IS KEVIN HART FUNNY?
American comedian, who's interested in building an empire, looks to get the last laugh
Kevin Hart insists he's never written a joke. Which is odd, because he's this year's recipient of the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. Hart is one the most famous comedians alive, but comedy is a mere sliver of his portfolio. He's a restaurateur, a rapper, an actor, a businessman, a brand wholly unto himself.
He's built an empire from fast-casual restaurants, a tequila brand, a protein-shake line, a production company, more than $4 billion at the box office and sold-out arena shows — by telling jokes.
Other comics crave comedic legacies. He craves generational wealth. He hopes to be a billionaire by the time he turns 45 in July.
“For me, it's about becoming a mogul, owning my own projects and establishing myself as a funding producer,” Hart told Collider in 2013.
“For me, it's about history,” he said on an episode of Hot Ones in 2016. “It's about making sure that last name Hart means something when it's all said and done.”
“For me, it's building an empire,” he said to Marc Maron in 2017.
Comedy, it seems, is merely the empire's cornerstone — and some other comedians think it's weak.
“I hear so many comics say, `Kevin Hart's not funny,'” Donnell Rawlings said in February on the My Expert Opinion podcast, though he didn't say if he agreed.
“I still don't think yo ass funny,” Mike Epps wrote on Instagram in 2018, addressing Hart.
In January, on Shannon Sharpe's Youtube show, Katt Williams suggested Hart is a humourless, meritless commodity — what he called an industry “plant.” Williams's comments went viral. Hart pushed back, telling Fox 5 D.C., Williams takes entertainment too seriously. At the circus, Hart said, “when a lion comes out and rides a bike, you don't think about it too hard. You just go, `OK, that's crazy.'”
Hart has built something massive. But does the last name Hart mean something in comedy? Does he consider his comedy to be impactful? Or is he a lion riding a bicycle?
We would like to ask Hart himself about all this. We spent months trying to schedule him. The Kennedy Center — which will host and confer the prize March 24 — tried helping. Maybe the interview would be in Qatar, where he had a show. Or maybe on a film set in Atlanta? Then maybe just over Zoom?
But Kevin Hart had other things to do. So we bought a $135 ticket for a bad seat in a North Charleston, S.C., concert hall, to see his Brand New Material tour, and listen for answers.
Hart's small, athletic frame — he's 5-4 — prowls the stage like an NBA player on the court. All 2,300 members of the audience have locked their phones in secure pouches. All eyes are on Hart. It's clear what he means when he says he doesn't write jokes. Instead, he shouts his way through meandering stories.
They usually end with a laugh line that he'll repeat several times — each one louder — while he pantomimes, say, his explosive defecation after eating a spicy Chick-fil-a sandwich, or his family's eye-rolling when his nephew came out as gay.
“I think I speak for the whole family when I say: We know,” he says. “We know! WE KNOW!”
The audience devours it, laughing louder with each repetition.
He was born in North Philadelphia in 1979. His father, largely absentee, was a drug addict who pulled stunts such as gifting his son a stolen dog, only to have its furious owners knocking at the door 15 minutes later. His mother was so strict she didn't allow him to have a bedroom door. Desperate to keep her son off the streets, she kept Hart busy with extracurriculars. He writes about all this in his 2017 memoir, I Can't Make This Up: Life Lessons.
He credits his eventual success to both parents — his father for teaching him how not to act, and his mother for instilling discipline, though this last lesson took a while to take hold.
After dropping out of the Community College of Philadelphia before the end of the first semester, Hart took a job as a shoe salesman in a local sporting-goods store and found himself addicted to making a sale — a skill that came naturally to him, which he attributes to his charm.
A co-worker suggested he try standup at an amateur night at the Laff House, a comedy club in Philly. His first set was frenetic but scored a few cheers, he wrote. The second went better. He began winning standup competitions. So: Is Kevin Hart funny? Comics such as Keith Robinson, Patrice O'neal and Dave Attell thought so. They helped him get his start in respected New York standup clubs. Media mogul Damon Dash thought so. He put him in the Roc-a-fella-produced movie Paper Soldiers (2002) alongside Jay-z, Charlie Murphy and Michael Rapaport. Judd Apatow thought so. He cast him in a few episodes of his Fox sitcom Undeclared with Seth Rogen and Jay Baruchel, 23 years ago.
Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle are scheduled to toast him at the Kennedy Center.
Funny is in the ear of the listener, but perhaps the proof is in the empire, cornerstone be damned.
This “fusion between comedy and business, comedy and capitalism” is a modern phenomenon, according to standup historian Kliph Nesteroff, who wrote The Comedians: Drunks, Thieves, Scoundrels and the History of American Comedy. “These are things that George Burns and Jack Benny never did, or that Moms Mabley or Eddie Murphy ever did.”
Nesteroff, notes that Hart — and last year's winner, Adam Sandler — are difficult to contextualize because they're technically midcareer.
He thinks the Twain Prize celebrates not just Hart's comedy but the empire he built on it.
“It almost feels like we're honouring fame,” Nesteroff says.
Which, of course, is exactly what Hart is proud of.
The Mark Twain Prize for American Humor airs May 11 on Netflix.