Could a stand-up routine ever rise to the level of “art” — the kind of performance that rewards multiple viewings, whose humour grows and deepens, which contains subtleties waiting to be discovered? A sketch certainly can. Just think of Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” from 1944, or the trial of Ravelli in the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup from 1933, or Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s “One Leg Too Few” from 1964. With each new viewing, the comedic timing, the precision and cleverness of the puns, the exaggerated physicality, the sheer virtuosity of the writing cannot help but surprise and delight all over again.

But with most stand-up, the humour arises from a certain immediacy: the interaction between the material and the peculiarity of the times in which it is delivered, and between the comedian and the physical audience. The frisson that arises from that interaction, the shock or surprise the comedian is able to elicit, is hard to re-experience to the same degree.

It stands to reason, then, that if a stand-up act was to endure as a piece of comedic art, it would most likely be performed by a comedian who cut his teeth while working as a sketch writer for a show like Saturday Night Live.

Enter John Mulaney. There is something undeniably enduring, timeless even, about his Netflix special “Kid Gorgeous at Radio City”. It was recorded in 2017 — in the aftermath of Trump’s first election to the US presidency, when public bewilderment was still offset somewhat by the belief it wouldn’t last long — and won an Emmy for Outstanding Writing for a Variety Special in 2018.

Mulaney’s act exhibits a strange sort of genius, though. It is obviously a piece of writing. Indeed, he explicitly references the act of comedic writing throughout the routine.

Mulaney is also assiduously non-political — right up until the moment that he isn’t. It begins with a nostalgic nod: “I just like old-fashioned things. I was in Connecticut recently, doing white people stuff …” He makes reference to the oddity of coming across a gazebo that was “built by the town in 1863”: “Building a gazebo during the Civil War, that’d be like doing stand-up comedy now.”

And then he embarks on a metaphor for the Trump presidency that has been hailed by many as genius: “Here’s how I try to look at it, and this is just me, this guy being the president, it’s like there’s a horse loose in a hospital …”

The aesthetic connection between Donald Trump’s golden coiff and a horse’s mane is, of course, immediately pleasing. As is the invocation of something heedless thundering through a finely tuned environment. There’s the added benefit that Trump’s name is not mentioned once, and yet the entire simile works. The question is … why?

In a digital age, it’s all about “content”. The post or tweet or reel or video or pod is nothing without something in it that permits it to be shared, to circulate, to attract attention, to promote engagement. What matters is the fact of circulation, not the usefulness or accuracy or beauty of what is circulating.

In other words, “content” is generated not to last, but merely to attract attention for the time-being; it is designed to be transitory without regard for either epistemic or aesthetic value; it merely fills the void left by the creation of digital platforms; it exists primarily to circulate, which is to say, to go viral; it reduces everything to “fodder”, regardless of the human dimensions or tragedy or seriousness or spuriousness of the story. The perfect encapsulation of “content” is the meme.

The ethical and aesthetic problems this presents are not exactly new, but the scale and speed of the “content industry” — especially in a time of generative AI – invests them with a degree of urgency.

As soon as it was published in February 1974, Peter Benchley’s novel “Jaws” was a sensation and remained on the New York Times best-seller list for over ten months. It continued to loom large in the public consciousness when, just 16 months after its publication, a 27-year-old Steven Spielberg adapted it for the big screen.

While “Jaws” was the third such best-selling novel to be made into a popular film by the mid-1970s (following Mario Puzzo’s “The Godfather” from 1969, and William Peter Blatty’s “The Exorcist” from 1971), nothing to date rivalled its commercial success and cultural influence. This had something to do with Universal Pictures’ television advertising campaign, as well as the decision to opt for nation-wide release rather than the staggered rollout which had been the norm. But there was something about the source material on which the film drew — designed as it was to both appeal to and induce a certain terror about swimming in the ocean, about venturing into an alien habitat where humans don’t belong — and the scheduled release date at the start of the summer holidays, that achieved a rare alchemy; a perfect recipe for mass appeal. And so the “summer blockbuster” was born.

