When Netflix announced they would be giving Aditi Mittal a stand-up comedy exclusive – the first Indian female comic to break into the elite streaming platform – to be made available to 100 million viewers in across 190 countries, I, as a “liberal feminazi” did a proud fist pump. “Take that, Amazon Prime, with your sausage fest of stand-up comics”, I thought, as I sat down to watch Mittal’s “Things They Wouldn’t Let Me Say”.
An hour later, I was still as proud for her having broken a glass ceiling, but that’s about it. In a span of sixty minutes, I counted my own LOLs: only six. The rest of the show, I watched with a straight face, or at most, a lazy smile.
Simply put, Mittal’s performance lacks the freshness of content and style that other stand-up comics, both male and female, have brought to Netflix. Specifically, she was brought on board to continue Netflix’s efforts to provide a level playing field to women artists with no censorship (a “gender revolution”), but fades in comparison to the hilarious and satirical performances of Iliza Shlesinger, Ali Wong, Sarah Silverman and Jen Kirkman who have shared the streaming platform before her.
Seen Before, Done Before
Jokes about her being single, Punjabis being loud, babies being annoying, airport security being unreasonable and men being obsessed with their penis size are entertaining to watch her perform with her brilliant facial expressions and animated sound-effects, but the jokes themselves are...old. One entire chunk of her set on sanitary napkins being taboo in India is from more than three years ago, having had already achieved virality eons ago.
Sure, as a comedian, it is not imperative that one uses their set to push a message forward – it could just entertain. However, Mittal does venture into the space of calling out sexism when she brings up Indian men who catcall with dismembered words like “Aye, jeans!” or when she talks about They-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named With Extra Long Wings, but falls short of making any sort of lasting point about a single, modern Indian woman’s life.
It’s like a low-key running gag and shows no growth or introspection from her previous performances: ironic, aggressive and often self-deprecating one-liners, carefully practised and packed into a set, with no space for improvisation or layered, narrative jokes. The basic premise of her set is about male and female behaviour, but the ideas remain very surface level, like heels being uncomfortable and advertising for men and women being absurdly different.
In an instance towards the end, Mittal crosses the line between funny accent and being elitist when she makes fun of a Miss India beauty contest contestant’s broken English, along with her intellect, which is presumably low because she entered a pageant.
What also catches the viewer off-guard is almost no fluidity between her jokes. It’s as if she came up with a few new jokes, took the old ones that did well and put them together in an order with no link between them. Hence, she goes from jokes about face cream ads to airport security, from Indian parents’ quirks to misheard lyrics, and from hairy Sindhis back to noisy kids in airplanes without so much as a break, change in tempo or ironic quip.
Around the half-an-hour mark, she breaks into her comedic alter-ego: Dr Lutchuke, an old, bent woman who talks with a funny accent about sex. Her performance is on-point and visually refreshing, but again, the content is just flat. For instance, describing the cups of bra sizes as A for being able to fit an apple inside and B for fitting a ball inside; or, “Men, if she can fake the organisms for you, you can fake foreplay for her.” There’s even dangerous cliches like “nothing turns a woman on like hearing the words ‘I love you’ while for men it’s the words “blow job” and even a poor jibe at Rakhi Sawant, comparing her face to “two lumps covered in baby oil and glitter inside a Bollywood heroine’s blouse.”
Mittal’s strongest bits are not a particular set of jokes or a point about society or culture, but mostly only dismembered punchlines brought to life by her cartoonish facial expressions and dynamic stage presence. It happens in spurts across the show but they stand out due their distinctive energy and style.
There’s one clever audience-interaction riff and her confidence throughout the show is unshakable. Her ease on stage shows her seven years of experience. As one open question fails to get an answer from the audience, she quickly ironically saves the moment with a “Guys, please, this is being recorded.” THAT self-awareness is fleeting in her show.
In pieces, “What They Wouldn’t Let Me Say” has its moments. And it is a big win against the pathetic cult of brotherhood within the Indian stand-up comedy space. But if I’m being honest, what Mittal did get a chance to finally say was nothing I hadn’t heard before.
(We all love to express ourselves, but how often do we do it in our mother tongue? Here's your chance! This Independence Day, khul ke bol with BOL – Love your Bhasha. Sing, write, perform, spew poetry – whatever you like – in your mother tongue. Send us your BOL atbol@thequint.com or WhatsApp it to 9910181818.)
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