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July 17, 2008, 5:51PM
What's so funny about movies?
Not so much, thanks to the comedians in control
By STEPHEN WHITTY
Newhouse News Service
Something has happened to American comedians.
And it's not funny.
Nearly every week brings a new big-budget Hollywood comedy. Yet most of them are as full of laughs as an emergency room. The same stars who used to fill us with anticipation — what's that clown going to do now? — only bring something closer to dread. Is it really time for another Eddie Murphy comedy? Won't Will Ferrell ever go away?
There are some bright spots.
Former TV writer Judd Apatow, for example, has practically trademarked a raunchy new kind of big-screen, full-frontal slapstick — The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up — in which stuck-in-a-rut schlubs like Steve Carell or Seth Rogen open their minds, drop their pants and end up with women far beyond their capabilities.
Indie films have picked up some shtick slack, too, by putting oddball characters in real-life situations. Surprising hits Little Miss Sunshine and Juno (and could-be sleepers such as the recent Finding Amanda and Kabluey) fearlessly mix moods, jumbling up drama and comedy and giving us real life with laughs.
But Apatow's movies avoid established stars (although they often end up creating them). Rather than looking for comics who can act, indie pictures prefer actors who are funny — Greg Kinnear and Alan Arkin in Sunshine, Allison Janney and Ellen Page in Juno. What's been good news for comedy fans is bad news for comedians.
They have no one to blame but themselves.
Although there are plenty of bossy stars in Hollywood, no other actor (and the current comedy stars are, invariably, men) seems more controlling than a comic one. Great dramatic actors regularly turn to great directors; even great actor/directors, such as Orson Welles and Laurence Olivier, began with stories by classic authors. They all realize that Hollywood's finest films are, almost invariably, a product of collaboration and conflict.
Only the comedian insists on doing it all, his way.
That's understandable, perhaps. Most comedians begin their careers not as actors speaking other people's words but as performers doing their own material. They create and refine their acts — and their public personas — over years, and under the taunts of hecklers. They emerge convinced that they know what works for them, and they point to Hollywood precedents. Didn't Charlie Chaplin have complete control? Didn't Buster Keaton?
There are two problems with this analogy. The first, flip rejoinder is that men like Chaplin and Keaton were richly comic geniuses; men like Jim Carrey and Mike Myers are simply rich comics. The second, sadder riposte is that even those silent clowns eventually faltered — partly because of outside forces, yes, but also because of their own artistic exhaustion.
But what comic actors chiefly forget is that they succeeded as live performers not in spite of the audience but because of it — it was that constant give and take, that immediate approval or criticism that allowed them to grow. The problem is that a movie's audience appears only after your work is done. If you want to do your best work on film, you need to find a substitute on the set for the crowds who helped you onstage.
The proof is in the pictures. Even the anarchic Marx Brothers were wilder when they had a steady hand behind the camera (as in Norman Z. McLeod's Horse Feathers, or Leo McCarey's Duck Soup) than when they ran roughshod over a studio hack.
Great comedy isn't made in a vacuum. Murphy was introduced to films courtesy of tough-guy Walter Hill in 48 Hours, and went on to do Trading Places and Coming to America with John Landis, a fiercely funny director at the time. Steve Martin's earliest, tightest films — The Jerk, The Man With Two Brains, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid and All of Me — were made with comedy legend Carl Reiner.
But once comedians get some power of their own, they replace their support systems with entourages. Most of Adam Sandler's films, for example, are made by the same buddies who've known him for years (and like the steady gigs). Stars like these hear lots of praise but no advice.
Which is how we get something like Myers' execrable The Love Guru, directed by a former second-assistant director.
Sometimes the stars will take a chance. Martin has worked with David Mamet, and Murphy did Dreamgirls. Sandler did the bittersweet Spanglish for James L. Brooks, and Carrey tried the trippy Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Though Myers has yet to work with a great director, at least Jay Roach brought some style to his Austin Powers pictures.
But too often the filmmaker seems chosen based on how quickly he can shout "That was hysterical!" after every take. The scripts are selected for how safe and unthreatening they are.
The results are not only disappointing but almost an exact denial of who the comedian originally was. The once-original Martin now specializes in remakes of other people's comedies, from Sgt. Bilko to The Out-of-Towners. The once-unpredictable Robin Williams now does by-the-numbers nullities like RV and License to Wed. The once watch-your-mouth Murphy now does flabby family films like Dr. Dolittle and Daddy Day Care.
Their once-loyal fans, eventually, shrug their shoulders and move on to someone new.
There have been some signs of change. Sandler's last film, You Don't Mess With the Zohan, had all the bad hallmarks as previous films (a pliant director, a part for Rob Schneider), but the presence of names such as Apatow and Robert Smigel in the screenwriting credits showed a renewed willingness to reach out. And while doing grudging publicity for Meet Dave, his latest kid-friendly farce, Murphy finally acknowledged he had to break out of "this PG-13 box."
Yet for many of these stars it may be too little, too late. Each of Ferrell's recent comedies has made less than the one before. Carrey's career is in ruins. Murphy's big idea for recapturing his mojo — Beverly Hills Cop IV — sounds like the sort of movie-star desperation the old Saturday Night Live Murphy would have made fun of.
But it's a start, and a necessary one. Because there's one thing that's sadder than a comic who isn't funny any longer.
And that's a comic who isn't funny any longer — and hasn't yet figured it out.
