I wanted to post something, however belatedly, for Robin Williams. His death is a tremendous loss, and I know several people who were more affected by his passing than by any other celebrity death. If it felt like we knew him, it was because, as several of Williams' real-life friends put it, we kind of did – Williams put a tremendous amount of himself into both his comedic and dramatic performances. He was astonishingly, breathtakingly funny, but also possessed considerable depth. His mind simply worked at a faster pace than those of mere mortals, and his intelligence was stunning – some of the tossed-off jokes he would improvise – witty, slightly esoteric, biting – were jaw-dropping. If ever there was a living embodiment of Albert Einstein's observation that "creativity is intelligence having fun," it was Robin Williams.
Other performers such as George Carlin stuck to standup comedy more than Williams, but Williams definitely makes the short list of best standup comics ever, and he'd periodically come back to the medium even after making it big as a TV and movie star. The only comedian comparable to Williams in style was his idol, Jonathan Winters, but while Winters would do goofy humor, and was similarly playful, Williams' toolkit added some scathing political comedy. In terms of a comedian earning mainstream praise as a serious artist, the closest analogy would probably be Charlie Chaplin, who was wildly successful but also became respected as a filmmaker. Williams did some dumb movies, of course, but his comedic chops were never in doubt, and he earned several Oscar nominations for roles that were primarily serious (finally winning Best Supporting Actor for Good Will Hunting).
There's a saying that clowns make the best tragedians, and there's some truth to that. I've long been fascinated by the intersection between tragedy and comedy, where they mix, where they switch, where one can transcend the other. Robin Williams really understood those dynamics, far better than most people. His best performances all display that understanding – in The Fisher King, Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting and Good Morning, Vietnam (among others). It was that depth that I found so captivating and admirable – coupled with his lightning-fast wit. (I inadvertently had entire sections of some routines memorized from watching them so much.)
I would have liked to have thought that Robin Williams had conquered his demons, that he had an adequate support network in place, that he had some way to handle his depression and avoid suicide. After his death, countless stories emerged about his generosity, and many of his acts of kindness were done in private. To paraphrase his friends, it's tragic that he wasn't able to give himself (or otherwise receive) what he so selflessly gave to others.
Harold Ramis has died at the age of 69. He directed two films dear to me, Groundhog Day and Ghostbusters, and had a hand in many others I enjoyed. By all accounts, he was a selfless collaborator, and this is amply on display in Ghostbusters, which Ramis acted in and cowrote with Dan Aykroyd. Ramis plays Egon Spengler, the no-nonsense brains of the outfit, meaning he delivers some great lines deadpan, but mostly plays straight man to Bill Murray and Aykroyd – and let them have most of the funniest lines. (He also often showed sound judgment as a writer and director, as when he rejected a studio idea that the cause of Phil's Groundhog Day predicament should be a jilted ex soliciting a gypsy curse on him.) Some great tributes have been written to Ramis, but I wanted to take a look at Ramis' craft and artistry, especially since comedy often don't get no respect.
The difference between a decent comedy and great one is often just a few elements, and Ramis' successes demonstrate that well. Three aspects stand out for me – the ending, exploring the premises, and the human core of the story. (Obviously, in a good story, all of these will overlap.)
Let's begin with endings. They can be tricky, and it's not uncommon for a story to go for the big climatic scene and flop. The typical forced-versus-earned climax chooses spectacle over character, and loses sight of what made us invest in the story earlier. A forced climax in action and horror films tends to be a big-but-hollow CG spectacular. Comedies often build toward madcap mayhem, the ultimate chaos of the film – but in the forced versions, it all feels strained and artificial. In The Party, the forced climax is the all-too-predictable, everyone-in-the-pool-with-the-baby-elephant bit. (Some people love the film; I think Peter Sellers is brilliant and delivers some great moments, including a hilarious Gunga Din parody, but don't like the overall flick much.) In American Pie 2, it's the turn into the third act – the overamped-for-the-circumstances scene where the bros hear their other bro is distraught and has gone walking on the beach alone (oh noes!) so they must find him urgently, pull him out of the film's lowest moment (bro despair of little more than a minute or two) and then stride back to the beach house together, gorgeously lit as the music swells, bro-triumphant. (I only saw the first two films in the series, and they have their moments, but that sequence felt forced, unearned and reeked of filmmaker desperation.) I'm sure readers can come up with their own examples. But compare the misses with the finale of Ghostbusters. The extended showdown with the demon Gozer, who transforms into the giant Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, is absolutely hilarious. The editing build-up of teases and reveal is perfect, Dan Aykroyd's lead-in is masterful, and the ensemble play off each other beautifully, with some classic lines. (Ramis: "I'm sorry Venkman, I'm terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought.") The climatic parade mayhem scene Animal House is likewise actually funny. In a different tone, Groundhog Day's big celebratory party scene feels completely earned, as does the final morning wake-up scene. Ramis knew how to set up his partners for a topper, and at his best, he really stuck the landing.
Many films don't fully explore their own premises. It's a key frustration for viewers of a near miss, usually voiced something like, "They had a good idea, but they just didn't know what to do with it!" The better the core idea, the more maddening the whiff is. In the best films, that exploration has happened during the writing process, dozens of bad (or merely not as strong) ideas have been tried out and discarded, and the final script reflects all that thought and experimentation. The best scripts work through all the weak spots until the character(s) and the plot click together and are inseparable. Groundhog Day is one of those films for me, and I've praised it more times than I can remember on those grounds. I found it immensely satisfying when I first saw it, because every time I thought, "What about...? What if he tried..?" the filmmakers actually explored it. (Groundhog Day was originally written by Danny Rubin, but it was significantly reworked in collaboration with Harold Ramis, and both authors deserve some credit for the script's success.) Dumb characters are maddening to watch. Phil (Bill Murray) is certainly selfish, self-destructive or despairing at points in the movie, but he's not dumb. He tries everything – personal advantage, charity, suicide, conning Rita (Andie MacDowell), and many other approaches. The basic idea of being stuck in a particular place has been explored countless times in storytelling, and the idea of being stuck in a specific day or returning to the same spot has been done several times in sci-fi. (I've actually argued that Groundhog Day can be viewed as sci-fi/fantasy/speculative fiction – using an unusual situation to explore some facet of the human experience.) Groundhog Day covers similar ground to other "trapped" stories, and it's actually funny to boot (even moving). That's quite the feat.
