An important thing to note about 2024 is that it’s the year I got back into stand-up comedy. While I’m bound to check out a few specials a year, this one found me digging into the Netflix crates to find the hottest new voices. I’m unsure what spoke to me about seeing a performer doing self-deprecating humor in front of a crowd, but it was one of the things I craved most. Maybe it was the short-form storytelling, but I was in awe of the craft to the point that I was tempted to place them among my favorite movies of the year.
The hurdle that I keep coming across with this Snapshot series is that some of the art that meant the most are topics I’ve already written about at length. Even if I haven’t seen a special as perfect as Jacqueline Novak’s, what could I say that I didn’t at the time? The same for Adam Sandler, whose I Love You ended up being my perfect antidote to the blues. Even among other top shelf titles by Alex Edelman or Hannah Einbinder (who I saw at a WNBA game this year, no biggie), I don’t know that there’s much to say besides I’m greatly appreciative of their voices. I’m thankful that stand-up is capable of transcending barriers and connecting with audiences in ways that make you appreciate the miracles of everyday life.
No special reached that goal better than Rachel Bloom’s phenomenal Death, Let Me Do My Special. I’ve technically known about her since high school when she professed her love for Ray Bradbury, but in actuality I became a fan when most did. The CW series Crazy Ex-Girlfriend remains one of the most original and exciting shows of the 21st century. The way it transcends barriers between reality and the fantasy of elaborate musical numbers is some of the finest storytelling the small screen has seen. Add in the evolvution into a character study of Bloom’s mental illness only adds to why it’s an underrated gem.
Something I didn’t expect when pressing play on her latest was how much it would overwhelm. While I knew she had a penchant for tackling difficult topics with a pep in her step, the idea of using the stage to do an elaborate theater number about how fate was keeping her from putting on a show felt out of left field. While I had seen comedians tackle the pandemic years candidly, it felt like most artists had gotten it out of their system. In my heart, it feels strange to see culture moving so quickly away from exploring the larger impacts of Covid-19 on our everyday life. I’m not saying there’s other things that aren’t worth talking about, but it does feel like 2020 is quickly becoming mostly forgotten in favor of the wacky hijinks we got into around 2021.
Something that should be noted regarding Death, Let Me Do My Special was that I had a major revelation around my 35th birthday in July. For the past four years, I had been fixated on death. If you look at my writing, there is a sense of mortality and trying to contextualize things passing. I think the reason moving on from the pandemic is hard is because there’s things I want to better understand, and time will just make them more ambiguous. I need to process why I lost four grandparents between 2019 and 2021. I need to know why my old high school friend passed from a fentanyl overdose in rehab. I need to know why the larger world feels less empathetic and willing to change cruel practices now that they’ve seen something so extreme. To me, 2020 was hell. And yet, I needed to gather my thoughts.
I have been scared to move past this feeling. While it has gradually gone away with each passing revelation in a reread essay, there is still that deeper concern for what no longer exists. It’s a major reason His Three Daughters (2024) was such a therapeutic experience, encapsulating a lot of tension I’ve been unable to fully process following two grandparents spending their final years in hospice care. How do you not think of death when, outside of any global circumstance, you are watching a whole generation of your family disappear and, from my perspective, so miserably?
I can tell that Bloom has the same ideas on her mind. Where most would take to the stage and spend an hour doing a sob story, she instead taps into her theater kid roots. Along with surviving the past few years, she’s had some noteworthy things to explore including being a mother as well as the passing of collaborator Adam Schlesinger. These burdens are enough to wear anybody down, but for her the greatest tribute is to celebrate their lives.
So how does she commemorate this occasion of finally being allowed to perform before a crowd? She plays a show for a fictional Death, sitting in the balcony with a Statler & Waldorf level of participation. As the show progresses, the threat feels more real. Every musical number finds whimsy that stumbles into self-actualizations. Bloom’s ability to transition between fantasy and honesty remains strong as she navigates the madness in her mind. It’s full of tangents that don’t fully connect until finally the truth emerges, reflecting everything as her personal way of comprehending what her life has become. It’s a world that starts with a length monologue on “cum trees” before landing on a Dear Evan Hansen parody interlude that I’m sure will seem wonderfully dated in five years. For as much as Ben Platt’s career-defining show means to me, I accept that it’s become quite the punching bag.
Part of the reason I’m cool with allowing Bloom to jump around and tackle these odd hallmarks is because it speaks to how odd the mental health conversation has been. While it definitely has gotten better in some circles, the next steps haven’t been fulfilling. We’ve established a problem and our only answer is to look at death as the only real escape. Maybe it’s because we’ve lost so much to mortality, or that certain reasons to live had withered on the vine. For a comedy special with a lot of toe tapping fun, it’s amazing how Bloom waxes philosophical about the darkest corners of her mind. This isn’t nihilistic or cynical. For as much as she conveys a sense of wanting to give up, this is about pushing through and discovering the joys of life. For as unfortunate as Covid-19 was, there should be some optimism in knowing that many have survived and there’s reason to live again, if not for yourself then to honor legacies of the fallen.
That is why Death, Let Me Do My Special is one of the most essential pieces of art that I saw this year. While there have been funnier stand-up shows, Bloom brings her one of a kind perspective to the past five years and made me feel a lot of things. The larger feeling of not being alone is one of them. It’s also something that I felt the Mister Rogers fad from six years ago almost tapped into but ignored in favor of “that guy seems nice.” More than anything, I relate to Bloom as an artist who is looking for their ability to question themself. How do you feel creatively fulfilled when so much of life makes art feel meaningless? Like Mister Rogers, Bloom’s gift is not giving into self-defeat and simply calling something “awful.” She’s searching for ways to process trauma with productivity. Bad things happen, but does that mean we should give up? Bloom’s special suggests that the only way to heal is to talk things out and try to make sense of something that is likely to remain unknowable.
Sure, Bloom is a lot edgier and more willing to joke sarcastically about her pitfalls. That’s part of the fun of campy melodrama where she tries to boot Death from her performance. However, the whole package encourages one to think about how everything connects. Even something that sounds like an outright joke says something about where we are mentally during the great unknown of post-lockdown life. By the end, the audience gets the sense that while everything remains uncertain, the will to live remains essential. Bloom has people who still love her. She still has a crowd wanting to laugh. The world may have beaten her down, but she has made it this far. She might as well see how far this road will travel.
I think what I loved the most of about Death, Let Me Do My Special is that it doesn’t feel overly sentimental. Even as it delves into vulnerable stories, nothing feels forced. There is this deep-seeded frustration with the world that feels more organic, more antagonistic and unwilling to accept optimism as the only cure-all. There needs to be a greater answer. This isn’t designed to be safe, inspirational art but a night that deconstructs death in between monologues about “cum trees” and making fun of Dear Evan Hansen. In some ways it’s satisfying because she knows that the people truly hurting want to laugh and do so by poking fun at themselves. It’s our way of knowing that we’re strong, that we can take it. Maybe there’s more to process within, but we’ll have to wait for Bloom’s encore.
That is why I encourage anyone who hasn’t stopped thinking about death to give this a spin. As someone who has found the art produced as a direct result of the pandemic to be very helpful, I’m worried of what we’re losing in part because I still want to process. I think there’s even more we can understand about how our lives changed. Even then, I don’t know that anyone hit with as emotional of a wrecking ball as Bloom has. It’s absurd, uncomfortable, but most of all hopeful. The world feels like a better place when you can yell at Death on a balcony and question its cruelty. I don’t know what it says about me, but knowing this is sitting on Netflix waiting for you fills me relief.
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