Something has happened to American comedians.
And it's not funny.
Nearly every week brings a new big-budget Hollywood comedy. (Next up: “Step Brothers” opening Friday.) Yet most of them are as full of laughs as an emergency room. And the same stars that 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.
And indie films have picked up some shtick slack, too, by putting oddball characters in real-life situations. Surprising hits like “Little Miss Sunshine” and “Juno” (and could-be sleepers like 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 deliberately avoid established stars (although they often end up creating them). And 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.
And they have no one to blame but themselves – and their own egos.
Although there are plenty of bossy stars in Hollywood, no other actor (and the current comedy stars are, invariably, men) is more controlling than a comic one. Great dramatic actors regularly turn to great directors; even great actor/directors, like Welles and 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 Chaplin have complete control? Didn't 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 due to their own artistic exhaustion. Even the biggest star in the heavens can't burn brightly forever.
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. Jerry Lewis' films with director Frank Tashlin are better than the ones he directed himself; Woody Allen's scripts with Marshall Brickman are funnier than the ones he wrote alone. 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. Eddie 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. They surround themselves on set with hungry first-timers and happy hacks.
Sometimes the stars will take a chance. Martin has worked with David Mamet, and Murphy did “Dreamgirls” (and together – with director Frank Oz – the comics made the fine “Bowfinger”). Adam Sandler did the bittersweet “Spanglish” for James L. Brooks, and Jim Carrey tried the trippy “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” And while 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 has been chosen based on how quickly he can shout “That was hysterical!” after every take; the scripts selected for how safe and unthreatening they are.
There have been some signs of change. 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. And 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” Eddie 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.