On that point – Groundhog Day works so well because Phil not only amuses us, we begin to really care about him and his predicament. There's a human core to the story. (In Ghostbusters, that element isn't as strong or crucial, but we do grow to like the team.) Groundhog Day is one of Bill Murray's best performances, and the importance of that can't be underestimated. But the screenplay, cowritten by Ramis, creates the path, and Ramis' direction guides that performance and sets the story's pace and build. There's a great line in The Fisher King where Jack (Jeff Bridges), who's in genuine despair and feeling deserved guilt, says, "I wish there was some way I could just pay the fine and go home." He wants an easy out rather than actually changing. One of the triumphs of the The Fisher King is that it fully explores that dynamic and what it takes for Jack to truly transform, and Groundhog Day pulls off something identical. After a lovely night with Rita, Phil tries to recreate the magic another night, but it's forced and artificial, and doesn't work. In a different vein, he tries to save the life of a homeless man, but nothing he tries succeeds. Both of those elements are pretty damn profound for something sold as a comedy. (The sequence of deaths is also masterfully assembled.) Death can't be cheated forever, and sometimes not even for day; true love is not a matter of tricks or following the um, perfect script, but of honestly, intimately connecting with a human being. Call it soul or heart, but we need to care about Phil for the film to resonate ultimately; Ramis and the rest of the team provide a recognizable human experience in the fantastical by grounding the proceedings in an emotional reality. ("Imaginary gardens with real toads in them.")
All of this is to say that Harold Ramis' best work shows a craftsmanship and artistry that's genuinely impressive. Here are a few scenes to demonstrate this. First, here's one of my all-time favorite comedy scenes:
Ramis deadpans his bit expertly, as does Ernie Hudson in his reaction. Notice all the exposition and setup in this scene hiding under the comedy? It starts with Ramis, Aykroyd builds on it, Murray mentions the EPA and asks about the grid, gets an update, and then the scene closes with a callback – "What about the twinkie?" We get several funny lines – all rooted in character – plus plot development, all in about 45 seconds! That's mighty efficient.
Here's the bridge scene, the most serious one from the same movie. Ramis isn't in it, but he and Aykroyd wrote it, and notice that only this combination of team members could have this discussion. The scene is actually pretty spooky for a comedy, and builds the stakes and tension:
Over to Groundhog Day. Murray's very good here, but this sequence also shows off how tightly written and edited the film is:
In this later clip, Phil tries to recreate the connection he felt with Rita building a snowman on a previous Groundhog Day. But Phil's trying to force things, and discovers that the magic doesn't work like that:
Well done.
Links:
Harold Ramis on the metaphor of Groundhog Day (video).
The Los Angeles Times obituary.
The New York Timesobituary.
The Chicago Tribune obituary .
The NPR obituary
The Variety obituary.
Rob Vaux's fine remembrance.
The io9 remembrance.
Ubiquitous character actor Stephen Tobolowsky, probably best known as Ned Ryerson in Groundhog Day, has a great remembrance of Ramis.
The Wrap: "Harold Ramis, ‘Buddha of Comedy,’ Remembered By Rainn Wilson, Judd Apatow,""Harold Ramis and Bill Murray: Inside The ‘Groundhog Day’ Duo’s Decade-Long Feud" and "President Obama Makes ‘Caddyshack’ Joke in Tribute to Harold Ramis."Esquire:"An Oral History of Ghostbusters."
Indiewire, 2013: "5 Things You Might Not Know About Groundhog Day."The New Yorker, 2004: "Comedy First: How Harold Ramis’s movies have stayed funny for twenty-five years."
DVD Review, 1999: "Anatomy of a Comedian."
The great Sid Caesar has died. I mainly knew him from countless viewings of the compilation film, 10 From Your Show of Shows, a great showcase for his immensely talented comedy troupe. I later caught additional sketches (all excellent), and learned about his dream team of writers, including Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Neil Simon, and Larry Gelbart. (Carl Reiner was both a writer and performer.) It's just staggering. Caesar himself was a stupendous comic actor, and had an immense talent for both pantomime and improvising in gibberish and fake foreign languages when required. (He called it "doubletalk." The brilliant Imogene Coca could perform it, but needed it written out, whereas Caesar would spout it off-the-cuff.)
The Wikipedia entry linked above is quite good and full of great quotations about Caesar. He's also appeared in fictionalized form, most notably in My Favorite Year (Mel Brooks was its uncredited executive producer) and Laughter on the 23rd Floor, the stage play by Neil Simon. The Caesar portrayed in those was fairly true-to-life – extremely talented, passionate, driven, an addict and a bit of a personal mess, the occasional bout of temper, committed to excellence in the craft, and deep down, caring deeply about his team. (Although it should be mentioned that those who caught Caesar at a bad time, especially during his heavy addictions years, don't remember him fondly on a personal level.)