The genius of Carl Gottlieb’s script and Spielberg’s directorial vision was to pare back the sprawl of Benchley’s novel — its preoccupations with class tensions, political corruption, marital breakdown, economic decline, urban crime and pollution — and reduce the story to two central planks: a monster terrorising a small sea-side town, and three men united in the effort to kill it. The movie is divided almost exactly into these halves (unlike Benchley’s novel, in which the hunt for the shark is limited to last quarter of the book).

For all this, however, it is not finally the monster that holds our attention throughout the film — the shark, after all, barely appears, and is most often suggested, by music, by the exposed dorsal fin, by the yellow barrels — but two profoundly human affects:

• the vulnerability of the town itself, represented powerfully by Amity’s precarious economy and the bodies of the shark’s preferred prey — young women and children;
• the humanity and unlikely comradery of the three men aboard the far-too-small boat (as Roger Ebert wrote in his 1975 review, the movie works “because it’s populated with characters that have been developed into human beings we get to know and care about”).

Without question, the cultural terror over the shark, which had been reduced to a “rogue” killer, a mindless “eating machine”, is one of the legacies of the film, and the impetus behind a range of disastrous anti-shark public policies. But “Jaws” also manages to hold out other lessons — about the danger of putting other priorities over public safety, about the nature of “moral panic”, and about the humanity that is required to ensure genuine threats don’t bring out the worst in us.

On 12 June, Israel initiated a devastating series of strikes on Iran — the goal of which was evidently to diminish the nation’s increasingly problematic nuclear program and to “decapitate” the nation’s top military leaders and nuclear scientists. There is no doubt these attacks were meticulously planned and represent the culmination of a long-term strategy: to neutralise the threat posed by Iran and its proxies in Lebanon, Yemen and Gaza.

The timing and urgency of the strikes, however, have puzzled many. After all, they came little more than a week prior to the scheduled latest round of talks between the United States and Iran on the future of the latter’s nuclear program. The precipitating event seems to have been the release of a recent report by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), which found that “Iran can convert its current stock of 60 percent enriched uranium into 233 kg of WGU in three weeks … enough for 9 nuclear weapons”, and that “Iran is undertaking the near-final step of breaking out, now converting its 20 percent stock of enriched uranium into 60 percent enriched uranium at a greatly expanded rate”.

Such findings would certainly have been central to US-Iran talks. But they were taken by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as posing a clear and imminent threat to the State of Israel, and therefore as justifying a preventive attack.

Iran then unleashed a series of missile strikes of its own, citing justification on the grounds of “self-defence”. We have, in other words, two nations claiming to be acting in self-defence. But this isn’t peculiar to this specific conflict between historically hostile nations. Prior to the 2003 invasion of Iraq, the United States asserted a right to “pre-emptive self-defence”. Vladimir Putin justified Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 as an act of “self-defence” against a future attack.

“Self-defence” thus seems to have become a legally and politically promiscuous term, and can thus be used to justify actions in which no imminent threat is present and for which alternatives are available. What, then, are the legal and philosophical limits to claims that one is acting in “self-defence”, particularly when that entails pre-emptive violence?

Between 1996 and 2022, for all but a brief and tumultuous six-year hiatus, the Coalition has governed Australia. Over this period, not only did the Liberal and National parties dominate federal politics, they defined the terrain upon which the political contest itself would be fought. On any number of policy fronts — from border security and immigration through to taxation, fiscal management and the US alliance — the Coalition staked out what would constitute the new political “centre”.

But over the last two federal elections, the Coalition has seen its numbers in Parliament dramatically reduced — losing more than 30 seats to Labor and Teal independents, nearly all of them from Liberal ranks.

