Comedy has always been in close proximity to suffering. Whether it’s a tragic news headline serving as the butt of a joke or the hidden inner turmoil of the actual joke-teller, the two opposing sentiments seemingly go hand in hand. It calls to mind the Looney Tunes principle of laughter derived from extreme misfortune, or the notion of the “Sad Clown.” But anger has also played a role for some comedians bearing their demons and grievances onstage and many a man and woman have since been enshrined for their sharp-tongued antics (Such as Lenny Bruce, Joan Rivers, George Carlin and Bill Hicks among others). In Call Me Lucky, Director Bobcat Goldthwait asserts that one comic has gone missing from that list of greats and there’s much more to his story than that of a funnyman who never got his due.

The name of this unsung comic is Barry Crimmins. You’d be excused for not recognizing him as he’s has been out of the public eye for some time, but for comedy buffs who grew up in a certain time and place, he’s something of a legend. The mid-1980’s was when he came to prominence, setting up two clubs in Boston and fostering a tight-knit community of young, burgeoning talent. His personal brand of stand-up centered on anti-consumerist, anti-authoritarian political satire (something that didn’t always resonate with audiences lulled into a lack of social consciousness by the hyper-patriotism of the Reagan era). Described by one interviewee as a cross between Noam Chomsky and Bluto (from Popeye), he was a curmudgeonly firecracker on stage, drumming himself up into a surprisingly coherent rage over the numerous egregious acts perpetrated by his country.

While lauded for his incredible comedic chops, Crimmins was more than someone who merely entertained with harshly humorous truths. He drifted into genuine activism, delivering stirring, fact-studded tirades at anti-war rallies and lending his support to badly afflicted South American countries. In a time without Internet, he was remarkably knowledgeable about the injustices and intergovernmental dealings taking place around the world and took pride in making a stand against them. By the time the ’90s rolled around, Crimmins’ impact had been felt by an entire generation of comedians and left-wing demonstrators, but it was a haunting realization of long-suppressed childhood abuse that sent his life in a new direction and refreshed his sense of purpose.

The power of Call Me Lucky is in its evolution from a humdrum comedian profile to an emotionally involved journey of survival and positivity born from pain. Expectations are initially set low by an opening act that ticks all the boxes necessary to qualify as an average bio doc. The film takes us through the bullet points of Crimmins’ early life in typical “who/what/when/where” fashion, filled out past the point of reason with several anecdotes from friends and famous admirers (Like Marc Maron, Tom Kenny, Patton Oswalt and Margaret Cho, to name a few). The humorous yarns are somewhat cursory, but as told by professional storytellers, they prove to be one of the film’s most entertaining aspects. Crimmins himself doesn’t appear that often through this first portion of the picture, and aside from a series of fluid firsthand accounts describing his personality, the key details of his early life are skimmed over rather quickly.

It isn’t until almost halfway in that the film finds its footing. Goldthwait simultaneously narrows his focus and broadens the story’s scope as he hones in on the boisterous comic’s sexual assault as a child, poignantly addressing the effect it had on his perception of the world and the role it played in his compulsion to expose its ugliness. Topics that were vaguely mentioned in passing earlier suddenly spring to life. The problems and struggles of separating oneself from victimization are discussed. Barry’s attraction to comedy is a defense mechanism and the film gets to the heart of why humanitarian issues resonate so strongly with him, exploring the very roots of his notoriously impassioned fits of anger (To paraphrase what he says at one point: “There are entire countries that feel abused, like I do”). It’s deep, dark stuff and Goldthwait thankfully surrenders most of the commentary to Crimmins, who makes for a highly thoughtful, illuminating speaker.

Despite the sudden shift in subject matter, Call Me Lucky does not make itself about wallowing in the doom and gloom of past trauma. Instead, it takes an inspirational route, chronicling Crimmins’ renewed sense of responsibility and his resulting crusade against Internet child pornography in the ’90s (a mission that would ultimately carry him to Washington D.C., where he confronted a criminally enabling AOL leadership). Coupled with the testimonies of friends who benefited from Crimmins’ support through their own intensely personal crises, the film’s final act tastefully caps off a loving portrait of a genuinely good man with a soaring celebration of his enduring, unbroken spirit.