If you can find it, PBS aired a great reunion called Caesar's Writers. Meanwhile, here are some clips and links:
"Five Dollar Date," which he wrote, and shows off his versatility, verbal skills and energy:
"The German General," written by Mel Brooks, and one of Caesar's best double-talking performances:
"From Here to Obscurity," one of the many film parodies (and quite long by today's standards):
"This Is Your Story," supposedly one of Caesar's personal favorites:
For many of us, the first exposure to classic films wasn’t on film at all, it was in print. It was in black and white even if the films were in color, it was printed on cheap paper, and it was full of some of the worst puns known to man. We thrilled to Francis Ford Coppola’s The Oddfather, Arthur Penn’s revisionist Western Little Dull Man, the sophisticated sex comedy Shampooped, and Stanley Kubrick’s ground-breaking 201 Minutes of a Space Idiocy. For us, Casablanca was cast with professional wrestlers, My Fair Lady featured women’s libbers trying to reform a male chauvinist Burt Reynolds, and The Exorcist ended with Satan demanding a six-film deal.
Rude, irreverent, and with 58 years of history now behind them, MAD magazine’s movie satires gave some of us our first encounters with the modern cinematic canon. Always happy to aim over the heads of its target audience of teenaged boys (issue 28 featured a guide to IRS form 1040), MAD was parodying movies like Barry Lyndon (Borey Lyndon) and Blow-Up (Throw Up) to a readership with little awareness of these movies beyond their newspaper ads. Long before most kids were old enough to see R- and X-rated movies like Dressed to Kill, Altered States, and Midnight Cowboy, they were familiar with Undressed to Kill, Assaulted State, and Midnight Wowboy. While film studies majors gasp over the deconstruction of genre in the works of David Lynch and the meta-movies of Charlie Kaufman, “the usual gang of idiots” over at MAD have been deconstructing, meta-narrativing, and postmodernizing motion pictures since the very first movie parody (Hah! Noon!) appeared in 1954. …
Prior to the Seventies and the advent of Monty Python, Mel Brooks’s film send-ups, and the team of Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker, MAD were the only people parodying Hollywood sanctimony on a regular basis.
Some of those specific parodies were before my time, but I caught several in the MAD blockbuster issues, which would recap many of their greatest hits. At my house, we kids were introduced to MAD by our dad, who had saved from his own childhood some of the original comic books (before it switched to magazine format) and early paperback compilations. Some of the stories had a meaner edge than the later, more zany, pieces, but they were still great fun to read. (Who could forget Harvey Kurtzman and Wally Wood's fantastic "Superduperman"?)
The film parodies appeared later, and with few exceptions, they were the best part of the magazine. Unfortunately, they also grew shorter and some issues didn't have any (it's why I stopped following MAD). Hendrix writes:
But when MAD switched from black and white to color and began running ads in 2001, it coincided with the decline of the movie-satire golden age. In the 18 years between 1984 and 2002 they published 180 of them, but between 2002 and 2012 there were only 40. The spoofs used to average seven pages each, now they average five, and sometimes even four. But this decline has more to do with movie industry practices than the quality of the satires themselves, and the parodies are too much a part of the magazine’s DNA to disappear completely. They’ve also shown a remarkable continuity. Over the past 50 years, four editors (Harvey Kurtzman, Al Feldstein, Nick Meglin, and John Ficarra), and the same five writers (Dick DeBartolo, Stan Hart, Arnie Kogen, Larry Siegel, and Desmond Devlin) and five artists (Mort Drucker, Angelo Torres, Jack Davis, Tom Richmond, and Hermann Mejia) have been responsible for 87 percent of them, and the format has remained remarkably consistent.
The other writers and artists had their moments, but the magic pair for me was always Dick DeBartolo and Mort Drucker. Their parodies of the Star Wars and Star Trek franchises were among their best, featuring some hilarious (and quotable) exchanges. (MAD even did a musical parodies of both!)
The number of film parodies MAD delivered is impressive. And it's hard to overestimate the influence of MAD on several generations when it came to their general comic sensibility (and sure, their attitudes toward film, too). So thanks to MAD – most of all that wonderful big kid William Gaines – and parents wise enough to heed MAD's mission of 'corrupting the minds of children.'
The most wonderful thing about Jonathan Winters' comedy was his sense of play. He was essentially a big (and brilliant) kid having fun. Several of the obituaries and remembrances of him mention this improvised segment with a stick:
I read a great deal of fantastic stuff on the internet tubes I rarely get around to linking, apart from my Mike's Blog Roundup stints at Crooks and Liars. (Limited blogging time, alas.) Without slighting the many other excellent pieces I've read so far this year, this post by Jonathan Schwarz at A Tiny Revolution is absolute fucking perfection, and wins the internets for the day, the week, and possibly the year. It may sound grandiose, but the best comedy and most biting satire depend on truth, and really can be transcendent. This piece might not hit all readers as hard, but I know some people who will really appreciate it as the pure distillation of a certain something, especially if they get the references and know the story (and comedy tradition) behind ATR's name. (It's explained in a link on the sidebar, and also see this post. Wheels within wheels, man.) The Emperor's New Clothes isn't just a fairy tale; it remains the eternal ethos of the ruling class. For folks who sometimes feel like members of the endangered sane staring at naked emperors, it can often also feel like they're taking crazy pills. We might not be able to save the world, but there's a great deal to be said for a few well-placed, artful "fuck you"s to the appropriate people and sharing some warmth and laughter with our comrades along the way. Viva the blogosphere. Bravo.
Update: Driftglass, who not incidentally has been one of David Brooks' sharpest critics for years, wrote a similar post back in 2007. I believe that's called prescience or something.
Update 2: David Dayen (D-Day), who's done some standup comedy, also referenced "The Aristocrats" in a post, although in 2009 and with a different approach.
