Review: Joan Collins Blocked Me on Twitter
Updated: 7 days ago
In which yet another committed Brit slogs across the pond to take his shot in Hollywood at creating a dynasty.
an Immersive Scene Los Angeles review
With a title like Joan Collins Blocked Me on Twitter, you know the deal going in: this is going to be broad, silly, and, hopefully, cross your fingers, funny. The funny is the important part here, because a solo-performed show that runs longer than ninety minutes (without an intermission) better be that, and then some, or it’s going to be a very long night. If you spend any time in black-box theatre land, you already know that there are a lot of amusing one-person, Fringe-esque acts to be found; many are buoyed by sheer enthusiasm and a “bit,” and plenty can be entertaining as hell for fifteen minutes or maybe even a half-hour before the air and energy seep out like at the scene of a balloon-meets-sewing pin party.
Then there’s this little gem. A creation of solitary (we won’t count Helga here) bravado, written and performed by comedic performer Billy Walker. That he dares walk out on stage as his outrageous alter ego, actor Thor Jones, dressed in bright green and red spandex topped with a sort of Where’s Waldo shirt, signals a make-or-break moment for both performer and audience. As he appears, the thought echoes a line heard later in the play: “Once more unto the breach,” and also: What have I gotten myself into?
In the case of Joan Collins Blocked Me on Twitter, you’ve gotten yourself into a terrifically entertaining piece of comedy theatre, one that soars on the back of its talented creator.
Walker, an eminently watchable (how could he not be in that outfit) master of the stage, hits it more or less around 8:10 (that’s close enough to perfect in L.A. for an 8:00 curtain) and keeps his foot on the gas, sorry, petrol, until he’s literally laughed you out. The show starts off cutesy, moves into genuine guffaw-inducing mode soon after, then proceeds to rip a new arse into show-biz, acting, and the absurdity of a performer’s life with lines and observations that will ring painfully true for anyone who’s ever stood in front of a casting director in pursuit of a life-defining one-liner on a show that has little chance of surviving on YouTube, let alone ABC, where the inspiration for this crowd-pleasing riot of a show was launched.
Welcome to the world of one Theodore Jones, shortened to the headshot-friendly Thor. His apartment is more British than the Union Jack itself, and if he’s going to make it in Hollywood with his lifelong goal of landing a role on a long-planned Dynasty reboot, starring his idol, fellow Brit and fellow diva Joan Collins, he’s going to do so with a perpetually at-the-ready teapot and enough chintz and very English ephemera surrounding him in his tiny WeHo apartment to make it feel like foggy London inside, even if it’s smoggy Hollywood just outside. At the center of his living room stands a ring light and camera, perpetually at the ready for yet another miserable, low-paying, cheesy commercial audition, the latest indignity being the role of a jingle-singing, IBS-meds-pushing elf (which explains the red and green spandex).
But Thor’s got a much bigger problem. Dame Collins has not only severed the young actor’s attempt at online communication, she’s also apparently started some legal action against him. Not for stalking, mind you, but for accidentally poisoning her cat. What chance does this, okay, not-so-young actor have of making it big in Tinseltown with that nonsense hanging over his head? But don’t tell Thor that. He’s got enough gumption, headshots, and outsized belief in himself to outlast them all. He also has his frequently-calling Valley agent, Judy, and his often-spoken-to-but-never-seen dear friend Helga to confide in when things get tough. And as any thespian in L.A. will tell you, tough is a good day in the biz. As Thor waits, not so patiently, for the supposed reboot to materialize and for his far-fetched chance to play opposite his idol Collins, the National Enquirer won’t leave him alone about all of that cat business. So he presses on, trying to make any positive impression on the industry, a fetching UPS delivery man, and just about anyone who might be looking for an over-the-top spokesman currently dressed in something that is reminiscent of Robin’s wardrobe from Batman.
You needn’t be an actor to appreciate or even love what Walker and his insightful director, Ann Noble, have created on a small stage in Hollywood. But if you are one, you’ll feel as though his Thor is one for all of you who’ve endured countless auditions from hell, soul-draining industry workshops, endless headshot sessions, and the latest pay-to-play requirement for every non-working-working actor: Actors Access. It’s all here on the stage, and aside from being outrageously funny, it’s authentically real. But let’s say, unlike what seemed to be half of the audience on opening night, you’re not a performer. In that case, you’ll likely just adore the play because beneath all the industry in-jokes, it’s simply great entertainment.
The hilarity simply doesn’t let up: clever video clips (the best being one on parking in L.A.), the auditions to nowhere, inspired audience interaction, and one Thorism after another. And just when you think you’ve got the measure of it, maybe even had your fill of tea, Walker drops the comedy bomb: Act 3.
Act 3 deserves its own short paragraph, for within it lies a monologue that is the high point of the night. It’s an exorcism, a manifesto, a complete vivisection of the acting industry that starts off as a slow burn before speeding into Acela-train mode. It’s also one of the funniest things I’ve seen onstage in a long time, showcasing all of Walker’s performing and writing chops. That he can pull it off without you, the audience, or Thor himself ever really resenting the Hollywood grinder is a testament to a deep love of the craft and an actor’s undeniable faith in themselves and what might be out there for them just beyond that next audition.
There’s something that happens with regularity in broadly-comic shows late in the performance; it’s practically de rigeur in solo-performed shows. The larger the clown performance, the more poignant the inevitable serious moment must be. Playwright-actors all do it, that moment late in the play when they take the mask off and share the deeper reason for it all. Yes, there’s one here too, actually two of them, split up by more comedic genius, but there’s a real difference here. The serious side of Joan Collins Blocked Me on Twitter is earned.
It’s welcome as well, because you’ve gotten to know Thor beyond his cattiness, his ego, and his incessant need for tea. You care about the guy. More than that, you’ve gotten a peek into the performer himself beyond the showy character. He’s opened up to you, as Thor of course, but simultaneously not as Thor, with clear glimpses of the real person behind it all. A poignant moment about the long line of Brit performers who’ve ventured here to make their mark really lands, no matter your own dream or where you’re from. Thor has sat and interacted with you in the crowd, he’s confided in you, and told you about his deep love for Helga, which just might make you think about the Helgas from your own life. Plaudits to director Noble for encouraging Walker to dig deeper into his Edinburgh Fringe one-act to find its emotional spine that makes the audience care about the larger-than-life Thor.
Okay, enough of the serious stuff. Look, you’re going to laugh a lot - this is a raucous comedy after all - and in one of his many forays into the crowd, Thor may have taken your shoe, switched you to another seat, or even had you fold his laundry. You won’t mind at all. You’ll be laughing too hard.
Just three Mondays left in the current run at the Broadwater Black Box in Hollywood - a perfect venue for Thor’s little Britain in L.A. big dream story to unfold. Will his dream come true? Anything’s possible, cause there’s no business like show business.
by Thom Mills for Immersive Scene Los Angeles
at The Broadwater
6322 Santa Monica Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA
November 9, 16 and 23
Tix: $20.00
