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Wolsey goes wild - west

PUBLISHED: 19:00 07 February 2002 | UPDATED: 11:18 03 March 2010

JUST two men, one pot of money, a whole lot of double-crossin'. But where did the cast that would outgun even the Magnificent Seven come from?

That was the mercurial, theatrical genius of acting pardners Gavin Robertson and Wayne Forester whose two-man barnstorm fills a bare stage with a complete posse of characters in this lampooning world of a Spaghetti Western that deliberately left tomato sauce all over its face.

JUST two men, one pot of money, a whole lot of double-crossin'. But where did the cast that would outgun even the Magnificent Seven come from?

That was the mercurial, theatrical genius of acting pardners Gavin Robertson and Wayne Forester whose two-man barnstorm fills a bare stage with a complete posse of characters in this lampooning world of a Spaghetti Western that deliberately left tomato sauce all over its face.

But hardly was it just laughing at slapstick moments. It was part clowning and outrageously bad puns, yes, but the duo comprehensively charmed and delighted the audience as they wove their tale playing all parts in the hunt for bankrobber Chico and his pal with no name Joe 'Angel Eyes' Valentine.

When pursuers catch up with their prey, there's certainly not room in the town for the two of them … or the other dozen.

An incredible feat of imagination with no props bar a couple of six-shooters, a sombrero and a poncho, it was captivating to watch the two turn in an instant, shrugging off and on their fistful of roles as easily as the aforesaid poncho (and yup, Robertson was a convincing as an unforgiving Clint and he did get to make somebody's day).

When a hitch meant the speakers swapped an expected line-up of soundtracks for atmospheric interference (unwanted radio waves noisily intruded on the Wolsey) – they were real troupers to take the enforced 15-minute interval so comfortably in their stride.

The rest of their sound effects were impressively entirely their own, though the effects on their mouths of the vultures, flies, horse-slobbering and reports of quick-drawn pistols looked quite, er, draining. As the front row liberally discovered at close-range, not for nothing did they call this comic gem Spittoon.

It was a thorough class act performed with acute observance of all manner of cliché and cameo, from the crabby bank teller to the hilarious matinee idol cowboy just a hop-skippety from being Ned Flanders. And I'd agree: it was a right darn-tootin' time.

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