Henry Ginsberg: 28 Years Later

An inhibited, middle class jew enumerating his neuroses for comic effect. It's safe to say it's been done before. Henry Ginsberg doesn't let precedent get in the way, though, with a gently funny show about coping with affliction.

Fortunately for his act, he's secure in his insecurities. He lays bare his own shame surrounding alcoholism, eating disorders, and—most candidly—loneliness. It's an expulsion of pent up frustrations, but he's so forthright and unfettered in his confession of vices that it barely feels like we're covering dark material. He manages to explore personal taboos without recourse to any stigma, and his honesty is genuinely refreshing to watch.

He doesn't quite have a natural comic air, a point referenced by Ginsberg himself, and occasionally he botches his delivery. Then again, if his angsty existentialist routines were performed by a confident, polished performer then perhaps they'd lose their essence. There's often an anti-climactic sense to his standup too. He pulls at the fabric of weighty topics like ego and solitude but never really unravels them to arrive at a cogent conclusion.

It's a Fringe debut that portends to a promising future for the 28 year-old, and he can surely iron out his tendency to undercook segments in time. The end result is flawed yet surprisingly touching. He sells his instability as a reference for comedy and it works well, invoking empathy and a reasonable number of laughs in even the hardest of hearts.