Every now and then some sad news makes its way through the internet tubes, eventually landing on my desk. As I open the container, I become saddened to read its message of woe. On this particular occasion, I feel a small evisceration in something that sounds inevitable on paper. Comedic actor and filmmaker Carl Reiner has passed away at the age of 98 in Beverly Hills, CA. Considering reports that he had been partying with Mel Brooks days earlier for his birthday party, even writing about Noel Coward on Twitter the day before his death, it’s strange to believe that we have lost another great.
While every generation has its great and noteworthy talents, there is something to be said about my affection for the late-70s. This is specifically in relation to the comedians who may or may not have some affiliation with Saturday Night Live, such as Steve “King Tut” Martin. Among the voices that show elevated, I had a soft spot for Martin because he had this strange gift for being a cerebral intellect while also a narcissistic idiot. He could turn slapstick into some philosophical debate while his voice molded into the tonal definition of guffaw.
The same could be said for the various voices that had worked on Sid Caesar’s Your Show of Shows, which had one of the most enviable writers’ rooms in history. Who couldn’t like a show that was written by Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Neil Simon, Joseph Stein, and of course Carl Reiner? All of them would come to define comedy over the next few decades, spanning into different media. Reiner had a charisma that informed his shift into directing movies, capable of finding a laugh in every scenario. There was a humanity in his cruelty, and I think it explains why his partnership with Martin especially was integral to my youth.
When I heard that Reiner died, I immediately thought of The Jerk (1979). For a career that continued to find relevance well into the 21st century, I somehow keep coming back to this comedy about Navin Johnson: a man who was born a poor black child. The premise was absurd. No beat actually is totally based on reason, and yet it follows this foolish man’s quest to find his “special purpose” in the world while stumbling into new problems. I could go into all of them, but I more encourage you to discover the film for yourself.
To me, it is one of the quintessential comedies and the exact reason that Martin was capable to translate his stand-up comedy to the big screen. There is an earnestness to Navin that makes you able to see the poor schmuck just trying to get by, but failing because he doesn’t know any better. In one of the film’s most memorable scenes, Navin adopts a stray dog that he believes will bring him better opportunities. It’s clear that the dog doesn’t like him and barks all of the time. This includes one night as Navin sleeps in a motel. He begins to believe that it’s because the place is on fire, causing Navin to wake up the entire place. When the answer is revealed that there was absolutely nothing wrong, a man walks up to Navin and says “You shouldn’t call that dog life saver, you should call him shithead.”
And thus one of the greatest animal names in history was born.
I am not enough of an expert to know who came up with every joke in the film. I personally believe it was a collaborative effort. However, there is something about Martin’s time with Reiner that made more sense than just about any partnership in either’s career. They were allowed to be at their most absurd, able to make an edgier version of the vaudeville comedy that they came from, touring variety shows for quick gigs.
Nothing needs to make sense about Navin. He’s a white guy whose adoption made him a poor black child who somehow knows kung fu despite having no rhythm. The dog’s name is Shithead and there’s a minor foe named Iron Balls McGinty. What more do you need for this story?
As far as comedies go, few have resonated from my youth as much as The Jerk. While I have a strong affection for most of those Not Ready for Primetime Players movies, I can notice how they are dated, reflective of a comedy style that’s not up to its full potential. Still, I can’t think of a month since 2005 where I haven’t quoted the film in some capacity (“Do you have a balloon?”). It is ripe with comedic moments that continue to make me smile, reflecting a down on his luck bumbling fool just wanting the respect of his peers. To see others watching it theatrically in Freaks and Geeks or Whip It (2009) makes me feel warm inside.
Like most other films, my first real exposure to it was through cable. I can’t remember the channel, but it was a hub for every noteworthy comedy classic that I had learned about. As a result, I had the habit of watching The Jerk every time it was on. It’s one of those cases where I wasn’t even aware that it was censored. I just watched it and thought that Martin calling the dog “----head” was normal. In hindsight, it wasn’t a clever edit, but I had no other comparison point. I don’t even know that I had seen the “shit from Shinola” scene until I had seen it a dozen times because it wasn’t in the TV cut.
