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Post  eddie Thu Mar 22, 2012 4:21 am

Living dolls

It was one of the staples of variety; no Saturday night TV schedule was complete without it. Then, suddenly, the lid seemed to close on ventriloquism. So can the vents put their work back on everyone's lips? Charles Nevin goes in search of the act that will get people talking again

Charles Nevin

The Guardian, Saturday 12 June 2004

Ventriloquism Conti1
Monkey business: ventiloquist Nina Conti and her dummy

Welcome to Las Vegas, the hot desert City of Illusions, which include winning money and what appears to be the Eiffel Tower, just along from the campanile of St Mark's. Round here, the Titanic sinks every day, a volcano erupts through the night and formations of fountains dance at regular intervals to the piped blare of Aaron Copland, momentarily drowning out the Presley and Sinatra.

We are in a room at the Imperial Palace, above the enormous, seething gaming floor, where the carpets are even louder than the unending bling-chink-clunk of the slot machines. Up on the stage, a man bearing, naturally, a strong resemblance to Elvis, has a fixed smile on his face.

His right hand, which he is holding up, is covered by a sock. The sock appears to be yodelling. There is enthusiastic applause. "My grandma is over 80," says the man. "A wonderful woman. She doesn't need glasses. Drinks straight out of the bottle." Fixed smiles, yodelling socks, old jokes. Welcome to the wonderful world of ventriloquism; to, specifically, the Las Vegas International Ventriloquist Festival, 2004.

Ventriloquism: is that still around, I hear you ask. Well, yes, it is, but you have to know where to look. Not much variety on the television these days; not much place for someone up on stage working a puppet that sounds as if it's talking. Not in the age of irony; not in the age of effects.

Showcall, The Stage newspaper's register of variety acts, numbers two animal acts, two trick cyclists, five fire-eaters, 16 ventriloquists and 302 tribute bands. It's little better in the US, where once Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy were as big as anyone, and Ed Sullivan considered his show incomplete without a "vent". Now neither of Sullivan's two mighty successors, David Letterman and Jay Leno, will have anything to do with what they call "prop acts", unless it is to tease, which has always been easy. Aristophanes, for example, was a major mocker.

That was 25 centuries ago; but vents somehow managed to survive. So it's definitely got something, ventriloquism, even if upstairs in Las Vegas, at first sight, it's not clear exactly what.

Let's look at the history. The displaced, remote, inexplicable and different voice features in all civilisations and cultures from the earliest times. Voices boom and whisper, directing and admonishing the likes of Abraham and Moses and Mohammed, and the servants of the ancient gods of the north, the east and the Americas. In India, the Hindu saint Dnyaneshwar makes a buffalo recite the Vedas, and Salunkee, the tiny bird, speaks the message of God. Engastrimyth, from the Greek, ventriloquist, from the Latin, means, literally, "belly speaker"; travelling soothsayers, gastromancers, would deliver prophecies in a voice that seemed to come from the stomach.

Saul encounters a ventriloquist, the Witch of Endor, in the Bible; Christ and his successors address and exorcise evil spirits right up until today, a feature of a succession of movies such as The Exorcist and The Omen series. You want to feel ancient dread, that little touch of atavism in the night? Then listen to the wrong voice saying the wrong words from the wrong mouth.

Odd that a practice with this kind of pedigree should have become stage entertainment; and even odder that it should have evolved during the late 18th century into a form almost exclusively associated with the dummy, cousin only slightly removed from the devil doll, taker of pins and curses, comer to life. Unsurprisingly, the movies have had a Grand Guignol time with this: the Chucky series, Michael Redgrave being overcome in Dead Of Night, Anthony Hopkins in Magic, Von Stroheim in The Great Gabbo.

And the vents, what do they make of the past and partialities of their calling? Well, I should say they were in two minds about it. In fact, I should say they were in two minds about most things.

Their attitude to their dolls, or figures, for example. The majority of the ventriloquists at the Vegas festival were amateurs, the sort who do the odd birthday party. These were the ones who took their dolls to breakfast and hardly had them out of their sight or, indeed, off their knee. When I asked one why his doll, sitting on the chair next to him, was called Elliott, he looked at me with reproof: "What's your first name? Why are you called Charles?" He then left to talk to someone on the other side of the room, leaving me with Elliott, whose eyes, for some reason, I couldn't quite bring myself to meet.

