Eddie Murphy Recalls the Racist SNL Joke Made by David Spade: ‘It Was a Cheap Shot’

When Eddie Murphy began making the press rounds for his long-awaited return to Saturday Night Live in 2019, the conversation inevitably turned reflective. Murphy wasn’t just revisiting a show that launched his career; he was revisiting an era when SNL’s humor often blurred the line between irreverence and dismissiveness, especially toward performers who no longer fit the moment. One joke in particular, delivered years after Murphy had left Studio 8H, still lingered in the cultural memory.

That joke came from David Spade during a 1995 “Hollywood Minute” segment on Weekend Update, where Spade flashed an unflattering photo of Murphy and quipped, “Look, children, it’s a falling star.” At the time, Murphy was experiencing a box office slump, and the line was framed as a career jab. Decades later, Murphy made it clear that while he understood the mechanics of comedy, the joke hit differently given the larger context.

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A Joke That Landed Harder Than Intended

Murphy recalled the moment candidly, explaining that he thought the joke was “a cheap shot.” What stung wasn’t simply the punchline, but the platform and timing. SNL was the very institution Murphy had helped revive in the early ’80s, and the joke came during a period when he was one of the few Black movie stars carrying leading-man status in Hollywood, making the public takedown feel less like playful ribbing and more like a pile-on.

Importantly, Murphy has never framed the moment as an act of malice from Spade himself. Instead, he contextualized it as emblematic of how comedy, especially in the ’90s, often overlooked the racial dynamics at play when mocking success and failure. The resurfaced comment resonates today because it reflects an ongoing reassessment of SNL’s legacy—how its sharpest jokes can age into uncomfortable cultural artifacts, and how comedians like Murphy have had to navigate humor that sometimes cuts deeper than intended.

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Revisiting the 1995 SNL Moment: David Spade’s Update Joke and Why It Crossed a Line

The Setup: Weekend Update as Cultural Scorecard

By 1995, Weekend Update had evolved into more than a parody newscast; it was a cultural scorecard, tallying who was up, who was down, and who deserved a punchline. David Spade’s “Hollywood Minute” thrived on that premise, delivering sharp, often ruthless career assessments in under thirty seconds. The segment’s humor relied on the assumption that fame itself was fair game, especially when success appeared to be slipping.

Murphy, at the time, was navigating a visible downturn after a decade of near-unmatched dominance in film. While the joke framed him as a star past his prime, it ignored how rare his ascent had been in the first place. For audiences, the laugh came easily; for Murphy, the context made it land with more weight.

Why Murphy Called It a “Cheap Shot”

When Murphy later addressed the joke, he didn’t dispute Spade’s right to make it or even the logic behind celebrity satire. What bothered him was the imbalance. SNL was a platform Murphy had helped resurrect during its early ’80s slump, and seeing that same stage reduce him to a punchline felt dismissive rather than playful.

Race complicated that dynamic. Murphy was not just another movie star hitting a rough patch; he was one of the few Black performers to achieve sustained blockbuster status in an industry that offered little margin for error. The joke, intentionally or not, fed into a familiar narrative where Black success is treated as fleeting, more easily mocked than defended.

Intent Versus Impact in ’90s Comedy

Murphy has been careful to separate intent from impact, noting that he never viewed Spade as personally malicious. In the mid-’90s, comedy culture rewarded sharpness over sensitivity, and jokes were rarely interrogated for their broader implications. What mattered was the laugh in the room, not how it echoed beyond it.

Viewed through a modern lens, the moment illustrates how blind spots were baked into mainstream comedy. The joke functioned as a quick hit, but it also reflected an environment where racial context was seldom part of the calculation, especially when evaluating who could be safely targeted.

Why the Joke Still Resonates Today

The reason the Spade joke continues to resurface isn’t because it was uniquely cruel, but because it sits at the intersection of power, race, and legacy. Murphy’s later comments, including his acknowledgment that Spade eventually apologized, show a willingness to move forward without rewriting history. What remains is the lesson embedded in the moment.

As SNL continues to reassess its past while shaping its future, this incident has become a reference point in conversations about accountability in comedy. It underscores how jokes can outlive their original context, forcing both performers and audiences to reconsider not just what was funny then, but what it signaled beneath the laugh.

Eddie Murphy’s Complicated History With SNL: From Breakout Star to Estranged Icon

To understand why the David Spade joke landed so sharply, it helps to revisit Eddie Murphy’s unique place in Saturday Night Live history. Murphy wasn’t just a successful alum; he was the show’s lifeline during the early 1980s, arriving at 19 and quickly becoming its most bankable star. At a time when SNL’s future was uncertain, Murphy’s presence stabilized the franchise and reshaped its cultural relevance.

