John Mulaney has had a tough few years.
But now, watching his semi-recent Netflix special, Baby-J, I see the audience laugh hysterically as Mulaney sings to the crowd, apologizing for his noticeably more deadpan tone: “we all went to rehab and we all got divorced, and now our reputation is diiiiifferent.” It’s different, alright.
In the 2010s, John Mulaney found fame by manipulating the ‘good guy’ archetype into a performance. In interviews and comedy specials alike, you could find him dressed in suits, chattering about his social anxiety and love for his wife in a semi-Atlantic accent reminiscent of the ‘50s. A giant in the comedic ring, he became emblematic of a positive kind of masculinity. Instead of punching down, he punched himself—an approachable and recognizable form of humor to Gen Z and Millennial audiences.
And then he went to rehab for cocaine and prescription-pill addiction.
And then he divorced his wife. She publicly responded that she was “heartbroken,” suggesting that she was not the one to pull the plug on the years-long marriage.
And then he started dating Olivia Munn, whose grimace-worthy history involves both fatphobic comments and an attempt to “meet” (I see you, Olivia) Mulaney while he was still married.
And in crashed The Persona. Internet-proclaimed good-guy John Mulaney fell into a catalog of divisive comedy figures whose real-life actions don’t reflect their show personality, like Hasan Minhaj and Ned Fulmer. It has never been more salient that the people on stage are creative nonfiction—their ugly parts are either cut or washed in a layer of lyricism that makes them digestible and entertaining.
Even as he steals priceless family photos from a friend, or lies to a doctor to get a Xanax prescription (both of which he admits to in his special, New in Town), Mulaney remains the hero of the story.
Mulaney works very hard to varnish stories about questionable behavior with an air of silliness. Even as he steals priceless family photos from a friend, or lies to a doctor to get a Xanax prescription (both of which he admits to in his special, New in Town), Mulaney remains the hero of the story. These personal stories construct a form of false intimacy between him and his audience; comedians necessarily, but carefully, expose inner thoughts, feelings, and vulnerable experiences packaged as a joke. And with this self-exposure, the parasocial relationship is born.
I am captivated by the personal betrayal fans feel when stars display any form of moral nuance. When Taylor Swift started dating Matty Healy, fans felt as though they had the right to comment on the relationship. Healy’s odd history of both radically liberal protest songs and documented racism tarnished Swift’s All-American sweetheart reputation. So, it surprised no one when mere weeks following the online anger and Swifties’ open letter to the star, they “amicably split,” and sources close to her reported the relationship was “never that serious.”
Similarly, after John Mulaney went to rehab, divorced his wife, and had a child (after adamantly telling audiences he never wanted one!), Twitter users claimed to be “shocked” and “hurt” by Mulaney’s choices. But celebrities are not our friends and the personas they curate are, by definition, not them. They are public facing, PR driven, brands.
With celebrities today, there is an idealization of closeness—we always want more.
This isn’t a bad thing! With celebrities today, there is an idealization of closeness—we always want more. We want a large social media presence, filled with photos and videos of all their favorite restaurants, makeup products, and clothing so that we can mimic their personal aesthetic—their lives (see: Hailey Bieber’s chokehold on TikTok fashion). We want the mirage of exclusivity; we want the impression of an interactive, equal relationship. But why?
Is it not enough to merely like Mulaney’s work, and to let him fly off the handle in his own time? Does he have to be morally perfect to be followable? Celebrity criminals like Harvey Weinstein or Danny Masterson deserve no social capital; I am not absolving anyone from the consequences of their own actions. Criminal behavior deserves jail time.
But, for celebrities who can be asshole-y, how do we allow them to feel the consequences of their personal choices in their personal lives? I can only imagine Mulaney isn’t all that close with his ex-wife or their shared dog, Petunia, anymore—there is always a price.
I speak not to look down on those who were duped into feeling as though they ‘knew’ Mulaney in a more genuine way. I, too, felt oddly hurt? I sat at my kitchen table with a coffee and newspaper, feeling as though I’d just received bad news from a family member when I read Mulaney’s name on the front of the Washington Post. But maybe that was his PR agency's goal.
I have profound empathy for those who perform for a living. As a former theater kid, I understand what it means to thrive off of adoration. I do not know Mulaney personally, nor any other celebrity, but the construction of the technicolor persona that blurs the ugly parts of real life does not seem malicious, and instead deeply human.
John Mulaney is a person, good or bad. One who seems desperate to be liked. So the next time he, or anyone else, releases content that feeds into a sense of intimacy, and you feel like “they’re just so real,” take a step back. Allow celebrities the freedom to be selfish or short-sighted. After all, they’re people too.
