It's something to read, but it's something else to say aloud. When explaining to your plus one which show you're taking them along to, when collecting your tickets at the box office, when being taken to the show itself.


Say it. Say it now. The sense of self-consciousness you're feeling – the confusion, the silliness, the innocent joy. Expect to feel more of it if you see this show.

Ffffffmilk is fun, but fun in a way that relies on your participation, your engagement, and your powers of imagination. But Paul Currie is a wonderful host into this world of his own creation, steeped in 80s nostalgia, and he will work hard to make sure you're along for the ride.

Sometimes too hard, unfortunately. David Sedaris once noted that ordering someone to have fun is like ordering someone to find you attractive. ("It doesn't work. I've tried it.") Several times Currie told us to lighten up, to enjoy the show for the silly little romp that it is, but you can't play an audience that way. It's like conducting an orchestra through a loudspeaker: a counter-productive exercise, which might provoke sympathy or annoyance but never enjoyment.

This was on an opening night, however, for a show that wasn't, but probably should have been, billed as a preview. I don't anticipate the problems I witnessed will pop up in future performances, and I think the potential for greatness in this show is readily apparent. It just didn't get anywhere near there for the show I sat in on.