‘The King’s Jester’ is Hasan Minhaj’s Uneasy Confession

Standup comedy so rarely maintains a sense of continuity the way new Netflix special Hasan Minhaj: The King’s Jester builds off his previous work. Perhaps it’s that Black Panther composer Ludwig Göransson, whose bouncy horns kick off The King’s Jester, wrote similarly upbeat musical themes not only for Minhaj’s previous Netflix special, Hasan Minhaj: Homecoming King (2017), but for his late-night comedy style talk show Patriot Act with Hasan Minhaj (2018-2020). Or, perhaps it’s that this latest routine—which hits Netflix today—features both the playful PowerPoint comedy of the latter and intimate introspection of the former, and folds both their stories into its narrative.

Minhaj, the Muslim Indian American who got his start as a correspondent for The Daily Show (and, before that, a Pizza Hut commercial, which he played in full in Homecoming King on the enormous screen behind him) is a born storyteller. His stand up hinges as much on words as it does on moments of silence. Both of his specials, and the short-lived political talk show in between them, thoughtfully marry content and form; light and sound, for instance, matter just as much as the jokes themselves (some of which are so culturally specific to Indian Americans that they’re delivered with Hindi punchlines). However, where temptation exists to swerve into repetitive, run-of-the-mill South Asian American discourse—he certainly touches on Starbucks calling their drinks “chai tea,” i.e. “tea tea,” though he mostly lampshades this impulse—Minhaj’s dissection of Indian American experience is far more personal, and he lets his thoughts and emotions bleed into the surrounding environment.

In Patriot Act, Minhaj was always backgrounded by graphics, which added context to his in-depth news stories, as if to make it easier to follow along with his breakneck delivery (he’s John Oliver for the TikTok attention span). However, in Homecoming King, the backdrop was more of a wallpaper, reflecting his mood, and only occasionally displaying graphics and text (in both English and Hindi) whenever they became relevant. Another reason The King’s Jester feels like a sequel is that it sees both these aforementioned ideas take hold. The set behind him is both a media screen and a light-up mood board that changes color, practically blurring the line between what is seen—news stories, Instagram posts, and anything else that appears behind him—and what is felt in the process of seeing, with the edges around the screening glowing in softs shades of red and blue.

It's a fitting setup for what is, essentially, an introspection of Minhaj’s success in the age of social media. If Homecoming King was about his childhood, and about the early-career stories that helped him climb the ladder to success, and if Patriot Act was not only that success manifesting, but putting a target on his back—the show’s second episode drew the ire of the Saudi government—then The King’s Jester is a tongue-in-cheek retrospective on what becoming a celebrity has meant for Minhaj, his wife, and his baby daughter.

Speaking of which, it starts with a full-throated admission of Minhaj’s issues with infertility, as a prelude to the story of his wife getting pregnant (the story in Homecoming King ended with them getting married, another bit of continuity). Right from the word go, it places him in a vulnerable space, and puts his masculinity under a microscope. The routine chronicles personal anecdotes, both past and present, as well as stories that center around his new life as a comedian in the global spotlight, ruffling the feathers of the world’s Dutertes, Bolsonaros, and Prince bin Salmans. The latter is a key fixture of Minhaj’s tale, given the way his Patriot Act episode on the Saudi prince was controversially pulled in the Kingdom, and the subsequent blowback that—Minhaj claims—began to spill over to his family. However, it’s in broaching this subject that his self-scrutiny becomes amusingly thorny. He doesn’t play a martyr or victim, but rather, someone whose activism was shaped by the allure of social media validation.

The King’s Jester is a tongue-in-cheek retrospective on what becoming a celebrity has meant for Minhaj, his wife, and his baby daughter.

It's a fascinating confession, a brutally honest one that he delivers with rip-roaring energy, interspersed with chilling tales of false confessions to the FBI, forced out of innocent Muslim teens like him in the wake of 9/11 (under the pretext of the USA PATRIOT ACT of 2001, which Minhaj confirms was the subversive inspiration for the name of his Netflix program). Some stories he tells seem far too strange to be true—stage comedians often take poetic license—that is, until he whips out trump cards in the form of real news broadcasts that lend credence to his early 20th century recollections, from a time when simply being a South Asian Muslim American was seen as cause for suspicion. The dichotomy between this cultural bullseye, foisted upon him, and the bullseye he now paints on his own back by poking dictatorial strongmen through his reporting, makes for a whacky narrative tension: here’s this scrawny, lanky dude who once had his head slammed against an FBI vehicle, but whose addiction to Internet stardom and trending on Twitter now makes him persona non grata in entire countries.

