She responded with an op-ed in the Huffington Post that concluded, “My only goal when I started this show … But, you know, they just didn’t know what to do or how to do anything.
was to offer viewers another voice to end their day with (even if my show is on E! That's the appropriate use of a parenthetical.” Handler pulls loose threads of denim from the hole in her jeans and drops them on the patio. [At Netflix,] I feel like, Wow, I’m not the smartest person in the room.” She bursts out laughing again. ” Instead, Handler inked a seven-year deal with Netflix, of which the docuseries is just a jumping-off point for a half-hour talk show.
These days, though, making people laugh is not necessarily enough, and even the term p.c. Lately, there’s room — arguably, a lot of room — for earnestness in comedy, especially among the critical darlings.
Aziz Ansari grapples with taking his immigrant parents for granted in his Netflix series Master of None. occasionally makes being a middle-aged white guy feel profound.
That being said, Handler does think some body parts are inappropriate for social media.
"It's not a vagina," she added, defending her numerous topless photos.
Handler admits in the series to having done a lot of drugs but never thinking she had a problem — to which, in the “Drugs” episode, The Mindy Project’s Fortune Feimster, a frequent panelist on Chelsea Lately, responds, “Isn’t the person with the problem always the last to know?
” It’s a format that anchors each documentary: Handler sits down with friends and colleagues for frank, topical conversations, Dinner for Five–style, which then launch into more personal explorations, some of which touch on sex, her childhood, and her many, many opinions — like that marriage is stupid, or that she believes being equal-opportunity in her humor by hating on everyone insulates her from accusations of racism.
in August of 2014 after months of suggesting publicly that she was not at all happy during the twilight year of her eight seasons of the show; she once likened it to being “in a wheelchair with no wheels.” She declines to go into the specifics of her frustration.
She’s invited me to join her poolside on more comfortable wicker furniture, and she sits with her knees pulled to her chest.
She’s dressed down, even more casual than the plainclothes she tends to prefer for stand-up tours: a baseball tee and some ripped jeans.
“We’re not saving lives or anything, but if you’re going to be in this business, then you should want to be as interesting as possible, and make interesting choices, and keep it compelling.” It’s January, and we’re in her Bel-Air home, an expansive, well-appointed property: white walls, neatly arranged atlases, a coffee-table book as tall as a toddler mounted on a music stand and opened to a Dolly Parton spread.
The camel-colored dining chairs are covered in some type of coarse hair that feels poky when you sit on them. “My whole fucking house is controlled by an i Pad, and I can barely turn on the TV.” (She addresses this in the series’ tech installment, “Chelsea Does Silicon Valley.”) Several segments of each hour-ish-long documentary unfold here, with Chunk and Tammy, her loyal part–chow chow companions, perambulating in the background, observing their owner, much like they do now.
The scrapbook on the dining-room table is unexpected. It’s not as stony or derisive as the one she directed at an obsequious wedding planner, or the guy who runs a historic South Carolina plantation with the aim of “not making slavery more horrific than it may have been,” in Chelsea Does, the four-part documentary series that just premiered on Netflix and explores various fraught topics from marriage to racism. She once asked Drake what was up with him and Nicki Minaj “in a penetration context,” and lightly mocked Justin Bieber on multiple occasions.