The Art of the Roast: Why Kevin Hart’s Netflix Special Fell Flat
There’s something inherently fascinating about a good roast—it’s a delicate balance of humor, tension, and vulnerability. When done right, it’s a cultural event. When done wrong, it’s a cringe-worthy spectacle. Netflix’s The Roast of Kevin Hart falls squarely into the latter category, and personally, I think it’s a missed opportunity that says more about the state of comedy than it does about Hart himself.
Let’s start with the elephant in the room: Kevin Hart is not Tom Brady. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Netflix seemed to ignore this fundamental truth. Brady’s roast was a phenomenon because it tapped into something bigger—a cultural icon at the peak of his fame, with a story so larger-than-life that it practically wrote itself. Hart, while undeniably successful, lacks that mythical quality. He’s a hard worker, a hustler, and a household name, but he’s not a GOAT. And that’s where the problem begins.
One thing that immediately stands out is the sheer length of the special. Three hours? For a roast? What many people don’t realize is that roasts thrive on brevity. The best ones are tight, sharp, and unrelenting. Stretching it out dilutes the impact, and by the time the Williams sisters were presenting Hart with a GOAT ring, the energy in the room had flatlined. If you take a step back and think about it, this wasn’t a roast—it was a marathon, and not the fun kind.
The lineup of roasters was impressive on paper, but in practice, it felt disjointed. Lizzo showing up with her flute and a parade of little people? A detail that I find especially interesting is how these moments were more bizarre than funny. They felt like stunts for the sake of stunts, not genuine attempts at comedy. And don’t even get me started on Draymond Green getting booed every time his name was mentioned. What this really suggests is that Netflix was more focused on creating viral moments than crafting a cohesive show.
Tom Brady’s appearance was the highlight, but even that felt like a double-edged sword. Brady’s barbs were sharp—calling out Hart’s DUI, his cheating scandal, and even hitting on his wife—but they also underscored the problem: Hart isn’t the kind of figure who inspires that level of cultural investment. In my opinion, Brady’s presence only highlighted how much Hart’s roast lacked in comparison.
What’s truly revealing is how the best moments of the night came from the comedians roasting each other, not Hart. Chelsea Handler’s takedown of the ‘podcast bros’ and their support for Trump was one of the few times the room felt alive. Her line about them only going to the Middle East for comedy festivals? Pure gold. But here’s the thing: those moments had nothing to do with Hart. They were self-contained, and that’s telling.
If you ask me, the real issue is that Hart has been roasted to death. He’s been the butt of jokes at Brady’s roast, Marshawn Lynch’s roast, and even at his own Mark Twain Prize ceremony. At this point, he’s overcooked. What many people don’t realize is that a good roast needs a sense of novelty, a feeling that we’re hearing something new. With Hart, it’s all been said before.
This raises a deeper question: Why did Netflix go with Hart instead of someone like Dave Chappelle or Louis CK? Chappelle, in particular, would’ve been a slam dunk. He’s a true comedy GOAT, with a career that’s both celebrated and controversial. But Netflix played it safe, and the result was a show that felt more like a corporate product than a genuine artistic endeavor.
From my perspective, the failure of The Roast of Kevin Hart isn’t just about the jokes or the runtime—it’s about the broader trend of streaming platforms chasing viral moments instead of substance. Roasts used to be about pushing boundaries, about comedians taking risks. Now, they feel like calculated events designed to generate buzz. And that’s a shame.
In the end, The Roast of Kevin Hart is a skip. Not because Hart isn’t funny—he is—but because the special fails to capture what makes a roast great. It’s a reminder that in comedy, as in life, you can’t force greatness. Sometimes, you just have to let it happen.