The Star Who Saved the Show

Murphy’s run from 1980 to 1984 produced characters that still define the era, from Gumby to Buckwheat to his razor-sharp stand-up monologues. He brought a confidence and point of view that felt urgent, modern, and unapologetically Black in a space that had rarely centered that perspective. By the time he left, Murphy wasn’t just an SNL success story; he was a crossover phenomenon poised to dominate Hollywood.

That meteoric rise, however, also created distance. Murphy exited the show at the height of his popularity, and as his film career exploded, his relationship with SNL quietly cooled. Unlike other alumni who regularly returned to host or cameo, Murphy became notably absent, a silence that grew louder as the years passed.

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Estrangement, Ego, and Unspoken Tensions

By the 1990s, Murphy’s absence had become part of SNL lore. He skipped anniversary specials, including the heavily publicized 40th anniversary in 2015, fueling speculation about lingering resentment toward the show and its leadership. Murphy later admitted he felt uncomfortable returning as a nostalgia act, especially while his film career was being openly mocked.

That context reframes the Spade joke as more than a stray insult. It landed during a period when Murphy already felt disconnected from the institution he once carried, making the jab feel less like insider ribbing and more like commentary from a place he no longer felt welcomed.

Race, Credit, and Cultural Memory

Murphy has also been candid about how race factored into that estrangement. He has pointed out that his contributions were often minimized in broader SNL retrospectives, even though his impact was undeniable. For a Black performer who had broken barriers in both television and film, that erasure carried weight.

The Spade joke, viewed through that lens, touched a nerve tied to recognition and respect. It wasn’t just about a career downturn; it echoed a pattern where Black excellence is quickly celebrated, then just as quickly undercut when momentum shifts. In Murphy’s story, SNL is both the platform that made him and the stage where his legacy felt, at times, casually dismissed.

Reconciliation Without Revision

Murphy’s eventual return to host SNL in 2019 suggested a thaw, not a rewrite. His appearance was triumphant but measured, acknowledging the past without pretending it was frictionless. The laughter came easily, but the history remained visible beneath it.

That complexity is why Murphy’s recollection of the Spade joke still resonates. It sits within a longer narrative about ownership, respect, and how comedy institutions remember their architects. SNL helped create Eddie Murphy, but Murphy also helped define SNL, and the tension between those truths continues to shape how moments like this are understood today.

Race, Comedy, and Power at SNL in the ’90s: Why the Joke Landed Differently Then

By the mid-1990s, Saturday Night Live was a very different institution than the one Eddie Murphy had dominated a decade earlier. The show was leaning into a snarkier, more self-referential tone, with Weekend Update becoming a platform for sharp-edged commentary about celebrity relevance. That shift mattered, because jokes about status land differently depending on who’s speaking and who’s being spoken about.

Murphy has since described David Spade’s crack about his post-box-office slump as a “cheap shot,” not because it was unfunny, but because it came from a position of institutional safety. Spade was a current cast member, delivering a joke with the full authority of SNL behind him. Murphy, by contrast, was no longer in the building, no longer part of the weekly creative conversation, and no longer insulated by proximity.

The Power of the Desk

Weekend Update has always carried a particular weight within SNL’s ecosystem. Jokes delivered from behind that desk aren’t just punchlines; they’re framed as commentary, closer to verdicts than riffs. When a performer’s career is reduced to a dismissive aside there, it can feel less like playful roasting and more like an official stamp.

For Murphy, that distinction mattered. He wasn’t a former cast member who’d quietly faded; he was the person many credit with keeping SNL alive in the early ’80s. Hearing his legacy flattened into a one-liner from the show’s most authoritative segment amplified the sting.

Race and the Asymmetry of Mockery

Comedy in the ’90s often operated under the assumption that everything was fair game, but the playing field was never truly level. Black performers, especially those who achieved massive crossover success, were frequently subject to harsher recalibrations once the narrative shifted. The same industry that celebrates a breakthrough is often quicker to mock a stumble.

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Murphy has implied that Spade’s joke tapped into that asymmetry. A white comedian’s downturn might be framed as a temporary slump, while a Black comedian’s is treated as evidence that the ascent was overstated. In that context, the joke didn’t exist in isolation; it echoed a familiar cultural rhythm.

An Institution Talking About One of Its Architects

There’s also the matter of authorship. SNL wasn’t just commenting on Eddie Murphy; it was commenting on someone who had shaped its identity. When institutions joke about their own architects without acknowledging that debt, the humor can read as dismissive rather than affectionate.