It was hardly surprising, then, that the Coalition would find itself in jeopardy. After a brief separation, the Liberals and Nationals decided to carry on together. But the underlying tensions between the Parties remain. And yet these tensions are perhaps not as significant as those within the Liberal Party itself:

• between Liberal members/preselectors and the majority of Liberal voters;
• between the ideologically liberal and philosophically conservative forces;
• between the political moderates and aspirational multiculturalists, on the one hand, and those wanting to emulate the more extreme, divisive politics of the likes of Donald Trump, on the other.

A divorce from the Nationals could have presented a welcome opportunity to resolve the Liberal Party’s own internal tensions, its lack of identity, its philosophical incoherence. Has the mended political relationship now made that impossible? During an extended period in opposition, can the Liberal Party fashion a truly Australian version of conservatism — one that eschews the more divisive, atavistic, bellicose traits that define it elsewhere?

It is a problem many people increasingly feel they can neither avoid nor ignore: we could characterise it as the problem of loving the art, but being unsettled by the behaviour or the beliefs of the artist who created it.

This is a perfectly serviceable way of grasping the outline of the matter, but, on further reflection, it fails to get to its heart. For it’s not that we are merely put off by or disappointed with the artist — as though they have somehow failed to live up to an ethical ideal or have adopted a way of living that is a bit too outré for our liking.

What is at issue is not so much disappointment as it is betrayal: we’ve come to know something about the artist so distressing that it cannot help but plunge us into a state of either deprivation (we still value the art, maybe even love it, but no longer know how to enjoy it) or dissonance (we go on pretending that what is essentially private doesn’t matter, and that the art can continue to be enjoyed in its own right). In either case, we are left longing for a lost innocence when we did not know what we now know.

Whatever it is that ruins our appreciation of these artists and intellectuals, it is something that threatens to permeate the whole. Call it a kind of monstrousness. In her book Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma, Claire Dederer perfectly captures the affective dimension of the dilemma concerning great artists:

“They were accused of doing or saying something awful, and they made something great. The awful thing disrupts the great work; we can’t watch or listen to or read the great work without remembering the awful thing. Flooded with knowledge of the maker’s monstrousness, we turn away, overcome by disgust. Or … we don’t. We continue watching, separating or trying to separate the artist from the art. Either way: disruption.”

It would be a mistake, however, to see the problem of “tainted artists” as just an ethical problem — like wearing affordable clothes that are manufactured under exploitative conditions, or eating chocolate that is not ethically sourced, or buying cage eggs, or a principled refusal to eat meat that otherwise tastes good. It is also an aesthetic problem. Because knowing what we know causes us to see the work differently.

You can read an excerpt from Anna Funder’s book Wifedom, on George Orwell’s domestic monstrousness, here.

Fresh from a commanding victory at the federal election, Anthony Albanese began to bundle his campaign policy offerings together in a new package — not just to give these political commitments a kind of internal coherence, but also to stake out what could be distinctive about his premiership as a whole.

The term he reached for to sum it all up is “progressive patriotism”. In a conversation with David Crowe for the Nine papers, the Prime Minister explained what he means:

“We spoke about doing things the Australian way, not looking towards any other method or ideology from overseas. At a time where there’s conflict in the world, where people are often divided on the basis of race or religion, here in Australia, we can be a microcosm for the world.

That says that we’re enriched by our diversity, that we have respect for people of different faith, that we try to bring people together, that we don’t bring turmoil overseas and play out that conflict here, either, and that’s really important.

This is a project, if you like, that’s not just about strengthening Australia, but also being a symbol for the globe in how humanity can move forward.”

Hearing a Labor leader talk in terms of “patriotism” should not be terribly strange to our ears. Bob Hawke did it in his own vernacular, and Paul Keating was able to combine a certain confidence over Australia’s place in the region with an irrepressible economic self-assurance that was his trademark style — a national confidence, moreover, that needn’t be undermined by a frank acknowledgement of what “we” Australians had done to the First Peoples of this land.

