Hannah Gadsby is a remarkable comedian, not least because they’re unafraid of pushing the boundaries of what comedy actually is. Or, you know, just doing something a little different with the form in a hugely impactful way.
‘It’s just not funny,’ some fog-horned, as if comedy were something to be policed, confirming strict rules that cannot be challenged, confined within barbed wire walls lest a shred of originality break free. It was particularly odd, because Gadsby is far from the first comedian to tackle pain, loss, anger, darkness and despair. Seriously, the tears of a clown is a whole thing.
It would be churlish not to lean into their joy over the next hour and a bit. But pretty soon I found myself wondering (and attention wandering) if the opposite of Nannette’s room-silencing truth bombs necessarily needs to be a pretty stock-standard, if amiably enjoyable, stand-up hour?
You’ll probably have a good time with Something Special. But when Gadsby has set the bar so high, the switch up from show-stopping to endearingly droll is, if not entirely disappointing, then a little bit disposable.
Gadsby also addresses how their relatively recent autism diagnosis plays out in awkward social situations, including twice snubbing Jodie Foster, a propensity to favour other folk’s fact-listing over their brand of storytelling, and managing panic attacks. A visual gag about how blocking in netball looks a little like a sieg heil and not ideal for their Jewish partner is very on brand with the way comedy at large has sought to address the disturbing rise of Nazi fanaticism of late. Who they claim netball is for is hilariously wrongtown, and Gadsby owns it easily.
