Sobran Column --- Death of a Comedian

Sobran Column --- Death of a Comedian



DEATH OF A COMEDIAN

October 12, 2004



by Joe Sobran



In the middle of a pretty humorless presidential

campaign, we had to lose Rodney Dangerfield. Dang.



I first saw him on the old ED SULLIVAN SHOW in the

late 1960s. His style of comedy was already

old-fashioned: nonstop one-liners, many about his wife

and kids, hard-luck stories and insults. He added a great

new twist to the old formula, though: He was the butt of

his own insults.



In those days, Don Rickles had just made a hit by

taking the insult to new heights; but he softened his act

with occasional smiles to show it was all a joke, folks.

Dangerfield never flashed an ingratiating smile; he was

insulting himself, and there would be no apologies --

just implacable self-depreciation.



Humor is an elusive thing. The best joke will fall

flat with some people, and the dumbest joke may bring

down the house. It's hard to rate comedians. All you can

say is that every time Dangerfield appeared on

television, you could feel an earthquake of laughter.

Soon his signature line -- "I tell you, I don't get no

respect" -- was a catchphrase, coast-to-coast. It now

looks to be an immortal joke.



But he wasn't just telling jokes; he was playing a

character, a sore loser who felt, as we all do at times,

that he wasn't getting his due -- while showing us =why=

he was a loser. He wasn't a beautiful loser, either: "My

psychiatrist told me I'm going crazy. I said, 'If you

don't mind, I'd like a second opinion.' He says, 'All

right -- you're ugly too!'"



That was Dangerfield's world, a world where your

shrink steps out of his therapeutic role to destroy

whatever is left of your fragile ego, where every social

encounter ended in crushing discouragement. It had

started early: "When I was born, I was so ugly the doctor

slapped my mother." He made being ugly -- bulky and

frog-eyed -- part of the act, turning the mud of

humiliation into pay dirt. He made the imaginary Rodney

Dangerfield (real name: Jacob Cohen) into a character

almost as beloved as Charlie Chaplin's nameless Little

Tramp.



The real Dangerfield must have had resources,

though. Despite early failures, he persisted in the very

tough business of standup comedy, where a stony audience

can quickly teach you the meaning of "flop sweat." I once

quoted a hilarious line to a large crowd, and the ensuing

silence has been matched, in my experience, only at

well-attended funerals, with the difference that the

corpse being stared at doesn't usually turn beet-red.



It takes a special kind of courage, as well as

talent, to make a living telling jokes. Dangerfield's

secret was that he appealed to our sympathy. He exposed

his dread of failure right in front of us. He'd already

failed in life, and he made the most of it. But he didn't

ask for our pity: he was indignant! And that was the best

part of the joke: When a lesser loser might have resorted

to self-improvement courses or cosmetic surgery, he

wasn't about to change. He was determined to keep on

losing, so he could keep on griping.



Psychoanalysts tell us that humor is a form of

aggression. My own view is that psychoanalysis is a form

of aggression for humorless people. The funniest writer

of the twentieth century, or any other century I can

think of, was probably P.G. Wodehouse, whose humor was

remarkably gentle and chaste. He could even make a

hilarious compliment: "My dear, you look like Helen of

Troy after a good facial!"



Of course it's easy to praise humor, since nobody is

overtly anti-humorous. The problem is that some people

are humorless, and there's no arguing with them. Refusing

to laugh is like refusing to extend sympathy: It can't be

forced. You can't =prove= something is funny.

Humorlessness is irrefutable. But so is humor. And if you

can't laugh at yourself, you're missing half the fun of

life.



I love a good laugh, but sometimes I find myself the

humorless one. DON QUIXOTE has, for four centuries, made

countless readers laugh helplessly, and is widely hailed

as the funniest novel ever written. But every time I try

to read it, I find myself wondering, "When do I get to

the funny part?"



That doesn't mean Cervantes isn't funny. It probably

means I'm like a tone-deaf man listening to Handel. I'm

up against the laughter of millions.



But never let it be said that I failed to laugh at

Rodney Dangerfield. I've been doing it for nearly 40

years, with a brief sad pause last week.



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