Calling Boris Johnson a clown is unfair to clowns

By

Alan Beattie

ft.com

 

You don’t have to read too many profiles of Boris Johnson before you notice a particular epithet recur. People have many and varied opinions about the odds-on favourite to be Britain’s next prime minister. But almost everyone, it appears, thinks he is a clown.
It’s easy to see why. The eccentric appearance, at least by politicians’ standards: wild hair, unkempt dress. The exaggerated gestures: windmilling arms, excitable hands. The outlandish props: waving around a kipper at a hustings to illustrate a (completely false) claim about British fishing and Brexit. Mr Johnson has a talent for comic showmanship above and beyond the arch verbal wit typical of British political humour.
Yet while the term “clown” is often used as an insult, it is in fact a compliment Mr Johnson does not deserve. Clowning is a noble art form animated by a spirit he does not share.
Britain’s community of professional clowns is fizzing with indignation that their calling is thus being traduced by association. Certainly, clowning uses techniques such as exaggerated movement and incongruous clothing, derived from centuries-old European traditions of rambunctious physical theatre. But true clowning is about more than slapstick. Jack Stark, a British clown well known on the theatre and cabaret circuit, says: “Clowns can be clumsy and gaffe-prone, and live in a world of chaos. But how they respond to that world is different. Clowns want to make things better. Boris uses his act to get himself out of troubles of his own making.”

Modern theatre clowning, as developed by the French master Philippe Gaulier from the 1960s onwards, says that clowns are essentially children playing games. They embrace their own failures, mistakes and misunderstandings. They aim to evoke empathy: their mishaps stand for everybody’s mishaps. The audience is usually included in their games rather than being mocked or deceived. John Wright, who studied under Mr Gaulier, theorises that unlike many actors, clowns “declare the game”. They will hold up a potato and insist it is an apple. But they wink at the audience, and everyone is in on the joke.
Politicians, by contrast, often use buffoonery to misdirect the public. Occasionally, the act becomes obvious. Mr Johnson’s shtick was clearly shown up by a famous BBC interview in 2013, when the presenter Eddie Mair relentlessly pursued his past dishonesty. Mr Johnson blustered and obfuscated. A true clown would have admitted and rejoiced in his failings.
For sure, clowns and politics can mix. Clowning is frequently used in public demonstrations. Mr Stark says that when he and a group of other clowns once gathered on a street in London to celebrate their profession, they rapidly attracted the attention of the police, who assumed a gang of clowns in public must be protesting against something. Charlie Chaplin, the greatest clown of all, delivered a sharp indictment of industrial capitalism in his Depression-era classic film Modern Times.
But the politics of clowns are usually subversive and satirical, not controlling and deceptive. Politicians have agendas: clowns do not.

So if Mr Johnson is not a clown, what is he? A tale recounted recently by the broadcaster Jeremy Vine gives the reveal. Mr Vine described Mr Johnson delivering a hugely entertaining after-dinner speech at an industry convention, arriving at the last moment with almost no visible preparation and stumbling through a disorganised address which nonetheless brought the house down. Mr Vine was impressed with Mr Johnson’s ability to extemporise until he saw him give exactly the same act — same lateness, same simulated improvisation, same verbal floundering — at another dinner 18 months later.
Many performers will recognise this not as clowning but as stand-up comedy, where verbal spiels and accompanying physical tics appear spontaneous but are closely rehearsed. Oliver Double, a former comedian who now teaches performance at the University of Kent, says Mr Johnson has carefully developed a persona as would a stand-up comic, complete with performative habit of constantly dishevelling his hair. But instead of using it simply to get laughs he employs it to further his career.
It is possible that this affectation will be exposed by greater scrutiny. In a TV interview last week with Andrew Neil, Mr Johnson looked panicked, bad-tempered and out of his depth, as his charismatic persona failed to deflect an uncharmable host. He recently cut his hair and lost weight, perhaps wanting to moderate his pantomime appearance.
But whichever way Mr Johnson takes his act, he does not have true clowning in him. Call him a stand-up comic, call him a showman, call him a buffoon. But please do not afford Mr Johnson the privilege of being called a clown.