In the darkness of our political moment, Rosie Holt’s videos, in her guise as a floundering government spokesperson, offer a glimmer of light. Beautifully observed, performed – and timed – they’ve skewered with such precision the contortions required of the current crop of Tory MPs that they’ve been mistaken for the real thing. Their effectiveness, and the performing flair Holt brings to her live show, The Woman’s Hour, leave you in no doubt of her ability. But, for me, the show dilutes rather than distils the qualities evident in her online work.
There are the makings of a fruitful hour here, as Holt sows seeds of confusion among the audience as to when she’s in character or otherwise. But those seeds don’t germinate: nods to Chaplin’s The Great Dictator aside, nothing comes of the blurred identity. Her alter egos are strongest when they cleave closest to those we know from online, like the burbling backbencher whose every mealy mouthed statement cancels out its predecessor. Then there’s her desperate-to-be-controversial, woke-bashing TV host, with whom we have some fun, even if the joke – like her Titania McGrath-style posh lefty, to whose social-justice standards no one can measure up – is obvious.
