A brilliant, savage, and singular takedown of housing as a commodity and those who profit from it.
Luke Rollason is alive, unlike Princess Diana. And yet his Memorial Bursary, awarded to interesting up-and-coming acts each Brighton Fringe, is doing such excellent work that perhaps one day it will be remembered in the same bracket as Di’s landmine charity.
At least, he’s helping us avoid comedy bombs.
Verity Sharpe is the latest recipient of his award, and her hour-long show moves seamlessly between pre-recorded “landlord” video segments, awful facts about the housing crisis, personal memoir, and punk poetry full of brilliant, crude, and stark wordplay.
Or it would, if the tech was working. Instead, the video is jerky and threatens to break down completely, and the whole tent suffers a power cut just as we’re careering towards a finale.
None of this matters, particularly. People laugh anyway: in recognition, disgust, and perhaps even relief that the spivs, creeps, and greedy no-marks making money off what should be a human right are getting the kicking they collectively deserve.
Sharpe is such a compelling presence, owning the stage with confidence and vulnerability, and her show is of such zeitgeist vitality, that no dodgy wifi or occasional forgotten line is going to stop her.
The personal tales, from her home town of much-flooded Cockermouth, to the awful indignities of renting in London, are brought to life through honesty, some scarcely-believable (unless you’ve ever rented) anecdotes, chaotic props, and some winningly awkward audience participation.
Property Guardianships – often a means to exploit young artists, an infamous one in east London’s Balfron Tower perhaps the nadir – are explained and defenestrated, thanks to some excellent character work and Sharpe having met some terrible people who don’t actually need to be exaggerated very much.
Gentrification, another potentially dull ‘n’ worthy subject, is vividly demonstrated in five silly minutes more effectively than at least two academic books on the subject.
Throughout, Sharpe moves deftly between alien clown and queer everywoman. She’s open, dry (unlike Cockermouth), explicit, and presents all with an excellent economy both of movement and language. This is performance as Riot Grrrl testament: serious AND funny, and with actual useful information too, if – as most here seem to be – you are a person who works to pay off your landlord’s mortgage.
And as we headed out into the early evening air, past the wheelie-suitcased tourists on their way to the many AirBnBs pricing the likes of you and me out of the city, the thought occurred: this might actually be the most important show you’ll see all month.
Landlord’s Wet Dream returns to The Rotunda Theatre Brighton (Squeak) on 8th May at 6:45pm.