Some of the Democrats are to the right of Nixon, and economically, the Blue Dogs are to the right of Reagan. That makes the GOP – which is far right - completely reckless or insane. I'd say Carter looks more and more prescient on the energy front, though. Next up:
The brilliant comedy writer Larry Gelbart has died at the age of 81. He's probably best known for his work on the first four years of the TV show MASH, for co-writing Tootsie, and for co-writing the book for the musical A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Among many other credits, he was part of Sid Caesar's legendary group of writers. He wrote a memoir, Laughing Matters, published in 1997. I admire his work a great deal, and just marvel at his sheer output, inventiveness, wit and human touch.
The Los Angeles Times has a good obituary, imdb lists his extensive credits, and skippy and Ken Levine have nice remembrances of him. In addition to being tremendously talented and prodigious, he was apparently a very kind guy.
My favorite bit from the LA Times obit is an excerpt from his memoir talking about his preparation for MASH:
[It] was going to have to be a whole lot more than funny. Funny was easy. How not to trivialize human suffering by trying to be comic about it, that was the challenge.
Gelbart made funny look easy, and also that blending of comedy, tragedy and humanity. It's difficult to pull off. He's been tremendously influential, and I have no doubt that new generations of comedy writers will continue to study his work. Condolences to his family and friends, and thanks to Larry Gelbart for a wonderful legacy.
Fresh Air re-ran interviews with both Isaac Hayes and Bernie Mac.
The Washington Post piece on Bernie Mac looks at the big differences between "the two Bernies," his onstage persona versus the offstage man. His New York Times obituary ain't bad (although reading "Mr. Mac" provides some unintentional comedy).
The WP and NYT obits for Hayes give an overview of his career. In the WP, Wil Haygood also took a closer look at Hayes' musical impact and discussed it with readers.
Bernie Mac is also remembered by skippy, who worked with him.
Both men appear in Soul Men, scheduled to come out later this year.
It's fun to hear Isaac Hayes talk about how he wrote the theme from Shaft, which is a good period piece, sure, but also still a fantastic track.
Meanwhile, I was a fan of The Bernie Mac Show. After seeing his act in The Original Kings of Comedy, I wasn't sure his material and style of comedy would be well received by a larger (and whiter) audience in a sitcom, but Wilmore and Bernie Mac tweaked the genre and made it work. The best episodes had some really sharp writing, and it was pretty cool to see it nab an Emmy for best writing in its first season (accepting was series creator Larry Wilmore, who moved on to The Daily Show). I had heard about Bernie Mac's lung issues several years back, including how his health stopped the show for a while, but he was making enough appearances recently I thought he was doing okay. His brand of comedy wasn't for everybody. But he had some comedic range, from his stand-up to his sitcom to his turns in some popular movies - his one scene in Transformers is really funny, and two of his scenes in Oceans's Eleven, buying the vans ("interfere with my social agenda") and the pickpocketing ("whitejack") are hilarious.
In any case, rather than a moment of silence, I think it's only right to go out with a laugh and some funk:
Blue Girl won one of the scholarships to attend Netroots Nation in Austin, starting July 17th. Congratulations to her yet again! My favorite of her many endorsements came from her mother: "She woke up one morning a pleasant toddler, then some time in the mid-morning, had a temper tantrum. It has never gone away."
Meanwhile, a stand-up comic I know, Adam Hunter, is on NBC's Last Comic Standing, which airs on Thursday nights. It's great exposure and a fantastic opportunity. Assuming he continues to progress, apparently viewer votes will play a factor. The show seems to slice up sets somewhat for broadcast, especially in the earlier rounds with so many contestants, which can hurt the rhythm of a routine. Still, I think enough comes through that you can judge his material and delivery for yourself. Here's his site, MySpace page, and last week's segment:
Man. Carlin was one of my all-time favorite stand-up comedians, as I know he was for many people. I taped one of his HBO specials as a teenager, and watched it more times than I count. His material was good to brilliant, but his delivery was about as sharp as you can get, due to the speed, the faces, the vocal inflection, the shifts. There's a line attributed to both Bernard Shaw and Billy Wilder: "If you tell people the truth, make them laugh, or they'll kill you." Carlin often exemplified that. But even when he was being more silly than deep, he was damn funny. He had a long and impressive career, but boy, he will be missed.
Carlin has too many routines to post them all, but here are several. Feel free to link more. (Oh, needless to say, most of these routines are Not Safe for Work.)
Seven Words:
We Like War:
Voting and Politicians:
Religion:
A Place for my Stuff:
Baseball and Football:
Modern Man:
Update:skippy and Jill of Brilliant at Breakfast have been doing roundups of the posts on Carlin. I appreciated the insight into how hard Carlin worked, and how kind he could be, from Louis C.K. and the Sailor at VidiotSpeak. Here's a guy who could have ridden the nostalgia train, but instead constantly developed new material and seemed to get sharper as he got older. It would be really hard to over-praise Carlin's performance skills, his dedication and, well, courage. I agree with Mustang Bobby about Carlin working in the tradition of the Shakespearean Fool, telling truth to power but getting people to laugh at it. It's humor based on truth, and self-recognition, versus solely mocking other people. That is the real deal, it's hard to pull off, and that's why it's so damn obscenely gorgeous when someone nails it. As Steve Benen writes, "I’d seen plenty of stand-up, but I’d never seen someone make an audience think and laugh at the same time, about subjects most comedians wouldn’t dare touch."
Fresh Air did a good recap of past interviews with Carlin.
Meanwhile, I love Roy Edroso's closing lines: "Like Voltaire, Mencken, et alia, Carlin died out of the good graces of the bullshit merchants. I guess they knew he was driving away some of their customers."
