As a director, Bo Burnham is one of the first filmmakers to understand the digital age. While computers have been part of our lives for decades, the interconnection of social media is a fairly new concept that has redefined how billions of people relate to each other. Burnham is a child of the internet, gaining fame through absurdist music videos that subversively hide pain under comedy. While most have transitioned to directing with less accessible attempts, Burnham has continually found ways to tap into a zeitgeist, notably with his recent successes in Eighth Grade (2018) and Inside (2021), the latter serving as one of the few post-quarantine commentaries that hold any emotional honesty.
While it’s difficult to suggest that his vision can really apply to his second collaboration with Jerrod Carmichael, it’s hard to not see Rothaniel (2022) as an extension of his millennial confessions style. When trying to find his generation, there’s plenty that’s inherent in what social media has done for the perception of the world. It’s connected us, but also has allowed for the “information superhighway” to open perspectives that better ourselves, making the world a more empathetic place. One of the ways is through YouTube and TikTok videos where people bear their vulnerabilities in a way that was once maligned and made those willing to open up feel foolish depending on who responded. In 2022, the story plays differently.
A stand-up special isn’t supposed to feel like the waning hours of a raucous party, where friends have gathered to share secrets that only exist in those twilight hours. It’s when everyone has had a few drinks and is willing to bare their soul, hoping for the best. Rothaniel begins with an exterior shot of The Blue Note, finding snow falling. It’s as melancholic as a Charlie Brown special, peering in through a frosted over window to find the cozy group preparing to hear Carmichael’s story of his first name: a mystery to everyone in the room but a perfect allegory for what is actually going on.
From a seat on the barren stage, Carmichael sits under a lonely spotlight. There’s little to distract from him as he nervously twirls the microphone. There are jokes, but what follows comes across as Burnham’s Portrait of Jason (1967). The layers peel back, starting with stories of his parents having dozens of children and the time he watched his parents’ sex tape. The introduction of characters becomes pertinent to what follows, revealing why he would feel the necessity to hide something from the world. This isn’t an act. He’s not building to a moment as some gigantic punchline, but as a stream of consciousness. It’s the type of storytelling that is more akin to art, placing this alongside creators like Hannah Gadsby and Tig Notaro who have used the stage as vulnerable commentary.
As much as this is Carmichael’s show, where he has formed an intimate trust with the audience, there is something to be said for Burnham’s shot compositions. It becomes clear early on that Carmichael isn’t ashamed to have the audience chime in. This isn’t a rowdy crowd, but one who compassionately holds onto every word. The build-up of the first 24 minutes is necessary for the big revelation, the one that immediately garnered this HBO Max special press. It’s a moment that is often used to redefine careers, in some ways limiting the ultimate potential of an artist who needs their reputation to form any level of success.
The camera lingers on a close-up of Carmichael as he announces “I’m gay.” The seconds that follow feel like a lifetime. On the one hand, this shot captures his relief at finally being honest with somebody. However, the weight of those two words brings with it a concern that many queer individuals worry about. Will this story have a happy ending? As Florida’s Don’t Say Gay Bill continues to dominate the press, false allegations of the LGBTQIA+ community endorsing groomers, and transgender athletes struggle to be respected, it does feel like America in 2022 is sliding back to a time not fully seen since the late 2000s. Even as the camerawork shadows Carmichael in his own internalized struggle, there is no surety that the outside world will reciprocate the response he wants. It’s the feeling of coming out that everyone who’s done it knows well. For those few seconds especially, anything can happen. Maybe your security will disappear, where the love of family will be shattered and force you to start this journey alone. Given that Carmichael is a Black gay celebrity, there are even more pressures around masculinity and comes with its own historic baggage. Even in the age of Lil Nas X, contemporary Black queerness doesn’t quite ring the bell of celebration for a cultural reset of tolerance.
The painful look of anticipation sits on Carmichael’s face. He waits to continue, having the audience dictate how much more vulnerable he is going to get. Given the already chummy atmosphere, the accompanying cheer of a lone individual plays as a sigh of relief. Rothaniel isn’t going for any big triumph. This is a character study that just so happens to be littered with laughter, a recognition of the small ways that life is absurd. If Carmichael had spent the first 24 minutes feeding off of guffaws, this moment would play differently. Because it all comes from quietness, there is more power to it. The cheers build. It’s clear that the natural connection is overwhelming, where cries of love lead him to make an intentionally rude joke of deflection involving an ableist terminology. Still, it works because of how genuinely it’s recognized as an alternate joke that would hide his pain had everything gone south.
