Prologue:
There once was a funny-man named Steve Martin. That man might still be alive, might still exist as an organizing principle, but he has experienced a kind of death, in the Tarot-ian sense. An old phase of life has been shuffled off, and a new one has been taken up. Signs of this have been visible for years; but it wasn’t until our attention was brought to this article, that it struck us with its blinding obviousness.
Things have not been going well for Mr. Martin in the critical press. His latest film, The Pink Panther 2, has been roundly drubbed. His recent appearance on Saturday Night Live has been widely reviled. It would seem the inevitable slide of his career into the Sargasso Sea of painful, bleak irrelevance has, at last, taken place.
But, like an avenging angel, he turns aside the critics’ blades. Like a Phoenix, he rises with the smoke of his own immolation. Like Hulk Hogan, he shakes off the attacks of his rivals with only the powers of America, patriotic music, and his sweet 24-inch pythons.
Steve Martin has gone beyond good and bad reviews:
U.S. actor Steve Martin dismissed negative reviews of the latest installment of the Pink Panther movie franchise, saying comedies always had to overcome critical snobbery and that the genre was “not a critics’ medium.”
In this statement, the man that was once Steve Martin is revealed as something new in the world. He has broken the bonds of the moralist, and become something more than comedian. He defines the boundaries of criticism and genre. And it is true, because he says it is.
I. The Three Amigos & Metamorphoses:
The first Steve Martin encountered by the popular consciousness was as a fixture of the stage and television. Once enamored with his breathless delivery, spastic physical routines, ridiculous props, and banjo performances, the man with the “happy feet” and the arrow through his noggin’ was called funny. When the critics got hold of him, he became smart. Then, with packed arenas and sold-out performances fueling his transmigration, he became a Comedy God.
II. The Arrow-Through-The-Head of Virtue:
Surrounded by waves of laughter from his audiences, countless lackies and lickspittles, and, most likely, tons and tons of nubile ass, he was buried at all times in those who treated him with respect and modesty. They probably even used the word “genius” a lot. The highly affected, “I’m not so great. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I’m great!” performances of his 80′s era Saturday Night Live appearances were probably not so affected after all. He was a man nursing a secret suspicion that he might possibly be the greatest thing to ever happen to comedy since God poured misanthropy and Benzedrine into a bad suit, and created Jerry Lewis.
III. Despisers of the Body of Work:
Let us not kid ourselves; critics are not always wise. Like all explorers of the higher truth, they can be outright dicks, sometimes. They are still important: The function of the critic of literature is to separate the wheat from the chaff, the worthy from the unworthy, and to explicate the virtues of a work in ways the author is unable or unsuited to do himself, beyond popular or personal taste. No author, however revered in the final analysis, is above the attention of the critic. Thank God comedians don’t have to put up with that shit, though.
IV. The Bite of the Asshole:
Still, the critics assail Steve Martin, because they think his recent output has been really terrible. An almost deliberately unfunny, stupid mess, really. Yanking them away from his neck, he says, “It’s just the way it is. And so you go, oh, well, okay, why are these movies that you’ve criticized so archly still around 10 years later, 15 years later, 20 years later. It’s because comedy is not a critics’ medium. It just isn’t.” An unkind observer might point out that the critics of 20 years ago are different than the ones that are criticizing now, and the movies they’re criticizing are different too, and Steve has changed over the intervening time period as well, so the two situations aren’t exactly comparable in any meaningful way—but why be unkind when one could say nothing, instead?
V. Voluntary Dreck:
Some sell-out too late. You can never sell-out too early! But there’s selling-out, and there’s ceasing to give a crap about the product you create. Though it might sound strange, it’s very important to stop caring at the right time.
The right time is when you realize you can get away with it. Now is the time for Steve Martin.
He’s made dozens of films. He’s wealthy beyond reasoning. He’s got John Belushi’s immortal soul sealed up in an empty jar of Vick’s Vap-o-rub. He’s got two eyes that function, two ears that can hear.
What he sees, and what he hears is this: Any piece of garbage, no matter how unfunny and short-lived it might be, will always be forgiven. He sees stars fall when they make mistakes off-screen, not on it. He’s seen celebrities flounder and become desperate when they mismanage their resources, not their artistic output. Steve Martin is temporally sound. His legacy is secure. No cadre of critics, even those so incensed as to burn him in effigy or defame his godawful performances, can ever chance these facts. Their petty morality simply does not apply to the superior creature that he has become. He’ll make the films that he wants to make without regard to their meager ethical concepts, because above all, Steve Martin has at last overcome himself. Sometimes, three or four times in one evening!
VI. The End of this Premise:
Martin does not strive after quality, or art. He doesn’t even refer to comedy as such, preferring instead to use the word “medium” to describe it. All he cares about is the work. Which, as long as he’s willing to perform what others might perceive as abasement, he will get plenty of that. But, does anyone believe that Martin’s path is the path to a higher existence? Does anyone think that what looks like total apathy and loss of judgment and critical faculties, might actually represent the Next Level?
“I know I do,” Martin answered, shortly before launching into a 1-1/2 minute banjo performance to loud applause.
Thus plucked Clouseauthustra.
