You began season 11 out here with us British Columbians — specifically in Osoyoos. It’s amazing how much a person can not know about their own backyard. The only desert in Canada, the first Indigenous-founded winery in North America . . .
It was awesome to be there, and I’m glad the episode turned out well. And it is true — I mean, I could say the same thing. In Newfoundland, I grew up maybe an hour drive and a 10-minute ferry ride from Bell Island, or Fogo Island [towns previously covered on Still Standing] . . . There are places right next door that you just don’t know a lot about. And this show makes us dig in and learn a bit of the history and get some of the cooler stories. It’s wild what you can learn about your immediate surroundings that you had no idea about.
After over a decade profiling these small towns across the country, talking to so many people, what’s the weirdest story or tidbit of history that’s rattling around inside your head?
There are so many obscure, weird things that you find out. I mean, I just mentioned Bell Island. When we did that episode, I went scuba diving with a guy who does these adventure tours there; you can dive these two wrecks of these two freighters. Bell Island had a massive iron ore mine. Of course, during the Second World War, it was very important for the Allies, and there are two ore freighters that were torpedoed by Nazi U-boats.
The guy I went diving with, he’s at this adventure tourism expo in England somewhere, and a guy approaches him and says, “You dived these two wrecks, right? Those were sunk by a U-boat that was captained by my father-in-law.” And Rick Stanley, the guy who runs the tour operation in Newfoundland [Ocean Quest Adventures], he said, “Well, you guys have to come and visit.” That guy went and spoke to his wife, and she said, “No, we’re not gonna go to Bell Island.” She’d only found out after [her father] died and she was going through his things . . . she found these Nazi Iron Cross medals he’d earned for sinking these boats. She’s like, “There are people there, they would despise us.” But eventually, he talks her into it. They came, and she brought these two medals that her U-boat captain father had and gave them to the museum there in Bell Island. It’s wild, the stories that you’ll discover.
Conan O’Brien has said that when he went to film a special in Ireland, he was struck that people on the street — like his cab driver — were funnier than him. I wonder if you’ve had that experience in your travels, where average folks are wittier than the pros?
I found the same thing in Newfoundland. The amount of people that you encounter who are hilarious and so sharply witted, it’s incredible. I sometimes joke, I would take the school bus about an hour to and from school in the morning and the afternoon — and I was probably the least funny kid on that school bus. But the difference was, none of these other kids were really trying to be funny. People say to me, “Why are there a lot of comedians who come from Newfoundland?” And I think the easiest way to answer it is, like, a cultural sauciness. It’s the way people are in their everyday. It’s the way you communicate with other human beings. It’s just always there.
But I couldn’t agree more; I think, for Newfoundland, it’s very much the case with Conan’s experience in Ireland. I know that feeling well. Rick Mercer, I remember hearing him say in an interview, “I’m the least funny guy in my family.” And on the school bus in Pouch Cove, I was the least funny kid on that bus . . . Like I say, sometimes it’s the people who are just not trying at all who come across as the funniest.
Do you think people underestimate just how much work and meticulous preparation goes into professional comedy? Do they view it as, “Oh, this guy just goofs around for a living?”
In a way, I hope they don’t appreciate the amount of work and the honing that goes into it — because it should look easy. It’s the same as pro athletes. The magic of it is to be good enough that you make it look easy. But behind the scenes . . . I remember as a kid watching comedians on TV or having cassettes of Eddie Murphy, and thinking, “Do they just get up on stage and tell these funny stories?” And I was sort of on the doorstep of the industry before I realized how much work and rehearsal and time goes into it.
[On Still Standing,] we have a team. We’ve got story producers who are talking to people in the communities before we ever get on a plane, and they pick four or five or six people that we’re gonna talk to, to get a good cross-section of the community and a good angle at the story we’re going to try to tell . . . And there is a lot of work that goes into the comedy itself. You see on any given episode maybe 13-14 minutes of me on stage — when I’m actually doing probably over 40 minutes of material specifically about the town. But in order to be fun, I think it should come across as I just kinda show up and chat with a few people and whip out a few funny observations. But there’s a ton of work that goes into it, for sure.
