Marcel Lucont: Encore

Three hapless latecomers are being subjected to Marcel Lucont’s stately French scorn, the only acceptable excuse he drawls would be acts of a sexual nature, the three look slightly terrified as Lucont scrutinises them with a jauntily raised eyebrow. From the off it seems that nothing has changed in Encore, Lucont’s follow-up to last year's Sexual Metro; this is an hour equally infused with his carnal obsession that hovers between elegance and crudity. 

Poised and with a caramel voice that could melt hearts, Encore begins with panache as Englishman Alexis Dubus gleefully swims in the potential that his French alter-ego has to titillate. A master of witty parody, his delivery is pitched to perfection: he can raise a laugh with a simple, snobby inflection. But although his poems (such as 'The Tits Of The Brits') and readings from his autobiography (Moi) boast some rich material the rest of this set suffers from a victory of style over substance. 

The constant lewdness is also jarring. Encased in a polo neck jumper and delicately sipping from an expensive bottle of red wine Lucont is a suave lothario whose prowess with women is undoubtedly impressive (as the giggling ladies in the front row can attest). But Dubus can’t seem to decide where he wants to pitch his louche character and the crassness that peppers his speech doesn’t ring true. After an hour, this discrepancy begins to irritate.