Barry Crimmins was a giant. Not just because of his physical presence, which was substantial, but because of the sheer, unadulterated volume of his rage. It was a righteous kind of anger. If you’ve ever spent time in the grimy backrooms of the 1980s Boston comedy scene, you knew his name. He was the guy who basically birthed the scene, mentoring legends like Steven Wright and Bobcat Goldthwait. But for years, there was this darkness hovering around the edges of his sets. Then came the Call Me Lucky movie, a documentary directed by Goldthwait that didn't just profile a comedian—it ripped the lid off a lifetime of trauma and political activism that most people were too polite to talk about.
It’s a brutal watch. Honestly, there’s no other way to put it.
The film starts out feeling like a standard "life of a comic" retrospective. You see the grainy footage of Ding Ho, the Chinese restaurant-turned-comedy club where Crimmins ruled with an iron fist and a razor-sharp tongue. He was a political satirist who made people uncomfortable. He wasn't looking for cheap laughs; he wanted to dismantle the system. But as the runtime ticks on, the Call Me Lucky movie shifts gears in a way that leaves the audience breathless. It stops being about comedy and starts being about a man confronting the monsters of his childhood.
The Pivot from Comedy to Confrontation
Most documentaries have a predictable arc. This one doesn't. About thirty minutes in, Crimmins reveals the horrific sexual abuse he suffered as a child at the hands of a neighbor. It’s the kind of moment that makes the air leave the room. But Crimmins didn't just survive it; he weaponized his survival.
He didn't want pity. He wanted change.
The middle act of the film follows his crusade against AOL in the 1990s. This is a part of internet history that's largely been forgotten, but the Call Me Lucky movie brings it back into sharp focus. Crimmins discovered that child pornography was being traded openly in AOL chat rooms. While the tech giants were busy counting their IPO millions, Barry was in his basement, documenting the horror. He took it all the way to the Senate Judiciary Committee. Seeing the footage of a disheveled, furious comedian schooling senators on the dangers of the early web is nothing short of incredible.
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He stood up when everyone else was looking the other way.
Goldthwait’s direction is intimate here. He’s not an impartial observer; he’s Barry’s friend. You can feel the love and the frustration behind the camera. It’s a messy film because Barry’s life was messy. It doesn't try to polish the rough edges of his personality. He was a difficult man. He was loud. He was often miserable to be around. But he was right.
Why Call Me Lucky is More Relevant Now
We live in an era of "call-out culture," but Barry Crimmins was doing the work long before it was a hashtag. He understood the intersection of personal trauma and systemic failure. He saw how the Catholic Church, the government, and corporate America all shared a common thread of protecting the predator over the victim.
Watching the Call Me Lucky movie today feels different than it did when it premiered at Sundance in 2015. In a post-MeToo world, Barry’s anger doesn't look like "crankiness" anymore. It looks like a roadmap.
- He identified the silence that protects abusers.
- He forced the institutions to look at the evidence.
- He never stopped being funny, even when the subject matter was soul-crushing.
There’s a specific scene where Barry returns to the basement where he was abused. It’s harrowing. The camera lingers on the mundane details—the furnace, the stairs. It grounds the abstract horror of "abuse" into a physical location. It’s a brave piece of filmmaking that refuses to look away.
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The Legacy of Barry Crimmins
Barry passed away in 2018, just a few years after the film's release. He didn't get a long, peaceful retirement. But he got his story told. The Call Me Lucky movie ensures that he isn't just remembered as a footnote in a comedy textbook. He’s remembered as a whistleblower.
People often ask if the film is "too dark."
Look, if you’re looking for a lighthearted romp through the history of stand-up, this isn't it. Watch a Jerry Seinfeld documentary for that. But if you want to see how a person can take the absolute worst things that can happen to a human being and turn them into a shield for others, you have to see this.
It’s about the power of speaking out.
The documentary features interviews with a "who's who" of comedy: Patton Oswalt, David Cross, Margaret Cho, Kevin Meaney. They all speak of Barry with a mix of reverence and fear. He was the conscience of their community. When he found out about the AOL chat rooms, he didn't just tell his friends; he dragged the entire industry into the light.
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What We Can Learn from the Film
The impact of the Call Me Lucky movie goes beyond the screen. It’s a study in resilience. It shows that healing isn't a straight line. Barry struggled with his demons until the very end, but he used his struggle to fuel his activism.
- Don't ignore the "difficult" voices. Barry was often dismissed as a radical or a crank, but he was the only one seeing the truth.
- Comedy is a tool, not just an end. Use it to speak truth to power.
- Trauma doesn't have to be the end of the story. It can be the beginning of a mission.
Crimmins once said that he "turned his life into a weapon." The film shows us exactly how he sharpened the blade. It’s uncomfortable. It’s loud. It’s brilliant.
If you're going to watch it, prepare yourself. Clear your schedule. You’ll need time to process it afterward. You might feel angry, or sad, or inspired. Probably all three. But you won't forget it.
Moving Forward with the Story
To truly understand the weight of what Barry Crimmins achieved, look into the transcripts of his 1995 testimony before the Senate. It provides a chilling context to the scenes shown in the film. Additionally, seeking out his 1991 book, Never Shake Hands with a War Criminal, offers a deeper dive into his political philosophy that the movie only scratches the surface of. For those interested in the evolution of the Boston comedy scene, researching the history of the Ding Ho provides a fascinating look at the environment that shaped Crimmins' uncompromising style. This isn't just a movie about a man; it's a historical record of a survivor who refused to be silenced.