A new comedian struggles to be born in Jack Whitehall’s new show, which itself heralds an imminent birth, that of the comic’s first child. After the trivial first half of Settle Down, Whitehall promises substantial comedy after the interval. But that substance is endlessly deferred, until the self-described “foppish man-child” pivots, re-branding Settle Down as his last inconsequential show before parenthood and enforced maturity descends.
We’ll see. I don’t hold my breath for the grownup version of this perennial kidult – Whitehall is very wedded to the comedy of “I’m a massive melt!” But there are signs that the 34-year-old is at least trying to express a meaningful opinion or reveal something of his actual self. Is his failure to do so a matter of artistic ability, or pathology? Repeatedly tonight he cites his horror of therapy, of ever being made to express his feelings – which may be why his comedy comes across as so inauthentic. But that’s also an artistic issue: Whitehall’s routines often feel basic, their subject matter secondhand, their formulas predictable.
