#nanette

Early on, Hannah Gadsby felt grateful. Netflix, the streaming giant famous for spending tens of millions on comedians such as Dave Chappelle, Bill Burr and Kevin Hart, put Gadsby on the map when it released the deeply original special “Nanette” in 2018. That was no small thing for an autistic Australian lesbian pushing 40. “Nanette” encompassed both Gadsby’s personal trauma — detailing a physical assault — and unyielding, cerebral takes on misogyny, homophobia and the very conventions of stand-up comedy itself. Gadsby even announced their departure from the industry midway through the special.

But Gadsby didn’t ultimately quit. Netflix released “Douglas” in 2020 and “Something Special” in 2023. Then Gadsby crashed, suffering panic attacks that left the comedian unsure of how to proceed.

That led to “Woof,” a special released in a way as unconventional as Gadsby’s approach to stand-up. The audio is free online with a surreal, 20-minute video version that features Gadsby speaking through an animated sock puppet. There is no formal publicity campaign for “Woof,” and this interview, conducted on Zoom from the Australian island of Tasmania, is the first Gadsby has done to promote it. Does Gadsby regret (apparently) blowing up a relationship with the streaming giant? Slightly, though “at the end of the day, I am maladapted to the position I find myself in, and I am just trying to understand how best to play this weird old hand I seem to have dealt myself.”

Netflix declined to comment on Gadsby. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

You’ve made a stand-up special in which we don’t actually see you. You are a talking sock puppet.

Every decision is almost like: “What does the algorithm want? I’ll do the opposite.”

I should also note that partway through, you mention, “I hate Netflix.” Obviously, Netflix is the place many of us first saw your work. What has happened to the relationship?

Netflix was a launching pad for me, and I am very thankful for it. But I am creatively a risk taker, and I like to take things apart and rearrange them and do things differently. I don’t want to go with the flow right now. The flow seems quite toxic. But Netflix being an algorithmic-first machine … they’ve worked out what comedy is now, they’ve got the formula, and that doesn’t actually give a lot of space.

The formula is to pump out endless specials for which they have paid a lot of money. That’s the formula you’re talking about.

I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to live there. It’s not to say that I can’t and won’t work with them again, I just wanted to make a decision and take some creative risks. And also a lot of the subjects that I talk about in “Woof” and the placement of myself, I wanted to put myself outside of that particular story.

What particular story?

I started doing this show, and I had a panic attack.

Because “Woof” was originally going to be about your father’s death. Or as you joked, you had planned to do the “dead Dad show.”

Yeah, and the dead Dad show is a universal show, particularly for people of a certain age, [when] you start to think about your mortality. But I realized as I was going though this, I hadn’t adapted to fame. I’m very maladapted, and as [wife and producer] Jenney [Shamash] wisely points out, I’m the only person on Earth who hasn’t adapted to my fame. I was a creature of the Melbourne [International] Comedy Festival and the Edinburgh Fringe festival. Every year I’d write a show, maybe it gets to tour a little bit, but then the next year I set it down, I write another one. I’m pushing 40 and I’m not thinking about cracking into the U.S. market or having high-powered agents in L.A. And then all of a sudden it was more than possible, and I was so ill-equipped for that.

What was the biggest challenge of that breakthrough?

The change in my audience. My audience beforehand were definitely people I was talking to in the room. I was a live performer that had slowly built a small but solid and sustainable fan base that I would bring a new piece of work to every year or maybe two years. I was making a living. It was, in the scheme of things, modest, but I was successful.

And then everything explodes because of “Nanette.” You’re making more specials, and I assume you’re playing bigger places.

My agent said, “Are we going to gear up to a stadium tour?”

That’s the big story in comedy right now. Bill Burr playing Fenway Park. Fluffy [Gabriel Iglesias] doing Dodger Stadium.

I wouldn’t survive that. I don’t want to be in a crowd of 30,000 people, and I don’t want to talk to 30,000 people. Music can work really well in a large crowd. But that’s where comedy goes to die. When you get those big venues, the laughs don’t come back. They just disappear out the back.

But what stand-up comic wouldn’t be happy to take this next step?

I don’t want to sell tickets to the apocalypse. And that’s what that feels like. It feels gross. I don’t actually cast judgment. It’s just what they’re doing and they can do it, power to them. If you want to be a court jester to the Saudi regime, go for it.

Not a show you wanted to do.

Again, no judgment. I just don’t trust myself not to get beheaded. If I get a list of things I can’t talk about, that’s the list of the things I’m going to talk about. Like I don’t know where these guys — and they’re all guys, let’s face it — where these guys’ heads are. They’re either living in a world of extreme idiocy or extreme ego. It’s an embarrassing and dangerous game they’re playing, and good luck to them.

So back to Netflix. The issue starts a few years back when Dave Chappelle, sort of their comedy crown jewel, starts doing jokes many considered transphobic. Ted Sarandos, the boss, writes a memo in which he references you as an example of the other side. Like: We can have it all! There’s no line in comedy! And here’s pro-gay, pro-trans Hannah Gadsby to prove it!

And my argument was there is a line, and I’m going to find it. I’m going to find that line in comedy that Netflix doesn’t want anything to do with, and that line is Netflix. So I just started doing a strong line of jokes about Netflix at their festival.

You did that in 2024.

Yeah, at their Netflix Is a Joke Festival. I just did a 20-minute set and basically said they’re ruining live comedy. This was also wrapped up in a lot of anxiety that I had personally. … I am in the public eye, I’ve got a rather large platform, and I am mentally unwell, and that means that I can say and do things that are problematic, not just for my career but also for other people. So I felt myself sort of going onstage and feeling like a bit of a firecracker. I thought if I am going to lose my tank a bit, Netflix is a victimless crime because it’s not human.

And you end up with something that’s beautiful, which is “Woof.” Can we call it a special?

I mean, yeah, the story is in the journey of the actual tour. Every show, like I said, was different. As I was touring I was processing my grief, and at some point during the run it just clicked.

I know it sounds almost silly to say, but I laughed a lot. Your jokes are excellent.

I think this often gets missed in my work.

So today, as you look back, do you think you have a better handle on how to feel okay with success?

Yeah, yeah, I think so.

What have you figured out?

Well, I think a part of it is letting go; this is the reality. I think a lot about “The Truman Show.”