‘There are no facts, only interpretations’ so said Frederic Nietzsche. It is certainly an unusual through-line for an hour of comedy, but such is the premise of Sara Pascoe’s quite wonderful new show. Uniting philosophical vat-in-the-brain concerns with a hugely unsatisfied sex drive, Pascoe creates an intelligent, self-aware set about whether there is any truth to anything in anywhere. She is also afraid of cats.
The show had a bumpy beginning. A broken microphone led to an awkward yet endearing Pascoe having to introduce herself, but she quickly recovered from this potential embarrassment so naturally that I wonder if it was a genuine mistake or a new and innovative way to open a comedy set, a clever way to remind the audience that things can go wrong in order to raise the stakes.
Fortunately after that it was smooth sailing. With confidence and precision Pascoe carved out her character as part ditzy blonde girl, part intellectual and complete neurotic. In this persona she switches from said fear of cats to German nihilism and back again whilst always making these switches seem fluid and natural.
It is also riotously funny. Pascoe delivers fast and funny lines which usually hit the mark. With a series of small pearl-like anecdotes and thoughts the set builds and builds with laughter. There is a slight dip in the middle where the pace slackens. We are at times set adrift in the sheer number of little stories. Also some of the pop culture references are bizarrely non-topical; a bit about Fifty Shades of Gray seemed very much like a joke that had passed its sell by date.
These problems were minor however. The show picked up pace again and seemed to rush towards its climax, tying all its loose threads into a beautiful bow. Charmingly earnest, cleverly constructed and disconcertingly logical, Pascoe is well worth a go-go.
