Work was, I appreciate that self-deprecating humour was
the first opportunity certain audiences – consisting of huge cross-sections of
Australian society – got to see characters they could identify with on stage.
Performers were talking to them about their particular experiences in ways that
Ango Austalian comics and other stage and screen characters couldn’t.
Furthermore, these non-Anglo Australian stereotypes weren’t merely the ‘low’
characters, the comic relief, the butt of the Anglo Australians’ jokes. They
played the gamut of characters, and where they were the butt of the jokes, they
were the butt of their own jokes: the humour was self-deprecating, so it wasn’t
hurtful. Decades on, yes, that kind of humour is clearly less sophisticated;
society has changed enough (we hope) that it’s unnecessary. We see non-Anglo
Australians in the media representing more than the mere fact that they happen
to be people of foreign extraction. But in less enlightened times, self-deprecating
wog comedy was empowering.
“Yeah,” Hing replies, “but if the only way ethnic people can identify
with a character on television in the 1980s is through Con the Fruiterer,
that’s a damning indictment of television. It’s so rare, for example, to see a
Chinese person on TV where their defining role isn’t merely being Chinese. It’s
only now that you’re seeing hot Asian girls who are actually just ‘hot girls’,
rather than ‘hot Asian girls’.”
Somewhere, a Gen X woman – who probably reviews for The Age – is reading this and being annoyed at the objectification
of ‘hot’ and ‘girls’ when Hing clearly meant ‘women’; is it a bigger faux pas
when special attention is being paid to the avoidance of racial
generalisations? His point stands, however: if the person of a certain race
appears in popular culture merely as a stereotypical representation of that
race, there is a tendency for kids engaging with that culture to define
themselves and others primarily by ethnicity. “And it is divisive,” Hing insists,
“because, growing up, you are no longer the kid who happens to be Chinese or
the kid who happens to be Italian. You are ‘the Chinese kid’. Or ‘the Italian
kid’. And for some people that’s a really positive point of difference, but
there is no reason that they have to be that. Why not ‘you are the smart kid’
or ‘you are the fast kid’?”
So then what happens, it seems, is ‘the Ethnic kid’ (feel free to insert
the ethnicity you are most familiar with) who is funny and talented enough to
take to the stage, becomes ‘the Ethnic comic’ and has to roll out all of the
Ethnic clichés. If you’ve heard them all before, they stop being funny. For
Hing, they can be downright offensive. Like when a comedian makes fun of his or
her parents’ accents.
“A lot of Asian comedians do it: ‘My dad gets his Ls and his Rs mixed
up. What’s up with that?’” Hing says, outlining why this line of humour fails.
“You’re making fun of your dad’s accent. Number one: it’s very
well-trodden ground. You should be above that. If you’re holding a microphone,
you should hold yourself to be above that. Number two: if your parents have a
thick accent, chances are, they’re first generation emigrants. They probably
made huge sacrifices to bring you here and bring you up in a country with
opportunities where they can give you the best life possible. And you’re gonna
get on stage and make fun of them because they don’t speak English properly and
they have a funny accent? Go f*ck yourself. That f*cken annoys me. It enrages
The rage has its origins during Hing’s own childhood.
“Growing up in the mid-90s in Australia, watching a comedian on
television who looks like me,” he recalls, “I get excited, and then he says,
‘spring rolls… boogadah boogadah boogadah, what’s up with that…?” (The
‘boogadah boogadah boogadah’ is shorthand not unlike the Yiddish ‘yaddah yaddah
yaddah’, serving here to dismiss facile observations.) “Everyone goes, ‘That’s
amazing’ and they grow up thinking that’s okay to do, and you think that’s what
you have to do as a Chinese guy doing comedy. I just want to prove to people
that you don’t have to do that.”
What it feels like, I offer, is that Michael saw Hung Le on television,
and irrespective of how funny or clever Hung’s observations were, later on at
school narrow minded people repeated them, seeking to tease Hing. “Definitely,”
he admits. “But this is what I’m talking about. People take away the message
they want. It’s your job as a comedian to ensure that nobody leaves your show
going, ‘I’m going to find the guy who that applies to and make him feel like
sh*t’. You start a ripple effect where you’ve hurt some guy you don’t even
I’m not sold on the argument. Part of me feels that Hing’s ‘bunging it
on’ more than he actually feels it, in order to create the context for his
particular brand of intellectually outraged stand-up to work. And mostly, it
seems, it’s for the edification of less privileged ‘outsiders’. I mean, the
open letter to rich white people has a different meaning coming from a rich
non-white person, than it does from a poor non-white person. There’s nothing
wrong with taking that position, it just takes more effort and more experience
to make it feel less ‘bunged on’ and more relevant and sincere.
