An anecdote late in Jen Kirkman’s show takes place in New York on 9/11, and uses the US comic and podcaster’s self-serving reaction to the disaster to poke fun at her own solipsism. It works: we laugh at her monstrousness and feel the frisson of breached taboos. But it also highlights what’s wrong with the first half, which is that it’s not clear how wise Kirkman is to her self-absorption.
Nothing wrong with ego in a standup, of course. It snags here only because Kirkman is not obviously sending it up, nor delivering the laughs to justify it. Her show, she tells us, is about times when she thought she knew what she was doing, but didn’t. In fact, it’s a series of early-life anecdotes, about her mum’s apocalyptic worldview, a talent contest at high school and her audition for drama college.
The stories are diverting but unexceptional. Kirkman has to work hard to make them seem out of the ordinary, and with limited success. She is the runaway main character in all her tales; no one else appears in more than 2D.
And the laugh lines are infrequent. Rhythmically and in writing terms, this is more animated chatter than comedy.
Proceedings pick up. A section on pregnancy scares is appealingly lurid and irrational, and – once the 9/11 material has blown the gaff on Kirkman’s neurotic self-regard – there’s a looser, more confident feel to her closing road-rage skit. By the end, we’re enjoying the jokes at Kirkman’s expense. But it takes a while to get there.
- At Soho theatre, London, until 23 July. Box office: 020-7478 0100.
