It could be considered to be a poignant, cross-cultural analysis of the human condition, but that sucks the fun out of He Died With A Felafel In His Hand. Sounding like a tragic tale on the dangers of vegetarian food, Felafel is a laugh out loud look at the fraught world of house sharing.
Part cautionary tale, part hilarious observation, Felafel takes a flashback journey through JB’s past experiences of sharing his home with a range of human detritus. Along the way we meet strippers, cops, junkies, hippies, a dominatrix and even the Australian PM and they’re all weird.
Deeply infused with the Larakin spirit and the Australians’ crude, earthy humour, Felafel is a high spirited romp that makes no compromises and takes no prisoners. It’s crass, rude and sometimes foul but, to use the parlance of the play, it’s fucking funny.
Felafel has been played over 1,200 times in Australia, mainly in pubs, yet it still carries a delightfully amateur feel. There is absolutely no pretence of greatness – things frequently go wrong, cues are missed and ad-libs send the cast in hysterics – and Felafel is all the better for it. There is life and soul behind the action and it’s clear that the cast love doing it. And it’s highly infectious.
You can’t help but love it and don’t be surprised if you find yourself going again and again and again.