Crowning the King of Comedy

We’re all aware, at least if we watch American television, that right now talk-show hosts are something of an endangered species. Gone are the days when a man like Johnny Carson (or Jay Leno) was a friendly face in our living rooms, poking impish fun at celebrities and politicians without fear of retribution. Now Stephen Colbert’s months at CBS are numbered. And Jimmy Kimmel seemed to have gotten the axe when the powers-that-be disapproved of one of his jokes. (Surprisingly, the backlash was such that he was quickly reinstated.)

 But itl makes you wonder why anyone would risk it all to tell jokes on late-night television.  What exactly is the attraction? The money? The laughs? The opportunity to take on the status quo? The need, pure and simple, to connect with an audience?

 These thoughts flitted through my mind as I sat down to watch an unlikely 1982 film by Martin Scorsese, one that contains no gangsters and no boxers. (Yes, there’s a taxi-driver or two, but not in a role of any significance.) You could say, though, that this—like so many other Scorsese projects—is a film about an obsession. Robert De Niro, starring in his fifth film for Scorsese, plays Rupert Pupkin, an intense young man determined to make it as a stand-up comedian. None other than Jerry Lewis, then in his fifties, plays Jerry Langford, a comedian of the Carson ilk with a wide base of adoring fans. By happenstance, Pupkin protects Langford from a frenzied mob, then tries to worm his way into the great man’s home and heart as a way of launching his own career as a comedian. What does he want? To commence his own climb to fame and fortune via the opening spot on Langford’s nightly broadcast. How does he go about achieving this? With the manic determination that marks so many Scorsese protagonists. And, of course, a little touch of mayhem.

 It's fun to see De Niro, hyper-familiar in brutal parts, desperately playing at being ingratiating. And Lewis, eschewing his usual comic shtik, is convincing as a very private man forced to make nice, much against his nature, to someone who has obviously gone off the rails. For me the big surprise is comedian Sandra Bernhard, who essentially plays De Niro’s partner in crime, working her own surprisingly sexual obsession with Langford while helping clear the way for Pupkin’s leap into the big time.

 This is not, despite its title, a movie that is full of chuckles. But it does use very black humor to probe the excesses of fandom, something which continues—thanks to the Internet—to be more and more a part of our everyday world.  The King of Comedy builds to a climax and then a coda that have aroused much discussion: the movie doesn’t end in the likeliest of ways. Some moviegoers (like me) have appreciated its heavy-duty irony; others are not so sure.

 Admirers of Scorsese are apparently divided on the merits of this film. Some critics of the day embraced De Niro’s character as the flip side of Taxi Driver’s Travis Bickle; others (including the influential Pauline Kael) were convinced Scorsese had lost his way. If Wikipedia is to be believed, such cinema wonderworkers as Akira Kurosawa and Wim Wenders have ranked The King of Comedy among their very favorite films. Fans in today’s Hollywood include Steve Carell and Jack Black, who would like to star in a remake. I don’t suspect that this will happen anytime soon, if ever. But the nature of comedy, as a subject, never truly grows old. 

 

Going for the Gold: The 2024 Oscar Ceremony

        

For years, ever since I can remember, I’ve watched the Oscar telecast. At first it was a chance to participate in my parents’ world by discovering the movies that excited them. I vividly recall how thrilled they were when the modestly-budgeted Marty beat out some schmaltzy epics like Love is a Many Splendored Thing. And decades later, during my father’s final illness, I remember him cheering for Schindler’s List at a time when he was much too frail to actually watch such an intense drama. In 1968, for perhaps the first time, I’d seen all the  Best Picture nominees, and felt that most of them (The Graduate, Bonnie and Clyde, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, In the Heat of the Night) significantly touched on the issues that were rocking my own world. My fascination with the 1968 ceremony—which gave golden statuettes to In the Heat of the Night and director Mike Nichols for The Graduate—led me in a highly roundabout way to the writing of my most recent book, Seduced by Mrs. Robinson.

 All and all, I’ve loved the pomp and circumstance surrounding the Oscars. Which doesn’t mean I’ve always agreed with the prize-winners. And certain ceremonies, like that weird mid-pandemic celebration held at L.A.’s Union Station (it was all set up to give its ultimate honor to the late Chadwick Boseman, but Anthony Hopkins spoiled the party) have left me with a bad taste in my mouth. But I agree with those pundits proclaiming this year’s event as one of the best in recent memory. First of all, the nominees were an exciting mix of supersized blockbusters, intimate dramas, and comedies that had something to say. I also appreciated the internationalism of the nominee roster, including the fact that the five powerful films on the feature-length documentary list were all from countries outside the U.S. One of the evening’s most powerful moments came when the Ukrainian director of 20 Days in Mariupol proclaimed that he wished his film hadn’t needed to be made, but that in documenting the Russian invasion of one of Ukraine’s largest cities he was obeying the precept that “cinema forms memories and memories form history.”  I appreciated, too, the carefully crafted words of Jonathan Glazer, Oscar-winner for a uniquely staged Holocaust drama, The Zone of Interest, who decried both the October 7 massacre in Israel and the deaths now dominating the news from Gaza.

 It was also worth noting that German-born actress Sandra Hüller was introduced to many of us via not one but two best picture nominees, The Zone of Interest and Anatomy of Fall. For her performance in the latter, she was nominated for a Best Actress statuette. Though she didn’t win, she aroused my curiosity to the point where I sat down to watch an earlier Hüller-starring vehicle, Toni Erdmann, in which I saw far more of her than I expected. The Oscars can definitely be considered educational.

 But of course an Oscar ceremony wouldn’t be fun without a large dose of silliness. In that category I’d put the evening’s most extravagant musical number, the pink and perky “I’m Just Ken” from Barbie. I’d also include some pretty hilarious gowns, so extravagantly poufy that woe to anyone sitting next to the wearer of one of them. (Paul Giamatti, though, didn’t seem to mind.) Also in the silly category, the very undraped, very muscle-bound John Cena presenting the statuette for Best Costume Design. And, too, something I only THOUGHT was a gag, a social media post from a certain former U.S. President lambasting Jimmy Kimmel’s hosting gig. Yes, it really happened.