Ricky Gervais on offence, anger and infuriating Hollywood: ‘You have to provoke. It’s a good thing’

He has made a career out of winding people up in everything from The Office to his Golden Globes speeches – but is the comedian’s bark worse than his bite?

Ricky Gervais’s assistant leads me past a huge, empty room to the top floor of an office above a shop on a swanky London high street. Gervais is sitting behind a desk at his computer in another huge, empty room, and looks as if he’s just squatted the place. There is nothing that suggests this is his office, except for the branded mugs sitting on his desk; one shows his face, the second says Tambury Gazette, the fictional newspaper where Gervais’s character, Tony, works in his hit Netflix series After Life.

As soon as he sees me, he swings his legs off the floor and on to the desk. I expect him to say, “Right, shoot”, as his fabulous fictional creation David Brent might have done, but he reins himself in. It’s 20 years since Gervais made his name with The Office, and it’s often been difficult to know where Brent ends and Gervais begins.

Gervais, who is wearing his customary black T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, gestures to a bottle of water on my side of the desk. “That’s for you,” he says magnanimously. I ask how he has changed since making The Office. “People normally think wealth and fame change you, but I don’t think they have, because by the time you’re 40 you already know who you are. I don’t think they’d change a 40-year-old like a 20-year-old.” The Office has been remade in 11 different countries, netting him a fortune in the process. How much is he worth these days? “Oh come on! Fuckkkkkin hell,” he squeals in protest. He looks offended for a good second.I’m sure there’s a news story that tells you. I’m doing all right. But I don’t want to be in print telling you how much I’ve got.” It’s classic Brent. Gervais is worth an estimated £105m.

The trailer for season three of After Life

He is enjoying his greatest success since The Office and Extras, the TV comedy about background actors that featured real stars playing themselves in an unflattering light. As Gervais is quick to point out, After Life was the most watched British comedy in the world in the past decade, having been viewed by more than 85 million people. And, as he is equally quick to point out, the series in which he plays Tony, a grieving widower, has moved many viewers to tears. Go to his Twitter account, where he has 14.5 million followers, and you’ll find endless retweets praising it, and his many other projects: “Have just watched #AfterLife for the fourth time now and @rickygervais still makes me cry”, “#AfterLife is the best comedy series I ever watched.” When not posting about his shows on social media, Gervais tweets photographs of animals, and reminds us to be kind to each other. Kindness is his big thing these days. If he can make the world care a little more, he feels he’s done a decent day’s work.

At the same time, he’s also come to be regarded as a scourge of “wokedom”. Last year he said: “There’s this new weird sort of fascism of people thinking they know what you can say and what you can’t.” In October, he told neuroscientist and writer Sam Harris: “I want to live long enough to see the younger generation not be woke enough for the next generation. It’s going to happen. Don’t they realise that, it’s like, they’re next.”

It’s never been easy to pin down Gervais. Not least because he says that comments made in jest are too often taken literally. After reports suggesting that he believed The Office would be a victim of cancel culture today, he tweeted a clarification: “Someone said they might try to cancel it one day, and I said, ‘Good, let them cancel it. I’ve been paid!’ Clearly a joke.”

This tension between the kindly and the cantankerous – which seems to be on full display today – is also at the heart of After Life. Tony is a lovable louse or an odious do-gooder depending on your perspective.

Tony works for a local newspaper writing corny features and is inconsolable after losing his wife, Lisa, to cancer. At some point in every episode we see him watching old videos on his computer of the wonderful times they had together – playing practical jokes on each other, watching movies, drinking, playing with their dog, walking, laughing. They didn’t need other people or children because they completed each other. And when she died, he was left with nothing but the dog, Brandy, for comfort. He contemplates suicide because life is so meaningless. But instead he decides to tell everybody what he really thinks of them, and calls it his superpower. If it all goes wrong in the end, he tells himself, he can still kill himself.

It is a MacGuffin that enables him to indulge a familiar Gervaisian trope – undiluted rudeness. His superpower often involves telling people they are fat. In the first episode, he calls a stranger a “fat, hairy, nosy cocksucker”, a child a “tubby little ginger cunt”, and his colleague “fat boy”. Meanwhile, in a video recorded before her death, Lisa (no stranger to truth-telling herself) calls Tony a “fat, lazy, self-pitying lump” and a “fat twat”.

Now Gervais is about to launch the third series of After Life – a first for him because he has never made more than two series of any of his TV sitcoms. Tony has evolved, and has discovered the limits of nihilistic nastiness. Kindness is beginning to get the better of him. The supporting characters in After Life constantly tell Tony how kind and funny he is. He comes to realise that caring, rather than not caring, is a superpower. After Life is a potty-mouthed version of Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life. Like George Bailey, Tony is rescued from despair when he is made aware of how much better he has made the world for others.

