As the skies opened and unleashed a rare January rain storm on New York City last week, theatergoers from near and far faithfully flooded the SoHo Playhouse for Sam Morrison’s new stand-up show, “Sugar Daddy.” Looking around as wet sneakers sloshed down the center aisle and people shook moisture from their coats and hair, I couldn’t help but feel proud to be a part of this scrappy little group that understood the gift of showing up. 

The lights dimmed. “I’m doing this because nothing helps. But this,” Mr. Morrison said over the loudspeaker, “this kind of helps.” Then, the self-proclaimed “anxious, asthmatic, gay, diabetic, Jew/helpless Twink from Florida” took the stage to raucous applause. 

The solo show, which was a crowd-favorite at the 2022 Edinburgh Fringe Festival, attempts to toe the line between comedy and tragedy. After Mr. Morrison meets his partner Jonathan at “Bear Week” in Provincetown (which some of you may know), Covid hits. They fall in love while quarantining at his grandmother’s house. Tragedy strikes when Jonathan, 26 years Mr. Morrison’s senior, passes away at the height of the pandemic. The show, it seems, was made to explore and cope with his grief.

In the opening bit, Mr. Morrison plays out a mugging in Midtown. The attacker asks for his phone, and he refuses, giving his wallet away instead in an attempt to preserve his last photos of his partner. However, in a cruel ironic twist, he realizes that the photos are saved in the Cloud and that the wallet was Jonathan’s. “I think we all kinda know,” he says, “that comedy and tragedy aren’t that different.” 

That’s true: There’s no shortage of comedians — Robin Williams, Stephen Fry, and Sarah Silverman are among the many — who have used their performance pieces to escape their own circumstances and deal with heavy, complicated topics. However, “Sugar Daddy” doesn’t quite reach these heights, and at first, I couldn’t understand why. 

Then, an on-stage incident laid the problem bare. At one point, a man in the front row pulled out his phone. It seemingly went unnoticed by everyone except for Mr. Morrison, who brought the show to a screeching halt, asking: “I’m sorry, are you filming?” 

“I just took a picture,” the man said sheepishly. 

Oh, no, I thought as the audience members tensed in their seats, not a Patti LuPone moment. After imploring the man to put his phone away, Mr. Morrison said the most authentic line of the night: “This is really hard for me.”

He took a deep breath and attempted to continue unaffected, but it was too late. The damage had been done. The copious self-effacing sexual jokes and references to his glucose monitor and onstage finger-pricking failed to land. 

It’s not that the show is too personal, or too raw — traits that can be assets when handled correctly — it’s that the show is for Mr. Morrison, and not for us. Instead of receiving a gift in return for their effort and intention, the audience members are asked to validate Mr. Morrison’s identity and pain. They’re sent back into the deluge empty-handed, without so much as a picture to show for their time. 

“Sugar Daddy” isn’t a grief-comedy. It’s straight-up therapy.