When
their going gets particularly sticky, politicians invoke our Values.
John Clarke had no need to invoke them – he exemplified them. Those
Anzac values of the sardonic viewpoint and the absurdist consciousness,
together with a delight in their fanciful expression.
It has too often been said of him (in admiration to be sure) that all his politicians were the same. They were not, each one was finely observed, precisely rendered. But they all behaved like politicians. At once universal and specific, an actor’s vignettes, their lines crafted by a poetic dramatist.
And they all impulsively embodied what John had fought forever to evade – philosophical discursiveness and pomposity.
John’s Howard, his Brandis and his Morrison were as distinctive as (say) Bill Leak’s were in his prime.
When we were young, in our petit-bourgeois society, there were conversational taboos. Politics and religion were to be avoided at all costs. And we were taught that “sarcasm was the lowest form of wit”. John defied both the agenda and the mantra.
His art erupted from a molten core of outrage, fed through an
intricate analytical array and finally seduced by the delight in its
expression.
He developed a unique form of comic miniature. With his long-time collaborator Bryan Dawe, their take on the vaudevillian cross-talk act matured like a fine whisky.
John’s immaculate comic timing and his intuition to leave them wanting more have been cruelled by fate. He should have been allowed to craft his exit. And to go out leaving us wanting more on the occasion of the Melbourne comedy festival is a hollow satisfaction.
Of John’s countless memorable comic conceits, my enduring memory is of the series of phantasmagorical birds he transformed a gaggle of 1980s politicians into.
A bird lover to the end, a philosopher, a poet, a social scientist, a sports lover, a raconteur, he was many things to many people. We all feel bereft. His family most of all. We thank them for sharing John with us.
It has too often been said of him (in admiration to be sure) that all his politicians were the same. They were not, each one was finely observed, precisely rendered. But they all behaved like politicians. At once universal and specific, an actor’s vignettes, their lines crafted by a poetic dramatist.
And they all impulsively embodied what John had fought forever to evade – philosophical discursiveness and pomposity.
John’s Howard, his Brandis and his Morrison were as distinctive as (say) Bill Leak’s were in his prime.
When we were young, in our petit-bourgeois society, there were conversational taboos. Politics and religion were to be avoided at all costs. And we were taught that “sarcasm was the lowest form of wit”. John defied both the agenda and the mantra.
He developed a unique form of comic miniature. With his long-time collaborator Bryan Dawe, their take on the vaudevillian cross-talk act matured like a fine whisky.
John’s immaculate comic timing and his intuition to leave them wanting more have been cruelled by fate. He should have been allowed to craft his exit. And to go out leaving us wanting more on the occasion of the Melbourne comedy festival is a hollow satisfaction.
Of John’s countless memorable comic conceits, my enduring memory is of the series of phantasmagorical birds he transformed a gaggle of 1980s politicians into.
A bird lover to the end, a philosopher, a poet, a social scientist, a sports lover, a raconteur, he was many things to many people. We all feel bereft. His family most of all. We thank them for sharing John with us.
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