Comedian Kate Owens on enduring sexist ideas

I’m a US-based clown and comedian making my Edinburgh Fringe debut with a messy, chaotic solo show called Cooking With Kathryn. It’s about a Southern woman unraveling in real time while trying to host a cooking show at her church – and like much of my work, it’s rooted in physical comedy. 

I’ve trained at École Philippe Gaulier, performed on Broadway, had a recurring role on Hulu’s The Other Black Girl, and was selected for the Cirque du Soleil casting databank, and despite years on the alt-comedy circuit in the United States, I’ve learned one thing: being a woman who’s funny with her body is still treated as an act of rebellion. Our industry still gives men full permission to use their bodies however they want in comedy. But women’s bodies have to be desirable first, or not visible at all. 

I was on a video call with my therapist, venting my usual frustrations about the entertainment industry – like the existential threats of AI, men continuing to dominate Hollywood, and vampire movies making a comeback – when I asked her if she could name any well-known physical comedians who aren’t men. 

A few seconds passed. Besides Lucille Ball and Melissa McCarthy, she couldn’t. Neither could I, even though I am a physical comedian. In the US, physical comedy from women is often relegated to side characters or punchlines. In the UK, there’s a longer clowning tradition, but I think that women still aren’t centred in it.

We both laughed nervously at this realisation, but deep down I felt a familiar ache. Why did my mind go blank? I knew it wasn’t for lack of trying. Over the years, I’ve done my research. But every time I go looking for examples, the results are scarce.

I typed ‘best female physical comedians’ into Google again, just to check. The lists were short and vague. Then I searched for ‘best physical comedians’. Hundreds of names appeared. All men.

Of course, there are plenty of incredible female acts – brilliant clowns like Natalie Palamides, Hilary Chaplain, and Courtney Pauroso (to name a few) But unless you’re steeped in clown or alt-comedy circles, you probably haven’t heard of them. Why not? Why aren’t they household names?

Even Lucille Ball, arguably the most iconic woman in physical comedy, always kept her performance tightly managed. Hair set. Make-up flawless. The most ‘grotesque’ she got was stomping grapes or stuffing chocolates into her mouth. 

She used her body for comedy, but her body was never the joke. I wonder if male producers (even now) might say, ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to embarrass a woman like that,’ but that’s not concern – it’s control. I think the real message is this: women’s bodies are not supposed to be funny.

When I perform Cooking With Kathryn, which I’ve spent the past few years developing in New York City, I hear the same comment from audience members night after night: ‘You’re so brave.’ And while I do take it as a compliment – it is brave, in this culture, for a woman to be grotesque onstage – I’ve started asking myself: would anyone say that to a man? Probably not.

What people mean is: You showed your body. I roll around drunkenly in my underwear, stuck in my pantyhose, with my butt out and legs flailing. And for many, that’s the line. A man could do that and be called ‘funny’. I do it, and I’m ‘brave’.

Bravery means doing something even though you’re scared. So what exactly do they think I should be afraid of? They assume I should be afraid of being seen as something other than beautiful. That if I show my imperfect body, I’m opening myself up to judgment. And if people laugh, it’s a sign that I should change myself. Be prettier. Be less. Men of any size can walk onstage shirtless, or even naked, and be accepted as hilarious.

But this rebellion didn’t start with Kathryn. In 2021, I was selected as a New Face of Comedy at Just For Laughs on Montreal. One of my showcase characters was a Southern blowhard named Muck Shuckly. I wore a too-small black turtleneck and a fake moustache. 

During rehearsal, the shirt kept riding up, revealing my belly. It was funny, so I leaned in. Gut out. I was nervous. But during the performance, it killed. People came up afterward saying it was their favourite character. One person told me seeing a woman perform that way gave them permission to be bolder in their own work. Then the video went up on YouTube. I was proud of the set. Until the first comment appeared: ‘Gross, I don’t want to see that.’

That word – gross – seared through the joy I’d just experienced. It confirmed the fear I’d been suppressing: that my body, when not packaged for male comfort, is offensive. I performed the character a few more times in New York, but I was in my head. Am I too much? Too ugly? Will this character hurt my career? Eventually, I stopped doing him altogether.

That kind of feedback stays lodged in your body. As women, we grow up hyper-aware of how we’re perceived. For those of us in comedy, it means editing our physicality before we’ve even stepped on stage.

I recently rewatched the famous Chippendales sketch from SNL, where Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze audition as male strippers. Now imagine the same sketch, but with Melissa McCarthy instead of Chris Farley. Would it have aired? Of course not. Because that’s the double standard. 

A man shaking his belly around is hilarious. A woman doing the same is ‘too much’. Men’s bodies are vessels for comedy. Women’s bodies are meant to be sexy – or invisible.

Physical comedy is ancient. Primal. It bypasses intellect and hits something deeper. But we’ve drawn a gender line around it. We’ve trapped women’s comedy from the neck up. What a waste. Physical comedy is not just a boy’s game. It never was. We just haven’t let women fully play.

I’m tired of being called brave. I want to be called funny. I want to be seen not as an exception, but as part of a lineage. Until then, I’ll just keep flinging myself around, pantyhose stuck halfway down my thighs, and cracking raw eggs all over my head – these are all things that happen during Cooking with Kathryn, so if you’re at the fringe, come see it. Not because I’m fearless, but because I’m scared. And I’m doing it anyway.

• Kate Owens: Cooking with Kathryn is on at Underbelly Cowgate at 5.10pm during the Edinburgh Fringe,

Published: 24 Jul 2025