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She’s the toast of Off-Broadway now but nothing about the early work of LA clown Natalie Palamides screamed mainstream darling. In her debut show Laid, a maternal-anxiety antic that won her best newcomer at the Edinburgh comedy awards, she gave birth to eggs then broke them on stage. In her second, Nate, she cross-dressed as a beer-chugging douchebag to workshop sexual assault and consent with her astonished audience. Who foresaw that this loose cannon would soon be Hillary and Chelsea Clinton’s clown coach, in the series Gutsy? Who then saw an extended New York City run beckoning, thronged with celebrity attendees?
“Drew Barrymore came, Kevin Bacon came,” says Palamides, on a video call from her native California. “Sabrina Carpenter came: that was nuts. Dua Lipa, Nathan Fielder, Neil Patrick Harris.” The show was Weer, and the run (until shortly before Christmas) was at “the birthplace of Off-Broadway”, the Cherry Lane theatre, recently relaunched by hip movie studio A24. When we speak, Palamides, 36, is laid low with flu, her body’s revenge for that marathon three-month run. “I thought a month would be the longest I’d ever do it,” she croaks. “It takes a lot of physical endurance to make it through the show.”
Premiering in Edinburgh in 2024, Weer built on the gender-bending Nate, and stars Palamides as both halves of a romantic comedy couple. And when I say “halves”, I mean it: one half of her face and body plays Mark (plaid shirt; facial hair), the other, Christina (fluffy pink top; flowing locks). This hot mess of a show flashes back from a car accident to stage the three-year span of their relationship, as Palamides now flirts and makes out with herself, now bickers with and abuses herself. It’s a virtuosic performance stunt, all in the name of outrageous entertainment and a warped celebration of the 90s romcom.
Even getting into makeup and costume each night takes several hours, she reports, never mind the exhausting solo turn. “I made sure to take good care of myself,” she says. “I do biotherapy and red light therapy every day.” Convalescent in LA, she’d love a break – but the show’s UK return beckons, another chance for London audiences (and maybe celebs too) to see what the Off-Broadway fuss is about.
What chord does Palamides think Weer has struck with audiences? “I hope it’s the rollercoaster ride element that makes them feel so taken by the show,” she says. “Being able to get big laughs and joy then also feel those tender, vulnerable moments.”
“When I was making it, I went to see The Notebook on Broadway. Not to dog anybody, but that’s one of the most successful romantic films of all time. And it’s such a letdown how they did it on stage. In the film, when they kiss in the rain, it’s so cathartic, they’re finally back together. But on stage, you didn’t get to relish that feeling, they didn’t build any tension with them being apart and wanting each other.” Weer would be different. “I was determined that all those feelings you feel watching those movies would be there in my show.”
Mission accomplished – and more. Weer is no mere homage to romcoms, it’s also a critique, burrowing (like most of Palamides’ work) under the skin of gender assumptions and conventions. “I wanted to explore how in most romantic comedies we’re fed in our culture, the relationships are toxic, but you still root for them to be together. Was it possible to show the audience a relationship much more intense and toxic, and see if the audience still wanted them to be together?”
It’s an inquiry that’s consolidated Palamides’ position, next to her old mentor Phil “Dr Brown” Burgers, at the spearhead of the current clown boom. Alongside her own shows, and a starring voiceover role in animated sitcom The Powerpuff Girls, she has directed Bill O’Neill’s slapstick smash The Amazing Banana Brothers, is developing a clown-conjuring cabaret Lady Magic (previewed at last year’s Edinburgh fringe) for a Las Vegas residency – and was invited by the Clintons to tutor them in physical comedy for their TV series. She’s also now plotting a screen version of Weer.
“I have no idea how it’s happened,” says Palamides of her status as comedy’s hippest goon. “I just keep persevering and trying to make good art.” Though she’d love some downtime, Palamides is premiering a new solo project at the Netflix Is a Joke festival this May – and if you were expecting a cash-in on her recent success, you’ll be disappointed. This next idea, she says, “is not palatable. It’s very off-putting. It’s based on a character I’ve done a couple times [on stage] who says she’s pregnant with the second coming, and she births a raw steak and beats it until it’s stopped crying, then she eats it.”
“I’m fearful to do this, because I was raised Catholic. I was super-scared of Satan and demons when I was growing up. It feels so taboo to delve into this area.” But taboos are Palamides’ currency: this is a clown who trades less in red noses, more in red flags. Whether she’s flying them in Weer or in the carnival of sacrilege set to follow, good luck taking your eyes off her.
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Weer is at Soho Theatre Walthamstow, London, 14-24 January
