there isn’t a real you
by
Douglas Messerli
Scott
Alexander and Larry Karaszewski (screenplay), Miloš Forman (director) Man on
the Moon / 1999
Roger
Ebert was never a more intelligent film critic than he was when writing about
director Miloš Forman’s wacky but loveable work about the comedian and
performance artist Andy Kaufman (brilliantly performed by Jim Carrey, who won a
Golden Globe for his acting); Ebert’s review begins with a near-perfect summary
of Kaufman and the film:
“Our
inner child embraces Andy Kaufman. We've been just like that. Who cannot
remember boring our friends for hour after hour after hour with the same dumb
comic idea, endlessly insisted on? Who hasn't refused to admit being wrong? ‘I
won't give up on this,'’ we're saying, ‘until you give up first. Until you
laugh, or agree, or cry 'uncle.' I can keep this up all night if necessary.’
That was Andy Kaufman's approach to the world. The difference was, he tried to
make a living out of it, as a stand-up comedian. Audiences have a way of
demanding to be entertained. Kaufman's act was essentially a meditation on the
idea of entertainment. He would entertain you, but you had to cave in first.
You had to laugh at something really dumb, or let him get away with something
boring or outrageous. If you passed the test, he was like a little kid,
delighted to be allowed into the living room at last. He'd entertain, all
right. But you had to pass the entry exam.”
A less-talented director than Forman might
have explained away Andy’s behavior as a Freudian-like response to his father,
Stanley Kaufman’s haughty disdain of his son’s behavior.
But Forman simply shows him as a kind of
bully, called home by Andy’s mother from, presumably his jewelry sales job, to
correct her son’s odd behavior of performing to a wall of sports-figures behind
which he imagines to be a camera. My husband’s father was also a jeweler of
sorts; Howard performed plays to invisible audiences with his toy soldiers in
the family garage; and he too has always had a great sense of humor, so I
sympathize with Andy’s childhood imaginings.
Forman simply leaves it as that, a father
trying to correct his son’s somewhat bizarre imaginary conversations with
non-existent audiences. He does not present us with Andy’s early performances
which began at the age of 9, but rather dives right into his life as a “failed”
stand-up comedian, who, instead of telling jokes, created entertainment
“situations” that questioned—in a manner that Henri Bergson, author of Laughter:
An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic might have approved—what humor truly
is.
Andy’s humor did not consist of one-liners
but rather about existential situations. How does an audience react when a man
stands upon a stage to sing only the “Here I come to save the day!” refrain
from a recorded “Mighty Mouse” theme song? Is the performer still a mad child
or an idiot-savant who draws the audience in by his own pretended naiveté? If
you pretend that you’re an incapable stand-up comedian can your viewers still
accept you as being actually funny.
If laughter is a kind of method of
degradation, a throw-back of what the audience is perceiving, why not go all
the way? These were clearly the questions Andy Kaufman posed again and again,
even forcing the sit-com on which he performed, Taxi, to accept the
terribly bad lounge singer Tony Clifton for some performances. Latka Gravas was
a fool, but not the only one that Andy had created, “thank you very much.”
A somewhat incompetent, but nonetheless
charming Elvis Presley imitator, a serious British-sounding reader of The Great
Gatsby (long before The Elevator Repair Service’s Gatz took it seriously) who
reveals some of the pretentiousness of the original book which he reads out
entirely to his exhausted audiences,* and a stint as a gender wrestler—battling
with women whom he abuses both verbally and sexually, forcing us perhaps to see
the real abuse by males everyday of the opposite sex—and yet other roles follow.
Was Andy truly a man of spiritual beliefs,
following the tenants of an Indian guru, or was that just also part of the
shtick? At one point the movie makes clear that “There isn’t a real you.”
Yet Carrey takes this role in different directions while maintaining impeccably the many personalities of his character, but yet letting us see through the veneer at various moments, as, for example, when his agent, George Shapiro (ironically portrayed by his Taxi partner Danny DeVito) suddenly perceives that the course lounge singer, Tony Clifton, is only another personae of his client (American playwright Len Jenkin, author of the wonderful The Dream Express, with the terrible lounge singers Spin and Marlene Milton, and even Bill Murray have to bow to Kaufman’s early revelations), or when he truly reveals himself as a would-be lover to his wife Lynne Margulies (Courtney Love), and particularly when he contracts a rare lung disease which will eventually kill him—yet given his continual performative hoaxes few believe is real.
In Forman’s movie the loveable Andy really
does die, a frail leftover of a self so very prolific in its many
disguises.
Who is a comedian truly? As early as
Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton films we were asked to consider this
question, and British playwright John Osbourne in The Entertainer more
seriously asked it: isn’t in necessary that to wear the mask of humor is to
carry the mask of tragedy in ones back pocket. “Make ‘em laugh,” always ends
with a wall crashing in or the comic crashing out. Carrey makes us realize that
it is the very same thing.
Actors have often said it was nearly
impossible to work with the Marx Brothers because of their constant antic
behavior on and off the set. Carrey today—who like Kaufman studied
Transcendental Meditation, suffers from depression, and today espouses
political and non-vaccination views that are not entirely popular in
Hollywood—has seen his own career take a dive; few directors, apparently, want
to work with him. So too did Andy Kaufman’s “man on the moon” improvisations
eventually alienate him from those who previously had most loved his off-brand
humor.
Laughter, as Bergson reminds us, is also a
mockery of society, a kind of intense release of hate.
Punch
and Judy daily violently hit one another over the head.
Los
Angeles, March 29, 2020
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (March 2020).
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