That’s why the joke has endured as a point of discussion. It wasn’t simply about timing or taste, but about power, voice, and who gets to define the narrative when comedy turns its lens inward. In the ’90s SNL hierarchy, Murphy heard that line not as ribbing from peers, but as a verdict delivered after he’d already left the room.

David Spade’s Persona and SNL’s ‘Cheap Shot’ Era: Snark, Satire, and Collateral Damage

By the mid-’90s, David Spade had become the face of a particular SNL sensibility: acerbic, knowing, and unapologetically dismissive. His “Hollywood Minute” segments on Weekend Update thrived on the thrill of the takedown, reducing careers and reputations to a single withering line. It was comedy built on speed and sting, less interested in nuance than impact.

That persona worked because it aligned with a broader shift in SNL’s voice. The show was leaning into irony over warmth, commentary over caricature, and detachment over affection. In that environment, the sharpest joke often won, even if the target was someone whose history with the show was more complicated than the punchline allowed.

The Economics of the Cheap Shot

Spade has since framed the joke about Murphy as a product of that era, describing it as a “cheap shot” that landed because it was easy, not because it was thoughtful. In his telling, Weekend Update rewarded efficiency: say the most cutting thing possible, get the laugh, move on. The machinery didn’t encourage reflection on who was being hit or why.

Murphy’s recollection adds a crucial counterweight. What felt like a disposable gag to the writer-performer landed as a public reassessment of his worth, delivered by the very institution he once carried. The asymmetry between intent and impact is where the joke’s legacy curdled.

Snark as Authority

Weekend Update’s power lies in its posture. Anchors aren’t just comedians; they’re presented as arbiters, delivering judgments with the cadence of news. When Spade’s snark was filtered through that authority, it gained a permanence that a sketch or roast might not have had.

For Murphy, that authority mattered more than the insult itself. The joke wasn’t whispered backstage or traded among peers; it was broadcast as consensus. That framing is why he’s said the line lingered, long after the laugh faded.

Collateral Damage and Cultural Blind Spots

The ’90s appetite for ruthless humor often ignored how race shaped reception. A joke about career decline didn’t land on a neutral canvas; it intersected with long-standing narratives about Black success being temporary or overstated. What played as edgy satire to one audience registered as confirmation of a biased script to another.

That tension is why the moment still resonates. It encapsulates an era when SNL’s confidence in its own voice sometimes eclipsed its awareness of who that voice could wound. Spade’s joke has since become less about individual intent and more about how institutional comedy, at its sharpest, can leave collateral damage in its wake.

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Why Murphy’s Criticism Matters Now: Evolving Standards for Race and Comedy

Murphy’s decision to revisit the Spade joke decades later isn’t about reopening an old feud. It’s about context catching up to comedy. What once passed as sharp observational humor is now routinely reexamined through a lens that asks who benefits from the laugh and who absorbs the cost.

From Punchlines to Power Dynamics

Modern comedy conversations are less interested in whether a joke “worked” and more focused on the dynamics behind it. Murphy’s critique underscores how jokes aimed downward, or from an institutional perch, carry different weight than those traded among equals. The issue isn’t fragility; it’s accountability.

When Murphy calls the joke a cheap shot, he’s identifying a power imbalance that went largely unacknowledged in the ’90s. A white cast member commenting on a Black superstar’s perceived decline wasn’t happening in a vacuum. It echoed familiar narratives about disposability and replacement that Black performers have long faced in Hollywood.

SNL as a Cultural Time Capsule

Saturday Night Live now exists in a constant state of self-audit. Old sketches and Update jokes resurface weekly on social media, judged by standards that didn’t exist when they first aired. Murphy’s reflection arrives in a moment when the show’s legacy is being actively renegotiated by audiences who expect more awareness from comedy institutions.

That doesn’t mean the past is being retroactively condemned. It means moments like the Spade joke are being reframed as artifacts of how comedy once operated, revealing what it normalized and what it overlooked. Murphy’s voice adds texture to that reevaluation, grounding it in lived experience rather than abstract critique.

Impact Over Intent, Then and Now

One of the clearest shifts in comedy culture is the growing emphasis on impact over intent. Spade’s explanation has long centered on process and efficiency, while Murphy’s response centers on reception and aftermath. The coexistence of those perspectives reflects a broader cultural recalibration, not a demand for erasure.

Murphy isn’t arguing that comedy should be safe or sanitized. He’s arguing that it should be conscious. His criticism lands now because audiences are finally equipped, and perhaps willing, to hold both truths at once: that something can be funny in the moment and still leave a mark worth interrogating.

