Henry Phillips is absolutely hilarious, and if you haven’t heard of him yet, you will soon.

I hadn’t, but my online movie-watching service was practically begging me to watch something with the obscure immature goofball name “Punching the Clown,” which could be about anything and be horrible, considering Netflix thinks we’re going to give a generous two stars to “Water for Elephants,” which is basically a 2D version of dracunculiasis, the guinea worm disease, where spaghetti noodle sized worms grow out of bad drinking water and burrow into your connective tissues before rupturing out of your skin to reproduce.

What is “Punching the Clown”? It’s that image, only funny, and set to lovely, serenade-style acoustic guitar. And uncomfortable. The movie goes from Phillips slogging through a late-night radio interview that realizes, too late, that it has to bleep one of his songs, to Phillips doing a live set at a venue where, unexpectedly, an elderly religious group is having a meeting.

He’s not the only one trying to make it in Los Angeles. His brother, an actor in name only, dresses up as a cheap version of Batman and gives lackluster performances at children’s birthday parties. (His wife, an environmental assessor, floats between them like she’s just smelled something foul.) His new agent suggests with a straight face that Phillips do an open mic night at a place called Espresso Yourself. Moan.

But when we’re watching Phillips on stage, the stink of failure has dissipated. He talks about how strange it is that a girlfriend, directing him sexually, would say “I like it when people…” instead of “you” or something “gender specific.” He launches into an emotional torch song, even getting — ha! — choked up at one point.

“She never was abused when she was younger,” he croons. “Her father never up and ran away. And even though her parents gave her all the love she needs, She turned out a bitch anyway.”

“James Taylor on smack!” says his clueless agent, trying to come up with like someone’s mom trying to be encouraging and edgy at the same time. (When you think it can’t get any worse, she asks if he would ever do parody songs, like of “The Israelites.”)

Her next gig sends him to someone’s birthday party, one of those swanky affairs with cool music you’re too uncool to recognize, a big calm dark pool, a fantastic view, and soft, huge lanterns. A fantastic sequence follows: one random person flits to the next, to the next, a rolling relay race of sycophants, where the first person’s compliments creep out the second person, who awkwardly extracts themselves only to spot their own next rung on the social ladder and becomes the fawning fan, to be ditched instantly.

Phillips is deadpan as he moves through it all, as he sings about the sexual excess he looks forward to indulging in at the end of the world, pleas to be nice to the social misfits at school so they don’t kill you if they decide to bomb the place, and late-night calls to girls who might be willing to set him up with their emotionally damaged friends. He’s blond and handsome, like a rebellious hero in some World War II action movie. And he’s a fine actor, a strange thing to see in the world of standup comedy, where stage performances are usually awkwardly stitched together for non-live DVD distribution, the transitions dragging. He succeeds. He fails. We care.

And yes, for all its spotlights and sequins and Swarofski-studded dreams, Los Angeles sure does love to tell a story of failure. It loves to try to scare people away. The funny thing is that it doesn’t work. Most people will be happy to live their lives out in comfortable, lawn-y bliss in Mason City, Iowa, but a few will insist on working a Starbucks in El Segundo and coming home to a 200 square foot “bachelor” (that means there’s no kitchen) in Inglewood just for a shot at the salt-scented dream of Hollywood.

Most of them will end up failing. Most of their stories will not be funny, unless you like laughing at crying people (which is possible. I mean, people like Dane Cook, and he’s going to really have to work on his material to ever get to crying-person level funny). “Punching the Clown” would be hilarious on its own merits if it were fiction, but because it’s the story of someone who’s obviously been fighting and is, just as obviously, about to make it big — I hope real, real big — it’s all the sweeter.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in theaters anymore.