By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
If you had a conventional grammar school education and you don't watch too much Nick at Nite, chances are you don't think of Sebastian Cabot as the discoverer of the New World. According to The Complete History of America (abridged), however, it was this Englishman -- and not the Italian explorer of the same name -- "who first set foot on the continent of North America." As the script of this daring new interpretation of the last 400 years reminds us: "He later became very famous as Mr. French on TV's Family Affair."
Make that the last 12,000 years, because The Complete History, a three-man vaudeville-meets-National Lampoon comedy revue that recently opened at the Florida Shakespeare Theatre, is nothing if not expansive. Throwing together TV culture, Jimmy Durante imitations, balloon animals, political correctness, and bad puns (not to mention several buckets of water aimed at the first few rows of the audience), this show promises to amplify the version of history presented by our schoolteachers. It also wants to remind us that revisiting the past can be somewhat enlightening and useful. As explained by cast member Ale Weinberg, The Complete History "is like a Post-It note on the refrigerator of America that says, 'Hey, America! Don't forget to rewind your Blockbuster tapes!'"
Most of the chronological rewinding that takes place onstage at the FST, under the lively direction of Barbara Lowery, is done by the antic members of the cast, who in one instance unspool a seemingly endless roll of toilet paper to illustrate the limitations of history texts. Identifying this prop as a timeline, one actor explains, "It covers all historic events prior to 1492."
And what might those events be? Take this sketch, which embodies the goofy spirit of this 90-minute blitzkrieg of jokes: Actor John Baldwin, dressed as a Native American, begins to tell the story of the people who were already in America when Christopher Columbus "discovered" the New World. "Ladies and gentlemen," says Weinberg, "we are indeed fortunate because John is part Crow Indian. His great-grandmother was a full-blooded Crow." At which point trouper Ken Clement interjects, "And had a wing span of eight feet."
Well, don't look at me. I thought it was hilarious. But I'll be the first to admit that it probably takes an unseemly tolerance for Gilligan's Island references and allusions to Noam Chomsky to enjoy this show. Complete History was written and originally performed in 1993 by Adam Long, Reed Martin, and Austin Tichenor, three guys who, in various combinations (sometimes with help from other playwrights and actors) have created something of a franchise of comedy revues parading about as abbreviated versions of history and literature. (You may remember last year's The Compleat Works of Wllm Shkspr (abridged), which also played at the FST.)
Complete History, which, among other aberrations, presents Lewis and Clark as a nightclub act, doesn't lend any new perspectives to American history that haven't already been set down by generations of Saturday Night Live writers, not to mention iconoclastic historian Howard Zinn. It does, however, manage to resurrect the lowly vaudeville routine and give it new respectability.
Don't believe me? You try writing a skit as seamless as the one portraying the so-called shot heard round the world that began the American Revolution. Anchored to a joke that reflects our affection for TV's Kung Fu, as well as for the men who fought at the bridge in Concord, it features three people crossing the stage, speaking with French, Mexican, and Chinese accents. The first one says: "I hear a shot, monsieur!" The second: "I hear a shot, senor!" The third: "I hear a shot, grasshopper!"
Indeed, when the so-called new vaudeville, fostered by the likes of high-art clown Bill Irwin and the dance group Pilobolus, caught fire on Broadway a decade ago and gave new life to juggling and miming, no one dreamed the "old vaudeville" even deserved a second look. (Jackie Mason's comeback still seems more an exception than a trend.) But this show is a good argument in favor of returning the archaic theatrical form to the spotlight. And while I wouldn't go so far as to claim that Long, Martin, and Tichenor are the vanguard of a new comedy movement, Complete History does distinguish itself from hundreds of other pop-culture sendups by virtue of its highly inventive wordplay. Who would have guessed that the lowly pun, for years treated with contempt, still has the power to surprise?
For example, you may think you've heard every Wizard of Oz joke ever invented, but this show explores new territory with a skit that puts Munchkin-size soldiers under the command of George Washington at Valley Forge. The four-foot-tall, trench-coated colonials smugly contradict the great general, who insists he asked for "regular, full-size soldiers." One of the would-be army privates points out that the phrase "minutemen," especially when put in writing, can be read more than one way.
Pronunciation gags notwithstanding, this sketch succeeds because of the considerable talents of the three FST actors, all apparently born to lunacy and good timing, who handle their props as well as their lines and who throw dignity to the wind if need be. As is the case with other segments of the show, the minutemen routine also turns a boisterously tasteless joke into a jab at political correctness (the soldiers claim to be victims of "vertical discrimination").