This is a five-star review from the Melbourne International Comedy Festival season of All Talk.
“This show may not be for everyone,” says Pacquola at the close of a show I soon prescribe to everyone. Or, everyone in the memory of my phone. Of all moments that make the hour, there was just this one that didn’t seem to fit.
If I’d seen Pacquola that night, I’d have told Pacquola that night, “This show is for everyone, you superbly gifted fool!” I’d have said there is art so great, it can move all persons of all tastes. I’d have spouted that pretentious froth formed whenever I see something too great to immediately describe. I’d have said some of the dumb stuff I write down in a notebook.
Fortunately for Pacquola, I do not know Pacquola. She was spared the worst of the notebook – “even her depths are demotic!!!”; “is the ‘self’ even real?!!” – or from hearing the lie that there is art “for everyone”. There isn’t. It is arrogant to believe in universal culture. Still. It’s amazing to be so stirred by a work, you believe for a bit that everyone can get the same buzz on that you did.
Now I’ve come down, I’ll tell you who this show may not be for: persons affronted by reference to anal hair removal; the newly sober; possibly, folks wrestling with great misery or panic – Pacquola gives such keen shape to those states we call depression and anxiety, you may need a sesh with the shrink. (I’ve booked.)
Oh. And other comedians. Other comedians must not see this show. Pacquola writes, performs and inhabits herself so utterly, you’ll feel only envy. Almost everyone else will feel grateful.