Carmichael is far from the first person to use creative arts to come out as gay. In fact, there’s almost a greater effort from those artists willing to be public to create their distinct stamp on the process. There is this need to suggest that “You are not alone.” Most embrace memorable pageantry, an embrace of identity more to display confidence. Rothaniel is that, but it’s so much more. The power that makes it a masterpiece is that this is an honest examination of what it means to come out, discussing the relationship he has with various people in his family. What makes it even better is how these observations feature great asides, recontextualizing language that could be dehumanizing or overblown misunderstandings. The fact that he has the audience on his side makes it all the more beautiful.
It should be said that despite the aforementioned political climate around queerness, Rothaniel isn’t striving to be a commentary on those topics. This is about his life. As a result, he turns to his father, to whom he claims he has had to come out multiple times to. It’s not because of intolerance, but some funny acknowledgment that they both screwed something up – and that his father still wishes he was bisexual. These are all familiar examinations of coming out, having to define yourself to people you love in ways that are outside the heteronormativity. One of the most beautiful moments is the simplest, of talking about his nieces braiding his hair. He claims that it’s so easy to talk to them about this revelation, reflecting a greater theme of how intolerance is a learned trait. The older nieces are harder to reach, which shows the need for positive reinforcement before things become more ingrained.
While there are a lot of reasons to suggest that this has a happy ending, there is one figure that sits in turmoil with Carmichael’s soul: his mother. Second only to the initial “I’m gay” moment, his examination of the relationship points out the pain that one feels had that aforementioned scene played out the other way. What if there was forever silence, a lack of acceptance but also no rejection. The pain of waiting sits in their relationship. It’s here that the audience involvement becomes more powerful. Every new revelation finds him quiet in thought. Maybe he’s about to cry, but the audience keeps him moving by asking how long he’s willing to give her to accept him. It’s a therapeutic use of silence, as if existing inside his brain, waiting for the correct answer to come. For something that so tangibly takes place in the real world, Rothaniel feels ethereal. It has this sense of hope that in 2022 there is enough of a community there to prop everybody up, to save them from the emotional turmoil that has long existed in queer identity.
In some ways it has. The students outside of Florida schools proudly waving pride flags and teaching Stonewall point to a future where the gay youth actually persevere better than ever before. If nothing else, they have greater platforms than millennials ever did. They know how to use social media to spread messages and reach audiences that curmudgeon politicians just fail to. There is hope. There is hope because they didn’t have to wait until their 30s like Carmichael did to proudly declare their identity. It’s beautiful and a sign that everything will hopefully work out even if the past few months the only real word that describes the change has felt like “backsliding.”
Given that there is shame around Carmichael’s first name, claiming that it reminds him of a portmanteau like Toyotathon, it makes sense to use it as an allegory for his own insecurities around sexuality. This exercise wasn’t designed to be groundbreaking, but in its own quiet way, it is. This isn’t a stereotypical loud and proud, effeminate finger snapping Mardis Gras. This is a quiet, modest work that shows a different side of queerness that is still honest. Rarely has a special felt so aware of the weight of coming out without resorting to pandering tropes. This is what it feels like to find community, to be able to see beyond your own inner dark circle of the stage. To break the fourth wall and have the audience become part of the special reflects how many come to this revelation in their own lives. As Carmichael reveals his name to be Rothaniel, it comes as a sigh of relief, a new form of acceptance as the audience applauds, having earned that level of trust with him. The smile revels in camaraderie as Burnham cuts back to the snow outside, watching the melancholy play into the credits.
Again, this is more of Carmichael’s show and a perfect example of his gifts as a performer. However, to view this from Burnham’s direction skills helps to reflect the brilliance of why Rothaniel works. Most stand-up specials could get by on simple stage and audience reaction shots. Instead, every time the decision to hold onto Carmichael is made, it reveals something profound in his human reactions. The few cuts to the audience are steeped in darkness, finding disfigured faces listening with anticipation. Everything works to create one of the calmest, most meditative specials of contemporary times. It’s the feeling of pondering these thoughts alone at night, waiting for somebody to cheer you on your personal journey. For those who’ve been there, it’s especially resonant. It’s not necessarily a celebration, but the type that comes after the party has ended and everyone is recovering from the insanity. It’s here where the truth comes out, and thankfully it’s done with the utmost support that it possibly could’ve. One could only hope to have a response as poetic as the one Carmichael has here.
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