When most of America last saw comedian Tony Hinchcliffe, he had gotten himself “canceled” for jokes he cracked at a Trump campaign event in October. In reaction to backlash following his reference to Puerto Rico as “a floating island of garbage,” among other provocations, Hinchcliffe parried the outrage and refused to apologize. “My stance,” he told Variety, “is that comedians should never apologize for a joke.”
Luckily for Hinchcliffe, he lives in Donald Trump’s America. In that America, neither getting canceled nor refusing to say you’re sorry amounts to career suicide. It might even land you a three-show deal with Netflix.
Luckily for Hinchcliffe, he lives in Donald Trump’s America.
The first installment, entitled “Kill or be Killed,” aired Monday night as an episode of the popular “Kill Tony” podcast/stand-up showcase that’s been staged weekly on Monday nights for the past 12 years at clubs around the country. Monday night’s broadcast was filmed at “Kill Tony’s” present home, Joe Rogan’s Mothership in Austin, Texas. Rogan himself was seated on stage, though he laughed a lot but said little.
“Stand-up at its most unforgiving — and unpredictable” is how Netflix promoted “Kill or be Killed.” To my mind, the comedy was mostly predictable, derivative and formulaic. But that misses the point. As an artistic endeavor, “Kill Tony” is not cutting edge, but it is culturally relevant — massively so. And it is an artistic endeavor, whatever one might think of it.
“Kill or be Killed” provides a fascinating look into the aesthetics and ethos of what I call the “entertainment manosphere,” that growing body of art, be it comedy, cinema or music, geared toward men.
Monday night was definitely for the boys. “Kill or be Killed” featured lots of men. Men who were happy — nay, ebullient! — to be in the company of other men as they ridiculed other men. Of the 20 or so comics who partook in “Kill or Be Killed,” 19 of them were dudes. You could practically smell the spicy buffalo wings and Old Spice Red Zone Swagger Scent through the screen.
The humor, as I noted, is not forward looking. Some of the acts resembled the talents lampooned in “Saturday Night Live’s” The Original Kings of Catchphrase Comedy” sketch, in which characters like Goran “Funky Boy” Bogdan and Pete “Airhorn” Schultz make insipid jokes at ear-piercing decibels. SNL’s point, I surmise, is that not every stand-up is a bold free-thinker, or even sane, or minimally educated (see Ego Nwodim’s ingenious Weekend Update set as “Miss Eggy” this past weekend). “Kill or Be Killed” seemed eager to corroborate that assertion.
The episode blew up the usual targets: Asians, women, gays, other minorities and so forth. The R-word was used a lot. A lot. In the night’s most interesting segment, Martin Phillips, a comedian with cerebral palsy, quipped that being called “buddy” was the new R-word. Shane Gillis, who was impersonating Donald Trump, immediately responded “and the R-community loves me.” The evening’s one Black comedian, Kam Patterson, mentioned that to get laughs he drops the N-word copiously. Not missing a beat, Trump/Gillis riposted: “We love that!” These were the funniest bits of the two-hour plus extravaganza.
Yet while “Kill or be Killed’s” brand of humor is generally regressive, its aesthetic form is far more complicated. After one-minute sets, the performers are grilled by the panel (featuring Gillis, Rogan, Hinchcliffe and others) for about 10 times as long. The practice makes an interesting point (and it also makes a virtue out of necessity): the people behind the art are more interesting than the art itself. I found these discussions with average-Joe comics — one who mowed lawns for a living, another who rode his bike to Austin from California — sort of mesmerizing.
Then there’s the show’s manly visual aesthetic. The set is dark. It is lined with beefy, shiny bald guys, and others in weird hats, a la “Mad Max: Fury Road.” There’s a live band whose musicians, perplexingly, crack up at every joke. The audience is stoked, primed for an endless cavalcade of hot man-on-man smackdowns.
The episode imparts a basic brocode: Fellas crave competition and combat. The stand-ups who do well are sometimes invited back. There was also a “Mexican Drum Off,” a “Kill Tony” tradition, apparently. A key dimension of the entertainment manosphere revealed by “Kill Tony” is that it must celebrate itself. More than a few performers lauded the show’s viewpoint diversity. One comic referred to it as “an amazing temple of free speech.” Another gushed, “It seems like we’ve got a collective going.” I found these discussions with average-Joe comics — one who mowed lawns for a living, another who rode his bike to Austin from California — sort of mesmerizing. Tonally, I see “Kill Tony” as genetically descended from “The Man Show.” I also sense the influence of radio drive-time shock jocks like Don Imus, a DJ who periodically outraged the nation with racist barbs. The use of impersonators (Joe Biden, RFK Jr., Elon Musk, Donald Trump, Dr. Phil) lend the proceedings a kind of surreal flavor, the likes of which was approximated during peak Howard Stern whose work sometimes veered into performance art. Hinchliffe has acquired a reputation as a vicious roast comic (see his take down of Tom Brady). There is, however, an altruism to the guy. “Kill Tony” is very “comedian-positive.” After all, the host is offering complete unknowns, whose names are literally picked from a bucket, a huge platform. At some point in the episode, Hinchcliffe eventually noticed that few women were on his Netflix special. In an attempt to diversify the proceedings, he forsook the bucket and called one amateur female comic to the stage. Even though her minute was unremarkable, he later invited her to perform at his Madison Square Garden show this August. I was surprised that Gillis/Trump didn’t dub him Tony “DEI” Hinchcliffe in response. In all, it was a very manly night. Boys were boys and there was more than a little white supremacist adjacency. One comic celebrated that he could be “racist again.” “Tony,” joked another, “I’m so proudboy of you.” And on and on it went. And on and on it will go; no apologies, no excuses. The entertainment manosphere is about to enjoy some very good years.
Jacques Berlinerblau is a professor of Jewish civilization at Georgetown University. 
