Andy Kaufman is a comedic legend. He was a surrealist, a provocateur, a meta-comedian that seemed to discomfort as much as he made you laugh. The man was strange, seemingly from another planet, but not out of touch. During a time of heightened attention on sexism, he reconstructed himself as a sexist wrestling villain. He created a persona where he would only ever wrestle women, wagering money to any woman who could defeat him in a match. He spouted sexist rhetoric and was often hostile to his audience, drumming up their hate. It was somewhat controversial at the time, but in a way somewhat genius and relevant: he made a cartoon of sexists while creating an effigy to be destroyed. That relevance is key to what Kaufman was. He was weird, he was anxiety inducing, but he had a reason to be so. It always seemed he wanted to disrupt the ways we take for granted our consumption of media, social norms, and empathy. He challenged the passivity of everyday life, forcing you to reckon with something you could not easily identify, but you could always feel.
In 1999, Jim Carrey, coming off a string of highly successful comedies and a dramatic role that had begun to shift people's perceptions of the ubiquitous comic, was in a dark place. The success he had so long chased had become a reality, but success does not necessarily fix you. What followed, ostensibly, was an existential crisis, the kind that shatters you to pieces and forces the slow process of putting yourself back together. It was in this shattered state that Carrey decided to play his idol Andy Kaufman in Man on the Moon, and to do so remaining in character on and off the set for the entirety of the shoot.
The story is infamous at this point. Carrey was said to have harassed his coworkers, to have been completely uncontrollable while in character. Rumor had it his behavior on set was captured on film in behind the scenes footage, but it was not until a few years ago that the rumor proved to be true. Jim and Andy, a documentary by Chris Smith of American Movie fame, takes a very subtle eye towards what happened not just on set, but with Jim Carrey himself. Carrey appears as the only talking head for the entire film, bearded and in a suit, looking far closer to Alan Moore than to the iconic actor. Likewise, Carrey is extremely reflective and revealing, but it all comes through a haze of doubt.
The trick to Jim and Andy is that, much like Kaufman himself, it is hard to completely grasp what is real and what is not. Carrey is relatively forthright about his insecurities, his selfish ambition, his criticism of the industry that made him a star. It feels as though he holds nothing back, and as though he has nothing to lose, but in so being he starts weaving a myth for himself. Threading his worst tendencies with his incredible talent, Carrey creates an image of a broken man, a person who has been chewed up and spit out by fame, and lives underneath an unending and blinding spotlight where his form is undiscernible. In this state, Carrey seems to have come to the conclusion that there was no form to begin with, a rather privileged conclusion when one does not have to worry with the basic necessities and stresses of living. This seemingly damning self-portrayal feels far more refreshing than it does outright bad. Carrey truly seems largely transparent, letting you peer into dark corners and cracks in his ego, but even as he reveals so much he often times seems to cower behind a certain mysticism. When Carrey says he was possessed by Kaufman, you struggle to believe him. It feels like a psychological disassociation rather than a true belief, but with Carrey and his various and often unrestrained mystical beliefs, whether or not he believes it blurs with whether that outright matters. The truth of what he did and who he is is still there, albeit bent into a particular shape.
Smith doesn't just portray Carrey and his shenanigans on set as they are. He proposes questions, many of which seem to bring about questions of their own. Repeatedly, people praise Carrey's general mannerisms and behavior as distinctly Kaufman. He seems to be pulling this off. But as you get further into the documentary, discrepancies pop up. Certain things Carrey does while in character isn't so accurate to Kaufman as a person. His hostility to wrestler Jerry Lawler is in opposition to how Kaufman treated him in real life, which was often as a cohort and friend. Likewise, Carrey's brand of Kaufman behavior is without purpose, without that underlying truth being uncovered. It is openly hostile and destructive, with little merit to any of the wild behavior he exhibits. One could easily come out of this documentary feeling Carrey was an asshole more than a talented actor.
The framing of the film, however, creates an explanation. Carrey talks quite a bit about how after the movie he realized that his life didn't improve, it didn't change, it was simply on pause. He had temporarily stepped out of being Jim Carrey, but he had to return, and what he returned to was still the broken man he had left. There are elements during his Kaufman time that illuminate this. In a sort of weird, unhinged psychological twist, Carrey as Kaufman would often berate Jim Carrey, yelling about how all he wants is attention, about how insecure he was, about how much of a coward he was. Carrey's acting, his mental exploration through this character seems to at times shatter in favor of a full on breakdown. The film's structure is also not that of a redemption arch, where Carrey comes out fine. If anything, Carrey comes out now as a more placid version of the broken Carrey around the time of Man on the Moon. "I have no ambition", Carrey states, staring dead eyed into the camera. The darkness inherit in the film is difficult to grasp. With reality seeming to bend ever so slightly in the film and Carrey's portrayal of what happened, the reality of everything comes into conflict with the desperation at play. Performance, it would seem from this film, is something that takes from you more than it gives.
7.5
No comments:
Post a Comment