Outstanding: Netflix show on rise of LGBTQ+ comedy is no laughing matter in more ways than one

On the other hand, it is also a look back at LGBGTQ+ comedians in the history of 20th century comedy; which is to say in the comedy which we in Ireland have consumed over that time. British comedy, our other great influence, is also given respect here: Eddie Izzard is a hero to many queer comedians in the US and is the single funniest person here out of more than 20 performers.

This show was filmed at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles in May 2022; there are some Covid masks. There are interviews with many of those who performed on the night, as well as with those who had been groundbreakers in their day. But this leads to confusion: did the wonderful Lily Tomlin actually perform that night? Did Robin Tyler, the first out lesbian comedian on television in the US, appear at the Greek Theatre on this night or was she just reminiscing in an armchair?

There are the stories of careers derailed, of television series cancelled (as experienced by Margaret Cho) and of executives running for the hills (as experienced by just about everybody in this documentary). But surely the most interesting material here is about the queer performers who worked in comedy years ago. The fear, the courage, the talent, the closet.

And this is not distant history. In 2010, Todd Glass (you’d know him if you saw him) was performing at an event hosted by Sarah Silverman in a comedy club in Los Angeles. He had a heart attack and as he was being carried into the ambulance, he shouted to Silverman: “Call my girlfriend! Call my girlfriend!” Except he didn’t have a girlfriend, and Silverman knew that. He had a devoted boyfriend who brought him a single flower in hospital. It was only in 2012 that Glass decided to come out as gay, long after he was well known as a comedian in the US.

Hearing recent history like this makes the viewer wonder about queer comedians from other eras: what were their emergencies, their narrow escapes, their humiliations and their triumphs? Although the archive footage is fascinating, there simply isn’t enough about them here.

But there is a good exploration of the homophobia among black comedians, and it is discussed by black comedians. Eddie Murphy comes in for completely justified criticism. And there is a glancing reference to the added difficulties faced by queer comedians from minority communities, not least from their own communities. There’s a clip from a Wanda Sykes routine in which she decides it’s more difficult to be lesbian than to be black, because you don’t have to tell your parents that you’re black.

But homophobia is, unfortunately, universal. The examples here of white male comedians from the 1960s and 70s sniggering and straining to demonstrate their straight credentials are not very edifying. Like all insecure people, they were frightened of homosexuality, desperate not to be left out of the heterosexual herd.

It takes a genius to cut through this stuff. Luckily we had Richard Pryor. It was 1977. His friend Lily Tomlin had asked him to appear at the Star Spangled Night For Rights at the Hollywood Bowl. He came on stage and shared, as we would now say, homosexual experiences he had had in his youth. He took no prisoners. He told the truth.

It is awful to look at footage of Rosie O’Donnell 30 years ago and to hear her say that she never even thought about what would happen if she came out, because she was convinced that she would never come out. This was at the height of her television fame. But she did come out, just as Wanda Sykes came out, and Ellen DeGeneres came out.

This is not to say that all the problems are over. Far from it. And there is now a new frontier, for non-binary comedians and for the trans comedians for whom Eddie Izzard is the touchstone. In a way this documentary is a living history of comedy. But it needed more history, and also more jokes.