Sorry/Not Sorry opens with a smattering of journalists and comedians (mostly men) mourning what could have become of Louis C.K.’s genius. And it’s true, Louis C.K.’s genius—a word that gets used a lot throughout Cara Mones and Caroline Suh’s documentary—had taken the world by storm during the late 2000s and early 2010s. Back then, C.K. saw his rising star catapult into something beyond stratospheric. C.K. had been a fixture of the comedy world since the ‘90s, but his refreshingly, hilariously honest stand-up seen two decades later had positioned him as a fresh face for the general public. His acclaimed routines in specials like Chewed Up and Shameless paved the way for series Louie and Horace And Pete, numerous cameos in TV and film such as Parks And Recreation and Blue Jasmine, subsequent stand-up specials, and a movie, I Love You, Daddy, that, infamously, was never released.
The talking heads of Sorry/Not Sorry reflect on the brutal honesty of C.K.’s material; how he succeeded by positioning himself as a self-admittingly fucked-up mensch, as ashamed and flawed of his own being as the rest of us. He was owning it, but still embarrassed by himself—the very paradox of being. As a teenager during most of this rise to fame, C.K.’s comedy felt omnipresent among my social circle. He was beloved among myself and my friends. Tumblr was flooded with GIF sets of his stand-up routines and scenes from Louie.
Then, seven years ago, rumors that had been widely whispered and circulated among those in the comedy scene for decades were finally made public, coming to a head at the height of C.K.’s career: Louis C.K. likes to masturbate in front of women, mostly his female peers in comedy. And he’d been doing it for the better part of 20 years. Once the story was out there, C.K., quite willingly, admitted to it. The fallout was swift and widely covered—there need be no recap of the Louis C.K. scandal, which was particularly expedient in the immediate aftermath of both Harvey Weinstein and Bill Cosby, and the ensuing #MeToo movement. Yet Sorry/Not Sorry functions more aptly as a recap of a situation most people who would seek out the doc already know about.
At its best, Sorry/Not Sorry provides additional context and viewpoints within a different medium as opposed to say, news articles or tweets, and chews on this idea of “genius,” and what that allows the holder of the word to get away with in the age of “cancel culture.” Perhaps the most striking aspect of the film is its ending, in which fans are seen bemoaning the content that was lost during C.K.’s mere nine-month absence from the public eye.
If not necessarily a shocking tidbit, it’s another disheartening reminder that the (often female) victims of male abuse are too easily cast aside in favor of the content that the men who abused them created. And with C.K., it’s murkier territory: no, he didn’t rape them, he didn’t hit them, he didn’t intentionally obstruct their careers (although, his manager, Dave Becky, might have). He even asked their consent at times, although some, like comedian Jen Kirkman—who says C.K. never actually masturbated in front of her, only exhibited odd behavior that she initially dismissed but later clocked—thought it was a part of a bit, and became confused, not knowing quite how to respond. C.K. is a comedian, after all.
But C.K abused his power over these women, proving that he only saw his female colleagues as a means to a sexual end as opposed to peers in the same field. More upsettingly, many of these women looked to C.K. as a mentor or advisor of sorts, and instead endured lewd phone calls (like Abby Schachner), line-crossing conversations (like Jen Kirkman), or, of course, full-on jerk-off sessions, as the comedy duo Dana Min Goodman and Julia Wolov were subjected to. In retrospect, C.K.’s “brutally honest” comedy about how he’s a loser and men are all lecherous freaks comes across less refreshingly frank than genuinely perverted. As with his unreleased film I Love You, Daddy, C.K.’s honesty now seems like the admission of a man who continued to get away with his actions so seamlessly that he could put them up on a big screen for the entire world to see.
Again, none of this is new information, which is what is most puzzling about Sorry Not/Sorry. The stimulating conversations I’ve had in the aftermath of watching the film were provoked by the film, but not explored enough within the film itself. Less interesting are the soundbites from people like comedian Michael Ian Black and various culture reporters, though the perspectives of women like Kirkman, Schachner, and writer-comedian Megan Koester (who, like Kirkman, did not fall victim to C.K.’s abuse but tried desperately to bring it to the mainstream) are illuminating. But as Kirkman points out, she’s tired of talking about it. She doesn’t want this incident to define her career. Why should it? But Sorry/Not Sorry dredges it back up without providing more reasoning aside from, “Remember when this happened? It was bad, and it’s still bad. And don’t forget: nothing is being done about it.”
If anything, Sorry/Not Sorry excels at getting some of its subjects, like the content-ravenous C.K. fans, to admit that they don’t really care about victims of abuse. Comedy Cellar owner Noam Dworman admits that he platformed C.K.’s notorious surprise comeback routine not because he necessarily supports abusers but because it’s what the market wants. And who is he to deny the public what it wants? It’s upsetting, if perversely admirable in its frankness, to hear someone just outright say it. But we also already know that’s how people like him think. It’s not nearly as interesting or meaningful without the kind of catharsis that could be achieved by getting C.K. on camera to speak for himself—unsurprisingly, the filmmakers were unable to get him for comment.
Instead, we’re forced to listen to bits from his more recent, post-cancellation stand-up sets, in which C.K. brings back his “refreshingly honest” takes now with the added recognition of having an exhibitionist fetish. But as in the essay he published when his misconduct was brought to light back in 2017, C.K. doesn’t seem interested in atoning for his actions. Another performance sees C.K. standing on stage in front of a giant, light-up sign that says “Sorry.” Obviously, like the title of this film, he isn’t, which is what makes his comeback all the more frustrating and unearned even if, no, he didn’t actually rape anyone. Still, Sorry/Not Sorry tries to end on a hopeful note: The harassment Schachner received—some very publicly from Dave Chappelle—only emboldened her, and compelled her to return to performing. But the pittance women receive for what they endure should neither be so paltry compared to men nor defined by it, and the fact that Sorry/Not Sorry sees it as the only silver lining speaks to its unfinished thesis.