Funny business

How to do comedy in the era of cancel culture

Even live, the joke landed hard, an uncomfortable groan backing up the initial laughs. But it was the social media pile-on 10 days later that prompted the apology. It was the 7 Days comedy show slot, where teams guess the news event. Muted television footage showed Aucklanders bussing north to jump the Covid-19 vaccination queue.

‘‘They got discounted tickets going back – disability discount, because now they’ve all got autism,’’ Michele A’Court joked.

It was clearly intended as satire aimed at antivaxxers, who falsely claim vaccines cause autism.

But 10 days later, a Twitter user reposted the clip, calling it a disgusting, bad-taste disability joke. Replies called it ‘‘gutter level entertainment’’ and said A’Court should be ashamed of herself.

‘‘I apologise, and will do better,’’ A’Court responded.

One parent of a 6-year-old with autism summed up the problem: ‘‘I get the satire, really I do, but it clearly has no place in 2021.’’

So what does have a place in comedy in 2021? Fellow comedian Te Radar calls A’Court one of the nicest, most socially aware comedians in New Zealand. If even she can be called out as disgusting, how do comics navigate a world of heightened sensitivities? And has the rapid evolution of what’s acceptable made comedy boring, or better? Around the world, beloved comedy series have been taking hits. An episode of British sitcom Fawlty Towers was pulled as racist – then reinstated with a disclaimer. Ricky Gervais says The Office would not be made now, for fear of causing offence. And white actor Hank Azaria recently apologised for voicing the Indian character Apu on The Simpsons.

New Zealand is not immune. Kiwi stand-up pioneer Matt Elliott, who wrote a 2009 biography of comic legend Billy T James, remembers being asked to appear on Radio New Zealand to discuss James. He suggested a clip of Billy T sending up a Japanese accent, as a talking point. No thanks, RNZ said.

Elliott started out in 1989. It was a golden age of comedy, when anyone could say whatever they wanted. Right?

‘‘I can still remember some comedians’ material. It was just appalling. Things that were really grossly sexual, or misogynistic, or homophobic. It was real cringeworthy stuff.’’ Women who took the stage at Auckland’s Gluepot were abused by boozed punters for daring to write original material.

Even celebrated comedy can date,

Elliott says. Billy T’s classic skit ‘‘Where did I get my bag? – I pinched it’’ would make no sense to a generation unfamiliar with the Lands for Bags advert it parodied. But it could also be criticised as reinforcing negative stereotypes.

Audiences have always slapped down jokes they don’t like, but the post-performance social media pile-on is on a completely different level, Elliott says. While it’s hard to imagine anyone weeping a wake for lazy homophobic and racist jokes, there’s a danger that comedy retreats to the small but safe world of personal experience.

‘‘We’re losing a lot of the satire and the greater comment about what is going on, because people are afraid of what the reaction is going to be.’’

One comedian gave a half-hour interview for this story, then pulled out over fears of a social media backlash. Seven others, including A’Court, politely declined to contribute.

Ginette McDonald, creator of Lyn of Tawa, says comedians are caught in ‘‘new choppy waters’’. ‘‘It’s quite hard to navigate comedy, particularly if you want to do social satire, in these conditions... You really have to twist yourself in knots to not offend.’’

Looking back, there is much she did then that could not be done now. She once played Winnie Mandela with a tyre around her neck – a reference to Mandela’s public endorsement of necklacing (burning people alive using petrol-filled tyres).

If she wanted to relate a funny true life interaction between an Asian woman and a gay hairdresser, she just wouldn’t. ‘‘Which is a shame, because it’s just all part of life.’’

Veteran comedian Gary McCormick agrees audiences are more sensitive.

‘‘And so they should be. Because it’s not funny to make jokes about Ma¯ ori for being Ma¯ ori, or Chinese for being Chinese, or mimicking Asian accents. Your only job is to undermine the privileged and the people that have too much power and too much money and too much control. Not to attack the people that are already struggling. That is bullying.’’

McCormick regrets some earlier material. He used to debate Raybon Kan and would parry his attacks by saying, ‘‘We don’t send our old people out to die quietly in a field’’.

‘‘When I look back now I think that’s an appalling thing to say.’’