Roughly a year ago now, a friend of mine had a great idea for her birthday party. She'd thrown some great bashes before, but for this one she decided to hold a talent show. It was especially appropriate since she's spent her life working in theater and film. A mutual friend suggested we perform "Who's On First?" for the occasion.
When I was a young kid, my dad used to check out short films from the local library and show it on an old projector of his. Unlike the projectors in our school, it had to be manually threaded, which could take a while. In any case, it was a great choice for birthday parties or Saturday entertainment, and meant we grew up with some of the Laurel and Hardy greats. Meanwhile, although this was just before the cable era really hit, Marx Brothers films were often shown on TV (unfailingly on New Year's or thereabouts) and Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein made it on quite often as well. (Chaplin and Buster Keaton were rarely shown for some reason, and I've never much cared for most of the Three Stooges stuff.)
In any case, it was a real treat to dig into one of the great comedy sketches. Abbott and Costello didn't originate most of their old vaudeville routines, but they were probably the best at performing them. It's also interesting that it's completely clean (barring maybe the last lines). As kids we thought the word play (and Costello's frustration) was hilarious, but adults love it too. What makes "Who's On First?" a bit tricky to rehearse is that there's no one set script. Abbott and Costello varied it a bit each time. I hunted down some of the best.
Versions
Here's the version [6:54] we would up using, from a TV appearance in front of a live audience. It's probably my favorite. This version is featured on some old Abbott and Costello specials and compilations. I taped mine off of PBS years ago, and it turns out my friend's transcript, that he had typed up himself as a teenager from an audio tape, was the same version. Unfortunately, the sound drifts out of synch on the only YouTube copy I could find, but it's still a great listen:
Here's the version [6:16] from the film The Naughty Nineties. This is the one that's in the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's probably the tightest and cleanest version available, although there's no live audience as there is for the other versions, so you won't hear any laughs. (Comedy is best seen with an audience.) The actual sketch starts after about a minute of setup:
Here's another TV version [6:09], which many folks have posted to YouTube. The video ain't great, but it's in synch and a very good version with a breakneck pace:
I couldn't find a transcript of this version.
Here's a radio version [4:28], supposedly the first time they performed it on the air. The speed is astounding:
The Wiki entry on "Who's On First?" is quite good, especially at listing variations and homages to the sketch (The Simpsons one, with Principal Skinner killing the whole sketch at the start, is a classic on its own). I also found a long but interesting pseudo-Shakespearean version:
Abbott and Costello
Many accounts say that Abbott and Costello performed the sketch hundreds if not thousands of times. I was disappointed that some accounts claim they were scared to try new material, since I'm used to the idea of great performers not being content to rest on their laurels, and some of their other sketches are pretty damn funny as well. The two were hit hard by taxes due to their meteoric success, were estranged for a time, and this interview with Bud Abbott from 1960 is quite sad. (Molière and Bulgakov had pretty rough lives, too.) All that said, their performances were truly great, for the ages and a hell of a legacy, and we can all be grateful for that.
The Sketch
I know some people hate to analyze comedy. I agree that if a comedian has to explain the joke to the audience, it's trouble. There's an element to comedy that's just instinctual and subjective, and you either get it, or you don't. And tastes do vary. I'm not going to explain why "Who's on First?" is funny. Most people understand why, and more importantly, they laugh.
However, for performers, writers and directors, comedy sometimes does require more scrutiny and more work. I'm going to write a bit about the sketch itself and the experience of rehearsing and performing it. Feel free just to enjoy the videos, and stop reading now, if you like!
Perhaps the most interesting part of studying versions of the script was discovering that it's not really one set routine. It's a set of "subroutines." For most of the sketch Lou Costello took the lead and Bud Abbott played off him reactively. Even if the exchanges were fairly set, when you realize the exact script wasn't fixed, Abbott and Costello's performances become even more impressive, especially given their speed. Robin Williams in his coked-out days comes close, but damn, they're quick.
The exact content of the "subroutines" varied, and their order could even vary slightly in the middle, but roughly it goes:
Intro Setup (this varies from version to version) The Roster (Abbott lays out the roster a few times) Who's on First (the core gag) What's on Second (they start riffing on the 3 basemen) Paycheck (How does the first baseman sign his name?) The Outfield (Why and Because) The Pitching Staff (Tomorrow and Today) Naturally (Costello tries to sum up, gets even more confused) Finale (Costello tries to finish — I don't give a darn)
In the version we recreated, for example, you can hear Costello bulldozing over Abbott to push the sketch to the Paycheck section, but it all works.
The Rehearsal Process
There's a saying that everyone believes he or she is a great lover and has a good sense of humor. Needless to say, they're not all right. There are various theories about comedy floating around, but for my money (and I could go on at some length) some are horribly narrow and simplistic, most of all because there are different forms and styles of comedy.
Still — and this is something some "method" actors don't get readily — writing, directing, and acting comedy can at times be very, very technical. For writers, after the basic scene works, there's still a process of revision and word choice, paring things down to be tight. For directors, there's the matter of staging things, and working on the overall rhythm of a scene, the shifts, builds and reversals. And for performers, there's above all comic timing. Some forms of comedy require more of an "internal life" or can benefit from that, but in most cases the external mechanics have to be set first. That's especially the case for physical comedy and sight gags. Some actors don't have innate comic timing, but can memorize or respond to a rhythm. Similarly, when it comes to line delivery, sometimes the best way is apparent right off the bat, and sometimes finding it requires trial and error. All that's part of the process. (I do have a few stories about actors deliberately screwing up comedic bits that had gotten big laughs, all in the name of "acting," though!) I don't pretend to be a master of comedy by any stretch, but I have written, directed or performed in a fair number over the years, so I'm fairly aware of my limitations — and slighter talents — in that arena. (My stage fright used to be so bad I used to want to run off screaming right before going on, and while it's much better now, I prefer directing, and would say I generally still enjoy having performed more than I enjoy performing itself, and certainly more than waiting to go on.)