The professionals, on the other hand, or knee, tend to be positively dismissive of their dolls, often making a point of not being quite sure where they keep them at home. But, in the words of Buddy Big Mountain, the only professional Native American ventriloquist: "If you want to go deeper, it can get a little crazy."

Buddy used to keep his dolls in plastic bags, but people protested, so now they're in cloth bags. He has his dolls around the house, sitting watching television with him - "Because I want to know about them... You give them a life and then they take on that life, that's when they're good... I want to have a relationship with them... If I don't know about their characters and attitudes, I won't be able to react to them... "

Buddy, 49, a mixture of Mohawk and Welsh, who started out at the age of two with his family of circus dancers working with the legendary Colonel Bowles, agrees that all this might seem a little weird, but says it works for him. He's a bit worried, too, about the jeans that Wendell, his cowboy doll, is wearing; they used to be part of his wife's jeans, you see, and if Wendell finds out, "he'll just take up the whole routine talking about it".

They're a little bit internally conflicted, as well, about the teasing. They don't much like it, but they're not averse to the attention. Last year, Valentine Vox, the director of the festival, married Eyvonne Carter, another ventriloquist. It was the high point of the festival, and took place on its stage. Valentine carried his doll, Jeorge, a dog, while Eyvonne had hers, a baby doll, with her. Valentine's sister, a Baptist pastor, officiated with her doll, Digger, another dog. The maid of honour was Shari Lewis's daughter, carrying Lamb Chop, still with us, even though Shari is not. (You must remember Lamb Chop; a lamb; ask your mum.)

The congregation was evenly split between ventriloquists and dolls. When Valentine's sister asked if anyone knew of any reason why the marriage should not go ahead, the dolls went mad. It was featured, and terribly teased, on, naturally, the Jay Leno show, and shown all over the world. "It turned out a very classy ceremony," says Valentine, 65.

Valentine is interesting. He lives in Las Vegas but he is British. He has written a scholarly history of ventriloquism, from which I stole a lot of the historical stuff. His real name is Jack Riley; his stage name used to be Jack O'Reilly; he appeared in three British daytime television shows in the 1970s, By Jeorge, Zingalong and Happy House.

Then he changed his name. There are those who say this is because he wasn't very good; Valentine says he wanted a new challenge, to start all over again. He worked a lot in Europe, with the dog, and eventually met a Swiss backer who financed a museum of magic and ventriloquy, first in Switzerland and then in Vegas.

In 1997, Valentine started his festival. The museum was forced to close in 2000, and the numbers of paying festival attenders are down, but Valentine is, of course, going on with the show, and strong in denial of ventriloquism's imminent demise: "I think it's more alive and well than it's ever been. It's a bit of a myth how huge it was. Like everything else, like magic, it suffered when variety was closing down, but it's still there, it didn't disappear like many other acts. What happened to the dog acts? What happened to the whistlers?" (As it happens, Harold Crocker, the only whistling ventriloquist, was present at the festival.)

Sure, there wasn't that much on the television any more, but that was because producers were afraid of being thought old-fashioned. You had to know where to look. Britain wasn't much use, but in Europe and in the US, there were lots of venues. Corporate events, for example, where a big name could get $10,000 a night. Comedy clubs. And cruise ships "were falling over themselves for vents". Ah, yes: talk to a ventriloquist and it's not long before cruise ships come up; it's hard to believe they do anything else out on the waves.

Back at the open microphone session, Santa Ricky Baldwin, the Year-Round Santa, was putting up an interesting performance with his penguin, which he had brought because he hadn't got room for his polar bear. Next door, in the room where the doll-makers and other merchandisers had set up shop, Dr Elana Ashley, author of the children's book Splunkunio Splunkey, Detective And Peacemaker, was getting her elephant to sing to me again after I had confessed that, yes, I had noticed her lips move very slightly the first time. Not a twitch, I assured her, firmly, this time.

