REVIEW- Inclusivity Through Dirty Jokes: The Grumbo Story
Photo by Austin Sorette
Adam Corriveau takes the stage at Mayo Street Arts Center in a slick suit, hands in his pockets, with a sly smile like a late-night talk show host up to no good.
Sitting next to him is a puppet — an amorphous green blob with beady eyes and a bedazzled tutu. Above them, a twinkling banner reads, "Happy Birthday Grumbo."
After the foul-mouthed star of the show panders to the audience about his special day, Corriveau reminds Grumbo that they recently celebrated another milestone. The duo performed at a child's birthday party, and the human straight man questions — perhaps sincerely — how that even happened.
"It was a special request," Grumbo purrs.
"And," Corriveau says, nodding, "request filled."
Grumbo, smelling blood, jumps in before his co-host can continue.
"I'll fill anything," he says with a sultry slur.
This is just one of several lewd bits in the hour-and-45-minute show, Grumbo's Princess Dreams. Grumbo debuted as a one-off character at the PortFringe Festival in 2024. But, as interest in the little green weirdo grew, he starred in five standalone performances, quickly establishing himself as one of the most bizarre characters in Portland's wildly imaginative theater scene.
Co-created by Corriveau and Marie Stewart Harmon — who is the woman behind the curtain, giving Grumbo his vulgar sense of humor — the show has popped up sporadically over the past two years. Story concepts are written by Corriveau and evolve through Harmon's improvisation. The production constantly breaks the fourth wall, with audience members reading Grumbo fairy tales, participating in bits, and writing hyper-sexualized tributes on Grumbo's birthday card.
This standalone performance follows the titular character as he celebrates his second birthday. The show follows a loose narrative but quickly devolves into a chaotic, quasi-variety-show format as princes and princesses emerge onto the stage, each vying for Grumbo's attention.
After Corriveau wraps up his opening monologue and introduces Grumbo, Strongboi Muscleguy (aka Tom Haushalter) emerges from behind the entrance curtain. He sports a prince's outfit that looks like an AI-generated image from the prompt, "What would Disney's Snow White look like as a man?" Haushalter gyrates through the audience, carrying Grumbo in his arms and setting a "Magic Mike"-style vibe for the puppet theater's unsuspecting crowd.
With the audience still fanning their flushed cheeks, Corriveau invites volunteers onto the stage to read fairy tales to Grumbo. In each story, the princess protagonists come to life, showcasing their unique assets.
Noli French, whose resume includes work with the Boston-based Asian American Playwright Collective, appears first as the Perfect Princess. The ditzy princess bumbles around the room, attempting card tricks but failing to produce anything remotely magical.
Next is Paige Lyons, a veteran of Portland's improv scene, who emerges as Princess Karolg from the Ballad of Karolg. Wearing a woven tiara of twigs and leaves and a dress that appears to be made from burlap, she looks as though she sprang to life from a bed of moss in the forest.
Then the "princess" concept becomes literal. Katelyn Manfre, an experienced Shakespearean actor and board member of Fenix Theater Company, appears in a blond wig and an unmistakable ice-blue dress. Whether by design or on the advice of intellectual property lawyers (seriously, who among us hasn't learned the hard way that Disney has a formidable legal team?), she's introduced only as "Cold Princess." As she repeatedly reminds the audience that she holds an MFA, Grumbo repeatedly reminds her that he once saw her naked butt several times in one night.
Rounding out the lineup is Sararose Wiley, who bickers with Corriveau about her role as Princess Diana of Wales before she even steps onstage. She tears off her wig in front of the audience and storms into the lobby. Moments later, the sound of a car crash blares over the PA system. Wiley returns with blood streaming down her face, and the jokes turn from blue to black with the drop of a diamond tiara.
With most adult-themed shows, it's easy to assume the inspiration stems from the pent-up energy of polite society. But with Grumbo, the childish nature of puppetry seems to be the foundation upon which the dirty jokes are built. The show's key players have roots in children's theater. Nathan LaPointe, who provides improvisational beatboxing for each character's entrance music, also generates one of the night's biggest laughs with his appearance as the pop star Prince, who sweeps Karolg off her feet. Offstage, LaPointe serves as programming senior associate arts and culture educator at the Children's Museum & Theatre of Maine.
Grumbo's Princess Dreams is a fever dream's fever dream. It's one of the weirdest concepts ever to take the stage in Maine. But, simultaneously, it's strangely nostalgic.
The show reflects a time when there was a balance between child and adult humor, when parents could watch cartoons with their kids and enjoy layers of jokes aimed at both audiences. It's also reminiscent of a time when jokes about unrestrained sexuality were meant to unite audiences rather than alienate them. Frankly, the show could have pushed its sicko humor even further.
Productions like this are refreshing. They suggest that society continues to normalize diverse sexual expression regardless of the political climate. They also reaffirm that discomfort remains fertile ground for comedy, provided there's an undercurrent of good taste and humility behind the jokes.
It's telling that, before introducing Karolg, Corriveau turns to the audience.
"I'm going to be honest with you guys," he says. "If this bit works, we're going to have a good show. If this bit doesn't work, we should all leave now."
The room erupts with laughter.
Not a single person leaves.