However, McCormick reckons too many comics today take the easy road of swearing and talking about bodily functions and sex, in place of social satire.

Te Radar, who now mostly does commercial gigs, says the potential for long-burning outrage is much greater with the advent of social media. But comedy has never been unconstrained.

‘‘Some people still continue to have the sense that comedy is the ability to say whatever you want, and that has always been the case. There’s always been lines and the audience will tell you where that line is, by reacting against it.’’

Te Radar also regrets some of his comedy from 25 years ago. ‘‘That’s growing as a person, as much as growing as an industry.’’

What looks like an age of outrage to those used to having free rein, is an age of reckoning to those who were the constant butt of jokes.

Comedic actor and writer Madeleine Sami says the MeToo movement and growing recognition of racial disparities has caused rapid change in social attitudes, leaving comedians catching up with what they can and can’t say.

Comedy does date and evolve, Sami says. The Office was a favourite show, but includes some terrible jokes. Then there are the 80s specials from her comedy heroes Robin Williams or Richard Pryor – more terrible edgy comedy. Or Eddie Murphy openly mocking gay people.

‘‘For me, as a woman of colour and a queer person as well, it’s a relief,’’ Sami says. ‘‘It’s great that people are having to think about their comedy, and who it hurts, more.’’

Jessicoco Hansell, of Nga¯ puhi, Samoan and German descent, wrote animated comedy Aroha Bridge, which aired on Ma¯ ori TV. It sends up a diverse wha¯ nau, from the white woke mum, to the die-hard Ma¯ ori activist uncle to the wannabe rockstar kids.

Hansell says humour should observe, provoke and be in tune with the climate it’s a product of. The fact the audience speaks back more just makes creators more accountable.

‘‘Whether it’s white/male/older – the mythical ‘default sense of humour’ is being exposed for the gatekeeping bore it is. There are universal truths I think, but specificity and niche is increasingly gaining more importance and serves audiences better. Lampooning and harming whole factions of society without a lived experience at the core or a philosophical intent is lazy for the art-form anyway.’’

Scott Blanks listens back to the lovely CD they made in about 1998/99 of a night at his Auckland bastion of comedy, The Classic. ‘‘I listen to that and think ‘My God, you couldn’t say that any more, you couldn’t say that any more’. There’s no doubt that themes change, but a good comedian knows that and changes their act.’’

Some rules are clear – no homophobic jokes, no racist jokes. No cheap shots at poor people, homeless people, fat people. No gender jokes, unless it’s discussing gender in the modern context.

No taking the p... out of accents, especially Asian accents. You might get away with a regional British or American accent though.

Irish jokes are probably OK, although the Irish are thoroughly sick of them, Blanks says. And you can punch the British all day, every day.

Broadly, comedians talk about punching up, and punching down. Punching up – mocking those with privilege or power, is absolutely acceptable. Hitting out at those more vulnerable than you is not.

But other areas are more grey.

Sami laughs that if she sounds confused, it’s because she is. This is a conversation she has a lot with comedian friends, and the commandments aren’t clear.

People shouldn’t tell trans jokes or gay jokes, unless they’re trans or gay, Sami says. But she loves American trans comedian Patti Harrison, who explores being trans in a dark comedic way.

‘‘It’s all about who controls the narrative,’’ Sami says. ‘‘I think for a lot of trans, queer, brown people, for so long we just haven’t had an opportunity to be in control of the narrative. Comedy for such a long time has been white people controlling the narrative, and making fun of everyone else.’’

But you don’t necessarily get a free pass to say whatever you want about your own kind, whether that’s defined by age, ethnicity, sexuality or gender.

Even historically, comedians have been criticised for their portrayal of their own people. While many Ma¯ ori loved Billy T’s towel-toting Ma¯ ori, others criticised him for reinforcing stereotypes.

Oscar Kightley’s bro’Town was also accused of promoting racial stereotypes. At the time, Kightley countered that a robust sense of humour was a sign of a culture not afraid to examine itself.

‘‘The only reason we get away with that irreverence and edgy stuff is because on the flipside is heart.’’

Hansell says Aroha Bridge had wide potential to offend with its ‘‘cultural chaos and dysfunction, intergenerational baggage and exaggerated unlikeable people’’. But she felt secure in the knowledge she had writers, comedians and performers of colour from the beginning.