This boastful reflection is ingeniously conceived, taking inspiration from an unlikely source: controversial hip-hop artist Kanye West. Like one of West’s Sunday Service gospel performances, a circular hole in the ceiling makes room for a spotlight directly above Minhaj, one that closes in on him from all sides during serious interludes. The comedian is also decked out in all-beige clothing (his jacket, t-shirt, pants, and even his sneakers), an expensive but plain ensemble reminiscent of West’s foray into fashion design. Given West’s public antics, his picture may as well appear in the dictionary under “ego,” making him a fitting blueprint here, since The King’s Jester is an introspection on celebrity, the way it warps perception, and the impact it has on one’s private life.

His stand up hinges as much on words as it does on moments of silence.

But unlike West, Minhaj maintains an awareness about his stardom, through a series of realizations that hit him in waves. He has large, expressive eyes to begin with, and director Prashanth Venkataramanujam—with whom Minhaj co-created Patriot Act—takes full advantage of them with his close ups, a trick not often seen in stand-up specials, but a trick Homecoming King director Chris Storer used as well. Minhaj’s story of parenthood and stardom sees him rattling off anecdotes at lightning speed, but when he comes to a greater understanding of his own reckless impulses, usually courtesy of his wife Beena (for instance, he regales the audience with a story of how his jokes about dictators may have put his infant daughter in danger, to which Beena didn’t take kindly), time itself slows down as the gravity sets in. The lights darken, except for the spotlight hitting him from overhead, and instead of his energetic cadence, the frame becomes filled with stillness and silence. The camera, rather than being a distant observer in the audience, joins him on stage. The edit holds, and holds, and holds, letting his realizations land like heavy dramatic beats as the frame slowly pushes in on him. He delivers a physically committed performance, using an enormous stone stool to express his body language, whether he leans on it with casual nonchalance, sits against it with a cheeky demeanor, or lies down atop it in moments of tongue-in-cheek anguish.

Sometimes, these beats are met with stunned silence from the studio audience. Other times, they’re met with a warm “aww,” when he talks about his daughter, or puts her baby pictures up behind him. On occasion, they verge on surreal moments of self-loathing, and most of the time, they arrive mere seconds after some hilarious quip or pop culture reference, resulting in distinct yet precise tonal whiplash. The special is practically defined by sudden jumps from laughter to silence, proving just how much control Minhaj has over his audience.

There’s an allure to being strung along for this ride, even if his allusions to real-world events can only go so far. At one point, he brings up other South Asian American celebrities in order to make some fun comparisons. His impression of Kumail Nanjiani is great. So is his Aziz Ansari, but the context here is which of these figures are or are not aspirational, and why, and the examples which they respectively set. Despite this, there’s no mention of or even hint towards the one big story hovering over Ansari’s career like a cloud: the allegations of sexual misconduct against him. While Minhaj certainly needn’t touch on them, it’s at least a little odd, for two specific reasons. For one thing, Ansari himself has broached the topic on stage, so it’s hardly taboo. For another, invoking Ansari’s name, while also making constant reference to Patriot Act, also recalls allegations of workplace abuse and harassment levied at Minhaj’s own team (Minhaj himself was never called out by name, but Patriot Act was his series at the end of the day, and he hasn’t publicly acknowledged these stories). None of this necessarily tarnishes the remaining hour, but it’s uncomfortable in the wrong way, i.e. a way in which The King’s Jester entirely avoids confronting, even as Minhaj talks constantly about speaking truth to power, and making people uncomfortable in the right way.

Still, even if this one, glaring part of the story Minhaj tells feels distinctly incomplete, the rest of his narrative is woven with expert tonal control. He knows exactly where to ramp up the energy, just like he knows exactly when to shut up and let mental images waft over his audience as he whips into Blackbox theater mode, his voice cracking under harsh stage lights before he lets his wordless reactions speak for themselves, as he dissects the cost of being a jester who makes a mockery of the court.