I don’t think it’s possible I’ll see a better piece of work this year. His latest special on HBO, Rothaniel, I finished watching about four minutes ago, and I’ll likely post this the moment I hit the last full stop. The swelling urge to share this is stronger than I’ve felt for any piece of media, maybe ever.
Giving it a review in written words feels almost pornographic. Any type of concise comment would completely butcher its wholeness, its devastatingly brilliant humanity.
I’ve been anti-“review” before, but this is a different, awestruck silence. As the hour went on there must have been about twenty different people that I felt compelled to message, to make them watch this special the moment they had the chance.
I could feel the blue hue graciously brushing his cheeks as he spoke, so patiently and so lovingly—the type of naked reckoning with reality that feels supernatural: his hand kneading his face through the sludge of deep deconstruction and reconstruction.
I’m sure as the weeks go on, the reviews and surrounding commentary will slowly trickle in. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re all sick of hearing about it soon enough. But I wanted to capture this moment that I’m feeling right now. The immense, inexpressible love I feel towards Jerrod as an artist and as a man, and the gratitude to God that allowed him to share what he has put together with the world.
I know I’ve said nothing of substance (and my writing’s been so approximate) but I just so desperately want and need you to watch this hour. The transformation it will cause in me in the coming weeks, months, I’m yet to know.
It’s called Rothaniel by Jerrod Carmichael. Absolutely get in touch with me afterwards too—I’ll talk about it for hours.
Danny Roade 