Whenever she does anything, whenever she puts something out into the world, I race home to catch it. I made sure to be home on the day “The Sarah Silverman Show” launched on Comedy Central. I made dinner plans for last night with Mom and Dad, so we could watch “We Are Miracles,” on HBO.
I don’t have HBO. They have HBO. So I took Mom and Dad out for sushi. I bought the spicy tuna rolls. They bought the funny.
I loved it. Dad loved it. Mom thought Sarah was “adorable but not at all funny.” Mom’s a tough sell. She’s fair. But she’s tough as Hell.
I find myself swooning over those with an ear for lush storytelling and nuanced production values.
I’ve lost interest in the performers. I still enjoy the performers. I just don’t admire them. Not anymore.
Sarah Silverman looks sad. Something seems to be bothering Sarah Silverman. And not the kind of undercurrent which leads comics to the mic. It’s the kind of sadness I’ve noticed in people who, too soon in life, “make it.”
By the time she was 23, Sarah Silverman was hired on SNL. She’s been famous pretty much her entire adult life. She’s a celebrity. She dates other celebrities. She’s in “the club.”
From the point of view of the audience, it gets harder and harder to empathize with someone who’s been on the receiving end of accolades since her early 20’s.
(This might be a little insider, but it’s worth consideration.)
Maureen Dowd made the case it’s unfair to label a woman “too old.” I agree. But even more, I’d make the case it’s unfair to do the roast since the death of Greg Giraldo.
Greg Girlado was a roast master’s roast master. He was quick witted, funny as fuck, loaded with machine gun jokes, brilliant without needing to call attention to his brilliance.
Greg Giraldo was the heart of the roast.
All of the comedians on the dais were friends with Greg. That is to say, all of the comedians on the dais were friends with Greg until, from my point of view, not a single one of them could be bothered to rally for Greg.
He overdosed. Leaving behind a wife. Leaving behind kids.
When I tune-in for the roast, I no longer see a dais of comedians. I see a stage of mean-spirited assholes who thought it was more important to jump through a hula hoop, to bring attention to their tired acts, than rally for Greg.
Sarah Silverman should’ve known better than to do the James Franco Roast.
The roast is dead. Long live the roast.
Sitting at home with Mom and Dad, last night, watching “We Are Miracles,” I was struck by how beautiful, funny, imaginative and fearless Sarah Silverman is with the places she’s willing to go, comedically.
I loved it. Dad loved it. Mom thought Sarah was “adorable but not at all funny.” I love you Mom, but you’re half way right.