There was some criticism, ‘‘from people who needed authority or control over how the Ma¯ ori or Pa¯ keha¯ voice gets depicted’’.

‘‘I don’t have rules but ‘stay in your storytelling lane’ is one anyone can trust. Everything (especially the painful stuff) should have an autobiographical pebble in it, because then it resonates. In my experience that’s how marginalised audiences feel seen, which is why I got into comedy writing in the first place.’’

Raybon Kan says racism is still a thing, obviously. But the audience feels safe to laugh with someone who talks about their own ethnicity.

There are safe jokes and jokes you know are a bit dangerous, Kan says. Sometimes, crossing the line can be thought-provoking.

‘‘Laughter is a physical reaction. It’s honest and instant, and it’s interesting for the audience to laugh and sometimes wonder if it was OK to laugh.

‘‘The list of forbidden topics is always changing, and comedy evolves, like society, and it’s the job of the comic to feel where the line is. Sometimes you only find out by tripping over it. I’m sure if you’re the guest speaker at a KKK rally, the line is in a different place than for my audience.’’

What about impressions and character comedy? In 2017, Ma¯ ori TV dropped plans to air white Aussie comedian Chris Lilley’s controversial show Jonah from Tonga, in which he dresses up as a Tongan student.

That’s a murky area, says

Sami, who played five characters on TV comedy Super City, including Azeem the Iranian taxi driver. Sami says when Lilley did Jonah as part of Summer Heights High, in which he lampooned characters ranging from posh white girl to megalomaniac drama teacher, it was possibly passable. But as a standalone series, it crossed the line. It also occupied space that could have been used for actual Tongan comedians to tell their own story. Standup comic Dave Batten, who has cerebral palsy, responded to A’Court’s apology with his own vaccine joke: ‘‘I thought it caused cerebral palsy, but that’s just being a d...head that causes that.’’

Batten says while he hopes he doesn’t offend his audience, it’s irrelevant to him if someone doesn’t like his comedy. He doesn’t think only comedians with a disability can

‘‘Laughter is a physical reaction. It’s honest and instant, and it’s interesting for the audience to laugh and sometimes wonder if it was OK to laugh.’’ Raybon Kan, right

‘‘We’re losing a lot of the satire and the greater comment about what is going on, because people are afraid of what the reaction is going to be.’’ Matt Elliott, above, who wrote a 2009 biography of comic legend Billy T James, left.

make fun of disabilities.

‘‘The only rule in stand-up comedy from my perspective is tell jokes that you want to tell. Don’t tiptoe around other people because they might get offended. As a comedian, you have to stay true to your craft.’’

Most of those interviewed believe the best comedians can still push the line of controversy and offence.

Te Radar: ‘‘There is a real strong conversation going on around what is an appropriate thing to say and what isn’t. Does it go too far sometimes? Yeah, probably it does. But likewise, comedy has gone too far at times as well.’’

The Classic is the busiest it’s been in 23 years, Blanks says. Anyone who says fear of backlash is making comedy boring is out of touch, he says.

There are more female comedians, Asians, Indians, Africans, children of immigrants.

And that means more people can enjoy comedy, knowing they’re not going to be the butt of cheap jokes.

Hansell once told another writer: ‘‘If you think being insensitive to a group you don’t belong to makes for better comedy, have you considered you might be a sociopath?’’

Sami also believes the challenge of being funny without hurting people will make comedy better.

‘‘It’s a long overdue recognition that comedy has relied on mocking a lot of vulnerable people for a long time.

‘‘And that’s weirdly been acceptable. And I think it’s just reflective of what’s been acceptable in society, and it’s not now.

‘‘So, change your jokes.’’

JASON DORDAY / STUFF Michele A’Court’s apology over a 7 Days joke that lampooned anti-vaxxers but angered disabled advocates typifies the tightrope that comedians constantly walk.

MONIQUE FORD, DAVID WHITE, LAWRENCE SMITH/STUFF Ginette McDonald, above, says it’s ‘‘hard to navigate comedy’’ but Jessicoco Hansell, left, of Nga¯puhi, Samoan and German descent and Madeleine Sami, right, who identifies as a woman of colour and a queer person, say it just makes it more important to work hard at their craft.