True Confessions of an Originaljoesnake

I have long thought of Steve Martin as a sad clown, a person who is funny on stage, but always seems to have an underlying melancholy. His autobiography, Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life, only served to reinforce my view of Martin, while at the same time proving to be a funny, engaging, and at times, a sad read.

My opinion of Steve Martin as a funny-man is very favorable, yet Born Standing Up also gave insight into Martin’s carefully crafted, painstakingly detailed, and utterly serious approach to comedy. Determined to be noticed, appreciated and become a success despite his perceived lack of talent, Martin managed to quickly turn his time on stage into something totally functional and devoid of all fun:

“Enjoyment while performing was rare – enjoyment would have been an indulgent loss of focus that comedy cannot afford.”

Near the beginning of the book, Martin qualifies his written words; they are not representative of his entire life, rather their lone focus is on his career as a stand-up comedian.

In contrast to crude and vulgar comedy for shock value, Martin’s jokes are off-beat, zany and operate on an entirely different wavelength. His humor is smart and takes thought, something that might initially put my generation and younger ones off, but for the most part it stands the test of time. Martin is also a skilled comedy writer, having even won an Emmy penning jokes for The Smothers Brothers Show early in his career. I found myself laughing many times at both Martin’s on stage wit and the way he retold it with his meticulously selected words many years later.

Strangely, as I continued to read, I discovered Martin was a lot like me.

Steve is a deep thinker, constantly over thinking his every on stage movement days after performances in pursuit of acceptance from the audience. Often becoming twisted in thought over how an audience will react to a joke or an idea, he bombards readers with a constant stream of facts and detail. Even years later, he is able to recall the nuances of specific events in his career. Surely, he was also the only one who noticed these subtle details the first time around.

At the premiere of his now classic “The Jerk”, the audience roars with laughter almost non-stop, yet Martin still finds a way to have his feelings hurt. He wonders why the audience heads for the bathroom and the concession stand as Navin and Marie, played by Bernadette Peters, sing “Tonight You Belong to Me” as they along the beach while Martin strums the ukulele; a touching moment in the movie the sensitive Steve felt the crowd failed to appreciate.

Martin’s desire to be a successful stand-up appears to be driven by his quest for acceptance. Failed relationships and free love become lonely nights spent on the road. This translates into many years of honing the craft one-night stands until he is too famous to have them anymore.

The root of Martin’s drive during this time is his fractured and non-existent relationship with his father. However, the comedian talks about this failure with refreshing and unexpected candor:

“… [My father] offered to buy me a tuxedo. I refused because I had learned from him to reject all aid and assistance…I wish now that I had let him buy me a tuxedo, that I let him be a dad. Having cut myself off from him, and by association the rest of the family, I was incurring psychological debts that would come due years later…I tell you this story…to let you know that I am qualified to be a comedian.”

His father supported the family financially, yet was never available emotionally. At a young age, Steve grew bitter and resentful of him, remembering a childhood full of feelings of hatred towards his father.

“However [a one-time physical beating by my father] and his worsening tendency to rages directed at my mother – which I heard in fright through the thin walls of our home – made me resolve, with icy determination, that only the most formal relationship would exist between my father and me, and for perhaps thirty years, neither he nor I did anything to repair the rift. The rest of my childhood we hardly spoke; there was little he said to me that was not critical, and there was little I said back that was not terse or mumbled.”

As Martin reached super stardom, his father grew increasingly critical. Steve countered as he knew how- by cutting him off:

“[My father, after seeing me appear as a guest host gave an interview and] said, ‘I think Saturday Night Live is the most horrible thing on television.’ I suppressed anything I felt about his comments…But as my career progressed, I noticed that my father remained uncomplimentary toward my comedy…I never discussed my work with him again.”

Many years later, as his father lay dying, Steve reconciled with the dad who he felt never accepted him:

“At last [my father on his deathbed] said, ‘You did everything I wanted to.’ ‘I did it for you’, I said. Then we wept for lost years. I was glad I didn’t say the more complicated truth: ‘I did it because of you.’”

Despite fortune, fame, and a roaring laugh track, Martin could never escape the problems created by his dysfunctional relationship with his father. Although he thought he was escaping them when he foraged out into the world on his own and broke into comedy, he carried them with him wherever he went, as if they were packed along to travel in his suitcase.

From starting off as a young boy at Disneyland to packing sold-out stadium shows as an adult, for all the success Martin was able to accomplish, he found himself alone at the apex of comedy facing the pressure to deliver constant laughs. While the nation was spewing catch phrases like, “Excuuuuse me!” which he coined, Martin was unable to enjoy the fame and fortune success afforded him becoming even more lonely and burnt out touring the country. He had no real friends or relationships, his sole interaction coming nightly with a mass gathering of people who wanted to see his show. Afterwards, he would retreat to an isolated hotel room before collapsing for the night to wake up and perform again.

“Though audiences continued to grow, I experienced a concomitant depression caused by exhaustion, isolation, and creative ennui. As I was too famous to go outdoors…my romantic interludes ceased…I no longer had normal access to civilized life. The hour and a half spent on stage was still fun, but there were…no others on stage, and after the show, I took a solitary ride back to the hotel…and boom…nowhere to look but inward…it seemed like a near coma was the best way to spend the day…this was, as the cliché goes, the loneliest period of my life.”

Of course, Martin looks back on all this as older and wiser now, an elder statesman of comedy and film. Accept for the implications of his broken relationship with his family and father, little outside of his career in stand up comedy is mentioned. But, Martin’s story is a clear lesson for boys and girls attempting to pack their suitcases and run to a life of their own while thumbing their noses at Mom and Dad: your problems with home will impact the rest of your life.

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