Lounge
Netflix is making stand-up comedy anything but special
Summary
A feature-length stand-up special is more than just a joke—it’s a medium for storytelling. The shows on Netflix have lost their lustreLast September, I went to a Trevor Noah standup gig in Delhi. Noah, a perceptive and politically savvy comedian — with an excellent gift for accent-mimicking — is one of comedy’s more interesting voices, which is why it was disappointing that he had far too little to say. On his first night in India, Noah presented very little new material, instead recycling bits we had heard before on his polished and thoughtful standup specials. Roughly midway through, he threw in the towel. “What would you like to talk about?" he asked, and then proceeded to do nearly 40-minutes of crowd-work.
Those memories flooded back this week. Matt Rife’s latest Netflix special, Lucid, gives nearly an hour to watch the comedian riff with his audience like a drunk uncle holding court at a wedding. There’s no craft, no structural ingenuity, no grand comedic vision—just a lot of time to kill. Rife, who has a certain easy charm, meanders through a conversation with his audience, and we’re supposed to believe this is worthy of the same Netflix stage that once hosted the likes of Burnham’s Make Happy? Lucid is not so much a comedy special as it is an open-mic night.
A week before Rife’s special, Netflix served up Joe Rogan’s Burn The Boats, where Rogan, perpetually aggrieved and stubbornly unfunny, barks out bad punchlines at his audience like a half-mad carnival barker. Rogan’s comedic timing is nonexistent, his material more tired than a cliché, and the entire ordeal feels like watching a washed-up boxer give an ill-timed interview after one too many blows to the head. But instead of a referee stopping the fight, Netflix insists we sit there and take it. What happened to the Rogan of old, who could at least muster up some semblance of wit, if not inoffensive, then at least sharp?
And lest we forget, the interminable Netflix Roast of Tom Brady. Three hours. Three long, drawn-out hours where, admittedly, Nikki Glaser shines like a beacon of hope in an otherwise endless sea of mediocrity. Yes, Glaser was exceptional—snappy, ruthless, everything you want in a roast—but even she couldn’t save the spectacle from overstaying its welcome. It’s as if Netflix has forgotten that brevity is the soul of wit and that a comedy special should leave you wanting more, not praying for a quick death.
There was a time when a Netflix comedy special meant something. That one hour on Netflix was the ultimate record deal, making comedians rockstars around the world. Remember the thrilling days when Dave Chappelle, Ali Wong, and Bo Burnham used their Netflix platforms to stretch the boundaries of comedy, taking us on tours de force that were as intellectually stimulating as they were gut-busting? A Netflix comedy special was an event, something you circled on your calendar, gathered friends for, and dissected over drinks afterward.
Starting in 2012 with specials like Bill Burr’s You People Are All the Same, Netflix signalled its ambition to be a serious player in the comedy world. This was a full-blown assault on the traditional bastions of televised comedy, a declaration that Netflix was here to challenge the likes of HBO, which had, until then, been the undisputed king of comedy specials. From George Carlin’s legendary routines to Chris Rock’s groundbreaking Bring the Pain, HBO was where comedians went to become stars. These were cultural events, where new voices emerged and old pros reinvented themselves. HBO curated a comedy legacy, one that every comedian aspired toward.
Netflix seemed poised to carry that torch. Not only was it attracting top-tier talent, but it was also taking comedy truly and unprecedentedly global. A comedian like Ali Wong could release Baby Cobra in 2016, and within hours, audiences from New York to New Delhi were laughing at the same jokes. Dave Chappelle’s return to the stage in 2017 with The Age of Spin wasn’t a mere comeback; it was a seismic event that proved Netflix could deliver comedy on a scale HBO had never imagined. And then came Bo Burnham’s Inside in 2021, a piece of pandemic-era art that transcended comedy and became a cultural touchstone, discussed worldwide.
What changed? The answer, I fear, lies in the platform’s desire to churn out content at an alarming rate, feeding the ever-hungry algorithm rather than nurturing the art form. Where once Netflix would be selective, offering only the best of the best, now it feels like they’re throwing everything at us, YouTube-style. The result? A collection of comedy specials that feel less like carefully constructed works of art and more like a collection of Instagram-friendly reels, short bursts designed to be quickly consumed (and just as quickly forgotten).
A feature-length stand-up special is more than just a joke — it’s a medium for storytelling, a platform for cultural commentary, and a space for authentic human connection. The shows on Netflix have lost their lustre, their event status, and, most importantly, their quality. The endless churn is reducing them to a product, to be consumed, discarded, and forgotten. And if this continues, Netflix risks not just losing its place as the go-to destination for comedy but tarnishing the art-form itself. Does that mean the joke is on us, or on them? Either way, too few are laughing.
Streaming tip of the week:
Speaking of comedy revolutions, the documentary Steve! (Martin) on Apple TV+ provides invaluable insight on one of the true pioneers of stand-up comedy. Directed by Morgan Neville — who also did Roadrunner and Won’t You Please Be My Neighbour? — this two-part series celebrates how comedically brave the comedian has always been.
