Whistling past the graveyard
Louis C.K. is OK with the suckiness of life
Published: June 23, 2011
It's not groundbreaking to hear a comedian build a bit around one of the racist/homophobic/misogynistic impulses that flit through everyone's brain – flirting with taboo has been stand-up's stock in trade for decades. And calling out failure and weakness, not others' but their own, is bread and butter for the current crop of comedians – in some cases they revel in it (Dane Cook, Daniel Tosh); in others, hangdoggily own up to it (Brian Posehn, Patton Oswalt). A cavalcade of man-boobs, masturbation and various forms of moral hazard is paraded nightly on cable stand-up specials. But Louis C.K. neither flaunts nor taunts. He simply acknowledges his shortcomings, and that utter, resigned self-knowledge is the starting point for spiraling rants about … well, his man-boobs and masturbatory habits.
So how is it that his FX show, Louie, is the best thing on television?
Other shows come close, but none have the whole package. The League and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia dependably drop oh-no-they-didn't shockers, but neither feels as real as Louie. (Sunny takes place in some surreal consequence-free bizarro world, while The League's sports-obsessed suburbanites are so bitterly miserable one wonders how they resist suicide.) The Simpsons, another family-centered show, possesses the same degree of deadeye realism, but that show is playing on a bigger stage – the Simpsons function as allegorical pawns to illustrate the fucked state of the world, not just one man's mess. Seinfeld's "no hugging, no learning" edict paved the way for Louie's lack of sentimentality, but revolutionary as it was, it wasn't able to break free of the laugh-tracked sitcom template. Ricky Gervais' Extras comes close to Louie's level of self-laceration, but where Gervais' Andy Millman spends each epsiode trying to extricate himself from the cringe-inducing situations he creates, C.K. neither hides behind an alter ego nor makes any attempt to escape the cringe.
Each masterful episode of Louie takes on a different facet of C.K.'s impotence (sexual or otherwise). Laced with generous wedges of his stand-up act, the show looses those aforementioned taboo-busting rants into the real world. Admit to smoking too much pot? Disrespecting your girlfriend? Questioning religion? Pfft. Try talking about how you hate your 5-year-old daughter. Not just riffing against a brick wall on the many reasons your 5-year-old is an asshole, not just cajoling the audience into admitting that, they, too find toddlers to be credulity-straining fuckwits prone to douchebag behavior – but scripting and filming, with a child actor, that behavior. Then flip the kid off behind her back. Then admit that, yeah, you know you ought to be saving for her future, but … you're not. C.K does all of this in the first five minutes of the second-season premiere. The first four episodes are a cavalcade of gut punches – brutal-hilarious run-ins with the usual bugbears: sex, kids, real estate, Joan Rivers.
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