Brave and stupid

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This article was published 20/09/2024 (658 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

You might think you know Bruce McCulloch from his sketch-comedy days in The Kids in the Hall, where he played legendary, oft-quoted characters such as the precocious, info-dumping small boy Gavin, the deeply off-putting Cabbage Head and the always-sunny office worker Kathie.

But in Tales of Bravery and Stupidity — the one-man storytelling show he’s bringing to Winnipeg for early and late performances at the Park Theatre on Tuesday — McCulloch, 63, shows up as himself in a work that’s revealing, poignant and, of course, very, very funny.

The actor-writer-comedian-musician-director has toured versions of this show for a few years, including two off-Broadway runs at the Soho Playhouse in New York City in 2022, the same year The Kids in the Hall reboot landed on Amazon Prime.

“I just pick off my favourite cities and I’m sorry that I did Portland and Seattle a little bit before Winnipeg,” he says.

Free Press arts writer and columnist Jen Zoratti chatted with McCulloch by phone about the storytelling, his good friend Gord Downie and why comedy needn’t be described as “surprisingly” moving.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

Bruce McCulloch: How are things at the Winnipeg Free Press? That was my first job, delivering newspapers as an 11 year old living in east Elmwood.

Jen Zoratti: I didn’t know this about you! So you were out there battling the elements, the dogs, the whole thing?

BM: Yes, and also the thing I remember about Winnipeg as a child was you had to walk to the rink with your (hockey) equipment on — no way dads would drive their sons — and they would cancel the outdoor game if it was 30 below or more.

JZ: I think that’s probably still true, though I am not a hockey parent so I don’t know.

BM: Well, congratulations.

JZ: (laughs) Tell me about how Tales of Bravery and Stupidity has evolved since its debut.

BM: My colleague, who I work with, said, “Oh, when am I gonna get the rewrite for the show?” What do you mean? “Well, you always rewrite the show.”

It’s a loose structure — music, sort of standup, storytelling. I bring pieces in and out and I change things and expand things to keep it really alive. It’s great to have a show that you know, but it’s also good to have a show you don’t know and sort of do a little bit of both.

JZ: You’ve done comedy in pretty much every format one can possibly do comedy. What is it about storytelling, in particular, that draws you to it?

BM: I think we like to crawl into someone’s mind and see what happens to them. And there’s something about what’s going to happen next and then the weird little twist, which is life itself, which you didn’t expect. There’s something so wonderful to take someone on a ride — and then they get to know you, too. If someone’s gonna spend 75 minutes with me, they may know me from TV, but it’s kind of cool to get to know all the, obviously, some of the weird shit I’ve done, but to get my worldview even more crystallized even how it may impact you a bit more in that setting.

JZ: I want to talk about your good friend Gord Downie, since I know he was a big part of this show.

BM: When Gord first passed, I did a long piece on all the emails that we wrote to each other when he was sick. And of course, they’re all gallows humour because part of the spine of this show is how we use gallows humour to make it through. I don’t do as much of that anymore. Some nights I do it, some nights I don’t. Sometimes I do a short version of it, just because I felt like it was a heavy burden and I had done it a lot.

As I said to his brother (filmmaker Mike Downie) — I was just at the documentary (The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal, which Mike directed) that premièred at TIFF and I’m also interviewed in it — “You’ll always carry Gord in your heart, but you’ve made him proud. You’ve done this for him.”

I will record (the email piece) at some point and release it, but I don’t have to do that every night because my brother Gord told me I didn’t have to.

JZ: One thing I’ve read, repeatedly, about your storytelling work is that it’s “surprisingly touching” or “surprisingly moving.” I’m guilty of using versions of this turn of phrase, too. But why is it “surprising”? Why can’t comedy be moving?

BM: I remember when I started doing long sets and standup, and I’d ask the older guys, “How do you do an hour set?” and they’d say, “Oh, just do longer.” And that’s the wrong answer.

The right answer is you have to take people somewhere. I want it to be funny, but it’s so hard for people to get out and come out of the house and come see me. There should be some soul in it. There should be some little thing you take away — a kernel of warmth or truth or “I hadn’t seen it that way.”

JZ: Your childhood is a place you’ve returned to a lot in your comedy. How has your relationship to those stories changed as you yourself get older? (McCulloch’s 2015 sitcom, Young Drunk Punk, for example, was a semi-autobiographical comedy about growing up in Alberta in which he plays a version of his dad.)

BM: I have children who will soon be 18 and 20 now, and I say, like, “Do you realize my dad swatted me every day of my life and I’ve never even f–ing hit you once?” (laughs) They don’t care, of course, because they’ve just got the great lives they have.

But there’s a poem I do sometimes called It’s Raining Parents which is about how all our parents are failing — is it Alzheimer’s or what else is it? I do think there’s still a sweetness for my family, but there’s still a savagery there. And I think the comedy of what a weird guy my dad was, and how he would click his false teeth, keeps him alive for me. So, I like telling those old stories, but I used to dine out on them. Now I just sort of touch them.

JZ: While you’re here, and because Kids In the Hall was recently rebooted, allow me to express my appreciation for how you guys portrayed women. They always felt like actual people. Not caricatures, but characters.

BM: Thank you. Because it was always like, I don’t do drag, I play women. It’s different. And of course when we were fighting with our girlfriends or dealing with the office staff, I was always like, “I want to do that. I want to be them.”

I always think there’s a sweetness to the women that we do, just because we all love women so much and we know how wretched men are. When you’re doing a character like Cisco or Cabbage Head you can just rip into it, but when you’re Kathie, there’s something more soulful and open to the world.

JZ: Kathie is one of my favourites.

BM: Well, Kathie’s just my sister, who’s kind of had a terrible life but she’s still really happy. (He breaks into the Kathie laugh). Like, “Shouldn’t you be really depressed?” “No! Why? I had a sandwich!” I love that outlook because most people aren’t happy with all the things they have and it’s so great when people are happy with a little bit.

JZ: Is Tales of Bravery and Stupidity still becoming a book?

BM: Yes, I’m writing the book. But f— off! I’m doing my best, OK?

Tuesday’s 7 p.m. show is sold out, but there are still tickets available for the 9:30 p.m. performance, which will feature a special guest: fellow Kid in the Hall Kevin McDonald.

jen.zoratti@winnipegfreepress.com