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his essay is fascinating to reconsider in
this age of “wokeness,” when, in all prob
ability, it wouldn’t be published at all,
given that it involves a white man try
ing to describe blackness, and isn’t that
part of the problem? Still, the idea of
blackness as a barometer for authen
ticity has been a subject of debate in
American culture since before Elvis sat
at Big Mama Thornton’s feet. What does
black authenticity mean, even to black
artists? And when black artists say that
a white artist is “down” enough to be
black, are they judging by white crite
ria? Or, in a moment of race shame—
you like whitey?—trying to justify their
attraction to an authentic white artist?
In “Talking Funny,” an inert 2011
HBO special, the comedians Ricky Ger
vais, Chris Rock, Jerry Seinfeld, and
Louis Székely, whose professional name
is Louis C.K., meet on a denlike set and
talk about their work. Mixed in with the
predictable brodude ribbing are several
exchanges that puncture the collegial,
competitive atmosphere. At one point,
C.K. says, in reference to one of Rock’s
jokes, that when white people are rich
they’re rich forever, whereas when a black
guy makes money it’s a “countdown until
he’s poor again.” They all crack up, and
then Rock announces, “This is the black
est white guy I fucking know. And all
the negative things we think about black
people—” C.K. cuts him off: “You’re say
ing I’m a nigger?” It’s a destabilizing mo
ment, and Rock, a little jarred and maybe
upstaged, says, “Yes, you are the nigger
est fucking white man,” before trailing
off, as Gervais laughs maniacally and
Seinfeld, looking pained, says, “I don’t
think he can do that. I don’t think he
has those qualities.”
What a comedian can or cannot do
onstage or in front of a camera is a com
pelling question, and one that’s being
reëxamined as political correctness of all
kinds targets the titillating foulness at
the root of a lot of standup. Since the
days of Pigmeat Markham, not to men
tion Lenny Bruce, the comedian’s job has
been to say the unsayable—to give voice
to the things that stink or bite us in the
heart. And though, early in his career,
C.K., who is now fiftytwo, did some
things that Seinfeld would consider
wrong—using the word “nigger” in his
act and so on—the title character of his
hit show, “Louie,” which aired from 2010
to 2015, wasn’t unflinchingly transgres
sive; he was a sexy schlub, open to and
part of the emotional diversity of the city.
Indeed, that diversity was mirrored in his
family. His two daughters looked white,
while their mother, his exwife, was black.
In one episode, Louie even fell in love
with a man. That version of Louis C.K.
was a storyteller, and the story he told in
“Louie” was one that attracted viewers of
color, because he didn’t seem to see color—
he simply responded to individuals in all
their sanity or madness with his own san
ity or madness. That didn’t last, however.
At some point in the series, Louie started
hanging out with a loud and exhausting
woman named Pamela (Pamela Adlon)
who—much like C.K. did on “Talking
Funny”—punctured her companion’s re
ality by laughing at the idea of his white
kids coming out of a “black pussy.” Doing
so, she robbed viewers of the momentary
fantasy that race wasn’t a defining aspect
of life in America.T
he Louis C.K. I saw last month at
Yuk Yuk’s comedy club on the Ca
nadian side of Niagara Falls, where it
seemed I was the only person of color
in the audience, was actually two come
dians: the Louis C.K. of “Louie,” a bril
liant observer of the small moments that
go unremarked—one bit, for instance,
was about his visit to an antique store
and his crankiness at the cheery ting-a-
ling sound made by the bell over the
door—and the destabilizing Louis C.K.,
who can give even Chris Rock pause.
I had never seen him live. But I am
interested in performers who try to work
through the difficulties in their own lives
by addressing them in art. In 2017, five
women accused C.K. of sexual miscon
duct, which, in some cases, involved mas
turbating in front of them. His current
tour—which goes to Houston this week,
then to Denver, Philadelphia, Washing
ton, D.C., and other cities—is the first
he’s undertaken since then. Before he
arrived onstage in the basement like
club, two male comedians came out to
warm up the mostly male audience.
The jokes, such as they were, focussed
primarily on the men’s dicks and on the
unattractiveness of female genitalia.
That kind of routine is not unusual at
a comedy club, but I wondered if it had
extra weight, given that we were about
to see an artist who was, at present, perhaps as famous for his cock as for his art.
Standup is nothing without griev
ances, and, in his previous work, C.K.
made complaint and anxiety the center
of the spectacle. In Niagara Falls, his
opening remarks, which referred to the
heavily touristed area around the club—
“I’m happy to be here, in this room, but
I don’t know what the fuck is out there....
I used to play arenas”—were bland and
unfunny, but it didn’t take long to figure
out that his low energy and flat delivery
were likely due not just to his not being
in an arena but to his need to cater to an
audience that was new to him, a male
dominated crowd that showed no sign
of finding fault with his dick or what he
did with it. Indeed, C.K. spent time on
that subject. After what had happened,
“I thought I should leave the nation,” he
said. Big laugh from the audience. “So I
went to France. And I had a French girl
friend and we fell in love. Now we’re not.
Whatever.” This got just as big a laugh,
because the “whatever” told the audience
that C.K. had, to some degree, given up
on complications and ambiguity, and that
was fine with them. The audience seemed
less interested in narrative and nuance
than in living out a kind of revenge fan
tasy against thinking. Attending the show
was like looking at a sketch for a draw
ing. There were figures there, but against
what background?
On the subject of his French girlfriend,
C.K. told us that she had put a thermom
eter in her bum to take her temperature—
and, when he looked surprised, she’d asked,
was this not the way Americans took their
temperature? Um, no. A few beats later,
he talked about the look a dog gives you
when you stick a thermometer up its ass.
(Not good.) But what was the point of
these jokes? Were they ass jokes or Amer
icansabroad jokes or something else?
Eventually, he asked the audience, “So,
do you want to talk about the thing?” He
was referring, of course, to the accusa
tions against him. The audience cheered.
Somewhat wearily, he said, “I like to jerk
off, and I don’t like to be alone.” More
laughter. “So what can I tell you? I can
offer you some advice. If you ask, ‘Can I
jerk off in front of you?’—don’t do it! And
if they say O.K., don’t do it!” The warn
ings weren’t exactly sobering or remorse
ful; they gestured at his actions without
really acknowledging what he’d done or
to whom or, more important, why. It was