A One Night Stand With Russell Brand - My Review of The Messiah Complex

The messiah complex, in its clinical demeanour, is one’s belief that he or she is God. Not just in the Judeo-Christian sense of the word, but in the more generic, all-encompassing sense, of that of a saviour or messiah. The Messiah Complex, Russell Brand’s riotous rampage across the globe and its myriad cultures, is pretty much the same thing.

Let me take you through my night. It started out with the typical jovial and anticipatory innocence that often embraces large crowds at Hammersmith Apollo, except with this particular audience there was the unspoken knowledge that we would (inevitably) leave the venue soiled and debauched. But in spite of our wonderfully British indignity, we all knew that's exactly why we were there. So too did we expect a toothy grapple with the fundamentals of faith and religion, given the iconological buffet that was the poster. Suffice to say that before I had even reached my seat I felt as though Russell had been shouting important things at me for hours (for those who haven’t seen it, the poster sports more signs and symbols than an Egyptian sarcophagus. I imagine that if Dan brown threw up, this poster might have been the result).

Somewhat refreshingly though, the show actually began with Mr Gee, Brand’s tame yet witty warm-up who opened the show with a string of insightful quips and thoughtful urban poetry. With such an unexpected opener, it took some time for the audience to warm up and get onside, and was a slow beginning for what you might expect of a Brand show redolent with media-baked controversy. There also seemed to be a wave of apprehension spreading through the crowd as seats were still filling, much as if Mr Gee had walked onto the wrong stage. However, his presence and relevance became quickly apparent. Short though his set was, the contemporary artist/poet struck the perfect balance between the everyday and the intellectual that would set the tone for the rest of the show. From the threads of anti-capitalist sentiment to his articulate yet relatable delivery, his sharp wit was reminiscent of Brand’s own style and material – if a little lighter on the word “vagina”. It was a beautiful, teasing kind of foreplay that would lead neatly into the raucous and rampant fornications of Brand’s set.

Then the cocksure messiah himself came strutting, part Jagger part peacock, onto the stage amidst an array of illustrious figures of our past, and wasted no time in acquainting himself with the fawning females in the front row. It was all very exciting, I’m sure, for those in the stalls, but for us in the rafters it was a tedious wait for him to stop canoodling and return to the stage and get on with being droll. But, though it was an irreverent kind of arrogance, it was Brand’s astute examination of his own iconography that gave his otherwise shameless self-indulgence a rather witty spin. “I am aware of some hypocrisy here,” might well have made the tagline of the show, and actually there is genius in that. It’s the difference between overt egotism – which is always an easy laugh – and a sly and savvy prod at the real buttons beneath our skins (I imagine it’s this skill that keeps his bed filled). But, few have the balls to pull it off (Ricky Gervais is another of those rarities) without reverting to unnecessary controversy for the sake of controversy, which seems to saturate today’s comedy repertoire. And where Ricky will often pull it off in a dry braggy sort of way, sarcasm in one hand and microscope in the other, Russell achieves it instead by cunningly undressing us all with his decadent narration until it’s impossible not to feel naked before him. Moreover, we didn’t even get an interval to re-clothe ourselves. Clever Russell.

When he did decide to return from basking in his own celebrity, one of the many modern phenomena that he gave such ironic criticism, he embarked on numerous misadventures that would eventually lead to his purpose: To show (brag, boast, declare, lecture, teach – choose your verb, he did them all!) how he was in fact a little bit like each of his cast of icons… even Jesus. It was a simple but strangely addictive structure that leant itself to his outrageous anecdotes, as if even the very framework of the show was alive with his sexual appetite. It was build, climax, build, climax, build, climax, and nobody had the chance to say ‘No’. I want to say it was exhausting, but actually it proved to be a continuous replenishment to his act which was, in conclusion, as insightful as it was funny.

Sometimes Russell Brand can be too much and it's easy to feel a bit force fed at times, but Christmas wouldn’t be the same without too much Christmas dinner, and watching Brand live wouldn’t be the same without coming away needing a lie-down. But the Messiah Complex strikes a nicer balance too, despite his overt allusions to the fact that he is some sort of modern deity. For every euphemism there is a laugh, for every joke there is an insight, for every gaudy proclamation there is a humbler learning. And of course, for every woman there is always hope.

If you didn’t see it live, get the DVD. Just make sure you’ve got coffee. Watching a god at work is a tiring ordeal.

7 /10