A Legacy Still Being Written

As SNL continues to define itself across generations, moments like this serve as reference points. Murphy’s recollection doesn’t diminish the show’s history; it deepens it. It reminds viewers that comedy’s evolution isn’t just about new voices, but about listening to the ones that helped build the stage in the first place.

In that sense, Murphy’s criticism isn’t backward-looking at all. It’s a measure of how far the conversation has moved, and how much further it still has to go.

The Long Shadow of SNL Controversies: How This Moment Fits Into the Show’s Legacy

Saturday Night Live has always worn its controversies alongside its triumphs. From boundary-pushing sketches to misjudged punchlines, the show’s history is a ledger of cultural risk-taking that doesn’t always age gracefully. Murphy’s recollection of the David Spade joke sits squarely within that tradition, not as an outlier, but as part of a pattern where comedy’s immediacy sometimes eclipsed its consequences.

What makes this moment linger is not just the joke itself, but who it involved. Murphy wasn’t a marginal figure passing through Studio 8H; he was the reason the show survived one of its most precarious eras. That imbalance, a former cast member reduced to a cheap laugh by a newer voice, underscores how power and race have intersected uneasily in SNL’s ecosystem.

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Update Jokes and the Cost of Easy Targets

Weekend Update has long been the show’s sharpest tool and, at times, its bluntest instrument. Built for speed and topicality, it has produced both incisive satire and jokes that lean on shorthand stereotypes or professional envy. Spade’s jab at Murphy reflected an era when that calculus favored immediacy over introspection, especially when the target was no longer in the room to respond.

Murphy’s critique reframes that dynamic without dramatizing it. He doesn’t describe lasting damage to his career, but he does name the moment as unnecessary, a laugh gained at someone else’s expense. That clarity helps explain why the joke still resonates: it wasn’t career-ending, but it was revealing.

Race, Reverence, and Who Gets Protected

SNL’s legacy around race is complicated, defined by breakthroughs and blind spots in equal measure. The show helped launch Murphy into superstardom while also existing in an industry that rarely extended the same reverence to Black performers once they moved on. The Spade joke, viewed through that lens, becomes less about personal animosity and more about whose stature is treated as inviolable.

Murphy’s willingness to revisit the moment now speaks to a broader shift in how comedy history is discussed. These stories aren’t being unearthed to indict individuals, but to map the terrain that shaped them. In acknowledging the cheapness of the shot, Murphy adds a necessary chapter to SNL’s ongoing self-examination, one that recognizes laughter as both a currency and a responsibility.

What the Incident Reveals About Comedy Accountability, Growth, and Cultural Memory

If Murphy’s recollection lands with renewed force today, it’s because comedy no longer exists in a vacuum of the moment. Jokes are no longer ephemeral, lost to the broadcast ether; they live on through clips, retrospectives, and cultural reassessment. What once passed as a throwaway line is now part of a larger record that invites scrutiny rather than nostalgia.

Accountability Without Erasure

Murphy’s framing of the joke as a “cheap shot” is notable for what it doesn’t do. He doesn’t call for punishment, cancellation, or retroactive outrage, nor does he strip Spade of context or humanity. Instead, he identifies the imbalance and lets it speak for itself, modeling a form of accountability that emphasizes understanding over absolution.

That approach reflects a maturation in how comedy figures are engaging with their past. Accountability here isn’t about rewriting history; it’s about acknowledging the conditions that allowed certain jokes to land unchallenged. By naming the moment plainly, Murphy invites audiences to reconsider the structures around the laugh, not just the person who delivered it.

Growth as a Collective Process

The incident also underscores that growth in comedy is rarely individual. SNL, as an institution, has evolved unevenly, shaped by shifting audiences, writers’ rooms, and cultural pressure. What was once acceptable shorthand is now more openly interrogated, not because comedians suddenly became cautious, but because audiences became more aware of what those shortcuts obscure.

Murphy’s retrospective clarity reflects that shared evolution. His success afforded him the distance to see the joke for what it was, but it also mirrors a broader cultural movement toward asking why certain targets felt safe in the first place. Growth, in this sense, becomes a dialogue between performer, platform, and public memory.

Why Cultural Memory Matters

That memory is why the joke still resonates. It isn’t revived out of spite or scandal-hunting, but because it sits at the intersection of race, power, and legacy in American comedy. Remembering it allows SNL’s history to be viewed not as a highlight reel, but as a textured narrative with contradictions intact.

In revisiting the moment, Murphy doesn’t diminish his own triumphs or the show’s impact. Instead, he sharpens both, reminding us that comedy’s influence is inseparable from its blind spots. The real takeaway isn’t that SNL failed in that moment, but that its story, like Murphy’s, is richer when told honestly—cheap shots and all.

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