Can You Love a Stand-Up Special About Loathing?

In his superb new stand-up special, “Cold Lasagne Hate Myself 1999,” James Acaster describes the worst year of his life: After a shattering breakup, suicidal thoughts and a mental breakdown, he started seeing a therapist for the first time. “Because I’m British and that’s what it takes,” he says. “My whole life had to fall apart before I’d talk about my feelings.”

Acaster’s show, which toured New York several years ago but only became available for purchase on Vimeo recently, takes aim at England’s famously stiff upper lip. The theme that emerges after two sprawling, ticklishly funny hours of his new show is not just the challenge of talking about mental health but also the perils of stoicism.

There’s nothing worse than sweeping generalizations about the difference between American and British comedy, which is my way of excusing myself for making one: There’s a narrative and thematic ambition that you find in British comics like Daniel Kitson, Josie Long and Acaster that is less common among comics here. Perhaps it’s because they cut their teeth putting on hourlong shows at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe as opposed to doing short club sets. In any event, Acaster packs his jokes into a tricky structure in which ideas cohere through metaphors and digressions.

In the first act — this is a special with an intermission — he tells of mentioning an emotional breakdown on his “Great British Bake Off” appearance that went viral. He mocks how quickly mental illness turns into entertainment in a way intended to make the audience laugh, and when they do, he gets angry at them. Then they laugh at that.

There’s a self-awareness to the way Acaster needles the crowd, which he does repeatedly, mocking his fans and describing his relationship with them as demeaning. His irreverent comedy delights in insulting the audience. “Night after night, I’m the one in the room who knows the most about comedy and I’ve got to win your approval?” he says exasperatedly.

There’s purpose to turning his British fans into part of the show. English icons are regular targets of his. He makes the sharpest comic attack on Brexit that I’ve seen and his agile skewering of the transphobia of Ricky Gervais has also gone viral. Acaster already has an almost stereotypically English brand of comedy: cerebral and word drunk, wrapped inside layers of irony and biting sarcasm. It’s rare to see a stand-up show filled with intimate stories that have the feel of a State of the Nation special.

Until “Cold Lasagne,” Acaster was best known for four Netflix specials that he released on the same day in 2018. The first and best episode described a girlfriend leaving him after saying: “I love you but I don’t feel like I know you.” It’s the skeleton key to that show, and many of the rest of its jokes provide evidence for her claim. His playful observational comedy keeps the audience at a distance, even claiming at one point that he was actually a police officer in disguise as a comic, a line he stuck to throughout the show. Such commitment to ridiculous conceits is part of the fun of his work.

His new special also finds laughs in personas, strutting onstage at the start in sunglasses and knocking cups off a table, swearing at the crowd before grabbing the microphone in a spoof of swagger: “Let’s start with the headlines: I curse now.” He describes another girlfriend’s explanation for a breakup, but this time, the reason is about his refusal to get help, how his sadness spreads. This show is far more confessional than the previous ones. Whereas his past work avoided his private life, this one digs uncomfortably deep.

In the second act, Acaster tells three stories of unhappily severed relationships: with his agent, his therapist and his girlfriend. Each is a virtuosic set piece that leans on a certain anxiety over whether he is going to say too much.

The highlight is the breakup, a tale that focuses on how his girlfriend went on to date Rowan Atkinson, the comedian best known for playing the English comic institution Mr. Bean, a specialist in bumbling physical pratfalls. In a sad-sack sulk, Acaster describes the peculiarly hilarious horror of being a young comic “left for Mr. Bean,” a phrase he says over and over again with the urgency of violins in a horror movie. It’s a masterwork of cringe comedy, one he consistently digresses from to anticipate the criticism that he is being bitter and petty.

Acaster is no truth-telling comic who doesn’t care what people think. He seems concerned about coming off well, but uses his own sensitivity to add another layer of tension to his stories. In explaining the fallout with his agent, he makes a big show of being fair, so much so that he says he will only tell the story from his point of view. It begins: “The first thing you have to know is I ruined everything and I did it for a laugh.”

It’s a familiar trick, making someone look ridiculous by imagining the terrible logic of their thinking, but few have committed to it so fully or for as long. Many of Acaster’s jokes have a theatrical quality, and he incorporates not just act-outs, but also elaborate pantomime with props. He even makes a short play out of ordering food at a restaurant to illustrate his opinion on Brexit.

He acts out his fights with gusto, and in his dispute with his agent, he reminds you of his struggles with mental health that led him to the therapist, which results in the show’s most explosive fight. When he takes out his phone to read her private text messages to him, he smiles like someone enjoying the pleasure of playing dirty.

This is a show that clearly has gone through many incarnations, which may be why with your purchase of “Cold Lasagne Hate Myself 1999,” you also get another 40-minute performance on similar themes. Cold lasagne is actually never mentioned but even “hate myself” seems odd, since there’s so much other loathing going on here.

Muffled anger is sometimes a setup, other times a punchline, but always essential to this show. At one point, Acaster says he has toured all over the country, adding, “Let me tell you: I hate Britain, absolutely hate it.”

Then he pivots, apologetically, ever alert to the precise arrangement of words. “I phrased that wrong,” he says, pausing. “I hate British people.”