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The King of ComedyMartin Scorsese excels at making two kinds of films, and he does each with such ferocious originality and skillful technique that I am convinced that he is the greatest living director, from the United States or anywhere. The first type is the biography, in which he chronicles his subject matter, usually extremely flawed human beings, with such painstaking detail that the effect is breathtaking and never forced. Such films include Goodfellas, Raging Bull, Kundun, and Casino. Scorsese’s second type of film is what I call a “punch line movie,” in which the director draws very specific characters through very specific situations and events, and it all comes together only in the last few minutes of the film, sometimes in the final frame. The viewer is taken on a long, engaging ride, and then, POW! The point of it all—often ironic, often surprising, and always profound—hits us like a sock in the eye. This type includes Taxi Driver, The Last Temptation of Christ, Gangs of New York, and The King of Comedy. In both types of his films, we see our faces on the people we are watching, and our external viewing is turned inward (in fact, I would say that his only missteps—The Color of Money and Cape Fear—were films which he steered away from his usual filmmaking techniques; I do not count, of course, Boxcar Bertha). Scorsese is a true patron of cinema, and certainly one of the greatest artists of all time. Because his films are so loaded with surprises that must be discovered by the viewer, I am hesitant to reveal anything about the plot of The King of Comedy. Like most of Scorsese’s best films, it takes place in New York City, and it stars Robert De Niro in a role that is completely convincing and defined, to the point that we forget that we are watching an actor and are completely convinced that this is a man driven by his strange obsessions. In this case, De Niro is Rupert Pupkin, and he is obsessed with Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis, more or less playing himself), a stand-up comedian who hosts a late night network comedy show. Pupkin certainly has a severe case of celebrity worship, but he is more complicated than that—he dreams of becoming the next “king of comedy” by performing his own stand-up act, and he will achieve his goal by any means necessary. Any means. As we watch this strange man, we are reluctantly forced to realize that perhaps Pupkin isn’t so different from us. After all, celebrity worship seems to have less to do with obsessing over a famous performer because of his talent more than it has to do with the fact that we want to be as famous and as talented as they are. Certainly Scorsese, De Niro, and Lewis, who are the best at what they do, understand the public’s often bizarre relationship with Hollywood personalities, and their work in this film shows its effect on both the obsessing and the obsessed. In particular, Scorsese and De Niro pull no stops in presenting Pupkin and his world as depressing, pathetic, but not altogether unlike us. Pupkin is an exaggeration of anyone who has ever put a poster of their favorite actor on their wall and thought, “I love this guy,” when they’re really thinking, “I wish I was this guy.” His room, located in his mother’s apartment, is decorated with Jerry Langford memorabilia. He often practices his own stand-up comedy show, all the while daydreaming about that not-so-far-away day when he and Langford will sit together in restaurants as peers, shooting the crap as people come and ask for their autographs. His fantasies are often interrupted by his mother, always heard and never seen, who calls him down to dinner or asks him to keep the noise down. When she speaks and Pupkin fumes back at her, we realize how deranged he is, but we also realize that we can relate to his daydreams because of our own taste for fantasizing about being celebrities, or being famous, or having people ask for our autographs while we sit in restaurants, shooting the crap. Because of its intense, dark subject matter, The King of Comedy probably sounds like a thriller, or even a sort of horror story. In a way, it is both. The characters are depressing, and the circumstances that they find themselves in are often painful to watch. In the third act, when Pupkin and his equally loony girlfriend (a delightful Sandra Bernhard) implement their plan to use Jerry Langford to propel themselves into stardom, all three characters find themselves in a circumstances worthy of a Hitchcock film, and directed with just as much finesse. Yet Scorsese chooses to make this film a comedy, and to create a humorous plot for the deranged Pupkin to exist. Even his scenes of complete, obsessive delusion are played for laughs, and the ultimate consequences of his actions bring more smiles than grimaces. Any moment that makes us wiggle in discomfort (Pupkin roaming around in the network television’s studio office) are almost immediately followed by moments of pure comedy (Pupkin being escorted out by security). I think Scorsese choose this approach because the subject matter is too intense: Pupkin is such an honest, if extreme, reflection of average America that only by playing the character for laughs could we be able to stand the movie and appreciate its message at all. In a way, The King of Comedy is the complete opposite of a previous Scorsese/De Niro collaboration, Taxi Driver. Both are about obsessive misfits who often find themselves in uncomfortable situations, and both men are played by De Niro. In Taxi Driver, Scorsese contrasts the film’s intensity by showcasing characters more demented than the protagonist, relieving us of thinking that De Niro’s character is the maddest of them all. In The King of Comedy, Scorsese boldly asserts that Pupkin is the most insane man in the city, and he plays Pupkin for laughs, relieving the audience of feeling too uncomfortable by the man. All of this leads to some brilliant closing moments, in which Scorsese lifts the curtain and reveals The King of Comedy as one of his “punch line movies.” We realize that Scorsese is commenting not only on celebrity worship, but also the entertainment business and media influence, and he has made his statements by simply analyzing the life, personality, and fantasies of one crazy man. When we see where Pupkin’s obsessions have surprisingly taken him, we are equally surprised that we’re not all that surprised. POW!
Cast: Twentieth Century Fox presents an Embassy International release. Directed by Martin Scorsese. Written by Paul D. Zimmerman. Rated PG, for brief language, sexuality, and adult situations. Running time: 101 minutes. Original United States release date: February 18, 1983. Questions? Comments? E-mail me: danel_the_tinman@hotmail.com |
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