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“Now you guys are too much like my family.”
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Earlier, he absorbs a different spectator’s crack timing after he tells the room that he’s not hiding anything and someone blurts out: “But your name.” “Whoa,” he says. Why, he wonders, is she so cold? And some unidentified person in the ambient dark of the Blue Note asks, why not give her a little time to absorb his revelation? He considers that. His candor here certainly elevates the degree of that difficulty. He’s already told his devoutly Christian mother and doesn’t know, for instance, whether she’ll ever warm to this part of him. Carmichael had come to them with stories that are still unfolding around and within him. The people in that room are witnessing his masculinity shift from shield to sponge. The mere crossing of legs felt like a deeply felt gesture of relaxation - of release. He appeared to be thinking aloud, doing a kind of jazz, playing quietly through the changes, and all of that. But by the time he’s sitting there in one of this country’s primo landmarks of improvisation, innovation and artistic introspection - of incandescence and intensity - Carmichael no longer seemed to be doing a routine. That myth that hard dudes from the ’hood don’t succumb to gayness - he’d subscribed to it. Carmichael is funny about what a shock he finds his homosexuality to be. Ordinarily, one might argue that this sort of adjustment was a sign of discomfort. He feigns wonder that no one expects a gay child: “Look at his cheeks. In the middle of recounting a scheme to prepare his mother to learn about his father’s betrayal, he throws in a bit about being disappointed anytime his hibachi restaurant dinners are performed by anybody other than a Japanese chef. Through all of this, Carmichael’s in complete control of his digressive mind. And now - with cool humor, a masterfully straight face, disbelief that he’s doing this, disbelief that’s he actually gay - he’s rethinking what it might have cost and, by extension, how it feels to be that much closer to free. He maintained both his father’s secret and his own from his mother. Carmichael does some ruminating about the men in his family and their double lives - a family of whole other families. He’s kept his birth name one, more or less. But under the direction of Bo Burnham and a promise that there’s much to discuss, Carmichael goes deeper this time. Maybe these people have assembled for what they think is a typical Carmichael show - penetrating observations about being alive. For one thing, his long body is on a metal folding chair. The opening long shot follows him in the snow, headed toward the Blue Note, where he removes his coat and hat and promptly takes a seat upon the stage before a modest, expectant, engaged gathering of what Carmichael wants to feel is a family and what I can only call community support, because winter isn’t all he braves. Of all that’s remarkable about Jerrod Carmichael’s latest comedy hour - the storied intimacy of the venue (the Blue Note Jazz Club), the spectral aptness of the lighting (kind of blue), the titanic silences, dental work that would thrill any neat freak - two aspects of this HBO special are especially exceptional.