» We need to celebrate the complexities of humanity: Rhys Darby

When comedian and actor Rhys Darby returns home to New Zealand each year he relishes mowing the grass. “I’ve got a big ride-on mower,” he says. “Love it. You’ve gotta look after your lawn. And I’ve got two goats there too.“

Today, Darby, 51, is speaking from the Los Angeles home he shares with wife Rosie Carnahan-Darby and youngest son, Theo, 14. His oldest son, Finn, 19, a musician, is studying in New York.

On the cusp of his first stand-up show in almost a decade, titled The Legend Returns and touring Australia, New Zealand, the UK and Ireland, Darby is pondering the origins of his lifelong, almost invincible, sense of self-belief. “It’s innate to me,” he says. “I don’t question it but I do have it.”

It’s partly why, as a 27-year-old, he left three years service in the New Zealand Army, and four years studying journalism at the University of Canterbury, to push headlong into the UK comedy scene, laden with drive and optimism.

His talent for high-energy, story-driven, often mime-heavy comedy, always using his own voice, often playing “aliens and weirdos” as he puts it, led to TV and movie success. Shows such as HBO series The Flight of the Conchords where he played hapless band manager Murray Hewitt to Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement’s novelty pop-music duo in New York.

Or real-life wealthy nobleman Stede Bonnet, who realises his pirate adventure fantasies, and finds unexpected true love in HBO series Our Flag Means Death. Across two decades, Darby’s been field guide Nigel Billingsley in two Jumanji sequels, Norman in Jim Carrey comedy Yes Man, and had other roles in The Boat That Rocked, Hunt For the Wilderpeople, Next Goal Wins and animation series including That Christmas, Kiff, Curses!, Monsters At Work and Bluey.

“I don’t want to come across like I’m a guy who knew he was going to make it, and he did,” Darby says. “But there’s definitely a bit of positive energy that you’ve got to put out to the universe if you do want to achieve. And I’ve certainly done that.”

He thinks his self-belief, which comes with a healthy dose of modesty, could come from his childhood. His parents split up when he was born and because there was a nine-year age gap between him and the youngest of his four siblings, he “felt like an alien” as a young child.

“I was very loved and everyone doted on me,” he says. “I’m not going to say there’s daddy issues. But, there’s something that’s driven me to believe I can have anything, try and get anything, get to where I want to be and make my dreams come true.”

Comedy, in whatever form, became important early on. He remembers years of watching BBC TV comedies with his mum, from Dad’s Army to It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, Open All Hours, The Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise and Monty Python.

“I became obsessed,” he says. “I was like, I want to be one of these guys. I want to be part of this.”

Now he’s back doing live comedy, Darby’s talking about the very thing threatening the careers of anyone working in TV or film – artificial intelligence.

“It’ll be in my own silly way but, broadly, AI has definitely affected me because I’m in this industry here that feels like it’s slowly shutting down,” he says. “People are losing their jobs. People are leaving LA because the work is really minimised.”

Darby has TV shows and projects underway but his “big show”, Our Flag Means Death, was cancelled after season two in 2024. “When that happened I felt, like everyone else, ‘Oh, when’s the next job gonna happen?’ It’s a tricky one because it’s about art, and about humans making art, and AI, the large language models and so forth, are also a tool that you use,” he says. “But it feels like people are going to use them to cheat and the artists are going to get pushed away.”

Darby thinks we should be questioning how far we should go with AI. “How much are we policing it? Are we going to end up watching a completely AI movie next year and not even notice because they’re getting more and more real? As an artist, it’s important for me to tackle that subject matter because I feel like I’m in the middle of it.”

Now is the perfect time to do live, human-to-human comedy. “Seeing actual people laugh in real life, and to do something that robots can’t do, which is human movement and mime and sound effects,” he says. “Things I don’t think robots will ever be able to do.” (A lovely irony that Darby’s early comedy career took off in 1998 because of his robot impression.)

“Right now, we need to celebrate the complexities of humanity,” he says. “Our sense of humour. The way we can mock ourselves and mock the technology that we’ve created that’s slowly taking over our jobs. I talk about robots and Elon Musk and his Tesla situation. He thinks we’re all going to have these humanoid things in our house.

“I gently mock all technology because I think we might get to a point where some people have had enough of it, and they go and live on their farms and do their own food.”

But then there’s another group of people, he says, who will “just go down the rabbit hole and live online”. “You’re already getting people who are constantly on social media, and it doesn’t feel very healthy. Being 51, being a guy with two kids, there’s lots to think about.”

For all this doomsaying, Darby is not someone who overly frets. “There’s no point in worrying,” he says. “My wife does all that.”

He chuckles. “I’m just trying to keep a good sense of humour going and make people laugh. We’re on this trip, this crazy ride called life, and it’s not slowing down. Every day the news is pretty horrific but you’ll give yourself an ulcer if you worry about it. Turn the news off!”

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When he feels the world has got too out of hand, or AI takes over the entertainment industry completely, he will escape to that property in Matakana, north of Auckland.
“We’re lucky,” he says. “We’ve got that option. Most Americans can’t.”

The only issue, he admits, is how quickly he can get bored. “I’ve spent my life driving myself to get to these places [in my career], to entertain and stuff,” he says. “And then the next thing you know, you’re walking around your property, cleaning up the bushes, and you’re getting your phone out to start making little videos. I always want to be making comedy, writing comedy.”

And there’s always the mowing to do. And catching up with the goats. “And good bread,” he says. “I miss New Zealand bread.”

He shakes his head of floppy grey hair. “There’s got to be bread without sugar in it somewhere in this vast, wide country…”

Rhys Darby: The Legend Returns is at the Athenaeum Theatre, April 8-13, and the Enmore Theatre, April 24 comedyfestival.com.au