Review: In The First 3 Minutes of 17 Shows, Abby Wambaugh Wants to Play with You

In The First 3 Minutes of 17 Shows, at Dixon Place through October 26, comedian Abby Wambaugh delivers the promise of her title, seamlessly weaving nearly two-dozen different shows into one silly and heartfelt hour.

After a successful run at the Edinburgh Fringe last year, Denmark-based comedian Wambaugh has teamed up with comic Hannah Gadsby and producer Jenney Shamash to bring the show to the Lower East Side. Wambaugh has lined the stage of Dixon Place with a cornucopia of bulky props, hidden beneath red fabric. As is the show’s conceit, every three minutes (or seven-to-ten if we’re being honest), a new show title is projected and Wambaugh unveils a new prop or gimmick.

She unites different styles of comedy from character sketches—the gossipy number nine has Wambaugh wrapped in a giant stuffed digit—to glossy prose (my favorite segment was a long, uncanny impression of a vacuum cleaner). Though the forms vary, a single show emerges through Wambaugh’s voracious spirit and clever puns as she details her life in Denmark, motherhood, and comedy.

Wambaugh wants to play with you. A segment called “Old Man Learns Parkour” quickly becomes “Old Men Learn Parkour” and Wambaugh takes geriatric leaps with two audience members, all adorned in white wigs with wrinkled forehead flaps. When asking if anyone can do the worm, she says, “if you think for one second it’s you, it’s you,” and a man in the fifth row stands bolt upright. The mood is jovial, and Wambaugh draws out goofy, confident performances from the audience.

Though Wambaugh’s off-the-cuff banter is effective in establishing this cozy rapport, it occasionally diffuses her punchlines. But with a little lighting on the crowd and the occasional climb into our bleachers, Wambaugh seems to say, this show is for all of us.

Wambaugh’s style generally serves as a line of intimacy and empathy. Her cleverness and earnestness crescendos during her rendition of “David Sedaris Essay Show.” Behind a podium, Wambaugh relates that her introduction to performing stand-up comedy stemmed from loss after miscarriage. She reiterates a phrase from the top of the show, “sometimes the beginning is the whole thing.” This line was perfectly funny when she used it to describe the vacuum cleaner impression, but now, the intricacies of Wambaugh’s show unfold. Small gags become retrospectively significant—like how her goofy impression of the number nine was a nod to the shape of her maternity pillow.

After spending the evening getting to know and care for Wambaugh, the emotional root of the production is well-earned.  And she certainly knows how to lighten the mood: two segments later, she has the whole crowd performing a sing-along.

The First 3 Minutes of 17 Shows is a delightful feat of variety. Wambaugh stitches together a show of love, hope, and laughter, inviting audiences into a kind of group catharsis through experimentation. She champions her own new beginnings and emboldens others to do the same, even if it means putting on a wig.