In any case, since my buddy's the better actor (and quite good), we quickly decided he'd do Costello's part. While Abbott's part ain't easy, I have to say for my money Costello's is much harder. He leads almost everything. He has far more verbiage, and if you listen to Lou Costello, he speaks with amazing rapidity but perfect diction. It's very impressive.
After running the scene a few times at the first rehearsal, I found the best way for me to learn the piece was to listen to it over and over and over again (my former blogmate Jim Swanson was kind enough to make me a MP3 from the YouTube video). I listened to it at home and in the car, and it took me about a day to get it memorized. There are a few tricky, snag spots, but I actually found it surprisingly easy, perhaps because for Abbott, much of it comes down to, "If Costello says this, you say that." For Abbott's part, I found it could be helpful actually to visualize the baseball diamond and the names of the players at each position. Costello's asking him questions, and as the straight man, he's just answering them straight.
I was a bit worried that studying the sketch this intensely would rob it of its humor for me, or alternatively, that I'd crack up during the performance. There's also the threat of drying up on a line, or just sucking. It'd be a crime to butcher such a great sketch. At the second rehearsal, I was concentrating so hard on getting the responses right, I wasn't cracking up at all. At the third, though, when we were both off book, and looking at each other, playing off each other, it was much harder to keep a straight face (for me, at least). The sketch is just so damn funny and the disconnect between the characters so ridiculous. And Abbott has to play it straight! (The British have a great expression for breaking character — "corpsing.")
In any case, I'm a big fan of drilling to get the fine timing and the rhythms down, and with this sketch, the responses have to be so lightning-fast, they really need to be automatic. And on the comic timing thing — I found it very educational just listening to Abbott and Costello over and over again, in my case paying special attention to Abbott's choices (mostly as quick a response as he could manage, pouncing as soon as Costello was done, but with some notable pauses in the Paycheck section, when he sets the rhythm briefly). Damn, they were brilliant on that front, and I think anyone who really wants to get down comic timing should study them, Sid Caesar's show and some of the other older acts, along with their favorite stand-up comics, sitcoms and comedy films.
Performing
Talent Show Birthday Night featured plenty of singing, with the birthday gal's parents and brother singing tunes, her daughter and other former students performing pieces she'd taught them, her young son MC-ing, many friends and guests performing, a young kid doing a Shakespeare monologue, a young woman with a Mohawk doing a hula dance... The atmosphere was inviting and encouraging, an everyone-join-in mood, but I have to say, plenty of folks were quite talented and memorable. In our case, we went with our own names versus Abbott and Costello, and apart from one brief snag in the sketch performance, it was rapid-fire and went over very well with our admittedly friendly, captive crowd. We received some very nice compliments, but of course no one can touch Abbott and Costello doing it. It was a wonderful, lovely night, actually, and a splendid time was had by all.
Two added, bizarre notes. Knowing the birthday gal, we figured she'd like the sketch, but she gave a big gasp when she realized what the sketch was (that'll give ya a momentary fright!). It turns out it's her all-time favorite, or right up there. What was even crazier was her mother had actually gone out with Lou Costello a few times as a young woman! We had no idea. Small world.
In any case, I felt like providing at least one lighter post today. Thanks to all the great comedy writers, directors and performers, and thanks to those adults wise enough to introduce their kids to that material and the beauty of a good laugh.
I just discovered British sketch show Man Stroke Woman the other day. You may recognize Nick Frost from Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. In any case, given the mention of colds and breaking wind the other day, and the number of people I know who are sick, I thought these was appropriate.
Good luck with the colds and flus out there! As for the other, um, thing — you're on your own.
A friend sent me this video of Aussie trio Tripod, which I linked in the comments over at Shakesville, where it wound up as a post. These guys have musical and comedy chops! Gotta spread the geek love — and if you're a fan of Flight of the Conchords, or a gamer, you'll love this. Although as Melissa McEwan notes, to apply to bloggers, "they need a verse that includes "just let me finish this post…""
(Graphic designed by Liz Ditz at I Speak of Dreams. This is the second in a series of posts for the Blog Against Theocracy weekend. Thanks again to Blue Gal and the others who spearheaded this, and are posting the links. Check out the Blog Against Theocracy site for a variety of posts!)
Trading Dialogue for Lodging
Provided he makes and wins an argument about Buddhism with those who live there, any wandering monk can remain in a Zen temple. If he is defeated, he has to move on.
In a temple in the northern part of Japan two brother monks were dwelling together. The older one was learned, but the younger one was stupid and had but one eye.
A wandering monk came and asked for lodging, properly challenging them to a debate about the sublime teaching. The elder brother, tired that day from much studying, told the younger one to take his place. "Go and request the dialogue in silence," he cautioned.
So the young monk and the stranger went to the shrine and sat down.
Shortly afterwards the traveler rose and went in to the elder brother and said: "Your young brother is a wonderful fellow. He defeated me."
"Relate the dialogue to me," said the elder one.
"Well," explained the traveler, "first I held up one finger, representing Buddha, the enlightened one. So he held up two fingers, signifying Buddha and his teaching. I held up three fingers, representing Buddha, his teaching, and his followers, living the harmonious life. Then he shook his clenched fist in my face, indicating that all three come from one realization. Thus he won and so I have no right to remain here." With this, the traveler left.
"Where is that fellow?" asked the younger one, running in to his elder brother.
"I understand you won the debate."
"Won nothing. I'm going to beat him up."
"Tell me the subject of the debate," asked the elder one.
