Sasha Dolgopolov

Dolgopolov does not stay behind the mic stand for more than a few seconds. The pacing is restless, with Dolgopolov stalking back and forth, clutching the cord, shoulders pulled up, looking startled by the presence of an audience. A bit begins with a tiny domestic grievance or an awkward exchange, then spirals into an animated argument between three different voices. Dolgopolov drops into a crouch, twists into strange shapes, mimics angry landlords or paranoid bureaucrats in a high-pitched squeak, and builds toward pure chaos before abruptly going limp. When an idea does not land, Dolgopolov giggles into the foam, admits the joke made no sense, and moves right into the next thought.

After building an audience in Moscow’s alternative club scene, Dolgopolov fled Russia to avoid state prosecution over jokes about religion and the government. The touring life now runs through small clubs and festival rooms across Western Europe, centered largely in Berlin. Performing in English in specials like how to make friends strips away easy wordplay, forcing the act to rely on physical character work and the awkwardness of starting over in a second language.

The material is best when that manic energy attacks something concrete: the slow administrative nightmare of immigration, queer dating, or the dread of trying to meet people in an unfamiliar city. Routines stumble only when the shouting takes over, letting a cartoonish tangent stretch past the punchline.

Facing criminal charges back home, Dolgopolov approaches state terror and personal displacement the same way: by treating absurdity like a live problem to scream through on stage.