one4review | On 19, Aug 2025

James Beckett is a film nerd to his bones, and he begins as such—inviting the audience to name as many Samuel L. Jackson films as they can. It’s a clever icebreaker, a communal quiz that turns strangers into collaborators, laughter building not from barbs but from the recognition of shared gaps in memory. It sets the tone for an hour that is less about interrogation than companionship.

A cleverly assembled DIY video montage follows—scrappy in production perhaps, but brimming with wit and invention, putting certain higher-budget shows to shame. It is an apt reflection of Beckett himself: resourceful, sharp, and unwilling to be outdone.

 

For those unfamiliar, Beckett is no newcomer. He was an award-winning comic on the rise in the 2000s, playing bigger rooms and making semi-final runs. And he was good—damn good—before it all stopped, abruptly, about 12 years ago. He wasn’t enjoying it, life intervened: children, work, the slow erosion of stage time. He was even dubbed, rather cruelly, the “Gareth Gates of comedy,” a jab at his stutter and nervous tics. They are still present, but now clearly part of his fabric. As the set unfolds, they soften and recede, replaced by the easy flow of a comic who knows exactly what he’s doing.

This show should not be read as a comeback, but as a continuation—an extension of a life that has accumulated more stories and perspective. He speaks of parenthood (one child born in the back of a car), of ageing, of resilience. The material is consistently strong: a routine about sex to the shuffle of a love-song playlist, a reimagining of the Olympic Games, and stray, darkly funny thoughts about parents overthinking whether to leave children at motorway service stations. These aren’t scraps of a man dusting off his act; they are the observations of someone who has lived, and who has returned with more to say.

The climax—a montage tracing his own journey—could easily have tipped into sentimentality but instead lands with a surprising freshness. It’s both funny and affecting, the kind of device that makes you root for the performer long after the applause fades.

This feels less like a comeback and more like a reboot, and the analogy holds. It’s his origin story retold, the groundwork laid, the exposition behind us. If Stutter Island is the set-up, the sequel promises more pace, more action, more confidence.

In the end, like all the best movies, you find yourself wanting the underdog to succeed.  Beckett has the tools, the timing, and the talent—and on this form, he could well be this year’s comedy Rocky story. Fingers crossed for many other sequels.

****

Reviewed by Steve H

18.45 to 19.45

Boston Bar

Until date 24th Aug