On the next stall, identical twin doll-makers and former boy ventriloquists Kem and Kern Poyner ("Our mother was expecting a girl, so she had to come up with some names real quick") were selling figures from $695 to $995. A bespoke figure from the top man in the field, Tim Selberg, across the hall, can cost as much as $15,000, but you will get crying and spitting as well as winking, and flapping ears.

Valentine will tell you that vents exaggerate the weirdness because it's good for business. Bergen might have had one bedroom for his daughter, Candice, and one for his doll, Charlie McCarthy, complete with wardrobe and clothes, but that was for effect, like the way he talked to him all the time. Even so, ventriloquists have made a good fist of living up to the challenging antecedents of their art.

The father of British ventriloquism, for example, Thomas Askins, was a one-legged, 18th-century ex-serviceman who moved into ventriloquism after spending some time using his wooden leg to drill holes for seed potatoes. Bobby Kimber, popular after the second world war, was a woman who proved to be a man. When Arthur Prince, one of the great vents, died in 1948, he was buried with his doll, Jim. "Arthur Prince & Jim" reads the gravestone; one year later, his wife died, and she was buried in the grave, too.

In the US, dolls often end up at the retirement home Vent Haven, set up by the ventriloquial collector William Shakespeare Berger, in Kentucky. Among the 500 figures resident are the only survivors of a shipwreck that took the life of their vent, WH Wood, in the Gulf of Mexico in 1908.

A rich past, then, but what of the future? Can the decline be arrested? "We're like accordion players," says Buddy Big Mountain, when he's not being his usual optimistic self. "There's talent there, but who's going to sit down and listen to an accordion? Who wants to see a puppet when you can see things in the movies that are so amazing?" What's needed, says Buddy, is someone who can reinvent the form. In the world of the vent, they look enviously over at the sister craft, magic, which has pulled off the trick, through Penn, Teller and chainsaws, the Davids Copperfield and Blaine, and the russian roulette blanker Derren Brown.

While we wait, you have to know where to look. In Britain, ventriloquism is having a bit of a vogue in the contemporary arts, with all manner of sculptors and video-makers and experimental theatricals busy exploring the potential of the disassociated voice and ventriloquial images. Steven Connor, professor of modern literature and theory at Birkbeck, has written Dumbstruck, a cultural history of ventriloquism in the mode of the modern French masters, packed with paradox, analysis and flights of theory: wonder, for example, at our ancestors' obsession with talking female genitalia, and at why you've never worked out that government is a ventriloquial act: they are affecting to speak with our voices.

Recently, the Ruskin School of Fine Art and Drawing, Oxford, has held a series of lectures on ventriloquism and automata. Liverpool's art and film centre, FACT, hosted an evening of ventriloquism to accompany its exhibition by Bjorn Melhus, the German video artist who creates striking effects and catching soundbites by dubbing different voices on to other images. The Henry Moore Institute in Leeds currently has an exhibition that "looks at how noise - real or imaginary - animates the sculptural form". The Inner Voice, by the Anglo-German artist Asta Groting, a conversation between a ventriloquist and his figure "about good and evil, about lies and disguises, and the fleeting character of happiness", has had its British premiere, featuring none other than Buddy Big Mountain.

There is much talk of Barthes and how ventriloquism works as a metaphor for postmodernism and the death of the author and the lack of an original voice; plus much talk, too, of combining old themes and new forms. The Liverpool event presented a fine example of this: the performance artist Aura Satz stood by the side of the stage, veiled and exposing nothing but her belly, reading an account of the Pythia and engastrimyths; up on a large screen, meanwhile, a film of an electromagnetic synthesiser scanned her formerly heavily pregnant belly to considerable aural effect.

Well, indeed. Fascinating, but hardly likely to take them by storm at the Hackney Empire. On the bill at Liverpool, though, was that legendary link between the in and the outré, the low and the high, Ken Campbell - a man drawn to the unfashionable, obscure and intriguing like a gottle to geer.