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Whereas The Office was universally lauded, After Life has received mixed notices – detractors have said it is heavily signposted and saccharine, while fans have marvelled at the mix of emotion and humour. I ask Gervais how it came about. “With most things I can remember how I thought of that joke and how it developed,” he says. Already I’m confused – I had assumed that it started with the idea of loss and grief. “So I was on tour in March 2017 with my show Humanity, and I’ve still got that work ethic. I thought, I’m staying in castles and being chauffeur-driven, and I feel guilty about only working an hour a day. So I thought I should write something new.”

Gervais is mid-monologue. He doesn’t really allow for interruptions. He just talks till he runs out of steam, then asks what the question was. “Humanity was vaguely about free speech and the world changing. And I thought, ‘Why do we worry about what people say?’ Well, we worry about the consequences. But why do we worry about the consequences? Well, because you want to be popular and you don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. Well, what if you didn’t care, what if you had nothing to lose? I went, but why would you do that? Well, if you were going to die or nearly died. If you were going to kill yourself, and you didn’t. What could have happened to make you feel that bad? Because you lose the love of your life. Why didn’t you kill yourself? Because the dog was hungry.”

And there you have it: the genesis of After Life. Gervais comes to a stop, awed by his train of thought. “That all happened in two minutes. And then the rest is … ” He trails off, not wanting to resort to cliche.

***

Gervais, 60, was born in Reading to working-class parents – a father who laboured on building sites, and a mother who did odd jobs while bringing him and his three siblings up. When he asked why there was such a gap between him and the other children (he is 17 years younger than the oldest) his mother told him he was a mistake. It made him laugh. She often made him laugh. One day, when he was up earlier than usual, she asked if it was because he’d shat the bed.

Things came too easily to him, he says, so he didn’t give his all – not at school, or work, or in his early days as a performer. “I was proud of passing exams without trying hard. Now, I look back and think, ‘Well you’re an idiot; imagine if you’d tried harder.’” He started a course in biology at university, then swapped to philosophy because it was a doss – seven hours a week instead of 40. “I didn’t really study for three years. I feel a bit guilty about that, too.”

He was lazy, he says. He watched comics on TV, told himself he was funnier than they were, but never did anything about it. The young Gervais was a pretty boy who modelled himself on David Bowie and David Sylvian. In 1982, he formed Seona Dancing, a new-wave duo, with his best friend, Bill Macrae, and they got themselves a record deal in his final year at University College London. They released two singles on London records that flopped in the UK. Listen to More to Lose and Bitter Heart today and they could pass for 80s synthpop classics. Again, Gervais says he didn’t give it his best, and the band were dropped. “You think, ‘Fucking hell, that was it.’” He briefly managed Suede before they hit the big time, then settled for office life, working his way up to events manager at the University of London Union. He made extensive notes about the daft conversations, annoying habits, petty jealousies, rivalries, egos and office romances.

In his next job, at the London radio station Xfm – where he was “head of speech” – he employed Stephen Merchant, 13 years his junior, as his assistant. Together, this odd couple (Gervais is a squat 5ft 8in, Merchant a lanky 6ft 7in) went on to create The Office with the help of the notes Gervais made in the previous job. It is such a beautifully structured, spare piece of writing, I say. Did Merchant help discipline you as a writer? “No, The Office was the first thing I’d ever tried my hardest at, and that was because I thought, ‘What a privilege to have a second bite of the cherry.’” He pauses. “That’s a big lesson I’ve learned. Working harder at something makes you better at it.” Gervais is a master of stating the obvious as if it’s a pearl of wisdom.

I ask if his quest for kindness marks a change. “Kindness, compassion has definitely been in my work of the last 10 years.” Then again, he says, look back to The Office, and at heart David Brent wanted to do well by people and be loved. “My stuff has always been quite existential – are we wasting our life? – through to Derek, which is about people at the end of their life, through to After Life, which is about people losing their life.”

In Derek, a mockumentary about life in a care home, Gervais plays the eponymous hero as a gurning simpleton whom everybody loves. Although he denied that Derek was supposed to have disabilities, the sitcom caused controversy. Opinion was divided among those who found it offensive over whether Gervais was mocking or sentimentalising people with special needs.

