Review: The Cheeky Chappie

Jamie Kenna has been doing this on-and-off - if mostly off - for 15 years, and his reproduction of the Cheeky Chappie's fast-talking innuendo-ridden act is spot-on, especially in the way he plays off the crowd's responses, just as Max Miller did, rather than being a static performance behind the fourth wall.

Review: Stanley - A Man Of Variety

Deliberately disconcerting, Stanley - Man Of Variety is also frustrating and unsatisfying, each scene a curious little sketch on its own, but amounting to very little.

During the war we were all so fit and healthy - so the historians and nutritionists always say. Rationing cut out most of our sweets and chocolate and everyone who had the space was encouraged to plant an allotment and grow their own vegetables. Whilst the wartime diet might not have been particularly rich and appetising, it was healthy.

So if the war and privation had unintended consequences for our diet, what did it do for entertainment? As food took on a dual role - to keep people productive rather than just fed - so did popular entertainment which now had the task of raising morale besides simply providing some distraction and laughs.

This episode looks at acts such as The Andrews Sisters and the comedian Max Miller, known as "The Cheeky Chappie", who kept spirits up during the war.

But in the post-war era, stage acts quickly seemed old-fashioned as they faced competition from the daring new American sound of rock 'n' roll as well as the increasing popularity of television.

Radio Times review

Suzy Klein and Frank Skinner conclude their hands-on history of popular British entertainment. If you don't mind the chummy flippancy (that Phil and Kirstie thing of cheerily bickering on the voiceover - stop it!) and the indulgence of Klein and Skinner having a go at everything, it's a stirring nostalgia trip that gets under performers' skins rather than merely eulogising them.

While Skinner builds up to a performance as Max Miller and Klein learns to be all three Andrews Sisters, the pair also have a crack at skiffle, and Wilson, Keppel and Betty's sand dance. And Barry Cryer tells an A1 anecdote about a man being thrown out of the Windmill Club for bringing binoculars.

Stand-up comedy, in one handy infographic

From Max Miller in the music halls to Michael McIntyre's record-breaking 10 nights at the O2 Arena, British stand-up has a rich, varied history.

Review: Roy Chubby Brown

I wanted to laugh. I'd heard apocryphal tales of the comedy 'legend' and I'd vainly hoped I would encounter a latter-day Max Miller. I was disappointed.

Max Miller: remembering the cheeky chappie

Max Miller, the original Cheeky Chappie musical hall comedian, died 50 years ago today and is being celebrated in events in his birthplace Brighton.

Chuckle muscles at the ready, I prepared to be simultaneously tickled and enlightened by David Mitchell's History of British Comedy.

Sadly, however, it turned out to be an all-too-familiar trawl through the early days of music hall, variety and radio, with precious little of the Mitchell magic we know and love from his prolific radio and TV output.

A catch-all documentary series such as this is only really as good as its clips and contributors, so it was disappointing to find Mitchell, or his producer, rounding up the usual suspects - Michael Grade, Barry Cryer, Ken Dodd and token academic CP Lee, all of whose reflections on comedy have been documented to death over the years.

The country must be crawling with people with a different take on early British comedy and its connection to the comedy of today, as well as people in their 70s, 80s and 90s who saw the likes of Max Miller, Sid Field, Robb Wilton and Jimmy James in their heydays. Where were they?

By far the most vivid and original recollections of early comedy came from 91-year-old Denis Norden, a living encyclopedia of British comedy and variety who merits a documentary series to himself.

First Cut's newbie documentary-makers understandably tend to address subjects close to them. The pros and cons of this approach are laid bare by this warm-bordering-on-sentimental film by Clair Titley about her uncle, a 90-year-old Chelsea Pensioner who wants to revive a comedy career dormant since the '60s. Unfortunately, Jack Woodward's Max Miller-style gags have been declared too decrepit for even the luncheon club circuit, so a pro is drafted in to help him realise his dream of a slot at the Hammersmith Apollo. Will he make it? Emotional distance isn't an option (especially with a soundtrack this cloying), but it's a sweet tale that wouldn't otherwise have been told, and Jack is a game old chap who's overcome considerable emotional and physical hurdles to make it this far.

A welcome new addition to the Friday night schedules - some real comedy in among the chat shows masquerading as such. Pitched at the post-pub crowd it's an archive show in which some of today's comics celebrate the great TV moments that inspired them to pursue a career in stand-up, or simply left them doubled over helpless with laughter and admiration.

Jack Dee is up first, recalling the impact that Billy Connolly's debut appearance on Parkinson - when the Big Yin told the infamous bum joke that turned him into a comedy superstar overnight - had on his teenage self back in 1975. Among those piling in to concur, and recall what an enormous influence Connolly was, are Jon Culshaw, Dara O'Briain, Alan Carr and Jo Brand. Then, before it all gets too indulgent, Brand recalls her own favourite - a groundbreaking 1988 sketch from French and Saunders in which the duo play dirty old men watching a beauty pageant. Again, there's praise from the likes of Alan Carr, Joan Rivers, Andi Osho and - a touch bizarrely - Paddy McGuinness, before moving on to the next (Rhod Gilbert on Eddie Izzard's surreal "learning French" routine), and finishing with hymns to Max Miller and Les Dawson. In truth, the old doesn't always mix with the new, and the insights aren't always scintillating, but it's a chance to enjoy again some hilarious moments, and to discover some past flights of genius that may have passed you by.