Schmuck for a Lifetime

#46 on this list reminded me of one of my most pleasant surprises of 2005. Although generally very conscious about changing the channel at the end of The Daily Show, early this year I was working and wasn’t near the remote. I was pleased to discover that a rerun came on, instead of Tough Crowd With Rupert Pupkin. I dared myself to hope that it had been cancelled, and sure enough found that it had been, er, put on hiatus for retooling. Just for the gloating value, I watched his farewell monologue, which is even more painful than his typical attempts at comedy. His sense of injustice at having his exceptionally low-rated and critically reviled show cancelled after a mere two years really is something. And then there are the comparisons to–I swear–Richard Pryor. Well, Colin, there’s the most obvious difference; he was, you know, exceptionally funny–a genius–before he started acting in those family movies, while your show business career should have been limited to the episode where you played Artie’s annoying fuckup son on The Larry Sanders Show. But it’s not just that. There’s a rather large difference between making comedy out of stereotypes to deflate them, rather than failing to make comedy out of crude stereotypes that are used because the comedian thinks they accurately portray the world. There’s a big difference between discussing race in the context of anger about tragic injustices, and discussing it from the standpoint of a complacent reactionary. And–and this one is really important, Colin–self-criticism and self-pity are very different things. Despite your pretensions, your discourse exclusively involves the latter. Oh, and Tim Allen and Jerry Bruckheimer can mobilize phony populist arguments about why their awful work is good; regrettably, people watch their shit. Coming from you, it’s ridiculous.

Anyway, all this reminds me (of course) of The King Of Comedy, which Ted Barlow brought up in the comments in the 80’s film post. It’s just an amazing picture. I think it’s underrated because it doesn’t seem, aesthetically, like a “Scorsese” movie–although, obviously, the prowling, restless camera of Taxi Driver would be completely inappropriate for this script. (Pauline Kael noted that what was crucial about the greatest directors is that they developed new techniques out of an expressive need for them. This is the key from distinguishing the artist (Welles, Scorsese) from the wanker (McG.) To use the same technique film after film irrespective of the material is the surest sign of the hack.) There are many good things about it, but one fascinating thing about it is the parallels between Langford and Pupkin. Langford mines comedy from much of the same self-loathing that Pupkin fails to use, and fundamentally shares much of the social awkwardness. Langford’s talent is to largely hide his neuroses while mining them, while Pupkin’s always come out; the marginal differences are hugely consequential, and one suspects that most comics walk that kind of line. What’s remarkable about Quinn is that his neuroses–more hateful than Pupkin’s because his strategy was to transfer his hatred to others–were never hidden or transmuted into comedy, and yet he’s enjoyed a long career on network TV (and he didn’t even need to kidnap Jon Stewart.) Weird.