Review: Vlad Ilich: Vlad is Love, Baby Don’t Hurt Me

Vlad Illich | photo by Steve Ullathorne

It feels quite unfair to criticise Vlad Ilich. He’s a warm, charming guy whose experience of war in his North Macedonian home, of being dislocated to Malta, of supporting an unwell dad, of coming to terms with the deflation of his childhood chess ambition makes any moans I have feel rather like the rubbing of diamond slippers. But, if there’s anything we learn from Vlad is Love… it’s that life isn’t fair, though you can still be pretty good natured about it. Indeed, that is nearly all we learn.

There’s a few tidbits about North Macedonia (formerly the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia), and a surprisingly meagre morsel on chess, despite promises to the contrary. Otherwise this is a faintly meandering trot through Ilich’s life. It’s really interesting, but doesn’t add up to much artistically. Technically, Ilich never really breaks into a canter, either.

He has a small repertoire of moves, the bait and switch serving as a go-to, but rarely are they delivered with any shape or bite. Material is light and inoffensive, often zeroing in on (or at least circling around) gently deprecating national stereotypes (his nation’s love of potatoes, mostly). There’s a bit of stilted crowd work. Of course, Ilich is doing all of this in a second or third language, and his commitment and enthusiasm never falters. His peroration about the folly of war and the importance of family is meaningful, but that’s largely because he’s an earnest chap with a kind twinkle in his eye. His life is so much more interesting than the average celebrity autobiography, but just not as well written.