Netflix is making stand-up comedy anything but 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.
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