If nothing else, 2020 provided comics with a rapid-fire way to engage an audience. We might not be entirely out of the pandemic woodwork yet, but we’re out of lockdown, and it’s from this vantage point that Adam Hills opens Shoes Half Full. “You weren’t there, man!” Hills shouts, Willem Dafoe-style, to a student in the audience who escaped Melbourne’s 120-day lockdown. And we’re in: We were there, too.
Mercifully, Hills steers away from toilet roll gags, choosing instead to remind us of those times we needed milk minutes before curfew, and of the creative ways we skirted regulations to see our mates. Hills is relentlessly positive, and he quickly unites his crowd with relatable, hilarious anecdotes that almost offer a sense of nostalgia for arguably the most traumatic year in our collective histories.
That takes talent. An industry veteran, Hills’ effortless affability is all over Shoes Half Full. Slated to tour the show pre-pandemic, Hills notes the challenges involved in presenting a show about radical positivity in a time of global crisis. But, as it goes on, we learn pretty quickly how much the timing here adds to the message.
While positivity is its focus, Shoes Half Full unpacks a host of Hills’ bugbears, such as knowing when to say no and resisting the leap to anger when presented with stuff we might not understand. Hills’ positions himself as a 50-year-old cis white bloke trying to do better, and he relates instances in his own life when his finest choice was to shut up and listen. An extraordinary interaction with a woman on a train, for instance, silences the crowd, and Hills’ point is made.
But it’s not all dissertations on the benefits of being quiet. There’s also music, with Hills re-enacting a particularly wrong-headed karaoke session with his daughter, and some well-polished crowd work that forms the show’s stand-out moments. From conversations with an ex-pat who reveals too much, to a charming riff on the well-worn bit about the guy who can’t remember his anniversary, Hills is at his best when chatting with his audience. At the performance we attended, when Hills raised a pant-leg to reveal his prosthetic foot, a solitary, gut-deep gasp emanated from somewhere in the stands resulting in a comedic tangent that had the crowd doubling over with laughter.
Hills’ control, as well as his genial nature, invites engaging interplay that places his audience in the role of co-conspirator rather than as the butt of any joke. Shoes Half Full showcases his profound skill in gripping a crowd and getting the best from them, while sneaking in some positive instruction – sometimes in limerick form – on how to be better.