James Franco has made a career out of being simultaneously enviable and laughable, but he’s an odd (if calculated) choice for a Comedy Central roast—a bit suave, a bit debonair, and way, way too good-looking. Comedy Central and the hip, young comedians that Franco hangs out with are wooing each other in this 90-minute special, in which Seth Rogen corrals several different comedians at varying stages of mastery to do their worst against Franco. Franco has obliged us all by building up a life story doing many things that sound really dumb—and therefore make good insults.
Roasts are not the most pleasant viewing experiences. They’re not for the faint of heart, anyway. They get vicious, fast; and because the comedy world is so small, there’s an insular subtext underneath the insults that looks something like narcissism and flattery. It’s also a specific, barbed kind of humor, one that makes no attempt to be anything but personal. There are so many fat jokes, slut jokes, and homophobic jokes in tonight’s roast that at first it’s an assault of political incorrectness and by the end it’s so obvious as to be boring. A roast is savage and mean-spirited, and the best comedians know how to make people laugh at your expense better than anyone else.
The Comedy Central Roast Of James Franco is only funny sometimes; the rest is a little too glad-handy to be comedic. Seth Rogen is fine hosting it and most of the comedians are fine as roasters, with a few notable exceptions. But this particular generation of comedians feels a little too polished for the post-empire decadence of a roast. There isn’t that same bloody minded savagery, borne of whatever comedians have to go through to become the slightly brittle funny people they are. There isn’t desperation.
The comedians who do stand out are either the ones that opt out of the format entirely—Andy Samberg pulls a Norm MacDonald by acting so awkward and self-effacing that no actual roasting takes place—or the ones who seem to be a little more connected to the dog-eat-dog mentality of comedy. Sarah Silverman is her typical unexpectedly vulgar self; Natasha Leggero is quick and cutting; and Jeff Ross has a few jokes he’s practiced that land rather well. But the rest of the cast—all beloved comedians, like
Weirdly, it feels more like the comedians are all there to roast Hill instead of Franco—Hill easily bears the brunt of a quarter of the insults all on his own, and almost all are about his weight. Maybe they feel more comfortable making fun of him than they do of Franco—who brought his younger brother and grandmother to the event, to listen to Sarah Silverman explaining exactly how Natasha Leggero got so much Mexican spermatozoa in her vagina.
Look, it’s a fine roast. It’s not bad, and the Samberg and Hader bits are classic. Kroll makes a good showing, too. But maybe our generation, or this generation of actors, just isn’t much into roasts anymore. Franco says something intriguing in his closing remarks, as he tries to respond to the many insults directed against him—“This isn’t a roast. This is my greatest art installation yet.” And then he turns to the dais and signs his name on it, with spray paint. “James Franco, bitches.” He’s grinning as he does it, but you know what? He believes it. In these final moments, Franco is a little defensive, trying to retain his dignity by telling us—as is always the case with his work!—that he might look stupid, but the joke is truly on us.
Bill Hader and Aziz were everything, the rest ... eh