Despite the presence of Lampanelli, a white female comic in the Don Rickles-Joan Rivers mode whose outrageously cutting persona is carefully modulated, and Foster, an African-American woman who used to contribute to "Imus in the Morning" (a radio show not known for its sympathies to the sorts of activists criticized in this film), most of the major interviewees here are white guys in their forties or fifties who seem peeved that they can't just say anything they want and be acclaimed as brilliant satirists or harmless purveyors of fun. Their situation often seems less a portrait of righteous village truth-tellers being chased by pitchfork-wielding mobs (as suggested in a bit of old-movie footage) than of a sub-group of comedians who haven't quite adapted to a new world where audience members are unwilling to suffer grievances in silence, and can now double as critics, thanks to online platforms.
Their beleaguered attitude may be justified, but despite a few cherry-picked examples of extreme or ridiculous responses—and justifiable astonishment that anyone would come to see an in-you-face standup comic and not expect to be offended here or there—there's not much evidence in the movie to suggest that's an open-and-shut case. And we never get close scrutiny of material that arouses such ire, much less rebuttals by writers such as Roxane Gay and Lindy West, who have written extensively on this subject (and gotten into online feuds with prominent comics like Patton Oswalt) over whether heckling, walkouts, angry editorials and the like are quasi-fascist overreactions or merely an example of answering free speech with more free speech.
There are too many unexamined premises in this film, starting with the idea that heckling, student petitions, calls for apologies and the like are "censorship"—a word that people living in China or who survived life in the former Soviet Union understand, and would use correctly; in the US, private businesses and institutions, from Harvard to Twitter, can deny a platform, but only the government can completely muzzle an individual—or if they're an unruly response to an unruly art form that amounts to a conversation between the comic and his or her audience. Standup is a mostly-one way conversation, granted. But it's one that should allow for the possibility that audiences might not like the material or find it amusing, or that the comedian may in fact be on the wrong side of an issue, or punching down (heaping abuse on groups that are essentially powerless) versus punching up (against authority figures and representatives of a repressing ruling class, Saint Lenny's targets).
The Marx Brothers, who are background figures in this movie, also represented a spirit of anarchy and liberation; they were all about expressing impulses that we're taught to keep under wraps, and they aimed their madness at institutions, the rich, the supposedly cultured, and regular people who had comparatively little power but used it to crush the joy out of life. "Mel Brooks, whose "Blazing Saddles" is often held up as an example of the kind of politically incorrect film They Don't Make Anymore, was just as sophisticated, in his lowbrow way: "Saddles" is filled with crude sex jokes and racial slurs, including the N-word, but it's ultimately a satire on racism and sexism, and it's always on the side of the little guy, and ultimately appeals to kindness and decency no matter how outrageous it gets.
George Carlin, who died in 2009 but is a heavy presence in here via interview clips, is likewise held up as an example of why shocking, contrarian or unpleasant material should be protected. But the movie ignores the content of Carlin's material just as it dances around the gist of Bruce's: Carlin attacked government, institutionalized sexism and racism, TV networks' squeamishness about sex and profanity, the military industrial complex, corporations' contempt for consumers and the environment, and other amorphous but real and oppressive presences. And when he did a routine about how rape jokes could be funny, it still didn't treat it lightly, as several comics casually defending the right to make rape jokes do here. Although he wasn't always exact, much less always hilarious, Carlin never lost sight of who had power and who didn't, an important distinction in standup, as well as other popular art forms, that "Can We Take a Joke?" mostly avoids.