What’s your approach for interviewing these folks you meet? This is a comedy series, but you’re often discussing dark, painful times. It seems you’ve become very good at knowing when to chime in and when to just keep quiet and let them tell their stories . . .
Well, you nailed it — because in the first season, I don’t know if I was as good at that. I felt like I had to be funny in the interviews, because I’m watching 22 Minutes, and Mark Critch or Mary Walsh go up to a politician in the airport and they’ve got all these insanely funny, sharp one-liners. I thought, “Jeez, that’s what I’ve got to do.” But, you know, the show is trying to take a somewhat compassionate angle on these communities’ struggles. And I think somewhere in the first couple seasons, it dawned on me — this format of the show where I interview these people and then do a standup set, I don’t need to be funny now. I need to talk to this person. I need to get the information. And if I’m trying to think about the funny one-liner I’m gonna spit out next, it’s not going to work.
So, the beauty of the format is that it allows me to have an honest conversation with somebody and I can just let them tell their piece. Which is great for me because I’m not like the gang on 22 Minutes. It’s just not what I’m good at. Like, we can all relate to an argument that you’ve had with somebody, and it’s two days later in the shower that you think of the perfect thing you should have said. Or in a social setting where you thought, “Oh, it would have been really funny if I said that!” With this particular format for this particular show, I get to kind of do that. It can be two days later where I think of something sharp to say and I jot that down. I’ve also got three other funny people [on the series’ staff] that I can bounce it off, and we can discuss it and then try to hone it for the live show at the end of the week. But it took me longer than it should have to figure that out.
How does prepping a standup set that is so laser-focused on one town compare to a normal set at a club, where you can climb on stage and talk about literally anything?
For Still Standing, it’s like a cross between doing a set at a comedy club and giving a wedding speech. Everybody knows the reason why they’re there. Everybody knows why you’re getting up to say something — and that really is half the battle. I’m not gonna just get up and five minutes later someone goes, “You suck!” We have the benefit of the fact that we’re there to celebrate that community. I feel like people are on my side at the get-go, which makes all the difference as far as just how laser-sharp your material is.
And then, having those specific things to dig into . . . Nazi U-boats or whatever it is, if what you’re there to talk about is fascinating, it doesn’t have to be, you know, a belly laugh. If it’s interesting, that carries itself. It’s already entertainment, and then it’s just that much easier to try to make it funny.
Still Standing airs Tuesdays on CBC
MEMORABLE ROLES:
Miraculous as it may seem to have a show air for 11 seasons on Canadian television, Still Standing is actually a side gig for Jonny Harris — and his main claim to fame has been running for nearly twice as long. The native of Pouch Cove, Newfoundland, has spent 19 seasons and counting on late-1800s, early-1900s crime drama Murdoch Mysteries. He plays silly-yet-stalwart copper George Crabtree — comic foil to the Sherlock-esque Inspector William Murdoch (Yannick Bisson) as he patrols the streets of old-timey Toronto. You’ve furthermore seen Harris guest on The Listener, Republic of Doyle and Frankie Drake Mysteries. And of course, he remains an in-demand standup, having appeared at such prestigious fests as Just for Laughs.
CURRENT GIG:
Since 2015, Mr. Harris has visited hard-knock communities across Canada with a CBC series that’s part travelogue, part standup set. Each week, Jonny rolls into town, soaks up the local stories, then tailors a routine for the place and its people. Tonight’s season 11 finale finds him in St. Thomas, Ontario, a former railway and auto-manufacture hub fallen on hard times — renowned as the spot where Jumbo, star elephant in P.T. Barnum’s “Greatest Show on Earth,” was mowed down by a train.