Comic relief

'I THINK I'VE just opened Pandora's box,' whispers Mike Brooks in mock horror as he surveys the scene before him. Remnants of Saturday afternoon sunshine filter into the rehearsal room of the Fringe Club, in the middle of which is a group of about 20 adults. Strangers barely 20 minutes ago, they are now screaming, yelping and bear-hugging each other in an explosion of wild abandon. You'd think each of them had just bumped into a long-lost friend, which happens to be the very point of their improvisation.

'Now pretend you've bumped into someone you hate!' bellows Brooks above the din, as the riot jump-starts into a new cacophony of aggravated shouting and stomping feet. With jokers to the left of me and jokers to the right, here I am: stuck in the middle of Brooks' inaugural Comedy Workshop.

As with all good comedy, the secret of this first workshop is timing. It couldn't be better positioned to provide a brief distraction from the increasingly weighty issues of the world and Hong Kong's current problems, and Brooks says he intends to go ahead with more workshops because 'laughter is the best form of medicine'.

Bringing together a multinational mixture of actors, teachers, business people, lawyers and the plain curious, people of all ages, local and expatriate, are assembled in the room. The tall, slightly gaunt Brooks hovers around like a big, congenial crane, introducing himself with a baseball cap pulled down low just above his intense, deep-set eyes. He has an obvious comic nature even before uttering a word.

'The idea of the workshops is that they can appeal to everyone,' he says. With more than 20 years in the entertainment business in Australia, London and Hong Kong, including stints in theatre, television and writing, he has the made-for-TV diction - all precise, rounded tones - down to a tee. 'The idea of the workshop is to improve things like comedy skills, voice, and improvisation skills for those who want to stretch beyond chorus parts. But don't think that it's just for thespians. Everyone needs to think outside the box from time to time.'

After a couple of ice-breakers during which names are memorised and inhibitions dissolved, we move on to a series of improvisational exercises designed to get everyone thinking on their feet. After the success of shows such as Whose Line Is It Anyway?, theatre sports - in which improvisation is used in high-pressure competition for laughs between teams - have become an exciting new tool for drama workshops, and Brooks employs elements of them here. 'It's all about getting into that zone, that fearless territory where your mind is free to create,' he explains.

One particular activity requires a volunteer to make up a gesture, perform it in the middle of the group and, when questioned about it, come up with an explanation completely irrelevant to what they're doing - which in turn has to be acted out by the inquirer.

As a result, Emi, a British-educated Japanese lawyer, is writhing on the floor and gyrating her hips in front of us - thanks to a particularly uncharitable set-up from the previous person. And she barely bats an eyelid. 'The ability to improvise is important, it's a good skill to have,' Emi enthuses when asked why she's here. 'It applies to all life situations, not just comedy. I have to perform in my own way in the courtroom every week, and that involves thinking on the spot, ad-libbing and adapting to new situations. What I'm doing here is a less pressurised form of performance, but the abstract thinking that goes with it gives me the chance to let loose. It's good to explore new sides to a skill that is so much a part of my career.'

One man's hilarity can often be another's pain, so does Brooks fear that the workshops, with their broad cross-section of participants, might stutter in terms of being able to raise a laugh? 'Not at all. Comedy is comedy, especially in this sense where we're using direct, physical humour. The emphasis isn't on how funny you are, or what gags you've got. It's on how well you can turn situations around with your own sense of humour. I can't teach you how to be funny, but I can facilitate the situation in which you learn to draw it from within yourself.'

And that's just as well, with some participants clearly adapting themselves better than others. Brooks is encouraging to the end, smoothing over the odd cringe-worthy moment with his 'practice is everything' mantra. Indeed, by the time we progress to the human tenpin bowling section of the workshop, most are just about ready for the final challenge: the improvisation of a 60-second fairy tale. It's my turn to step into 'the zone'. As the rest of the group becomes a hazy blur, I find myself flailing around on the stage, morphing from character to character in the space of a minute. And the only word I'm allowed to use is 'blah'.

Peter Sellers may well have turned in his grave, but, like the other members of the workshop, there was a clear sense of tapping into some kind of new energy. Whether it was funny didn't seem to matter because everyone had broken through the embarrassment barrier by the end of the session. What was billed as a workshop became more of a social club, as a firm show of hands were held high in support for it becoming a regular event. 'I work hard at a desk job all week long,' says Eugene, who has had a permanent grin etched on his face. 'I'm just looking for a release.'

Clearly for some people, Pandora's box is best left open.

The next Comedy Workshop is planned for April 12, 4pm-7pm. Rehearsal Room, Fringe Club, 2 Lower Albert Rd, Central. $150. Inquiries: [email protected]