51: Becoming the Villain

Xenomorph fans, watch this space. I have exciting news that I'm hoping to officially announce soon.

I'm a sucker for a compelling villain story. The American tabloid machine is, too–most headlines are about betrayal, about who's leaving whom, airing the dirty laundry of celebrities with headlines that boil down actual flesh-and-blood relationships into neat plot arcs. John Mulaney's newest comedy special, Baby J, is one of the more compelling heel turns I've seen recently.

John Mulaney makes for a counterintuitive villain. He's fresh-faced and snub-nosed, kind of a Norman Rockwell-looking guy with a knack for observational comedy and a "wholesome" reputation, at least until news of his stint in rehab, his divorce, and his new relationship broke in early 2021. He'd been open about his substance abuse before, in an "I used to do that but not any more" kind of way, where he'd acknowledge the problem and then slide on to the next topic. Jokes about substance abuse simply didn't fit his schtick. This is a guy whose most famous bit is a story about how he and a childhood friend loaded up a diner jukebox to play "What's New, Pussycat?" ten times in a row.

Mulaney's been rebuilding his comedic persona in real time on the stage over the last two years. The tour was called "From Scratch," a nod to the work Mulaney put in to retool his public image; Baby J draws from that tour, and draws out Mulaney's demons without stooping to caricature. He's always done observational comedy, and he's always embodied different characters on stage, but his previous incarnations have been more like impressions: a cop teaching kids how to have street smarts, a janitor mopping the floor at the diner. One character at a time, represented by Mulaney's spiky physicality, addressing the crowd directly with energetic innocence. Looking back, that persona carries a darker tinge: the veneer of a mask, hiding the addiction that drove his creative energy. Mulaney was always alone on the stage.

He's alone in Baby J, too, but his newer persona is a literal interrogation of that younger version of himself. Mulaney's bits and impressions feel more like dialogues now. He recreates conversations by playing–and embodying–both parts. These bits are at their best when the dialogue seems to be Mulaney working something out with his past self. "That guy tried to kill me," he says, referring to the pre-intervention/pre-rehab version of himself. It's funny in context, but it also feels like the twist of a knife.

The pre-pandemic version of Mulaney was so smooth and fresh-faced that any introspection just rolled right off. He'd tell observational stories that played up his boyish nature, plopping him into situations that are weird because he's an innocent, and other people are strange. That's a funny juxtaposition if you're a good storyteller–which John Mulaney is–but it's also an elision of the actual person. He was likeable precisely because we didn't know who he was. Early on in Baby J, Mulaney snaps that "likeability is a prison," then launches into a story about how awful he was in the depths of his addiction. He's still clear about the difference between the version of himself that he presents on stage ("remember, that's a story I'm willing to tell you," he says, after an anecdote about the lengths he'd go to to get his hands on cocaine). But at least now he's being honest about who he is, vs. who he presents himself to be.

Mulaney's stage presence feels a little darker, too. He leans out over the edge of the stage toward the crowd. He holds himself like someone who means business, in contrast with his coltish movements from his previous life. He's contending with himself, with his reputation, and with his addiction, and in so doing, he acknowledges just how awful of a person he's been. He doesn't wallow, but he doesn't glance away, either. By acknowledging his own fallibility and unlikeable nature, Mulaney makes himself more villainous–and more human.

What I wrote:

I wrote a bonus issue of the newsletter about the Evil Dead movies. (This is my last paid bonus issue for the time being, but if you'd like to help support the newsletter, I'd appreciate it!)

What I talked about:

For Seeing & Believing podcast, Kevin and I reviewed the new adaptation of Judy Blume's Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. I paired it with Agnes Varda's Cléo from 5 to 7 for our Watchlist segment.

For the Think Christian podcast, I got together with Josh Larsen and Abby Olcese to talk about boygenius's the record.

What I watched:

I mentioned in last week's issue that I picked up the Trigun manga for the first time in almost a decade. I'm now in the throes of a full-blown Trigun bender, thanks in part to the anime reboot Trigun: Stampede. I haven't finished it yet, so I can't say whether it sticks the landing, but I'm loving the show so far.