You will not be surprised, then, to learn that Campbell's History Of Comedy, Part One, performed at the National Theatre in 2000, was all about ventriloquism. In his Liverpool turn, Campbell explained his early interest in the form as a result of attending the school in Chigwell founded by Samuel Harsnett, the lawyer who identified ventriloquism rather than the devil in an Elizabethan case of possession, and going on to the speech patterns of certain natives of Borneo which make their ears tickle, a rendition of the Out, Out, Brief Candle soliloquy from Macbeth in pidgin, the Mexican rat that throws its voice to confuse preying eagles, the Old Gastromancer of Peckham, and Campbell's professional ventriloquial debut at a pet funeral in Essex, when difficulties with the dummy saw him painting one on his chest (using his nipples as eyes).

Is this the act that will transform venting? No. For one thing, Campbell has no interest in being a straight man to a puppet; for another, he has too many interests, including, at the moment, some Italians near Turin who have been travelling in time; for another, he's not really a very good ventriloquist.

In Las Vegas, meanwhile, it was time for the Youth Show. Which was all very proficient and endearing in the young American way, and unremarkable until 15-year-old Lydia Beebe's doll started to sing a hymn to the tune of Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion who, by happy coincidence, or perhaps not, was at that very moment probably rendering her own version to Caesars Palace across the road. "I'll be for ever grateful, Jesus," sang the doll, Lambie. "Now my life is colourful and full because Jesus loves me."

I think that was the moment when Lambie tugged a cord to unfurl a small banner of the said Son of God in red and yellow. No one in the audience seemed in the least fazed by this except the Guardian's photographer, but he's from San Francisco.

So: Christian ventriloquism. The voice of the devil has once more become the voice of God. The devil doll is now an angel, although, I understand, the more unreconstructed Baptists south of the Mason-Dixon line will have nothing to do with it.

Lydia and her father, Donald, and mother, Nancy, are keen attenders at Ifest, the annual International Festival of Christian Puppetry and Ventriloquism, held in Illinois in July, attended by 800 Christian ventriloquists - some 400 from across Europe will assemble for a similar event, the European Puppet Ministry Festival, in Reading in October. One of the Beebe family's recent successes had been a ventriloquial interpretation of the Immaculate Conception which, "as you can imagine", said Donald, "is quite difficult to put across".

One of the few remaining top vents, Ronn Lucas, was playing Vegas's Rio casino. Penn and Teller were on at the Rio at 9pm, tickets $70. Ronn was on at 3pm, tickets $24.95. It was a slick act, with six giant TV screens demonstrating Ronn's lip control, but it stuck quite closely to the traditional vent formula of doll treating vent as stupid, doll fancying member of the audience, vent reminding audience that it's just a doll, sticking doll in trunk. My lasting memory of the show was Ronn talking to us about his belief in God and how it convinced him that his dear dead grandad, who had inspired him to be a ventriloquist, was watching. (This was shortly before the bit where, if I had him right, he seemed to be pretending that his penis was talking.)

You have to know where to look. Imagine my enthusiasm when I saw the announcement of a 30-date tour entitled Make 'Em Laugh, starring Cannon & Ball, Little & Large, The Grumbleweeds and, wait for it, Ray Alan & Lord Charles, doyens of the British ventriloquial fancy. Imagine. Imagine, too, my disappointment when I received a letter regretting to inform me that the tour had been cancelled due to poor ticket sales.

Ray Alan, though, kindly agreed to see me anyway, at his home in Redhill, in regulation light entertainment leisurewear of yellow V-neck, white polo, grey slacks, looking younger than someone in his 70s. Ray was disappointed about the tour's demise, but not desperately. The phone kept ringing, he said; he worked when he wanted; Saga cruises were very good. He'd never wanted to be a vent, he said, magic and impressions, that had been his thing, until he realised he had a talent. Which he'd worked on, which they didn't do today. And they thought being dirty was the way to get on, which it wasn't.

I wondered about ventriloquism on the radio. Bergen and McCarthy were very big at it in the US; here it was Educating Archie, featuring Archie Andrews and his ventriloquist, Peter Brough, and a host of legendary co-stars: Hancock, Bygraves, Sykes and Beryl Reid, who said later, "Educating Archie was a slightly mad idea, a ventriloquist on the radio. People thought it was a bit eccentric, talking to a lump of wood, and he was quite badly painted, actually."

