Published: July 3, 2004

Dylan Moran is trying to make America like him. Maybe. He thinks. To be honest, he's not really sure.

An introduction may be necessary. Mr. Moran is a 32-year-old Irish comedian whose smart, shaggy stream-of-consciousness style has earned him a loyal fan base in Britain and beyond. His most recent show, "Monster," tore through a three-month European tour before selling out a weeklong stint in May at the 1,400-seat Palace Theater in London. British critics called him dark and bold and "the Oscar Wilde of stand-up."

Mr. Moran, however, is not famous in the United States. "I'm Joe Schmo here," he said on a recent afternoon from his temporary apartment in Chelsea. "Actually, I'm not even Joe Schmo here. I'm Joe Schmo's little brother."

For the last month, however, Mr. Moran has been trying to ditch anonymity at the 300-seat Village Theater on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, where "Monster" opened in early June and runs through July 17. The show, a rambling comedic discursive on everything from American foreign policy (he's not fond of it) to loneliness (ditto), has been praised by critics but has yet to find big audiences.

He is not alone in his pursuit of American approval. In the last several years a stream of British and Irish comics have landed here with mixed results, including the cross-dressing stand-up Eddie Izzard, Ricky Gervais of "The Office" and the much-hyped talk-show host Graham Norton. (Mr. Moran and Mr. Izzard played alongside each other at the Village Theater in April for a week.)

Though not all British comedy has effectively translated, Mr. Moran rejects the argument that there is a cultural divide. "This stuff about Americans not getting our stuff," he said, is, well, not accurate. "Especially here," he said. "If you can't take a joke in this city, you're dead."

During his somewhat casual assault on New York, he made his national television debut on June 25 on "The Late Show With David Letterman," a golden opportunity to expand his fan base.

First, however, he had to cut his usual 90-minute routine down to less than five minutes for television, a task that would have been easier, he said, if it weren't for what he calls his amnesia.

"My memory is shot to pieces," he said. "I've got a broken jukebox in my head."

This comment, like much of his routine, fell out of Mr. Moran's mouth with an odd nonchalance, as if he had almost forgotten the start of the sentence before finishing it. In conversation and onstage, Mr. Moran conveys a humorous, semiwobbly but genuine dread, mixed with the cigarette smoke that seems to surround him at all times. (He is not fond of Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg's smoking ban; he smokes and drinks throughout "Monster.")

On June 22, however, Mr. Moran's comedic metabolism was heightened under the tutelage of Eddie Brill, a veteran American comic who also books Mr. Letterman's show. Shortly after finishing his "Monster" performance ("It was dreadful," he said), Mr. Moran went to try out his newly shortened routine at Caroline's comedy club near Times Square, a visit that offered a prime opportunity for a little biographical aside.

The only child of a carpenter father and a mother "who does stuff," Mr. Moran grew up outside Dublin and dropped out of high school at 16. He said that he didn't do anything except "develop acne, work on being awkward and write toxically bad poetry" until he happened into a comedy club at 20 and began to hone his stage persona: slightly tipsy, slightly angry, very wordy.

In 1996 he won the Perrier Award at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, the top comedy prize; in 1999 he played Rufus the Thief in the romantic-comedy film "Notting Hill." A year later he helped write the British sitcom "Black Books" and starred in it as a chain-smoking, wine-soaked misanthropic bookshop owner not unlike himself.

He is protective of his private life but allows that he lives in Edinburgh, is single and smokes Marlboro Lights. Lots and lots of them.

Mr. Moran arrived at Caroline's at just past 10 p.m. on June 22, and after a quick study of his joke order he went on and promptly did seven minutes, far too long for the Letterman show. Mr. Brill was concerned.

"You didn't get your first laugh till 55 seconds," Mr. Brill said. "It's better to get it in the first 20."

And this: "Right now it looks like you're thinking, and we want to get rid of that."

And this: "They have to understand you. You did, like, 10 minutes of material in 7 minutes."

So off they went to another Manhattan club, Stand-Up New York, on West 78th, trimming Mr. Moran's act in the taxi uptown. Arriving, Mr. Moran was rushed past a poster advertising "Dillon Moran," and in front of a well-lubricated, almost-laughed-out audience.

"You don't build anything when you're alone," he said, opening up his bit, "except a little matchstick cathedral of despair."

The audience chuckled, but Mr. Moran rushed, and this time the routine was too short.

"You shouldn't speed," Mr. Brill said.

"I was trying to get that 20-second laugh," Mr. Moran responded, a bit worriedly.

On to the next club, the Comic Strip on the Upper East Side, a 10-minute taxi across Central Park. Mr. Moran hit the stage for the fourth time that night, at 11 p.m., in front of a fairly skeletal crowd, made up of a birthday party, a group of office workers and more than a few fellow comedians.

"When people say they need space, they never say how much," Mr. Moran opined. "But it always seems to be the exact same amount of space as occupied by you."

Big laugh. Mr. Brill checked his stopwatch: 20 seconds. And just like that, Mr. Moran had won over another American fan.

"You're going to be great," Mr. Brill said, smiling.

And sure enough, during taping two days later, Mr. Moran did very well on "The Late Show," getting a big laugh at the 20-second mark and even a pat on the back from an amused Mr. Letterman. "Let's hear it for Dylan Moran," Mr. Letterman said, and the crowd did his bidding.

Later an exhausted Mr. Moran sucked on one of his ever-present cigarettes and considered it all.

"It's not digging coal, is it, or whaling, but there is pressure to go on and get it right," he said in his sweetly cynical brogue. "I'm trying to satisfy a set of criteria that's not native to me, so . . ."

He trailed off, before inhaling again and adding: "I'm just glad all that stuff is behind me."