"Why, the minute he saw me he held up one finger, insulting me by insinuating that I have only one eye. Since he was a stranger I thought I would be polite to him, so I held up two fingers, congratulating him that he has two eyes. Then the impolite wretch held up three fingers, suggesting that between us we only have three eyes. So I got mad and started to punch him, but he ran out and that ended it!"
— A Zen story, as told by Paul Reps in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones
When I first read this story as a teenager, I laughed. It may be a Zen story, but it follows a classic joke structure. There are forms of humor that rely on laughing at someone else's suffering, but I've always felt the truth is funny. Our own foibles are funny. Recognizing our own flaws in another can be a epiphany, and funny. Few things connect people stronger than a shared sense of humor, that sideways knowing glance and smile. Religious authoritarians typically have little to no sense of humor, and it's one of many reasons I question their spiritual wisdom, for all their ostentatious, competitive displays of piety. If someone can't laugh, I can't believe he or she speaks for God.
In this Zen story, two monks view the same events in radically different ways. Similarly, I find the story funny, but others may not. What I find wonderful about Freedom of Religion, the First Amendment and the separation of church and state is the multiplicity of viewpoints it allows. Socially, America has its cultural pressures, but legally, it can be viewed as both pro-religion and pro-atheist (or at least, neutral). One person might see providence in the fall of a sparrow, but another may see a dead bird (and a cat may see lunch). I know devoutly religious people who are among the most original, independent thinkers I've ever met, and I know atheists who are among the most moral. As a religion teacher I heard once put it, "There are many paths up the mountain." Many of those paths involve some sort of spirituality, some involve religion, and some involve atheism or agnosticism.
I believe in a path that appreciates comedy. I believe in reverent irreverence. In a free society, anyone is free to laugh at someone else. However, a sign of maturity and security is the ability to laugh at one's self, one's own beliefs — and one's religion. Christianity is the dominant religion in America. It's not necessary to believe in the divinity of Jesus to think he was wise — Thomas Jefferson actually rewrote the Gospels to remove all supernatural elements but preserve Jesus' teachings. Revering Jesus also doesn't preclude valuing the wisdom of Buddha, or Mohammed... or Socrates and Hannah Arendt, for that matter. There's a world of difference between laughing at a god, or religion, and laughing at religious people. (Personally, I'm down with Jesus, it's the tartuffes I can't stand.)
As much as I appreciate America's Freedom of Religion, I also love another part of the First Amendment: Freedom of Speech. Here's some of the best comedy clips I could find dealing with religion. To kick it off, here's Lewis Black:
Here's George Carlin:
Here's Eddie Izzard, on the founding of the Church of England:
Here's the great stoning scene for The Life of Brian:
And here's that unforgettable final song:
In my book, false prophets, authoritarians and idiots deserve mockery, however gentle, just as kindness and wisdom deserve celebration. When met with intolerance, one can get angry, and there are times that may be necessary. However, in other cases, it's best just to laugh. Consider this poll given last March by Gene Weingarten during one of his weekly chats. After the furor over the Danish cartoons depicting Mohammed, an Iranian newspaper announced it would run a Holocaust-denial cartoon contest. An Israeli cartoonists' society responded — but running an "anti-Semitic cartoon contest." I find that brilliant, wise and sublime. Then there's the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour, young Arab (and Persian!) comics. Laughter knows no denomination or ethnicity, and can be crude, or mean, but it can also embody self-knowledge, connection, redemption and forgiveness. After all, to err is human — but to laugh, divine.
(To read the next entry in this series, "Theocracy Round-Up," click here.)
Blessed are the comedians. On 4/2/07, Fresh Air featured an interview by Terry Gross with members of The Axis of Evil Comedy Tour (here's them in 2006 on All Things Considered). The Fresh Air interview is well worth a listen. Here's their website and here's their DVD.
Here's a short CNN segment on them:
Here's a brief segment by one of the comics, Maz Jobrani:
Here's Ahmed Ahmed:
Here's one of the guest stars, Dean Obeidallah:
Here's my favorite segment, from Aron Kader:
Honestly, some of the jokes fall flat for me, but many are pretty damn funny, and I'm very glad to see young Arab comedians out there.
I was shocked and sad to see this news article about Richard Jeni, who was only 45. I've been a fan of stand-up comedy since I was a kid, and Jeni had some really great sets, strong material with sharp timing. He did land several specials for himself, but was one of those not terribly famous comics I'd recommend to people, and who people might not know by name but would say, "oh yeah, that guy." I remember catching a re-run of one of his specials late at night on a broadcast network, and marveling at how sharp he was. It's a shame and a waste.
I was a fan of Mitch Hedburg too, who had a unique, likable goofball style with some really witty material, and died in 2005 at the age of 37. Then there's Phil Hartman, Chris Farley, John Belushi... sigh.
The timing was unfortunate, but that doesn't make it offensive.
Conan O'Brien topped even his last stint hosting the Emmys with a fantastic performance. One of the funniest bits was a seven minute pre-recorded opening reminiscent of some of Billy Crystal's better outings as Oscar host. Conan, in a tux and sipping a drink, is in a plane heading towards the Emmys. When the stewardess asks him if he's nervous, he replies "Nervous? What could possibly go wrong?" Of course, that's a cue for the plane to crash, predictably landing him on the Lost island. From there, he tours through several shows – the American version of The Office, House, 24, South Park, and one of those many Dateline NBC installments on child predators. He flees that show and emerges on stage for the Emmys.
Because I was working all day Sunday, I didn't hear anything beyond perhaps a cursory report on the tragic plane crash in Kentucky of Comair Flight 5191, which killed 49 people and has been called the worst airplane accident in five years. I taped the Emmys and watched them late Sunday night. The writing for the opening segment was very sharp and the segment was very funny. I laughed. It was only afterwards, watching the news, that I saw footage on the Kentucky flight and learned more details. Surely most people, whenever they found out, paused for a moment to consider with sympathy the victims of that accident and their families.
