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It's
been decades since Steve Martin ran rampant across America's
pop culture scene as a "wild and crazy guy." The Steve Martin
of that era—the late '70s and 'early 80s—remains
an indelible icon to some: the white three-piece suit that
matched his white hair, the arrow through the head, his catchphrase,
"Well, excuuuuuuuuuse me!"
For Martin
himself, that comedy icon has remained closeted away for almost
25 years. The lifestyle became too stressful, the pace became
too frantic and, worst of all, the performance stopped being
about his craft. For Martin, comedy was serious business—but
it lost its magic when it became about show business.
In his
splendidly written new memoir, Born Standing Up, Martin
finally spends time looking back on that period, and the icon
he'd become, and he finds there a source of nostalgia. Martin
is no maudlin clown, though. His memoir is at once insightful,
touching, and—most remarkable for an icon—splendidly
human.
The main
focus of the book traces Martin's career as a stand-up comedian,
although he includes some details from his personal life as
they pertain to his professional development. Especially important
is Martin's turbulent relationship with his father, who frowned
upon Martin's career even after Martin had become a major
celebrity. "You did all the things I wanted to do," Martin's
father admitted on his deathbed. Martin replied by saying
he did all those things for his dad, revealing then to readers
a deeper truth that he did not articulate to his dying father.
Moments like this give the book a worthwhile resonance that
sticks with readers long after the conclusion.
That
type of resonance was crucial to Martin as a stand-up comic.
He wanted to be funny in the moment, with the audience in
the room, laughing at his jokes, but he also wanted his material
to be funny later, when the audience got home—he "wanted
the strangeness to linger." He didn't just want his material
to come across as a series of funny jokes; he wanted the audience
to feel as if they had experienced something.
He admits
that his style took time to evolve. Sometimes, he pushed the
strangeness to the limit, but in doing so, he adopted the
attitude "this is funny—you just haven't gotten it yet,"
when he knew the humor of his material wasn't necessarily
apparent.
"It
is possible to will confidence," he says.
Martin
didn't always possess that confidence, however. "At age 18,
I had absolutely no gifts," he writes. "Thankfully, perseverance
is a great substitute for talent."
Martin
started as a clerk in a magic store. He cobbled together lines
from his favorite comedians, and he taught himself banjo so
he could toss a few tunes into his act. The resulting hodge-podge
opened some doors for him but, simultaneously, made him realize
how much more he had to learn. "Despite a lack of natural
ability, I did have the one element necessary to all early
creativity: naïveté, that fabulous quality that
keeps you from knowing just how unsuited you are for what
you are about to do," he says.
The book
becomes a chronicle of Martin's quest to better understand
his craft and, through it, himself as a comedian. He works
at a roadside theme park not too far from the brand-new Disneyland.
He takes small stand-up jobs at cafes, sometimes opening to
empty houses. He lands a gig writing for the Smothers Brothers
Comedy Hour.
"The
world was angry and so was comedy," Martin wrote of the time
period. Comedy, as an art form, was undergoing huge changes,
and Martin suddenly found himself one of the standard bearers
on the cutting edge of the new comedy. The warm, self-depreciating
comedy of Jack Benny was replaced by stinging sarcasm, political
discontent, and a willingness to embrace the sex, drugs, and
rock and roll of the counterculture.
Each
step of his career "brought my understanding of comedy into
sharper focus," Martin says. "Comedy is a distortion of what
is happening, and there will always be something happening."
Each
step also provides entertaining anecdotes, although they never
assume the tone of juicy gossip. His discussions of Johnny
Carson and Carl Reiner stand out, as does his brush with Elvis
Presley, who saw Martin open for Ann-Margaret. "You have an
oblique sense of humor," the King told him.
The book
never reads like a transcript of Martin's stand-up, although
he does include some of his shtick—but only as a way
to advance his story. The resulting self-portrait reveals
a comedian deeply committed to and interested in the craft
of his work. On stage, "every second mattered. Every gesture
mattered."
Even
his trademarked white suit mattered—but for the most
pragmatic reasons. In the large venues he played, it was hard
for audience members to see him, so the white suit made him
more visible. Besides, he writes with perfect seriousness,
"how can I look better than them if my shirt is blousing out
between my belt and top button?"
Eventually,
Martin's stand-up career skyrocketed and, following that,
he became a movie actor and critically acclaimed playwright.
Both vocations fall beyond the scope of Born Standing Up,
but that's okay. Martin makes the stand-up phase of his career
feel entirely self-contained—which is exactly how he
has treated it in real-life—with a beginning, middle,
and end. However, readers shouldn't be surprised if they find
themselves wishing for an encore.
(February,
2008)
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