Hannah Gadsby: Mrs Chuckles

Seldom has there been a slower start to a standup show. Hannah Gadsby offers tea and biscuits to an audience member and makes an admission; while most comedians start off giving 110 per cent, she settles for giving 60 per cent. “Nerves slow me down and adrenaline makes me sleepy,” she explains.

It’s a frustrating introduction to a frustrating show – rich in potential but short on laughs.

A circular narrative begins and ends with a selection of final words, from the pithy bon mots left by the great and the good to an unlikely final observation from an unfortunate young girl who perished in an aircraft accident. It’s telling that the best one-liner of the whole hour comes courtesy of Oscar Wilde.

That’s not to say that this isn’t a reasonably entertaining set. Gadsby’s tales of growing up in Tasmania, moving to Canberra and returning for a school reunion are fascinating. Stories of surviving adolescence and her blossoming sexuality have the audience hanging on her every word. Her theme of learning to speak up for herself is worthy.

Meanwhile, descriptions of her hometown show an impressive turn of phrase, and a story regarding the discovery that her first female crush has become obsessed with bondage even elicits a few chortles.

The problem is that there are very few proper jokes in this monologue by a talented and likeable performer. To sell it as standup comedy risks the involvement of trading standards officers.