ACTORS SITTING in a circle with John Mu-
laney, has a grand unified theory about bloop-
er reels that he would like to share right this
second. “Before I see a movie, I always watch
the blooper reels,” he explains. “If that movie
has no fun moments, like, so that means they
didn’t even have fun doing it? So then I’m not
gonna watch the movie.” Mulaney’s eyebrows
fly upward—Alex’s logic is a touch cockeyed
but impressive. “That’s brilliant!” he says.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in July, and he
and the actors—ages eight to twelve—are
gathered in a fluorescent-lit rehearsal space
in Manhattan’s Theater District, here to re-
hearse his next, as-of-yet-untitled comedy
special. A couple years ago, on the same block,
he starred with his friend Nick Kroll in a hit
Broadway show they cowrote, Oh, Hello, por-
traying two grumpy, corduroy-sporting sep-
tuagenarian weirdos partial to cocaine, casu-
al misogyny, and Steely Dan. Last year, five
blocks north, Mulaney did seven straight
sold-out stand-up shows at Radio City Music
Hall; footage from one of those shows became
his third special, Kid Gorgeous. Whereas that
one, released by Netflix, was a watchmaker-
tight hour of jokes, he’s trying something
new this time: a children’s variety show. And
these children have a lot to say about bloop-
ers. “I think they should have blooper reels
at the end of scary movies so people can go
home and not feel terrified,” another kid in-surdist nightlife correspondent Stefon. Last
year, Mulaney signed a multispecial deal with
Netflix and, in something like a victory lap,
returned to SNL to host. This past March,
he hosted again. Among comedians, he’s es-
teemed across generations: David Letterman
has called Mulaney “the future of comedy.”
Jerry Seinfeld has said, “He really knows his
way around the comedy arts.” Pete Davidson
has ranked him in his top five, alongside Ed-
die Murphy and Dave Chappelle.
This fall, Mulaney and Davidson will head
out on a tour—a shared bill that grew out of
their offstage friendship. Mulaney invites
Davidson to Steely Dan concerts, whereas
“Pete invites me over while he gets a tattoo,”
Mulaney says. “Like, ‘Yo, I’m getting tatted
at my house. You want to come over and we
watch Back to School?’” One time, Mulaney
hung out with Davidson and his then girl-
friend Ariana Grande. “We watched a movie
together,” he says. “Eighth Grade. Bo Burn-
ham.” He speaks of the tour with the tender-
ness of an older brother: “I knew Pete loved
stand-up more than anything and wanted to
get out there.”
But first, the kids’ variety show. In the re-
hearsal space, it’s time to practice a musical
number. A kid named Suri—braided po-
nytail, colorful printed leggings—launch-
es into a duet with Mulaney. It starts with
her repeatedly asking him, over ambling pi-
ano accompaniment, to “play Restaurant”
with her, where she’s the proprietor and he’s
a customer. “Won’t you please play Restau-
raaaant?” she begs. Mulaney demurs with
a singsongy reply. She begs some more till
he assents, asking, “Hi, can I come into your
restaurant?” The song cuts off and the smile
drops from Suri’s face. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“We’re closed for a private event.”
Everyone laughs. Mulaney apologizes for
his singing, which could be politely described
as pitch challenged. Suri is encouraging. “You
try,” she tells him. “You try.”
“Suri, it’s not gonna get even a tiny bit bet-
ter,” he says. “It might get worse.”THE MAÎTRE D’
has no idea who John Mulaney is. He scrolls
through the reservation list, frowning. “John
Morane?” he asks. “I might be?” says Mulaney.
Rehearsals for the upcoming special have
wrapped for the day, and he’s trying to
squeeze in a quick bite at a nearby brasse-
rie. As if on cue, a woman approaches. “I’mP. 69
terjects. “Right,” Mulaney says, nodding. “A
catharsis of sorts.” He scans the circle. “This
whole special,” he tells the kids, “is going to
be a blooper reel.”
Mulaney, thirty-seven, is modeling the new
special on the entertainment he loved grow-
ing up: 3-2-1 Contact, the eighties-era PBS af-
ter-school classic; Really Rosie, a 1980 musi-
cal by Maurice Sendak and Carole King; and,
of course, Sesame Street. “It’s been on TV how
many—fifty years?” Mulaney tells me later.
He’s been rewatching old episodes recently,
in thrall to their elastic approach to narrative.
“It’s modular, fast-paced. Bizarrely paced,”
he says. “They’ll cut to a kid who blows up a
balloon, draws a smiley face on it, and pops
it. Like, ‘Great, love it, moving on!’ ” With
the new show, he wants to make something
that will appeal to kids and adults alike. His
thinking is twofold. “It’s something I’d like to
watch,” he says. “And I don’t wanna do any-
thing anyone else is doing.”
Mulaney doesn’t have to do anything he
doesn’t want to: A decade into his career, he’s
at the height of his powers, with a string of
successes to show for it. Kid Gorgeous won an
Emmy—his second. His first came halfway
into his five-season stint, beginning in 2008,
as a writer on Saturday Night Live, during
which time he and Bill Hader created the ab-E
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ALEX,
ONE OF
CHILD