Death of a comedian: Norm Macdonald, 1959-2021

2021 has been a sobering year. It has certainly proved to be a tumultuous time for celebrity deaths. It has felt like my iPhone has acted as a digital conduit — a 21st-century Grim Reaper updating me on the latest passing. Things become that little bit more frightening when you discover someone you admired has died at a ridiculously young age. Just a few weeks ago, the actor Michael K Williams was found dead at the tender age of 54. So it was something of a shock to learn that, at 61, the comedian Norm Macdonald had died last week.  With all the fake news that circulates around the internet I assumed it was a joke, perhaps in the same vein as Norm ’ s own classic line: “ Dead? I didn ’ t even know he was sick!”

In the evening, like many others I seek solace in podcasts and YouTube — this is where I discovered Norm Macdonald Live. It quickly became one of my go-to shows. Alongside co-host Adam Eget, Norm would regularly interview actors and comedians. Norm ’ s irreverent and subversive interview style often meant guests would frequently argue or erupt into fits of laughter. No one was safe from Norm ’ s idiosyncratic take on the classic interview. It would often turn towards his fellow co-host. As Eget was Jewish, Norm would frequently try to convince people he was a Holocaust denier. The more Eget denied it, the funnier it got. It was this ability to make people feel uncomfortable that was to define his career.

Born in Canada in 1959, Norman Gene Macdonald honed his laconic delivery and deadpan style in the dark and dingy smoke-filled rooms of Canada ’ s comedy clubs. By the early 1990s he was hired as a writer on the Roseanne show. A consummate professional, he refused to go along with the latest fad. Often looking to disrupt and provoke rather than repeat tired comedic platitudes. “ A joke should catch someone by surprise,” he said. “It should never pander.”

When Norm got his first major break on NBC ’ s Saturday Night Live, hosting the spoof news section Weekend Update, he blended his absurdist takes on current affairs with an unflinching proclivity to unsettle the audience. His main targets were OJ Simpson and Michael Jackson. A typical example was when he outraged Jackson’s fans by referring to the star in a joke as “ a homosexual paedophile ”. His refusal to tone it down eventually led to his firing. 

Norm wasn ’ t a political comedian, which in the era of Trump was a true sign of his convictions. He loathed the sloppy and lazy formula adopted by late-night talk show hosts and comedians. To Norm there was nothing interesting or groundbreaking in making the same, tired, tacky, “ orange man bad ” Trump joke. Many of today ’ s comics relish in applause rather than laughter — a phenomenon known in the trade as “clapter”. Norm despised this. He hated the way comics pandered to crowds, saying things they agreed with; to him this was not comedy. In an interview he once said: “ Trump being President made it easier for bad comedians.” 

His best work was improvised. It was in the countless interviews he gave where Norm really shone. David Letterman and Conan O ’ Brien were the main recipients of his nihilistic and irreverent comedy. It was his unpredictability that made these talk show heavyweights uncomfortable. Shifting around nervously in their chairs, they would expect him to say something genuinely shocking, but he would often switch mid-joke to something entirely different. Or, in one famous case, profound. In a radio interview he breaks away from a personal question about his sex life and heads into a fatalistic monologue about death. Saying:

“ We ’ re all in a free fall towards an abyss of death and trying to reach out and try and connect with someone; to ignore that just seems pathetic, somehow, and trying to do anything is pointless because any fraction of infinity is functionally zero .” 

That was the thing about Norm Macdonald. Most people didn ’ t realise that Norm was a lot smarter than he let on. For comedic effect, he would frequently dumb down. In fact, Norm was one of the best read and literate people in show business. A lover of classic Russian literature — it is said that Tolstoy was one of his biggest influences — he would often insert references to fictional characters into his meandering and obscure jokes.

But I will mostly remember him for his refusal to pander to an audience. The comedy roast is a staple in every comic’s diary. A golden opportunity for comedians to unleash a torrent of personal abuse and insults at the individual being roasted. With an audience relishing the opportunity to see Norm roast his dear friend Bob Saget, Norm did the most Norm thing he could. He intentionally bombed. Joke after joke was family friendly, tame and at times nonsensical. This intentional act of self-sabotage best describes the comedy of Norm Macdonald.

It ’ s safe to say his style was unique. At times his work was drawn out — one famous joke lasted twelve minutes — other times it was short and scathing. A friend once told him that the worst thing about Bill Cosby was “the hypocrisy”. “I disagree,” said Macdonald. “I think it was the raping.”

Where Norm differed most from today’s other celebrities was in his refusal to seek constant attention. No one knew Norm was suffering. He didn ’ t revel in victimhood culture that appears to dominate the lives of celebrities in our contemporary secular confessional world. “ In the old days, a man could just get sick and die. Now they have to wage a battle,” he said in his 2011 comedy special. “ When an old man dies, people say, “Hey, he lost his battle…That ’ s no way to end your life.”

Norm ’ s dead — and I didn ’ t even know he was sick. Perhaps the joke’s on us.

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