While the film benefits from its powerful structuring, it also undoubtedly benefits from the inherently compelling nature of the story it tells. In other words, Goldthwait doesn’t always make the best directorial decisions. His indulgence in talking heads is the film’s most strikingly negative aspect. Those lingering anecdotes from the first act really bog down the pacing, and we get the feeling that Goldthwait couldn’t resist including some of his pals’ wild tales (regardless of their relevancy), but the worst examples of this nepotism come toward the end of the film when Goldthwait leans heavily upon the praises of those who personally know Crimmins and the film devolves into a string of sentiments essentially adding up to “Gosh, isn’t Barry just the greatest?” There’s no doubt of the truth of their words, but it feels forced when so much of the man’s actions and experiences speak for themselves.

Such indulgences come from the heart, though, and no matter how much they hinder the film’s conciseness, one cannot deny the empathy that Goldthwait generates. It may not always be the most eloquent piece of work, but Call Me Lucky is as moving and life affirming a documentary as you will find.

One year ago, when I first heard about writer-director David Thorpe’s upcoming documentary on the science of why gay men often have a distinctive voice, I posted the trailer to Facebook along with the entirely naive comment: “Wow, I didn’t know sounding gay was something people worried about.” A former classmate who now works in academia responded, “Oh yeah. I’ve been asked to sound less gay at work.” When pressures to sound more “straight” extend further than schoolyard bullying, even affecting a person’s livelihood, it’s clear that the otherwise clever title Do I Sound Gay? betrays a bit of anxiety as well. And Thorpe isn’t shy to confess his hatred of his own voice. Newly single and seemingly surrounded by happy gay couples as New York City legalizes gay marriage, Thorpe decides that, instead of pining for his old beau, he’s going to busy himself with a question that’s nagged him his whole life.

Thorpe, a journalist by trade, starts his documentary doing what journalists do: interviewing people. Fortunately for him, he has a lot of influential friends ready to talk to on the subject, including the popular sex columnist Dan Savage, humorist David Sedaris, George Takei, Tim Gunn, and Margaret Cho. Perhaps it’s Savage that answers my dumb question from a year ago best: “Teenagers should absolutely be concerned with how they sound, because it often leads to violence.” His commentary goes side-by-side with footage of a high school freshman getting beaten up by classmates for sounding effeminate.

The teenager, who Thorpe later interviews, lets us into his world a bit, but Thorpe himself surprisingly never lets viewers into his own life. He says he blocked out most of his childhood in the Bible belt and seems to have had a pretty liberating college experience and post-grade life in New York City. Indeed, even the interviews keep us at arm’s length. Despite the impressive catalogue of names, there are a lot of surface-level responses here about the gay experience, which seems to ignore the elephant in the room: You don’t make a documentary called Do I Sound Gay? unless there’s something traumatic about it.

The one moment of vulnerability comes when Sedaris stops with the clever turns of phrases long enough to admit: “I’m embarrassed to say this, but sometimes somebody will say ‘I didn’t know you were gay,’ and it’s like ‘why does that make me feel good?’” At times, it’s hard to not wonder whether or not some of Thorpe’s subjects might have handled the subject better, whether it’s Sedaris’ self-deprecating wit or Savage’s no-nonsense approach to sexuality. How did a film with such an interesting cast of characters end up so tame?

Thorpe’s approach seems timid and reserved. While interviews with competing professionals in the field—one that believes that we pick up speech patterns from the people we spend time with (perhaps gay men spend more time with their mothers), and one that believes we’re constantly code-switching (gay men just get confused alternating between roles)—provide something to the discussion on a journalistic level, as a piece of long-form creative nonfiction, Do I Sound Gay? just seems lacking a bit of heart. A long tangent into the history of gay voices in film, from early black-and-white pictures to Disney classics, might be interesting for a college seminar, but here seems a bit like skirting the primary issue. The argument that gay men are picking up their voices from Captain Hook and Simba’s malicious uncle Scar feels like a bit of a stretch, and it takes up too much of the film’s already short screen time.

The most fascinating question raised by the film—whether or not Thorpe’s voice actually changed when he came out of the closet, as his friends suggest—never even gets adequately addressed after it comes up. In a film that gives a fair share of time to the idea of nature versus nurture, a spontaneous change like that ought to be hashed out. Instead, Thorpe relies on humor to talk around the issue instead of talking about the issue. In most scenes actually featuring Thorpe, he’s seen performing amusing one-liners during his oratory exercises (he’s taking speech classes to sound less gay). He seems to have gained more peace with his voice by the end of the film, or at least he says as much, but it’s a shame it wasn’t more of a journey viewers could join in on. Still, credit should be given for asking a question that’s still a bit taboo to ask. Hopefully the response to the film might inspire some more illuminating answers.