Once I got the 26th Anniversary version, suddenly it became a more frequent presence in my life, where I could watch it with some regularity. For the first time, it was unedited, and I could take in every wonderful cry of Martin chastising Shithead for being an annoying little dog, eager to lead Navin astray at every turn. I even got to finally see the deleted scenes where we discover the horrors of cat juggling.
The history of The Jerk is something that continued to fascinate me as time went on. By some luck, I even got the photo-novel. Every detail about this film made me look at it and yell “I need this!” Nothing was ever enough. As I got more into musicals, specifically the collected works of Stephen Sondheim, I found Bernadette Peters’ performance more special. Everything about the film only shined brighter as I got older, proving to be a comedy that transcended any one gag. It was a work of art that was distinctly endearing in its ambitious dimness.
Then there was The Opti-grab…
In a lot of ways, I owe way more credit to this one gag more than any other piece of the film. The joke is that Navin gets rich off of a pair of glasses whose handle comes in the bridge over the nose. This is to avoid wearing out the frame. However, in a memorable cameo by Reiner as himself, the glasses cause the eyes to be attracted to this piece of metal, thus making you cock-eyed. It’s caused fatalities following an instance where Reiner called “cut” a little too late on a movie. It’s Navin’s downfall, but in a lot of ways was my personal gain.
You see, The Opti-grab for some reason was a name that stuck with me. When I was encouraged to start a website for my writing, I was at a loss for a name. By some luck, I decided to call it Optigrab for the reason that my views would make you go cock-eyed. It was a nod to the film and one that has paid dividends in strangers acknowledging the reference. In some ways, it perfectly navigated people that I could get along with.
In the bigger picture, Optigrab was how I got started as a writer. It was a website I ran for 12 years, exploring all facets of pop culture. It would do more than garner me compliments. It would get me writing jobs that afforded me opportunities like reporting on Sundance and The Newport Beach Film Festival. It was the basis for everything that followed, even if the connection otherwise seems blurry.
That is why I smile every time that bit comes up. As I look into Reiner’s cross-eyed cameo, I see a man who not only filled me with joy but of this deeper inspiration to follow my own path. Of course, I just loved his playfulness, able to make fun of his egocentric personality. I loved how he never let a joke just be a joke. There was always a desire to go further, confusing those who weren’t paying attention. The Jerk was the gold standard for messing with people, and it explains why I find it hard to find a better example of comedy from Martin. He’s been more empathetic and versatile, but nothing compares.
I don’t know what else to say that between 1979 and 1984, Reiner and Martin had an incredible run of comedic invention that I could easily go on at length about. Following The Jerk, they did Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (1982), The Man with Two Brains (1983), and All of Me (1984). Each of them finds the duo bringing out something different in each other, and it’s this delightful chaos that makes you believe that they were capable of so much more. Much like Mel Brooks with Gene Wilder, they seemed to be made for each other, and only they understood the true vision. What’s weird is that Reiner’s vision was often absurd, such as in All of Me where Martin (at his physical comedy best) has to act like he’s possessed by Lily Tomlin. Other times he was just putting Martin into old film noir titles (Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid).
You wonder how they came up with that much brilliance in such a short time, but you’re glad it ever existed in the first place. If for nobody else, then I’m glad it existed for me, able to fill my life with the wondrous imagination of a man dreaming of something greater in life only to mistake it for low hanging fruit. I still don’t know entirely why it works or how Martin’s manic energy succeeds, but that’s part of the magic.
When hearing about Reiner’s passing, I’m saddened because the world feels much less funny. Even in old age, there is something endearing about his ability to be sharp, sharing stories from an era that is long gone. I was drawn to his playfulness, realizing that you can grow old and still maintain this optimism and sense of humor, that the world is a crazy place. We don’t have to take it seriously. I don’t know that Reiner ever did that for his 98 years with us, and it made him a better man. I can only hope to do the same.
Comments
Post a Comment