Although a bit vicious, Manohla Dargis’ piece on Jerry Lewis and his consolation Academy Award offers some fascinating observations about comedy; although there is no manifestation of this in my writing, I am told by real-life acquaintances that I’m “funny.” What I always wish to note for them is that the degree to which I am probably reflects a lamentable attention-seeking or need for affection, the “desperation” Dargis describes above. I’ve also heard comedy described by many, including Steve Martin, as a violent struggle for control: “I killed them,” “I died up there,” etc.
But no intersection of pathos and comedy is comparable to Lewis’ eternally unseen holocaust-clown magnum opus The Day the Clown Died. If you have never read about this film -which culminates in Lewis as a clown leading doomed Jewish children in a gas chamber- you should; it (unintentionally) expresses so much: themes of egomaniacal grandiosity, artistic hubris, comic desperation, deep cultural resentment, barbaric self-centeredness, insensitivity born out of personal pain, etc.
I hope to see it someday; it very much sounds like the worst movie that could possibly be made.