What's so funny about movies?
Not so much, thanks to the comedians in control
By STEPHEN WHITTY
Newhouse News Service
Something has happened to American comedians.
And it's not funny.
Nearly every week brings a new big-budget Hollywood comedy. Yet most of them are as full of laughs as an emergency room. The same stars who used to fill us with anticipation — what's that clown going to do now? — only bring something closer to dread. Is it really time for another Eddie Murphy comedy? Won't Will Ferrell ever go away?
There are some bright spots.
Former TV writer Judd Apatow, for example, has practically trademarked a raunchy new kind of big-screen, full-frontal slapstick — The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up — in which stuck-in-a-rut schlubs like Steve Carell or Seth Rogen open their minds, drop their pants and end up with women far beyond their capabilities.
Indie films have picked up some shtick slack, too, by putting oddball characters in real-life situations. Surprising hits Little Miss Sunshine and Juno (and could-be sleepers such as the recent Finding Amanda and Kabluey) fearlessly mix moods, jumbling up drama and comedy and giving us real life with laughs.
But Apatow's movies avoid established stars (although they often end up creating them). Rather than looking for comics who can act, indie pictures prefer actors who are funny — Greg Kinnear and Alan Arkin in Sunshine, Allison Janney and Ellen Page in Juno. What's been good news for comedy fans is bad news for comedians.
They have no one to blame but themselves.
Although there are plenty of bossy stars in Hollywood, no other actor (and the current comedy stars are, invariably, men) seems more controlling than a comic one. Great dramatic actors regularly turn to great directors; even great actor/directors, such as Orson Welles and Laurence Olivier, began with stories by classic authors. They all realize that Hollywood's finest films are, almost invariably, a product of collaboration and conflict.
Only the comedian insists on doing it all, his way.
That's understandable, perhaps. Most comedians begin their careers not as actors speaking other people's words but as performers doing their own material. They create and refine their acts — and their public personas — over years, and under the taunts of hecklers. They emerge convinced that they know what works for them, and they point to Hollywood precedents. Didn't Charlie Chaplin have complete control? Didn't Buster Keaton?
There are two problems with this analogy. The first, flip rejoinder is that men like Chaplin and Keaton were richly comic geniuses; men like Jim Carrey and Mike Myers are simply rich comics. The second, sadder riposte is that even those silent clowns eventually faltered — partly because of outside forces, yes, but also because of their own artistic exhaustion.
But what comic actors chiefly forget is that they succeeded as live performers not in spite of the audience but because of it — it was that constant give and take, that immediate approval or criticism that allowed them to grow. The problem is that a movie's audience appears only after your work is done. If you want to do your best work on film, you need to find a substitute on the set for the crowds who helped you onstage.
The proof is in the pictures. Even the anarchic Marx Brothers were wilder when they had a steady hand behind the camera (as in Norman Z. McLeod's Horse Feathers, or Leo McCarey's Duck Soup) than when they ran roughshod over a studio hack.
Great comedy isn't made in a vacuum. Murphy was introduced to films courtesy of tough-guy Walter Hill in 48 Hours, and went on to do Trading Places and Coming to America with John Landis, a fiercely funny director at the time. Steve Martin's earliest, tightest films — The Jerk, The Man With Two Brains, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid and All of Me — were made with comedy legend Carl Reiner.
But once comedians get some power of their own, they replace their support systems with entourages. Most of Adam Sandler's films, for example, are made by the same buddies who've known him for years (and like the steady gigs). Stars like these hear lots of praise but no advice.
Which is how we get something like Myers' execrable The Love Guru, directed by a former second-assistant director.
Sometimes the stars will take a chance. Martin has worked with David Mamet, and Murphy did Dreamgirls. Sandler did the bittersweet Spanglish for James L. Brooks, and Carrey tried the trippy Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Though Myers has yet to work with a great director, at least Jay Roach brought some style to his Austin Powers pictures.
But too often the filmmaker seems chosen based on how quickly he can shout "That was hysterical!" after every take. The scripts are selected for how safe and unthreatening they are.
The results are not only disappointing but almost an exact denial of who the comedian originally was. The once-original Martin now specializes in remakes of other people's comedies, from Sgt. Bilko to The Out-of-Towners. The once-unpredictable Robin Williams now does by-the-numbers nullities like RV and License to Wed. The once watch-your-mouth Murphy now does flabby family films like Dr. Dolittle and Daddy Day Care.
Their once-loyal fans, eventually, shrug their shoulders and move on to someone new.
There have been some signs of change. Sandler's last film, You Don't Mess With the Zohan, had all the bad hallmarks as previous films (a pliant director, a part for Rob Schneider), but the presence of names such as Apatow and Robert Smigel in the screenwriting credits showed a renewed willingness to reach out. And while doing grudging publicity for Meet Dave, his latest kid-friendly farce, Murphy finally acknowledged he had to break out of "this PG-13 box."
Yet for many of these stars it may be too little, too late. Each of Ferrell's recent comedies has made less than the one before. Carrey's career is in ruins. Murphy's big idea for recapturing his mojo — Beverly Hills Cop IV — sounds like the sort of movie-star desperation the old Saturday Night Live Murphy would have made fun of.
But it's a start, and a necessary one. Because there's one thing that's sadder than a comic who isn't funny any longer.
And that's a comic who isn't funny any longer — and hasn't yet figured it out.
