Dandy Darkly's Pussy Panic!

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The genesis of Dandy Darkly's latest one-man extravaganza came at last year's Fringe, when the New York storyteller was approached after a show and accused of "celebrating the murder of women." His response, it transpires, is a show which offers more of the same, only this time with a greater degree of self-satisfaction at his supposedly transgressive subject matter.

Via his ghoulishly flamboyant stage persona, Darkly confesses to a terror of female sexual organs, and explains that the show is his attempt to overcome that fear. Four gleefully macabre tales follow, each dealing in its own way with death and women, whose characterisation thankfully extends beyond being merely the owners of a certain kind of genitalia.

Darkly is a better storyteller than comedian, and it must be admitted that he spins his yarns (in rhyme, no less) with considerable skill, taking particular joy in extreme alliteration. And yet, for a show that is apparently a confrontational response to aspects of modern feminist discourse, it feels like a refusal to engage. In Darkly's words, "polite society has gotten very polite. I'm not exactly convinced for the better." While there are many valid, vital arguments to be made in defence of potentially offensive art, Darkly seems to have no good reason for finding humour in women dying, other than the fact he really wants to. More than the wearying loudness of his schtick, this laziness is what kills the show. Audiences can hope that in future, his grisly imagination can be put to better use.