Sarah Silverman Laughs in the Face of Death in Her New Netflix Special

Dead family aren’t all that funny, and Silverman’s dad isn’t any ordinary dead relative. Schleppy Silverman is a crucial part of her comedian origin story, teaching her swearing as a second language at an early age. She showed off her skills in grocery stores as a toddler, basking in the positive (and negative) attention. A potty-mouthed stand-up comic was born.

When Schleppy and Silverman’s stepmom, Janice, ed away last year, nine days apart, it was inevitable that Silverman would reconcile her grief through comedy. But that’s a high-wire act that few comedians can pull off. As much as Silverman’s fans would want to share her sorrow, the prospect sounds like a heavy night at the comedy club. 

Silverman lets the crowd know they needn't worry in her new Netflix special, PostMortem. “They both gave me so much,” she says in an early sincere moment before switching to snark. “And most recently, about an hour’s worth of new material. So let’s do this.” 

In other words, if PostMortem is a memorial service, Silverman is opting for a celebration of life, not a weepy funeral with everyone dressed in black. 

Schleppy is the star of the show, a man Silverman called her best friend. During Silverman’s childhood, he owned a discount women’s clothing store called Crazy Sophie’s Factory Outlet and even did his own radio commercials. “I’m Crazy Donny! When I see those prices at the mall, I just wanna vomit!”

Silverman rarely picked up the phone when Schleppy called every Saturday, mostly because she treasured his bizarro voicemails: “I know you’re a real Hollywood hotshot now. Maybe you could find time in your busy schedule to call back the guy who gave you life!” Incensed, he added one more thought: “I used to lift up your little legs and wipe the shit out of your tuchus!”

Schleppy hated rich people, challenged muscleheads to fistfights in delis, and left profane endorsements for his dentist on Yelp. The guy was a walking comedy routine.  

Silverman’s mother, Beth Ann (she died eight years ago), and stepmother, Janice, play ing roles in PostMortem. Beth Ann was “like Diane Chambers from Cheers,” ordering croissants in fast-food restaurants with a French accent. Honest to the end, her last words to Sarah were, “Your hair — it’s so dry.”

Well-coiffed stepmom Janice gets her due as well, fawning over a painting created by one of Silverman’s sisters. “How did you know?” she exclaims. “It’s all my colors — tan, bronze and animal print!”

The special gets darker as it goes, from Janice’s terminal cancer diagnosis to Schleppy’s last days at home after the family agreed to stop his medication. Silverman and her sisters were with him until the end, and she offers a sweet remembrance of his final hours. In the hands of another comedian, say Mike Birbiglia or Tig Notaro, it’s not hard to imagine the special turning quiet, serious, heart-on-the-sleeve emotional. Silverman, who has no problem laying her feelings bare on her podcasts, makes the choice not to go there, dropping an unexpectedly wicked punchline every time PostMortem threatens to become maudlin or overly sincere. It’s a trade-off — the choice makes for a funnier special, but PostMortem doesn’t pack the emotional wallop that it could have.

Is Silverman afraid the audience can’t handle a moment of real vulnerability? Is she masking her own grief by covering up with inappropriate punchlines? I suspect the real reason she takes the jokey route is because Schleppy would have wanted it that way.