The biggest change since The Office, he says, is the rise of social media. “Nowadays you hear everyone’s opinions. If you go on Twitter for a day, you think there is a war going on, then you go outside for a walk and nothing’s changed. Twenty years ago, if you saw something on TV you didn’t like, you’d pick up a pen and go: ‘Dear BBC, I’m absolutely horrified … ’ Nah, fuck it.” He imitates somebody picking up a pen, then putting it down because it’s too much effort. “Now you fire off a tweet and it makes the news. Twitter is like road rage.”

It has to be said that he can rage with the worst of them. In August, he wrote about a group of people who were torturing and killing monkeys on camera: “I’m so fucking angry I don’t know what to do. I could honestly kill the dirty, savage cunts that do this.” In the same month, he tweeted in response to critics of Operation Ark, Pen Farthing’s mission to rescue animals from Afghanistan and bring them to the UK: “Dear stupid cunts saying we shouldn’t put animals before people … ”

Social media, he suggests, is the great equaliser. I assume he means that is a good thing, but no: “Twitter enables narcissism because it allows people to put in print and to publish alongside scientists and politicians their deeply held opinion. Like, I do a thing about save the rhino, and someone always goes: ‘What about the kids in Syria?’ And I want to go back: ‘What are you doing about the kids in Syria?’”

If Twitter infuriates him so much, why doesn’t he get off it? “Marketing,” he says. It’s a brilliant tool for self-promotion. And, he adds, it’s a great resource for humour. “As an observational comedian you usually have to go around prisons and asylums to meet the people I talk about, but now I can find out the score from my Hampstead mansion. Hehehehehehh!” He opens his mouth, displays the famous fangs, and laughs like a hyena. So he actively seeks out the craziness? “Yeah, I go fishing. I sometimes put out a tweet that I know is going to get me opinions. For example, I did a tweet asking what’s the one thing you should never make a joke about. I got a thousand replies, and every one was different and funny.” What amused him, he says, is that each response was as pious as it was wrongheaded.

Gervais’s stance on appropriate subjects for a joke is simple – anything goes. In a democracy, he says, you have a right to offend and be offended, but you don’t have the right to outlaw topics. The trouble is, he says, some people are not bright enough to get his jokes; they confuse the subject with the target. So, for example, when he said Caitlyn Jenner had not done much for women drivers (Jenner had been involved in an accident that resulted in a fatality), he wasn’t ridiculing trans women, he was playing on the stereotype of bad women drivers, he explains.

Today, Gervais is a polarising figure. On social media, half the posters deify him as a champion of free speech standing up to the tyrannies of wokedom, while the other half accuse him of picking on the disadvantaged and punching down. Both interpretations are wrong, he says. “I’m nobody’s champion. Get a better champion is what I’d say to anybody who thinks I’m their champion.” And if he is not dividing people, he protests, he is not doing his job properly.

Gervais is certainly happy to attack the powerful. He has hosted the Golden Globes five times and never failed to offend Hollywood royalty. In 2020, he accused the stars of enabling Harvey Weinstein by “acting like they don’t see a thing”, and being so venal that if Isis started a streaming channel, they would call their agent. His act is uncomfortable, charmless, crude and brave. As the camera pans round the room, you can see the A-listers wincing.

What he doesn’t understand is the criticism he gets for giving the stars a tough time. “Do I pander to the 200 billionaires in the room or the 200 million people at home sitting in their pants drinking beer who aren’t winning awards, who aren’t billionaires? It’s a no-brainer for a comedian. I’m a jester. I play to the other peasants in the mud. I wasn’t going in terrible. Think of the things I could have said.” He starts to give it the full Joe Pesci as he works himself into a rage. “Think of the fucking terrible things I could have joked about. It’s off the charts – It’s. Off. The. Charts – the terrible things I could say.”

A second later, he’s calmly telling me of the fans he does have among the glitterati. “Robert De Niro was just crying with laughter when I made a joke about Hugh Hefner and his young bride. He called me after a week and said: ‘I wanna say you did a great job.’ ‘Oh man,’ I said, ‘I annoyed some people.’ He said: ‘Fuck ’em, they were jokes.’”

Earlier this year, Ash Atalla, the producer of The Office, said that some of the jokes Gervais made about his disability left him feeling “a little bit uncomfortable”. At the British Comedy awards in 2001, Gervais said that Atalla, who contracted polio as a child, was the show’s “runner”, called him “my little wheelchair friend”, and said that he was “just the same as Stephen Hawking, but without all the clever stuff”. Gervais looks shocked when I mention it. “Well if he’d said to me at the time he was uncomfortable with it, I wouldn’t have done it. But he didn’t.” Atalla said that comedians who emerged in the 00s, such as Gervais, Jimmy Carr and Frankie Boyle would “see what you could get away with and then reverse-intellectualise it”.

