Cool people will outshine you at every turn, a problem Ruby McCollister faces regularly throughout Tragedy. In her quest to prove that ‘we’re all obsessed with tragedy’ she conflates the lives of subversive women who met a tragic fate with her own misguided, but often pedestrian, teenage years. 

There’s an undeniable appeal in hearing about these titans of tragedy, whose stories add spice to an otherwise misguided hour. Far less appealing is McCollister’s self-absorbed tendency to use herself as a conduit for the stories of women as diverse as Marilyn Monroe and Edie Sedgwick. Her performance style vacillates wildly from comically overwrought (think Matt Berry on an off day) to painfully earnest at random intervals. She gesticulates, breaks into song, then affects an Elvira-esque cackle, before shifting gear entirely to underscore the demise of another victim of the 20th-century art scene. 

While her over-the-top delivery can have its charms and the topics she’s discussing are frequently engaging, they’re stymied by an hour that’s over-indulgent and trapped in a tonal tailspin. Like the personality crisis she documents throughout Tragedy, McCollister needs to get out of her own way. Sometimes the teller is better off removing themselves from the story.

Ruby McCollister: Tragedy, Underbelly Cowgate, until 27 August, 5.45pm.