Sunday afternoon, Radio City Music Hall, and rehearsals for the Secret Policeman's Ball were in full flow: Russell Brand was stalking the aisles and Eddie Izzard was lolling backstage as Richard Branson waited in the wings. Meanwhile Sarah Silverman stood on stage in a bobble hat, a red rucksack by her feet, making jokes about sperm. Jokes were re-written on the spot, sketches frantically re-jigged, and above it all hung the enticing question of whether or not, in just a few hours' time, this collection of comedians, actors and musicians would succeed in pulling off a spectacular gala performance.
Celebrating 50 years of Amnesty International, this year's Ball was the first to take place on American soil and arguably the most high profile to date: performed to a crowd of 6,000 in New York, streamed live on US website Epix, and due to be broadcast on Channel 4 in the UK on Friday 9 March, the three-hour show brought together a wealth of British and American comic talent: from Reggie Watts, Tim Roth and Liam Neeson to Kristen Wiig, as well as Jon Stewart, Catherine Tate, the Muppets, Coldplay and Zarganar, Burma's leading standup.
The fun began a little past seven o'clock with a pre-recorded video: "I'm Archbishop Desmond Tutu," announced the South African activist and Nobel peace prize recipient, "and I'm a funny guy …" If the performances had a common theme, it was perhaps that of highlighting the differences between British and American humour: numerous plays on the word "ass", references to dentistry, customer service and a sketch which saw Ben Stiller and David Walliams running through a glossary of British and American linguistic differences.
The differences were also there in each nation's respective comic styling. The American comedians were slick, well-scripted and savvy: a sketch that saw actor Rashida Jones and Saturday Night Live alumni Seth Meyers, Jason Sudeikis and Fred Armisen playing police state interrogators alongside Rex Lee from Entourage as North Korean leader Kim Jong-un, for example, was a smart, impeccably-choreographed and elegantly-poised performance.
Equally, there was an irrepressible joie de vivre – and an exuberant filth – to many of the British performances that was arguably better suited to the occasion: Izzard's infectious Franglais-ing, Peter Serafinowicz's turn as Paul McCartney, not to mention the unbridled smut of Jimmy Carr and Micky Flanagan; the cockney comedian earned the biggest single laugh of the night for his postulation that the rise in teenage pregnancy in the UK could be solely attributed to "the decline of fingering".
Interspersed were a series of set pieces: the Muppets' favourite curmudgeons Statler and Waldorf, animated delinquents Beavis and Butt-head, as well as video messages from the Ball's Pythonian forefathers Michael Palin, Eric Idle and Terry Jones, all of whom blamed their inability to attend on the alleged loss of their legs.
The real revelation of the night was Jack Whitehall, the 23-year-old comic from London. Prior to the show, Whitehall fretted about his youth and lack of US reputation, yet he succeeded in charming the audience with a combination of waistcoated foppishness and a set that saw him pining for the days of the Nokia 3310 before delivering an extraordinary impersonation of US model and TV host Tyra Banks. The crowd appeared thoroughly enchanted, and he blew them a kiss as he left the stage, safe in the knowledge that an American fanbase now awaits.
In many ways, Whitehall gained from the fact that he could easily have been taken for a lost member of Mumford & Sons, who performed three songs immediately before his set and met with the evening's most rapturous reception. If there is a time to be young and British and faintly old-fashioned, it is very possibly now.
In the end, the night belonged to Russell Brand, who performed a sort of comic duet with Noel Fielding, and later dandied on stage for his own eight-and-a-half minute routine – the longest of the night. It was a performance that felt freewheeling, contagious and delightful, with its ruminations on sex, the Daily Mail, and the assertion that popular culture "functions like a pink pony trotting through our brains shitting glitter".
The night culminated in a short yet joyous set by Coldplay, incorporating lasers, confetti canons and Chris Martin clambering up the balconies like a mountain gazelle. Amid all the fanfare and fluttering paper, it was hard not to conclude that this Ball had been anything other than a roaring success.
