“No one can explain it, girls. Just lock in,” is how Kate Dolan brings a group of latecomers up to speed. I mean, it’s my job: I’ll try to explain. But she’s not far wrong. There’s plenty of comedy about that calls itself ‘weird’, but this might just fit the bill. Who is this woman? Who is winning in this tussle with her internal monologue? Where have you been all of my comedy life?
To describe Dolan’s approach is a bit like trying to ascribe Queensbury technique to the vicious frenzy of a street brawler. Hers is a wild assault of jokes, voices, act outs and asides. Yes, there’s a routine here (10%), but it’s a routine punctuated with marginalia, second guesses and doubt (90%). It’s extremely disconcerting. There’s a lady in the front row who’s really not sure for a few minutes. But by the time Dolan is trying to drink a glass of water, she’s dissolved like an effervescent tablet, just like the rest of us. Dolan doesn’t drink a glass of water like the other comics.
What Dolan does do like the others is a bit of pathos just towards the end. She does it well, bringing the pace down for a moment’s reflection before revving it back up nicely. It’s technically sound (don’t be fooled that Dolan’s frenzied approach is anything other than skillful). But is it perhaps a sop too far to the niceties of contemporary comic performance to which Dolan elsewhere plays delightfully little heed? Maybe. But it’s still worth the money for that act out of a Cosmo Magazine piece.
Kate Dolan: The Critic, Assembly George Square, until 24 Aug, 6.25pm