Jerry Seinfeld: 23 Hours To Kill

Most refreshing is the way age has found Seinfeld leaning into the bleak nihilism that has always laced his comedy, the dark undercurrent of his material now evolved past the point of misanthropy into a full-throated disgust for the human race as a whole.

Half of it sucks; half is great. It's too simple as a way to summarize the special, because both parts are the same comedian using the same techniques, and all of them are some version of Seinfeld.

It’s classic cranky Seinfeld, but there’s such a spring in his step as he moves about the stage, such a twinkle in his eye as his voice goes higher, to the point where he sounds like everyone’s not-good imitation of Jerry Seinfeld, that none of it comes across as angry. This is the comedy of joyful bemusement.

The “women do this, men do that” generalities are a bit off-the-peg. But there are some choice riffs, as his wife complains about his incorrect tone (“I thought it was a marriage; apparently it’s a musical”), and as Jerry frets that his babies are also his replacements.

Isn’t the most daring comedy special on Netflix and it’s not the funniest, but that shouldn’t be the metric.