Oof, What a Mess

Just to get this out of the way: Anyone inclined to dislike Tony Hinchcliffe’s new Netflix special Man of the People on principle is not going to change their mind based on its material. While the comedian has amassed a huge fan base owing to his popular quasi-open-mic podcast Kill Tony and work at comedy roasts, he’s accumulated an equally large amount of haters because of controversial jokes he told at a Donald Trump rally in 2024 and The Roast of Kevin Hart last month, and, predictably, this new hour is full of similar button-pushing provocations. There’s a joke, for example, where he talks about strong-arming his Latina housekeeper into working harder by threatening to call ICE. But the special is not good or bad on the merits of its subject matter. Man of the People is bad because it’s an unfocused, illogical mess.

To the extent that Man of the People has an organizing idea, it’s that Hinchcliffe has the right to be an equal-opportunity offender because he is, as the special’s title implies, a comedy version of the People’s Champion. “I’m a people person,” he announces at the top of the special. “I study them all, all the different races and cultures.” Structurally, he does a few things to try to reinforce this theme. He swaggers onto the stage through the crowd like a boxer, dramatically soaking in the audience’s adulation. He performs in the round, so he’s literally positioned at the center of the crowd. But mostly he dips in and out of crowdwork to create the impression that the audience’s perspective matters and that they’re all enthusiastic participants in this performance.

Unfortunately, this is not how his forays into the crowd play out. On four separate occasions, Hinchcliffe turns to an audience member of a particular demographic to reinforce a stereotype about them and the audience member’s response introduces nuance that undermines his premise. The special repeatedly cuts to reaction shots of one particular front-row roastee who is quietly having a bad time because Hinchcliffe keeps picking on him. Many of his off-the-cuff roast jokes don’t even make sense, like when he confirms a pair in the audience are father and son before asking them whether they met in prison. Even on a basic technical level, Hinchcliffe’s crowdwork interactions fail to create the communal vibe he’s after because the audience, despite playing such a prominent role in this special, are not mic’d. 

While Hinchcliffe’s performance at The Roast of Kevin Hart proved that he doesn’t need to have a crowd on his side to get laughs, his competence in that format doesn’t translate to his abilities as a stand-up, where there’s an expectation that material should tackle meatier ideas than whether someone is fat or ugly. Even as he retains the same smug, self-satisfied delivery, his jokes are too often rooted in the one-dimensionality of roast material, relying on overused stereotypes, false premises, sweaty wordplay, or reflexive shock value. Consider the special’s opening joke, which plays off a running Kill Tony bit about Hinchcliffe being gay. “I just got my first gun,” he says. “It’s like having a second dick. I know, because the first thing I did when I got it home is I put it in my mouth.” Hinchcliffe proceeds to explain that this joke is a misdirect. It’s not a “gay joke,” as Kill Tony fans might think, but a “suicide joke.” Except the double entendre doesn’t track; no one commits suicide by putting a penis in their mouth. The lazy writing doesn’t end there. In another bit about abortion, which is illegal in Texas where Hinchcliffe lives, he argues that it’s not an oppressive hurdle because “flying your girl to Colorado via Spirit Airlines is $35 right now.” It’ll be the only flight that you come back with less than you left with, he says: “She flies Spirit, then the baby flies spirit.” The pun he’s trying to make obvious, but the construction is clunky. (Not to mention the fact that Spirit Airlines shut down in May.)

Midway through the special, Hinchcliffe calls on a Chinese member of the audience to help him reinforce a hack joke he’s just told about Asian people being bad drivers. He asks her what kind of car she drives (Honda Civic), what car she drove previously (inapplicable; this is her first), how long she’s had the Civic (since 2017), and whether she’s ever been in a car accident (no). Stunned that she’s never totaled a car and doesn’t fit into the box his bit revolves around, Hinchcliffe cuts his losses and admits defeat. “You just fucked up my joke,” he tells her. Artistically speaking, there’s no reason for this exchange to make the special’s final edit; Hinchcliffe himself concedes it amounts to a “wasted two and a half minutes.” But in a special so poorly executed from top to bottom, it’s far from the most notable misfire.