Ray, like most vents, can't see the problem. "It doesn't seem odd to me, personally, because it's all about character, it's a double act." Everybody had loved the character he'd come up with, Lord Charles, the tipsy aristo who treated him like an oik. Ray has stories about Lord Mountbatten talking earnestly to Lord Charles, and an air vice-marshal giving him his wings in the presence of the Queen Mother. "It's funny, isn't it? I have to talk about the doll as a person because that's the way people think. If I say 'the doll', they say, 'oh, don't call it that'."

Mind you, he'd always been a bit worried about a lot of the other vents, mentally; the ones who had a place at the table for their dolls, or made them wear seat belts, or had wigs made from their own hair. Lord Charles was not present as we talked. Ray's wife's parents have never seen "the doll". Few have, when he's not working. "He's in his box, that's all they need to know. He's in his gox." Harry Corbett, by the way, kept Sooty in a box with airholes.

It was the final show of the festival. The open microphone sessions were over, made particularly memorable, for me, by the psychologist from Arizona with the doll who recited a poem he had written as a student about erogenous zones; almost as memorable, in fact, as a Japanese ventriloquist drinking a glass of milk while his doll sang When You're Smiling.

It was time for the professionals. Buddy Big Mountain was impressive - Wendell clearly still hadn't found out about the jeans - if a little over-concentrated on yodelling. The star, though, was Taylor Mason. He had fine comic patter and a finale involving four puppets, including a large Japanese sumo wrestler, and four volunteers from the audience, among them a small Japanese woman ventriloquist who sang Row, Row The Boat Ashore.

"You can be the greatest ventriloquist in the world and nobody will care," said Taylor afterwards. "If you are the worst ventriloquist in the world, and you are funny, you will make it. The job of a ventriloquist is to make an audience laugh."

Taylor is a vent Ray would like. "There are no four-letter words in my act, no bedroom jokes, no bathroom jokes, no fart jokes." Taylor divides his time between the comedy clubs, corporate events and, for the last few years, the Christian circuit, where the other vents are not that good, "but at least they believe in Jesus". Taylor believes in Jesus; he has played before 20,000 Christians at the Sydney Opera House and Carnegie Hall, and how many of his contemporaries, Seinfeld and the like, can claim those sorts of numbers? Taylor might well be the future of venting, even if he is 48.

The British future is at the magnificently restored Hackney Empire, where Nina Conti, daughter of actor Tom, student of Ken (Campbell), is appearing on a variety bill with her monkey glove puppet, Monk. Nina is not a vent Ray would like. The monkey speaks with one of those quaveringly fastidious Celtic accents, and is spectacularly foul-mouthed. "Shut up, you schizophrenic bitch", addressed to Nina, is one of his mellower moments.

But he and she are funny. There is the familiar deconstruction stuff, reminding the audience that the puppet is a puppet, but the jokes are better and more daring: she ends her act, for example, by pretending the monkey has taken her over, voice and all: "And you're all a little bit freaked out now, aren't you, quite a sweet voice on a little monkey, but with tits it's fucking sinister!" And it is.

Most of all, Nina is just very good: technical proficiency married to the skills of an RSC actor in projecting not one, but two characters. Talking to her, though, you don't get the impression that she is entirely and irrevocably committed to venting fame and fortune, although she has a vent sitcom in development, for BBC3. Acting ambitions clearly remain. And she has just had a baby. (And, no, she didn't talk to the occupant of her womb in the act.)

So it's possible that Nina may be Ventriloquy's Great Lost Voice, which would be a great pity, because there's precious little else around in Britain, apart from Jimmy Tamley, nice chap, who was in Las Vegas, looking for new ideas and puppets; Jimmy's always working, even if you've never heard of him, even if he sometimes feels like the Last British Vent.

Sorry? Ah, yes, I was hoping to get away without mentioning the bloke with the curly hair and the green duck with the big nappy. Keith Harris and Orville. Held by some, perhaps a little unfairly, to be entirely responsible for the decline of ventriloquy, worldwide. Every humorist's short cut to a cheap laugh; and so, naturally, done by Louis Theroux. But still working, according to his agent. And Ray, turn your eyes away now: Keith does an adult show, entitled Duck Off.

