Stephen Merchant has always been obsessed by the idea of the ordinary man “thrust into extraordinary circumstance”. Since he was a kid in Bristol, the son of a plumber and a nursery nurse, those were the kinds of films he sought out and the stories he wrote, about normal people who experience something that “jolts them out of their life and gives them a way of reframing it”. He’s talking to me from his office in Nichols Canyon, LA, in a house once owned by Ellen DeGeneres, where he lives with his partner of seven years, actor Mircea Monroe. It’s early morning there, the white light offering shadows of shifting leaves, and he wears a black baseball cap and speaks thoughtfully without pause. Is he, I ask, that ordinary man? “Well, possibly,” he says, slowly. “Maybe. Yeah.”
Merchant’s early career is perhaps better known than the success that followed. He met Ricky Gervais when he got a job as his assistant on the radio station XFM and the two went on to write and direct The Office in 2001, quietly changing expectations of British comedy for ever. Then there was some acting, a lot of very popular radio and standup. In his 2011 show, Hello Ladies, which later became a sitcom, he talked about his height: “6ft 7in is too big… Growing up I spent as much time as possible in the distance.”
In 2019, he wrote and directed the feature film Fighting With My Family, a wrestling comedy starring Florence Pugh, and in 2022 played serial killer Stephen Port in the shocking BBC drama Four Lives. Today, we’re meeting to talk about the third series of The Outlaws, a comedy thriller about a disparate group of offenders on community service, which he stars in and co-wrote with film-maker and ex-convict Elgin James. It’s about normal people who experience something that jolts them out of their lives.
For Merchant, the route to his extraordinary circumstances felt “like that frog in the pan of water. It slowly heats up and you don’t realise you’re being boiled alive. It wasn’t like I was an X-factor contestant.” Was there a moment when he realised his life was changing? “I guess there were sort of staging posts along the way,” he says. “Like, you do your first interview for the Guardian, and they spelt my name wrong. I think that was ‘Stephen Mitchell’?” Then there’s an award show. “Then you’re on, like, Graham Norton, and that all seems very exciting.” Then you’re having a meeting in Hollywood, dating a string of beautiful actresses, moving to LA. “And each of the stages seem preposterous in a new way.” Where does it culminate? “I guess, going to Stonehenge with Christopher Walken [a co-star on The Outlaws] on a day trip? Christopher’s a very quiet man. A reflective man. He didn’t say a lot for about an hour, then eventually, as the sun was setting, he said: ‘The bluestones have healing properties.’ It was all very surreal. And yet at the same time, weirdly ordinary.” That was one point where: “You’re just like, OK, now I’m boiled.”
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Last month, Seinfeld joined comics like Ricky Gervais and John Cleese in condemning “cancel culture”, blaming the apparent death of TV comedy on “the extreme left and PC crap and people worrying so much about offending other people”. (Cleese was a childhood hero: “He went to school in Bristol and he was a tall person who was funny, so at some point I was like, well, if you need tall people who are funny from the West Country, I’ll give it a go?”)
Merchant approaches the subject of cancel culture cautiously, as if walking barefoot on stones. “Well,” he says, “it seems to me that there’s always been policing of comedy, of there being… guardrails. I think the difference is that it used to feel like it was the Right that was policing it. It feels like it’s the Left that’s doing it now, and it’s allowed the Right to become the arbiters of free speech. Which does feel like quite a significant shift.”
There are, he adds, carefully: “Sensitivities that seem out of all proportion with the joke. I’ve noticed it in standup, how you’re more cautious because you don’t want to spend weeks on Twitter trying to justify a joke you were just experimenting with. Because putting out the fires is exhausting. But” – and perhaps this is where he differs from Gervais – “I’m also aware that sensitivities shift over time and that people are allowed to criticise and query things, and we do look back at old comedy and think we wouldn’t do that any more.” He takes a breath. “I have no objection to the sands shifting. I think that makes sense and I’m loth to become a kind of ‘old man of comedy’, railing against the younger generation. But you do feel like there’s a sensitivity to the words before they’ve even heard the joke or the context. And that is inevitably a straitjacket of sorts – it quashes experimentation.”
