Why We Love Norm Macdonald 

O ne year ago, many of us lost a close, unmet friend. Norm Macdonald — the comedian, hit actor of the movie Dirty Work, and lover of many women — was killed by the least funny of illnesses, cancer. He had a brilliant routine about cancer, about how one does not lose the fight with it, but instead, the two of you die together — a one-sided suicide pact.

He died. The cancer died. We grieve.

Following Norm’s death, Kyle Smith and Daniel Tenreiro wrote (as did former NR staffer Teddy Kupfer) eloquently on the man’s life and genius. A year later, there’s still more to say in his honor.

For those unfamiliar with Norm’s work, or for those who never found him particularly funny, this affection may seem bizarre. He was never commercially successful, often gambled far more than he should have, and helmed some painfully awkward segments of Saturday Night Live as the host of Weekend Update. So why should three deeply funny guys and a Sheboyganite take the time to remember Norm?

Norm is beloved because his comedy pursued delight at the expense of the audience’s approval. He was willing to do what most comedians cannot: suffering a joke falling flat or eliciting a groan. He would smirk, let the discomfort marinate, and then move on to a forbidden O. J. Simpson observation. Over the course of his career, he’d frequently lose jobs that would have made him wealthy but demanded that he lower his standards. Norm wasn’t fearless — calling a man fearless removes his capacity for bravery. I think he was often fearful, but he refused diminution, shouldering the consequences.

Watch some of his routines as a guest on Conan O’Brien’s show, and one observes that the only person he wished to amuse was Conan. Norm’s comedy was that of the back row in a high-school classroom, where your buddy has you laughing so hard, so unrestrained, that you fear you’ll never stop. Whatever he’s saying will almost certainly find you both in detention later that day, but it just feels so good to be sharing the moment that you don’t care.

When interrogated by the teacher about what Norm said (in this hypothetical situation), you’ll try to repeat the joke, but it’ll come out all wrong, even if you say the same words he said. It’s like the joke was Norm’s Adam, within whom he breathed life for those short minutes. So when you hear Norm fans saying things such as, “I didn’t even know he was sick” or “Hey! Quit stealing my moves!” and then sharing a chortle, it’s not because we think we’re funny or the lines have innate brilliance. It’s because we know that our partner in the exchange sees and hears Norm’s delivery superimposed over our well-intentioned corruptions of his work.

What’s more, Norm was never not a dude. A Canadian farm boy by birth, Norm’s sincerity was omnipresent, sharpened by the many jaded professionals that inhabited the screen with him. His tearful farewell on Letterman’s last show shall ever be a tearjerker (Letterman having at multiple points spoken out in Norm’s defense or set him up with work), and Norm’s continuous rejection of the comedian’s supposed need to be grindingly cynical will remain as truthful as it is beautiful. This inability to be anything other than himself made Norm’s attempts at acting hopeless, but you can’t help but forgive him for it because he was your buddy out there doing his best.

But the old lump of coal is long gone now, so why prattle on? Because Norm is one of very few comedians about whom I wonder how much more he had to give. He was wicked smart, insightful, and well read. What innate duplicity he had, he put into appearing as a bumpkin and an everyman while housing prodigious mental acuity. He knew that everyone hates the smartest guy in the room, and he eschewed that position. But you’d see glimpses of an intellect whose humor would somehow improve ever more with age.

Such comedians are rare. Many of the modern favorites — Bill Burr, Dave Chappelle, Kevin Hart — remain hilarious, but you know their best is behind them. Now, they riff and appear on podcasts, funny but not the way their early specials were. The freshness and the vitality have waned, and they divert into other pursuits and have lives outside of comedy. Not Norm.

Norm’s most recent special, Nothing Special, released after his death, does the man more justice than the stage could. Ensconced behind what appears to be a 720p webcam and wielding a mic, he takes us from the trivialities of flight to the state of comedy to our overabundance of opinions. He even wrestles with God in his irreverent way:

I’ll tell you this, a lot of people think Christians are self-righteous. But we’re not, we’re sinning all the time. All the time. For instance . . . I eat apples. Think about that for a second. It’s on page one. Worst thing you can do in the world. I’m munching down on an apple. Ah! You know? Sure, I love apples, but . . . is it worth getting raped by the Devil for all of time? I say no!

Anyways . . . I know there’s a God. People go, “Well, you’re only a Christian because you grew up in a Christian—” And I understand that and that’s one of my biggest fears. That I picked the wrong religion, you know? That I believed, but then I died and I go, “Ah! It’s you! I thought it was the other fella. Ah!” I should have been slaying apostates the entire time. Oh well, what are you going to do?

What can a man do but believe?

Norm told no one beyond his immediate family of his cancer diagnosis. Suddenly, the seat beside us was empty, and whatever jokes remained behind his electric eyes are dust. Good things cannot last in a fallen world, and he certainly was a lot of a good thing.

We’re left with turkey f***ing chili.