That's Not My Name review

Is there a funny side to borderline personality disorder? That’s Not My Name certainly thinks so.

Sammy Trotman’s explosive one-woman show wants to illuminate life with borderline personality disorder without getting bogged down in trauma. It’s a difficult path to traverse. The result is a structureless mishmash of fluctuating tones. The show is strongest when it looks at living and struggling with mental illness, but its ostentatious comedy is overly keen to shock. It is a difficult show to decipher, but it is possible. 

Most of That’s Not My Name is a self-aware stand-up set helmed by a hyper diva-like version of Trotman. Halfway between knowingly self-indulgent and gleefully narcissistic, it’s hard to tell how intentional the clunky audience participation and bevy of graceless gags are. The slapstick abuse of two stagehands who briefly join Trotman on stage is jarring, and a schmaltzy musical number about the Electra Complex detailing Trotman’s blurred perception of the line between boyfriends and fathers is eager to be more outrageous than it is.

Yet Trotman is a dextrous performer who keeps her cards close to her chest. Beneath the chaos lies a silent tragedy that she gently unravels when unpicking real-life traumatic anecdotes from boarding school, family life and institutionalisation.

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