As the investigation into Russell Brand’s treatment of women was published last weekend – allegations he denies – the Australian comedy scene continued to reckon with what it claims to be its own “open secrets”. Years on from the #MeToo movement, Australian comedians have told the Guardian there are still male comics threatening women’s safety – and it’s still up to women to protect each other.
“A billion per cent there are open secrets in the industry,” says Demi Lardner, a Sydney-based standup, podcaster and streamer. “Over the past seven years, maybe 20 times, I’ve gotten a message from someone saying, ‘The story’s about to come out, it’s going to break’ – all about the same guy. But the story doesn’t come out. And there’s more than just that one guy.”
The Guardian spoke to four women who work in comedy, who each alleged there were men in their industry known for behaviour ranging from casual misogyny to “creepiness” and sexual predation. The justice system continues to fail victims and Australia’s strict defamation laws restrict the stories that you can read, but they said they find ways to warn each other – in Facebook groups, over WhatsApp and in green rooms around the country.
“Some of the behaviour is so bad that the warning is literally, ‘Do not be alone in a room with this person’,” says Lardner, who says she has lost jobs and money in order to stay safe.
“Women are looking out for women a lot more now, for sure. And that’s really cool. But also, it’s really depressing.”
Booze, egos and personas: why comedy is a bad scene
Gen Fricker was just starting out as a standup when she alleges she was sexually harassed and assaulted by another act. At the time, she didn’t say anything. “I didn’t want to be a problem, I didn’t want to be dramatic, I didn’t want it to define me,” she says. “All the classic things we tell ourselves.”
These days, Fricker is more vocal: she has gone public with claims about her former employer, Triple J, alleging the station failed to adequately protect her from a stalker in 2018 and from casual racism in the workplace. And “at least once a week” she will find herself talking to other women in comedy, warning each other about men in the scene.
“It’s usually just in passing or backstage,” she says. “It ranges from ‘that guy is a creep’ to ‘that guy is a pig’ to ‘that guy is dangerous’ – but ultimately all these discussions are about, ‘How do we keep ourselves safe in the workplace?’”
That the workplace of “comedy” is so nebulous doesn’t help. The industry is populated by freelance performers who rely on a constellation of bookers, festivals and venues. Those who spoke to the Guardian said standup in particular had its own set of risks: the male-dominated scene tends to reward outsized egos and strong personalities or stage personas; emerging comics can find themselves thrown together with the famous, creating a vulnerable power imbalance; the gigs happen at night in venues fuelled by alcohol; and you’re often there alone.
“You’re on stage alone, you’re touring alone, you get thrown in with other people randomly,” Fricker says – which can be harder for women, queer people and for people of colour.
“In comedy you’re meant to be seen as laid-back and kind of silly, and there’s a lot of encouraged drunkenness,” Lardner says. “If you’re not palling about, you genuinely will get less gigs.”
According to Jenna Owen, who works on stage and screen, comedy itself offers a particular cover. “The whole thing we do is about blurring boundaries,” she says. “And men can use that, I think, to encroach on your boundaries in a way that is really hard to pinpoint. We work really late hours, we are talking about things on stage and off that are personal and give this false sense of intimacy … and that’s just a wide-open door for men to exploit.”
It’s even less regulated in standup comedy than on screen, Owen says – which is why she avoids those spaces. “People can create a persona on stage that is so far from the person they are – that’s the artform,” she says. “Like right now, there’s this trend of men talking about feminism … they have this new awareness of the language [and their privilege] and it gives you a sense that they believe in this stuff, that they care about this stuff.
“That’s the most insidious type of predator to me: the one who knows the language and uses it, but is not that person at all.”
There’s the other type of persona in standup, too: the bad guy boasting about being a bad guy and hiding in plain sight. “People are like, ‘Surely they’re not actually that person, doing that stuff, because they talk about it on stage all the time … and if it’s there in plain sight, it can’t be true’,” Owen says. “Well: it can be true. Sometimes, the thing it is, is just the thing it is.”
