Diss-aster: Ziff’s insults serve no dramatic purpose.

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Amy Ziff, 33.3 percent of the pop trio Betty, has returned to Theater J for this rambling one-woman show. Accident kicks off with Ziff’s death: She was shaving her legs in the bathtub, she explains, and the razor seriously slipped. As her corpse lies in state, her spirit gets whisked from its claw-footed tomb in the West Village to this Logan Circle stage. Here, she must ruminate upon her life to determine whether she’s heading to heaven or the other place. She is aided in this task by a sort of perdition PowerPoint, which keeps a running tally of her virtues and vices as the evening progresses. The first thing that belongs squarely in her up column, Ziff decides, is the fact that she spent so much time in Utah. You wait for some particularizing detail or specific observation, but that’s the whole joke: Doesn’t Utah Suck (“I mean it’s pretty and everything, but it’s Utah, OK?”). Ziff has a gift for mimicry, but she seems content to nibble at the lowest-hanging fruit: Her grandmother is a farcical mega-bubbe, her Texan sounds like Yosemite Sam, and her women from Utah sound, mystifyingly, like the cast of Fargo. All of which would be fine if we ever got a clear sense that there was a point to the lack of generosity on display. And while Ziff acknowledges her diva-ness (there it is, in the down column), the performance never really owns the self-satisfaction she exhibits here, never convinces us that she knows exactly how obnoxious her cursory generalizations sound. Accident is the first in what Theater J is calling its Incubator Series, and sure enough, there’s a work-in-progress feel to the evening. You can see what needs to happen: Ziff’s delivery, especially in the opening minutes, is still coming off a bit too rehearsed and writerly, and director Rebecca Asher needs to push Ziff past the broad caricatures and find something believably specific and recognizable. You do catch glimpses of the show this show could be: A tale of airline turbulence is beautifully told, while a salute to the Tough Girl in women’s prison movies is offhandedly funny. For now, they’re self-contained nuggets of shtick that don’t necessarily mesh with the rest of the evening, but they feel more honed, more finished, than the material around them, and you welcome their presence.