The Big Yin checks in
Billy Connolly sounds off on hecklers, his new zombie movie and Michael Richards
Peter Vesuwalla

The sparkle of Hollywood glamour manages to shine through the smog on Oscar night, but on a lonelier side of town Billy Connolly sat alone in front of his TV, a pilgrim from a distant land, trying to make sense of it all.

“I don’t know what’s so good about people wearing borrowed clothes and being judged on who you borrowed them from,” the 64-year-old comic says on the day after the 79th Academy Awards were handed out.

But Connolly says he did enjoy seeing Pan’s Labyrinth pick up awards for its art direction, cinematography and makeup. He has a new perspective on and interest in that latter category, having found himself for the first time spending gruelling hours in a makeup chair to play a zombie in the Canadian film Fido, which will be screening at NSI FilmExchange on March 1.

“I’ve never done anything like that before, the makeup stuff. It were two-and-a-half hours every day. It was a bit of a pain in the ass,” he recalls.

Minus his trademark long, wavy hair and goatee, a barely recognizable Connolly plays Carrie-Anne Moss’ zombie slave in a faux-’50s, alternate suburbia where ownership of zombie servants is considered a status symbol.

“I have no lines and I don’t look like me,” he says, sounding rather amused. “I thought it was a smashing idea. It was a great challenge, you know? This is a very nice movie.

“It’s a great premise. It isn’t a zombie movie. You know those ones where they all gang up on you and they all end up in a cabin in the end and they’re coming in through the windows and up through the floor? I didn’t want to be in one of them. But the cast were brilliant and the storyline is funny.

“I was kind of surprised, but I had worked with the producer before, who is married to the director. We had worked on a movie with Sharon Stone in Canada before. I really enjoyed myself in that one, and I thought I’d like to work with them again.”

Lurching around with a vacant expression and never saying a word is a radical departure for Connolly, who’s best known for his frantic, fast-paced style. His standup act, which he performs between 150 and 200 times a year, combines songs and stories during which he sustains a completely manic pitch until he and his audience are exhausted. His Dec. 1, 2006, show in Winnipeg went for about two-and-a-half hours.

“I’ve done longer than that,” he says. “I don’t think the length has all that much to do with how good it is, but the shape of the material has made it that length.

“The storytelling has dragged along, and things get longer and longer, and it’s ended up that silly size — unless you have someone on to open for you, that’s the size it’s going to be.”

Then comes the inevitable question of where to find that much material.

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” he confesses. “Everywhere. Every part of my life. Things I read in the paper. I’m not really conscious of picking it up, but when I’m onstage it comes bubbling out.

“A lot of it is improvised, and sometimes the improvised bits stay in, and then I improvise on top of that, so it all has a kind of improvised feel. But you can’t go on and do two hours of improvisation; that would be boring.”

Over the years his show’s loose structure has allowed him to tackle topics as profound as the existence of God and as mundane as linoleum. It also includes a few tips on what to do if someone catches you wanking.

But Connolly’s never so funny as when he’s yelling at someone to “fuck off,” which he does with more energy and enthusiasm than anyone else on Earth. He’s especially harsh on hecklers.

“I can’t stand them myself,” he says. “When you’re doing what I do, you’re using your imagination a lot, and you’re going along on a story that you kind of half know, but you’re improvising a lot. Somebody shouts (and) the whole thing breaks down like a pile of Lego.

“It’s such an unfair thing to do. It’s like watching someone build a big tower of dominoes and knocking out the bottom ones for a laugh. It’s not very fair. If you want to shout in little clubs and the guys tolerate it, that’s OK by me. But I think when you come to a concert hall and a guy’s doing his thing you should shut up, or if you don’t like it, get out.”

While he’s no apologist for Michael Richards, Connolly lends a little insight into Kramer’s infamous onstage breakdown.

“I think he tried something that didn’t quite work. I think he tried a kind of Lenny Bruce shock attack that might have worked — it certainly worked for Lenny Bruce — but it didn’t come off, and that’s a chance you take.

“Lenny Bruce started all that aggressive improvisation stuff, and it was brilliant for its time, but you take an awful chance in there. It’s very dangerous. You have to live with it. (Richards) tried it and it failed.

“Unfortunately, someone was there with a video camera, which is also terribly unfair, I think. It’s like a public execution. It’s kind of weird. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know the guy, but anybody I speak to seems to think he’s a very nice man. It’s incredibly unlike him.”

I share a little story that when I was a kid in England and my brother was playing tapes of Connolly’s act, he made me sit at the window to watch in case my parents came home, so we could turn it off.

“I love that story,” the comic says. “I’ve heard that from a lot of people. I’m very proud of that, that kids were all listening to me.”

Because you were corrupting them?

“Aye. I’m absolutely delighted that they found it exciting and stuff. It’s a lovely way to make a living.”

Peter Vesuwalla talks movies with Terry MacLeod every Friday at 7:45 a.m. on CBC Radio One 990.

For more festival info and a complete schedule visit www.nsi-canada.ca/filmexchange.