Play nice or lose the work
Guardian Australia spoke to one male comedy professional, under the condition of anonymity, who has booked comedy shows for a decade. In terms of open secrets, “there’s one guy in particular who is a fucking monster”, he says, and a handful more who he believes enough about to blacklist.
“It shouldn’t be my responsibility to work out if someone has done a crime – that’s the job of the criminal justice system, which of course is failing women constantly,” he says. “But it is my responsibility – it’s one of your jobs as a booker – to create a safe space for people to perform in.”
It’s become less acceptable to book an all-male all-white lineup, he says – a positive change the female comedians noted too. There are more all-women and queer-friendly comedy nights; and in some venues, the booker stays in the green room to make sure everyone is safe. For comedians at a higher level, agents might even let you list the names you morally refuse to work with or add an “inclusion rider” demanding a diverse lineup for every gig you work.
In most cases though, it’s the women who are left to choose between playing nice or losing the work. When you pull out of a job, Fricker says from experience, “you lose the opportunity and it gives you a bad rep, it makes you look flaky. There’s entire comedy rooms I won’t do too … It’s just not worth it to me any more.”
Owen walked off a lucrative show due to the bad behaviour of a man; she ended up taking a year off comedy as a result.
“The only support I had was from women,” she says. “It’s absolutely baffling how cowardly men are in these situations. I’ve never seen a man sacrifice a pay cheque for speaking up.”
Fricker says: “Venue bookers know about these men, festivals know about them, management companies know about them, because people are telling them. There’s not much we can do other than continue to look out for each other.”
Owen agrees: “I think most women have made a phone call telling booking agents not to book certain men.” But it doesn’t always work. Lardner and a friend once emailed a venue they were set to play, which had also booked a man they didn’t feel safe with. “We wrote, ‘We don’t know if we have enough power in this situation to change who you’re booking, but please don’t let your female staff be in a room alone with him’,” Lardner says. “Nothing happened. We didn’t get a response.”
‘Women just want to stop having to talk about this’
As both a comedian and a journalist, Ange Lavoipierre has had a wide-angle lens on the industry and watched as the #MeToo movement failed to really take off in Australia.
“I think there’s a bit of exhaustion now; a sense that things didn’t change and that reputational harm came to some of the women who made allegations, even informally. The men didn’t go away, which meant other women, and men, then had to decide whether to continue to work with them – and to make that decision without concrete evidence, which we all know is very difficult to find.”
Complaints may have been made against a few male comics, who may have retreated from the scene for a while, she says. But as they started getting work again, their alleged victims were left feeling disbelieved, like they had to shut up about it or give up on the industry completely. “It wasn’t exactly the best incentive to keep speaking out,” Lavoipierre says.
There is, however, a “greater awareness” now of what is and isn’t acceptable and “our allies know to have our backs … Also, you’re less likely to be the only woman in the green room in 2023 and that in itself keeps you safer.”
For Owen, though, the fact this story is even being written shows how little has changed. “#MeToo made a lot of men feel really guilty and those men gave women more opportunities. But logistically, legally, nothing has changed,” she says. “Google Docs warning women? That was happening before #MeToo and then it was a story during #MeToo and now we’re doing the story again. Of course there are networks of women warning women. Have you seen anything change?”
Those warnings aren’t pleasant to deliver – and they aren’t pleasant to receive. “No one wants to tell another woman, ‘Hey, that exciting opportunity you just got is totally tainted because you’re working with a rapist.’ But it’s the only thing we have.”
Owen, ultimately, just feels tired. “Women just want to stop having to talk about this. They want to be allowed to succeed in their careers without thinking of this shit every day,” she says. “I’d love to hear more about what the men are doing – and for them to have a really long think about the people they have weaponised by ignoring their behaviour.”
