Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:
Bill Burr’s new Netflix special is often dazzling. It’s 80 minutes long, and there’s not a down spot in it. No one can rant like Burr; his routine is a quicksilver stream of beligerence. It’d be grating if it weren’t so dizzyingly organized around his pinprick observations. (Somehow his bits feel scattershot and precise in about equal measure.) Burr thrives on pushing topical boundaries. He’s never better than when he’s taking the audience right up to the brink of impropriety, and then leaving them there, dangling in a keyed-up state that’s somewhere between discomfort and the giddy liberation of shared knowingness. At these moments all of his energy seems to go into his stomach, his shoulders rise and move forward slightly, and his mouth blooms into a shit-eating grin. He looks like a kid who’s daring you to stop him from getting away with something.