Gervais still does it today. He tells me how he starts his latest live show, SuperNature, with a lesson in irony. “I say, ‘That’s when I say something I don’t really mean for comic effect and you, as an audience, laugh at the wrong thing because you know what the right thing is.’ I challenge them to be offended and they never are of course, because they get it.” Actually, he says, if nobody is offended, he’s failed. “You have to provoke! It’s a good thing. Learning provokes, science provokes, opinion provokes. Offence provokes.”

Is he often offended? “Course I am. I’m offended all the fucking time. Everything offends me.” What like? “Real things, obviously. Not jokes or words or opinions. The first thing that springs to mind is animal cruelty. But everything. Stupidity.” Is it true that he finds noise offensive? Absolutely, he says. He gives me an example. “I’m on a plane. There’s a guy there about my age, reading the paper. We’re about to take off, New York to London. First class, so I had nothing to moan about. But he was doing this.” Gervais yawns loudly, and makes a smacking sound with his lips. “I looked a couple of times to make sure there was nothing wrong with him, and he did it 10 times, and I went, ‘Sorry can you yawn without all the stuff after. And he went, ‘Oh sorry!’ And I thought, ‘Fuck me, I’ve got to sit here for another six hours.’ Hahahahahhaaaaa.” Again the gnashers flash, and he’s laughing hysterically. But he means it.

Gervais prides himself on his intolerance. There’s the time he and his partner of 40 years, Jane Fallon, could hear their neighbours’ television through the wall. “We could hear what the programme was. It was really really loud.” He makes clear the objection was his, not Jane’s. “Again if it was a thunderstorm or herds of wildebeest or wolves, it wouldn’t bother me, but if somebody’s got the telly on a bit loud, it’s like they’re doing it on purpose. So I went round and knocked on the door, and this old lady answered and I said, ‘Oh sorry, your telly’s very loud.’ She said, ‘Oh sorry, I’m slightly deaf,’ and I said, ‘Oh sorry, don’t worry.’ As I went away, she said, ‘And I hate to wear my hearing aid.’” He looks as if he’s feeling the annoyance afresh after all these years. “I thought, ‘Oh why did you tell me that?’”

I ask why he is so obsessed with fat people. He looks surprised, and says he’s not. Well, they are so often the target of Tony’s abuse in After Life, I say, asking if he is sensitive about weight because he’s been called fat? He says that couldn’t be less true. “I didn’t care about being fat when I was fat. And I still am a bit fat. Insults don’t mean anything to me. I think they’re funny. If someone genuinely tries to insult me, I laugh, because how can you insult me? I’m too happy. You can’t ruin my day by calling me something.” He says he and Jane could not be more content. They don’t have children, they have little to worry about, and they adore each other. After Life, which Gervais also directed, was partly inspired by thinking about how meaningless life would be without Jane.

That’s so interesting, I say, because you don’t come across as a happy man. “I know. I know.” You seem curmudgeonly, I say. “People think I’m angry on Twitter, and I’m never angry.” He stops. Well, maybe occasionally he is. He tells me how he can’t abide people crunching on apples or crisps. “Ugh, apples,” he says. “Apples have got everything. Cos it’s the crunch, then the too much in the mouth, then the sucking it in … I need to go for another wee. It’s an age thing.”

***

On his return, he looks at his watch, says he can’t believe the time, and he’s got to head off. “I guess it was naive of me to think we’d just talk about After Life, wasn’t it? Did we mention it at all?” His mood seems to have changed. Before he was grumpy funny. Now he’s just grumpy.

I ask why he rarely gives interviews these days. “I don’t like them. They give me too much anxiety. I’m not in control. I don’t know what you’re going to write. And I only do it so someone who hasn’t heard about After Life will watch the show. If you didn’t write about After Life, this would be fucking pointless. It would only be bad.” He is talking with such venom. I give him a look. “No, no. I don’t mean you. Don’t take it personally, but I wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t come to spill my heart out. I’ll read it with anxiety. What’s he said? What’s that come across like?’”

What will you worry about most? “Well, misinformation.” I’m still sitting at the desk and he’s hovering over me. “Misrepresentation. You being unfair. If you read a thing, it’s 50% wrong. I mean trivial things. There might be the odd misquote, age wrong, where I was born, one of my brothers’ names. You start realising everything’s 50% wrong”.