“I don’t feel disenfranchised,” Hing confirms. “I’m the Asian son of two
doctors who grew up fine. I was bullied a little bit at school, but there are
people who cop it much worse. But racial injustice angers me. And when I talk
about racist stuff in my comedy, it’s because I genuinely think there is something
funny to be said about it.”
But, Michael continues, the reason he finds “the vast majority of ethnic
comedy” loathsome is because “when you’re in a position of power – and I think
we can agree that having the microphone is being in that position of power”
your target – the butt of the joke, and the level at which you pitch your jokes
– has to be above your own level. This because, if you don’t, “if you’ve got a
microphone and you’re screaming about someone who has less power than you and
you’re aiming your anger and ridicule downwards, you’re just bullying someone.
Whereas if you’re aiming it upwards –taking on the prime minister or people who
are muscular and rascist or people who are smart and rich – they can defend
themselves; they have a right of reply in a cultural capital.”
I agree with this philosophy. And I can see why it is such an
interesting comedic path that Michael Hing treads. Coming from that privileged
background, there aren’t many targets above him. And the bullying can’t have
been so full-on from fellow privileged lads.
“I went to the local public primary school, but because it was in a reasonable
area –Illawong, in the Shire – it wasn’t a rough school,” Michael confirms. “I
was ‘the Chinese kid’. It totally influences my position. I hated being defined
as ‘the Chinese kid’ because everyone else is pointing and laughing.” Perhaps,
Michael considers, that’s where the comedy-as-defence-mechanism began because,
he says, “I grabbed the mic at talent quests and stuff.”
Talking out of school
After primary school, Hingers wasn’t so keen to attend the local
selective public high school. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so my parents
sent me to Trinity Grammar. I got involved in some dicey stuff. I joined a
Dicey gang stuff at Trinity…? Apple in the chapel, I enquire, getting my
posh private school scandals muddled.
“No, Trinity was ‘The Anaconda’,” Hingers reminds me, adding, “and no, a
This was the key story of Hing’s Open
Letter…and since he’s performed
it on stage, he doesn’t mind relating it to me now. “Through a series of
events,” says Michael, he “ended up being friends with this guy whose older
brother was in a gang at Cabramatta.” Lonely and in need of friends – often a
characteristic looming early in a comedian’s life – Hingers ended up “doing
jobs” for these people that included picking up packages from the guy’s place
and delivering them to addresses in China Town.
“It’s hundreds of dollars every time that I do it, and I pretend I don’t
know what’s going on, but I know: it’s drugs and weapons and stolen goods in my
Dressing like the über-nerd he is – “top button done up, tie done up,
socks pulled up even though I’m wearing long pants” – Michael is the perfect
“I do this for between 12 and 18 months. Eventually my friend gets moved
to Hong Kong, to live with a disciplinarian uncle. I eventually quit, and
because I’m a nerd and they know I’m a coward, they don’t hurt me. They let me
This is around 2000 when the ‘anaconda’ sex scandal took place, and
suddenly the school’s systematically searching every student’s locker. “A lot
of people I’m associated with are called to the principal’s office,” Hing
reports. “Eventually, I’m called. I’m sitting there, crying and stuff. They
tell me I’m not going to go to that school next year, and I think, ‘I’m
f*cked!’ but it turns out that the reason I’m at the principal’s office isn’t
because of that stuff; it’s because about 6 months earlier, being a super nerd,
I made a website about my friend David calling him ‘gay’ because I was 14 and
that’s what I found funny. They were like, ‘that’s unacceptible’ and I was
like, ‘you’re right, it is, I need to leave the school; goodbye’.”
Hing ended up at Carringbah High, the selective high school he had been
trying to avoid, where he met all his nerdy friends, was mocked, got angry, got
to uni got into comedy and eventually ended up opposite me in a pizza place in
Manly Vale, where I ate most of his vegie selection after finishing my own
marinara, and after I swallow his last piece, I have to know: how the hell were
the doctors Mama and Papa Hing about all this?
“Again, just stupidly supportive of everything,”
Michael says. “That also contextualises what I’m doing now: sure, I’m not
finishing my degree or getting a job, but I’m also not in a gang, which is a
thing I came very close to doing for the rest of my life. It makes the choice
of being a stand-up comic much, much easier.”