The Awkward Juxtapositions of Aziz Ansari
In ‘Right Now,’ Ansari’s new standup special and first fully public performance since being linked to sexually aggressive behavior in 2018, the comedian bookends his set with sober reflections on the matter. But in between, he seems to wish to function as if the past year never happened.
Aziz Ansari hasn’t been quiet, exactly. The comedian and actor has spent the past year on an expansive international tour that’s yielded a steady drip of headlines, despite his use of phone-disabling Yondr pouches (a practice that’s become typical of context-conscious performers, pioneered by Dave Chappelle). From a show in New Haven last fall: “Aziz Ansari’s New Stand-Up Tour Is a Cry Against Extreme Wokeness.” From a set at New York’s Village Underground this winter: “Aziz Ansari Reflects on Sexual-Misconduct Allegation at His NYC Pop-Up Show.” From a performance in Australia just last month: “Aziz Ansari’s Show Addresses #MeToo — And Reveals His Flawed Humanity.”
Slowly, Ansari has been reasserting his presence in the public eye, mostly on his own terms. There haven’t been any late-night talk-show appearances, nor interviews with journalists. Once a famous, self-described social media addict, Ansari pared back his oversharing long ago, dedicating his social media almost entirely to straightforward promotion as magazine profiles framed the erstwhile millennial everyman as yet another untouchable celebrity. This gradual retreat was a natural development for a man increasing gradually in age and exponentially in fame. But it was also accelerated by a more unpleasant turn in Ansari’s arc, a January 2018 post on the then-little-known feminist site Babe.net titled “I went on a date with Aziz Ansari. It turned into the worst night of my life.”
The story contained in the piece detailed excessively aggressive sexual advances by Ansari toward his younger, anonymous date—behavior that was reprehensible, though not straightforwardly criminal, and all the trickier to discuss because of it. The article was nonetheless an attempt to ride the same wave of fury and accountability that had already led to the downfall of perpetrators like Harvey Weinstein and Ansari’s fellow comic Louis C.K.—one that swiftly imploded under scrutiny, revealing a media operation with nowhere near the resources nor professionalism of a New York Times. Babe became the butt of widespread jokes and, nearly two years later, is effectively defunct, a saga outlined in a New York report late last month. Throughout the extended news cycle, Ansari largely kept his head down.
On Tuesday, Ansari made his official return with Right Now, an hourlong, Spike Jonze–directed Netflix special that turns material previously mediated through secondhand reports into a fixed, enduring object. With Right Now, Ansari has opened himself up to a much wider, possibly more critical audience than the one that shells out to attend his shows. Thus, he attempts to close the chapter of his career that forces him to begin a comedy special with a deadly serious monologue addressing the controversy head-on.
What Ansari has to say about the matter won’t come as a surprise to those who’ve been following his gradual reemergence. He eases in with a story about being mistaken for Netflix compatriot Hasan Minhaj, indignantly claiming credit for his own work only to happily offload the scandal onto that other South Asian comedian with his own streaming show. “I’m sure some of you are curious how I feel about that whole situation,” he says, more soberly. “And it’s a tricky thing for me to answer, ’cause I’ve felt so many things in the last year. There’s times I felt scared. There’s times I felt humiliated. There’s times I felt embarrassed. And ultimately, I just felt terrible that this person felt this way.” Ansari concludes that he’s done a great deal of introspection about his behavior both in that specific instance and in general, and knows male friends who’ve done the same. As harrowing as the experience was, maybe it was ultimately for the best. Then the time for discomfort is over: “I know this isn’t the most hilarious way to begin a comedy show, but it’s important to me that you know how I feel about that whole thing before we share this night together. Well, that was pretty intense!” On to the show.
The entire speech is delivered at a near whisper, disarming from a comedian known for his deliberately shrill, high-volume tone. Ansari is also seated on a stool, Marc Maron style, adopting an almost avuncular manner for his one-on-several-thousand with the audience. As confessional as the material is, it’s also nearly word-for-word what was reported by Vulture last month. So is the special’s concluding riff, about how sincerely Ansari wants to thank the audience now that he’s seen a world where he doesn’t get to perform for them anymore.
It’s tempting to dismiss the routine as disingenuous or untrustworthy, because it’s evidently been rehearsed. But, of course, that’s what stand-up is: extensively workshopped, intentionally composed jokes passed off as a spontaneous, just-so-happens-to-be-hilarious riff to an eager audience. (Besides, it’s not totally fair to judge jokes that have already been exposed, sapped of their in-the-moment impact. There’s a reason it’s common practice to “burn” routines once they’ve made it into a special.) That’s what made the accounts about comics like Ansari and, to a much greater extent, C.K. so devastating in the first place. They contradicted an image that was apparently unfiltered but always constructed—C.K. through self-deprecating rants about pathetic creeps, Ansari through earnest reflections on the conundrum of 21st-century dating, going so far as to coauthor a 2015 book called Modern Romance. At least Ansari’s reconstructed persona is a remorseful and thoughtful one. Compared with C.K., who briefly committed to “step back and take a long time to listen” only to go full unrepentant reactionary, it’s a far preferable adjustment.
More awkward is the middle stretch of Right Now, which tries to balance Ansari’s vulnerability with the authority required of most stand-ups to command a crowd, but especially Ansari’s brand of cultural criticism. Despite what headlines imply, Ansari’s gripes with performative wokeness aren’t a direct response to his recent trials. Instead, they’re an awkward juxtaposition. Ansari’s experiences may well have influenced his opinions on “Progressive Candy Crush,” or people’s insistence on weighing in on situations they have no firsthand knowledge of, or our inability to live in the moment, but he never acknowledges a link. And while the firestorm definitely influences some viewers’ response to his ideas, they can never know how fair their speculation may be.
Ansari dedicates a significant portion of Right Now to the question of how one should approach once-beloved artists, like R. Kelly and Michael Jackson, whose work now bears a permanent stain. As with his frustration with well-meaning but “exhausting” white people, this theme feels entirely consistent with Ansari’s identity as a hip-but-still-aging guy in his late 30s, a half-decade into popular culture’s renewed interest in representation and soft power. Even if the editors at Babe had never hit “Publish,” there’s a widespread frustration with the limits of capital-d Discourse among Ansari’s target demographic. What started as a necessary correction has now been co-opted by corporations, who sponsor Pride celebrations and insert power posing into Avengers movies. And all those brunch conversations did little to avert the very real, very violent prejudice now overtaking our country.
Unlike Ansari’s postelection SNL monologue, Right Now largely steers clear of the T-word and its resulting implications. It’s a wise move; the hypocrisy of grandstanding liberals is a funnier and more lighthearted subject, not to mention one that hits much closer to home for the throngs at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. (The venue is a welcome downsize from the cavernous Madison Square Garden, site of Ansari’s previous special and a more reliable generator of awe than laughs.) Still, the extended reflection on topics like Jackson’s legacy feels odd, no matter how relevant to the audience’s concerns or ripe for exploration. Apart from the recollection of some old, Kelly-based material, there’s no acknowledgement that at some point in the past 18 months, some fans may have undergone a similar process with Ansari’s own CV.
Within the space of a single set, Ansari flips from being the subject of uncomfortable questions to decisively weighing in on those same dilemmas. It’s an abrupt and audacious switch, one whose effectiveness will vary depending on the inclinations one carries into the special. Regardless, at BAM, Ansari manages to carry the audience right along with him.