But left-leaning patriotism can lay claim to a longer, more noble lineage. It was, after all, the British Labour government of Prime Minister Clement Atlee (1945–1951) and his Minister for Health, Aneurin Bevan, that established the NHS and embarked on an unprecedented public housing program — a welfare state borne along by the winds of post-war patriotic sentiment.

For his part, Albanese seems to be invoking a notion of patriotism largely devoid of ideology and exceptionalism, and that is grounded in an enlarged idea of welfarism and social provision. It is a promising and undeniably noble sentiment. But in times like ours, can “patriotism” really shed its exclusivist undertones?

Can patriotism be reoriented as a horizontal attachment to our fellow citizens through the shared principles that govern our common life — or must it always involve a form of vertical loyalty, a civic religion that binds some of us together insofar as we swear fealty to a necessarily exclusionary ideal?

Over the last two years, many in Australia and around the world have watched in horror as Sudan, Gaza and other zones of mass violence descend into humanitarian crises of devastating proportions.

And while the cause of each crisis is unique, the consequences tend to share common characteristics — for especially civilians: millions of people are displaced and left without homes to return to; basic social infrastructure, hospitals and schools are reduced to ruins; tens of thousands of men, women and children are targeted for killing or die due to fighting, disease and the lack of food; sexual violence and torture are widespread; and starvation is deliberately employed as a weapon of war.

The scale and sheer desperation of the humanitarian crises in Sudan and Gaza ought to sear the souls of anyone committed to the notion of human dignity and the belief in a common humanity. But the tendency of so many in Australia — though we are by no means unusual in this regard — is to permit humanitarian concern and moral attentiveness to the plight of others to pass in and out of focus.

Is there a moral imperative on citizens to remain attentive, to enlarge their capacity for sympathy, to make democratic “noise” in the policy deliberations of our elected representatives? If so, how might the capacity for that attentiveness be cultivated, and in what ways should it manifest in order to serve the people we are trying to protect?

“Joy” is a strange kind of word. It describes a feeling that we all know, but do not know exactly how to value. It’s not happiness — which can, after all, be interior, quiet and express itself as a kind of contentment — nor is it merely pleasure (even though, in many languages, “pleasure” and “joy” are etymologically related). Joy is not only more exuberant than happiness, it is also weightier than pleasure. Montaigne was onto something when he wrote, “Profound joy has more seriousness than gaiety about it …”

In what circumstances, then, do we find that it is fitting to use the word “joy”? It is almost always when it is coupled with a sense of struggle, the experience of coming through disappointment and failure, the attempt to achieve something that is inherently difficult. That’s why it does not strike us as inappropriate when joy is tinged with sorrow (as when a loved one is not present to experience it) or when sorrow is lightened by joy (the same way that lamentation, for instance, can be an expression of an underlying hopefulness).

All of which is to say, whatever “joy” is, it isn’t easy.

But then there’s one additional element that invariably seems to be present when we reflect on the nature of “joy”: the fact that it seems to require companionship, or at least company. It needs to be shared.

After any election, a narrative of sorts must be woven out of the disparate threads of the votes of so many individuals in so many seats. Which is to say, there has to be an act of discernment to hear what “the people” are trying to communicate — to make their will legible, as it were.

Despite a relatively modest increase in Labor’s primary vote, the Albanese government added between 15 and 18 seats to its majority in the Lower House, while the Coalition has been reduced to a parliamentary rump.

The election outcome, then, was decisive — but what does it mean? Was this simply a matter of the electorate wanting the stability of incumbency in uncertain times, overshadowed by an increasingly unpredictable US president? Was it about punishing the Coalition for its flirtations with Trumpism-down-under and its incoherent policy offerings? All of the above?

Was it also a sign that voters have wearied of “culture war” politics, and desire the centrism and modesty of responsible governance? Did the prime minister reflect the better angels of Australians’ nature back to them with his humility and emphasis on kindness? Or is Labor’s parliamentary majority less significant than it seems?