All of which means we're still waiting for That Act, The Reinventor, the one that will make venting cool and big again. Why not you? Come on. It's easier than it sounds. The human ear and eye are only too willing to be tricked by the sound source, eager to watch your small friend, even to hear "g" as "b". The secret, essentially, is to create lips inside your mouth with your tongue, and keep at it.

Campbell, naturally, has devised the perfect sentence for the ventriloquial pupil to work on. When you can manage this without moving your lips, the orld ill be your royster. Ready? Here goes: "Who dared to put wet fruit bat poo in our dead mummy's bed; was that you, Verity?" Good luck.
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Post  eddie Thu Mar 22, 2012 4:26 am

Watch my lips: the art of ventriloquism deserves centre stage

Derided as cheap kid's entertainers, ventriloquists are custodians of a venerable art form - and it's time they showed it, writes one of their number David Strassman

Ventriloquism David-Strassman-006
Out of the shadows ... ventriloquists must start thinking like playwrights if the form is to evolve, says David Strassman, pictured here with sidekick Chuck.

"So you're a ventriloquist?" he asked.

"Uh … yeah," I mumbled.

"Right. You do kids' parties?"

All my life, I've been stuck with the label of being "end of the pier"; the cheap entertainer at children's parties, the late-night act greeted by a collective "oh no, not another one" from the audience. It's time the professional ventriloquists working today (can you name more than three or four?) got their act together and moved this centuries-old art form forward.

The trouble is, very few ventriloquists put theatrics and character into their puppets. They talk fast, or sing a song, and basically show off, saying: "Look how clever I am!" Having said that, UK ventriloquist Nina Conti is, in my opinion, the one exception: she is original, theatrical, and innovative in her approach.

Lack of imagination made me challenge the convention. After a drunken but very creative night with a mate, we figured out a way to put radio controlled aeroplane servos into my puppet, Chuck, so he could move by himself. And so a bit of high-tech tomfoolery was born, laced with an element of theatre. Chuck and I have an argument on stage, he sacks me, I leave, and he finishes the show all by himself. I began fleshing out my puppets, trying to introduce elements you might find in a stage play: neuroses, foibles, objectives, and well thought-out lives. Thus, no silly songs or back-and-forth interplays for no reason, but dark dialogue, topics ranging from depression, infidelity, and sexual orientation, to debates on philosophy and war. (During the Bush years, I used my puppets not only to criticise his presidency, but as a therapeutic catharsis expressing my embarrassment at being an American.)

So why do we find the ventriloquist-puppet relationship intriguing? Maybe because the naughty boy puppet who tells a bloke in the front row to get stuffed fulfils our fantasy of wanting to challenge authority.

There's also something genuinely creepy about watching a guy and a puppet, about an inanimate object coming to life. It reminds us all that we talk to ourselves, our inner voice, and we're all only a few thoughts away from going completely mad.

Why has ventriloquism remained on the fringe, relegated to the music halls and variety shows? Because watching most ventriloquists leaves you empty. C'mon, you belly talkers, non-lip movers, multiple-personality puppeteers! Get your act together and think like a playwright; Mamet, Fry, Beckett! Seize your moment or forever close your mouths. And no, I don't do birthday parties.
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Post  eddie Thu Mar 22, 2012 4:31 am

Ventriloquism Magicposter
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Post  eddie Thu Mar 22, 2012 4:34 am

Ventriloquism MagicPK5
Anthony Hopkins and his little friend in Magic.
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Post  Nah Ville Sky Chick Thu Mar 22, 2012 6:26 am

^^ That film was so creepy.
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Post  Nah Ville Sky Chick Thu Mar 22, 2012 6:29 am

Ventriloquism PICT1330

I liked this little fella, cute.
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Post  eddie Thu Mar 22, 2012 6:34 pm

Ventriloquism Ventriloquist-Ray-Alan-Wi-006
Ray Allen and Lord Charles.

Silly ass! (pronounced 'arse')
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