Years ago, getting a good review from a critic meant more to him than a show being commercially successful. Not any more. “I’ve totally changed my mind. Totally changed my mind. When you start off, you look at every critic, every review, everything matters. Every bad one hurts you. But now, there’s so much it doesn’t matter. There’s no one critic, no one paper – so the people are bigger.”

And this is where social media – or at least his fanbase on social media – gets his approval. “That’s why I go direct to the people, because I only ever cared about criticism because I thought it could make my show better. I only cared about winning Baftas because I thought people might watch the show. It was never about: ‘Guess what Jane? The critics love me.’ It was always about: will more people watch the show, will I sell more tickets?”

How does he think he is misrepresented by the media? “That I’m cruel and I don’t care what people think about me. It’s not true. I do care what people think about me.” If anything, you’re thin-skinned, aren’t you? “Well. I think it’s unjust. But then again, I don’t care enough to go and tell the world. In the early days, I just thought if someone slagged me off, ‘Where the fuck do they live?’”

I remind him of the time Ian Hislop slammed his standup show Animals in 2003. After that, he finished each gig by calling Hislop an “ugly little pug-faced cunt”. Ah, Gervais says, but this was actually a clever joke rather than foul-mouthed retribution. “The joke was he said that I was childish and used playground insults, so then I do a childish joke. I even called him up to ask if he minded me saying that. And he said, ‘Do what you want, but I just want to say I’m a fan.’”

I’m thinking about what Gervais said about me not taking his dislike of interviews personally. Actually, it’s hard to take anything he says personally because he doesn’t seem to do personal. There’s been something strange about our meeting, but I can’t quite place what. Only towards the end, when we’ve been talking for more than 90 minutes, does it strike me that he has not used my name once. Nor has he asked what it is. In fact he’s not asked me a single thing. Most interviewees engage on a basic level – where have you come from today, do you like your job, what do you think of this or that? Not Gervais, though. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody less interested in other people.

In After Life, Tony expresses his newfound kindness with dramatic gestures. Gervais doesn’t seem to realise kindness is also about little things – learning a name, showing an interest, making people feel they matter, too. Perhaps it’s all of a piece. Gervais’s later work has tended to deal more with types than fleshed-out humans – so people with learning disabilities like Derek are sweet-natured; people who have lost loved ones are broken; Hollywood A-listers are hypocrites. Despite the sympathetic treatment of his newspaper staff in After Life, I sense he files journalists under “Bastards who get 50% wrong”.

I assure him I will mention After Life, and ask about the allegations involving its producer Charlie Hanson. In May, it was revealed that Hanson, a longtime Gervais collaborator, had been suspended by Netflix during filming of the third series after 11 women made historical allegations of sexual misconduct, including serious sexual assault, dating from 2008 to 2015 (during which time Hanson produced Derek and Life’s Too Short). Hanson has denied all the allegations.

What impact has this had on Gervais and the show? “I got a call from Netflix saying there’s been allegations. They said: ‘We’d like to ask Charlie not to come in again.’ I went: ‘OK. Right.’ And that is literally the last I heard about it.” It must be devastating to hear these allegations about someone you’ve worked with so closely for 16 years? “Yeah, yeah. It’s horrifying. I literally tried not to think about it at all. I don’t think I should discuss it, because I don’t know what’s happening.” Has he spoken to Hanson about it? “No, no, not at all.” He seems to be counting on his fingers. “We’ve done four things over 20 years, and he’s done, I don’t know, 100 other shows, but obviously you’re worried about that, too.” Actually, Hanson has produced every Gervais sitcom apart from The Office, and two of his movies.

We head out of the huge, empty office on to the streets of Hampstead. It’s not sunny, but he puts his Ray-Bans on – presumably as a disguise. Gervais looks more recognisable than ever. He stops in the street to continue demonstrating why a joke from his 2011 Golden Globes speech was unfairly criticised. “I said the Golden Globe for special effects goes to the people who airbrushed the Sex and the City poster. And I go: ‘Girls, we know how old you are, one of you was in an episode of Bonanza!’” He might have made the joke 10 years ago, but it still rankles that the cast confused the target with the subject. “Kim Cattrall said it was ageist. I said: ‘No it’s the opposite. I’m saying, what’s wrong with being 50?’ I hate that about Hollywood, where fucking George Clooney has to have a fucking 22-year-old girlfriend. Aaagh!”

A middle-aged man passes in the street. “And a very good joke it was too, Ricky,” he says. Gervais smiles. For the first time all day, he looks happy. Gervais tells me he is crossing the road here, and before I know it he has disappeared into the crowd.

The final season of After Life will be available on Netflix from 14 January

Contributor

Simon Hattenstone

The GuardianTramp

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