‘The internet means a lot to me, and no one is talking about it correctly’ said Bo Burnham in 2017. In his new comedy special Inside, Burnham rectifies this by artfully depicting the everyday crises that inform our technologically governed lives. The musical comedy set bears witness to the trappings of late capitalism, the internet’s ability to distort our perception and our way of being, in addition to the crippling isolation of our times. Filmed, written and directed by Burnham exclusively from the confines of his home, the special uses modern forms that seem frivolous on the surface. However, by weaponizing the seemingly vapid mediums of twitch streams, reaction videos, adverts and pop numbers, the special asks whether these forms can truly be reflections of the human experience.
The song ‘How The World Works’ starts coyly with Burnham singing a Sesame Street-inspired ditty about the interdependent nature of ecosystems. He then introduces his sock puppet friend, aptly named Socko, to teach us about the world. To the same tune Socko cheerfully sings ‘Private property’s inherently theft/ And neoliberal fascists are destroying the left/ And every politician, every cop on the street/ Protects the interests of the paedophilic corporate elite’. The song descends into a power struggle between Burnham and Socko who, when he annoys Burnham with inconvenient truth, begs for permission to exist.
Power dynamics and questions about who deserves to be heard are recurring concerns for Burnham. As such, ‘Comedy’ explores the validity of making content at a time that acknowledges the ubiquitous nature of white perspectives, which can often overpower oppressed voices. In the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement, ongoing COVID deaths, climate change and income inequality, he mocks his impulse to centre his own experience, singing, ‘American white guys/ We’ve had the floor for at least four-hundred years’, before proclaiming the importance of ‘healing the world through comedy’. This guilty self-reflexive irony is typical of Burnham’s comedy. That said, I think this confession can be understood as a symptom of the inexhaustible self-awareness and anticipation of criticism that is built into online dialogues, whether it be Twitter or mainstream journalism. In this song, Burnham performs self-awareness for the audience, but it could be argued that the hour-long special negates his lyrics.
The writings of French sociologist Jean Baudrillard imply that when everything becomes political, politics disappear; when everything becomes sexual, sex disappears; when everything is social, the social disappears. In such a society, real life implodes into a simulation. Baudrillard didn’t live to see human experience filtered through branding and social media, but Burnham has. In ‘Facetime with My Mom’ he expresses the emptiness of intimate relationships as filtered through the lens of a phone. The frustration is instantly recognisable when he recounts how his mother can’t fathom that her thumb is blocking her camera. Likewise, his song ‘Sexting’ considers the ways that modern human sexuality has been modified by the internet. He sings plaintively about “another night alone…sitting alone/ one hand on my d**k/ one hand on my phone.” The song’s refrain, “ayy, ayy, AT&T” , could be a reference to corporate sponsorship in pop music or a nod to the technocrats and companies that make life online possible. By performing these deeply personal experiences for us, Burnham chronicles the movement of the most intimate parts of human experience into the public sphere. The corporate name slipping seamlessly into the song points to his blasé acceptance that his interactions are monetised.
Burnham makes new songs tailored to our new realities. Standouts are the cancel culture anthem ‘Problematic’ and ‘Unpaid Intern’, an absolute bop that details new modes of labour exploitation. His satirical advert on capitalism’s commodification and absorption of social movements felt very faithful to the faux benevolent brands of 2021. The assertion that ‘J.P Morgan is against racism…in theory’ really reminded me of how much Facebook and Google have done for the LGBT community in Western countries in recent years.
Dissociation is described as “the sudden onset of an intense feeling that the external world is unreal, distant, distorted or false in some way. It can also manifest as a feeling that the world is predictable, emotionless or lacking in spontaneity, colour and depth.” But how else can one feel when we live our lives inside with all our connections made through the internet? Identity crisis brought on by watching our constructed selves performing online is revisited in the song ‘30’. The bridge of the song goes: ‘your f*****g phones are poisoning your minds/ So when you develop a dissociative mental disorder in your late twenties, don’t come crawling back to me.’ Presumably, he’s disclosing his own experience. The song suggests that the cultural conditions Burnham lives in are inextricable from his state of mind. Later, as if on reality TV, he admits to the camera, ‘I’m really not well’. His admission, even as a performance, transmits a sense of solidarity and empathy with the viewer.
What is particularly interesting to me is his recurring exploration of modern mental illness throughout the special. In ‘That Funny Feeling’ he describes, “Googling ‘derealization’, hating what you find”. Later, Burnham is literally outside himself when he makes a reaction video to his own song. He controls his character, playing himself in a Twitch stream video game sketch. In the video game playthrough, he simultaneously performs and views his life in lockdown. The options for his character are to cry, to sit, to play piano or to sleep. He cannot leave his room. This rehearsed existence responds to the dissociative nature of everyday life in lockdown. By watching himself in a game, he leaves his own person, watching his own exploration of his lack of options. Burnham comments that our repeating insignificant rituals are gamified and rigid in their preprogrammed predictability. This mundane reality transposes itself into the most boring game ever. Speaking to the hipster game market, he self effacingly declares that some indie developer replicated his life for art. Inseparable from his existence is his performance of himself, his monetization of that performance, and living life unconsciously moulded to fit forms dictated by media that we consume.
Prior pandemic-specific content has felt to me to be a minefield of false cheer or relentlessly hopelessness. This show performs the last year’s hyper-specific loneliness with excess, sincerity, and irony. Were a time traveller to ask me what civilian life during the pandemic was like, I would first tell them to get lost, and then ask them to watch Inside. In the absence of live performances, it is a thrilling experience to witness comedy made precisely for this moment.
Inside is available to stream on Netflix.