This morning, The Kentucky Herald-Ledgerreported that the local NBC affiliate's president and general manager, Tim Gilbert, was stunned and dismayed by the segment. The AP version of the story is running with variations on the title "Emmy Plane Crash Skit Called Insensitive." Both accounts relay:
"It was a live telecast -- we were completely helpless," Gilbert said of the Emmys. "By the time we began to react, it was over. At the station, we were as horrified as they were at home."
He said he'll complain to NBC, but he said an apology won't make up for insensitivity.
"They could have killed the opening and it wouldn't have hurt the show at all," Gilbert said. "We wish somebody had thought this through. It's somewhere between ignorance and incompetence."
For people in Kentucky, with feelings especially raw, it might have made sense to cut the segment, or at least give Gilbert a head's up about it to give him that option, or the option of running a brief warning prior to it. Last year, in the wake of Katrina, NBC and ABC ran warnings before the pilot episodes for their shows Surface and Invasion, because both depicted hurricanes. But Kentucky is also not the rest of the country. Had I known about the crash in more detail, I'm sure I would have thought briefly, "that's unfortunate timing," but the segment's also clearly comedy, referencing a popular TV series, and hardly was a realistic depiction of a plane crash. There's a sufficient degree of remove there. Most critics I've read or heard have expressed pretty much this sentiment – unfortunate timing, perhaps, but not a huge deal.
Interestingly, while a few readers express outrage in Herald-Ledger's comments section ("the most insensitive thing" on TV they've ever seen, etc.), most take the "no big deal" view as well, and several criticize Gilbert. At least one reader bristles at the idea that any station manager would decide what he or she can or can't watch, and several point out that if you're watching the Emmys versus, say, grieving, you're probably detached enough anyway. Conan O’Brien is also not a “mean” comic, really. He has an edge, he can be biting, but his persona is goofy and self-deprecating. No one familiar with Conan and his show could possibly think he would seek to be cruel.
Meanwhile, I'm not familiar with Gilbert, but let's be charitable and assume that his outrage is sincere and not merely a local public relations move (as some locals charged). It's fine for NBC to apologize for the timing or for no notice to Kentuckians. But it would be silly to apologize for the segment itself, and ludicrous to apologize for airing it in the rest of the country. Airing it was neither "ignorant" nor "incompetent." This was a pre-recorded segment. The wheels were in motion. The plane crash happened the day of the Emmys. The host really only does about twenty minutes of material during one of those shows, so yes, killing a seven minute segment would have hurt the actually entertaining section of the show (the lengthy Aaron Spelling tribute section, on the other hand, could have been cut or at least trimmed). And while some viewers, especially those in Kentucky, may have had raw feelings, and are deserving of sympathy, the segment was not inherently offensive. I know others may feel differently, and they are entitled to their feelings. However, there’s a crucial difference between saying, “That upset me” or “That offended me,” and “that is offensive.” There’s a difference between expressing one’s feelings or making a direct appeal to someone, and trying to invoke some greater principle or universal law to condemn and prohibit another’s action. The latter approach doesn’t really hold water here, especially since the motives involved were innocent.
There's a saying that comedy is tragedy plus time. Thus, "Besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?" is funny now, whereas it would have been the height of bad taste in 1865. I doubt 9/11 jokes will be in vogue for a long time. For that matter, not every one wants, or can bear to watch, serious material dealing with 9/11 such as World Trade Center, United 93 or any of a number of news documentaries. It's responsible for movie studios to let 9/11 families websites know which movies, in which theaters, will be showing trailers for 9/11 films ahead of them. (In fact, some of this did happen, even though the studios could do a better job of it.) But this does not mean the studios should not make these films, or that good comedians should be curtailed from doing their job either. It's fine and sometimes appropriate to call for good taste and sensitivity, and in some cases to call for someone's resignation, but there is not, nor can or should there ever be, a right to not feel offended.
Personally, my criteria for judging any artistic endeavor is aesthetic, not emotional, even if there's inevitably overlap. Let's be completely honest – Conan O'Brien's performance was satire in the vein of Jon Stewart (a double Emmy winner last night!) and Stephen Colbert, not some crass commercial exploitation in the vein of the inevitable John Mark Karr-Jon Benet Ramsey TV-made movie crap that surely must be rushing to production as we speak. I prefer to judge 9/11 films, as with my comedy, by how good they are, and find no difficulty with simultaneously feeling sympathy for the victims of a plane crash and their families, and appreciating sharp comedy. While the world surely could use more compassion, we also direly need more comedy (albeit not the unintended sort practiced by public officials). I would argue that compassion and laughter can actually be closely connected.
Update:The Washington Post’s Lisa de Moraes fielded many questions on this subject in an online chat. I was frankly surprised by how many people thought the segment was incontrovertibly offensive, since it seemed they appeared in higher ratio than in Kentucky (at the time I read through the comments, at least). You can read the entire chat here. I found myself agreeing the most with Moraes' first response to the issue:
Gaithersburg Md.: ...So you didn't find Conan's plane crash skit offensive? Even though 49 Americans had died in a plane crash hours before the show?
Lisa de Moraes: Absolutely not. I know I suffer from acute non-PC-ness. But of course the skit was created long before the crash. If I lose a relative tonight should all references to stroke victims be wiped from the TV landscape lest I be offended? I think people need to put things in perspective and stop with the bashing where absolutely no offense was intended. If they'd made jokes about that crash, sure I'd think it was in poor taste. But it was CLEARLY a reference to the show "Lost" and absolutely nothing more.
