Paul Provenza and Penn Jilette document dozens of comedians telling the joke, each giving it their own spin from the darkest corners of their twisted minds. The joke is celebrated as comedy free-jazz, and the riffs are frequently so over-the-top bawdy that your sensibilities toward anything offensive are simply thrown out the window. The laughs come from the elements of shock and surprise, particularly when you can't believe what's coming out of the mouth of, say, Carrie Fisher (who manages to work her own famous mother into her rendition of "The Aristocrats." Surprisingly, some of the folks you'd expect to tell the be-all-end-all version of the joke struggle to keep up—George Carlin and Eddie Izzard, for example, can't seem to muster the true moral degeneracy required to out-shock the likes of Bob Sagat (who reveals perhaps the world's most boundless propensity for offensiveness, and who therefore evokes the biggest laughs in the film) and Drew Carey (who doesn't wade in the filth as much, but delivers by far the definitive punchline). Sarah Silverman uses her faux-coy pottymouth to induce an incredibly, hilariously awkward version of the joke, while Gilbert Gottfried manages to use the joke as some kind of post-9/11 act of social healing! I could go on and on about the many nuances each comedian brings out, but the point is, the laughs are fast and furious, the shock factor nearly relentless, and the film's unique approach is a real breath of fresh air. In the end, despite the many sexual and moral horrors committed, The Aristocrats seems, at heart, to be simply a sweetly composed love-letter to comedy itself.
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