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Andy Kaufman Probably would have loved the recent fervor over his life. Not so much for the recognition it would have brought him, but because once again the public had taken him for something he was not. I am referring to the popular belief that there was no real Andy Kaufman, that he was lost in his own characters, lost--to quote the title of one of his biographies--in his own funhouse.
This seems to me a ludicrous notion. Even though I personally did not know Andy Kaufman (he died when I was two) and have only recently become familiar with his work, I find it difficult to buy into the idea of Andy as some sort of warped shape shifter, a comedic idiot savant whose brilliance was spawned solely from his own indulgence. I am not alone; Dennis Raimondi, one of Andy's oldest and closest friends, who was the driving force behind this art#icle, firmly believes that Andy was very much a real person and that much of the media has greatly misunderstood him.
A One-of-a-Kind Entertainer
There is one thing about Andy that Dennis and much of the rest of the world agree on--that is, his genius. Although not greatly liked at the time of his death, Andy has now risen to the top of not just a comedic Olympus, but a cultural one too. As Jim Carrey, whose lively portrayal of Andy Kaufman in Man on the Moon is one of the year's best, said, "We should build a statue in honor of Andy Kaufman." After seeing Man on the Moon, watching some real footage of Kaufman, and hearing some of Dennis' great stories, I am convinced that there has never been an entertainer like Kaufman. What's striking is his blistering originality, enthusiasm, and constant desire to make his audience feel alive. Whether it was angering them with Tony Clifton, boring them with "British man," or surpris#ing them with Latka, Andy's incredibly varied antics had one recurring theme--they were a kick of energy. Even in dusty old videos and late night Taxi reruns, Andy still produces these results; his ghost is very much alive in the machine.
The Gentle Illusionist
Andy was a cultural icon for America because he played on our never-ending need to be shocked. Not shock in the way that Jerry Springer does (although his fake antics could have easily been influenced by Andy's), but shock in the sense that he always did what the audience could not predict. When he moved into his self-proclaimed inter-gender wrestling phase, he alienated and lost many of his fans, but he also stunned them into a near-hypnotic stupor. And even in the later stages of his career, when Andy drifted into ever more unusual and eclectic areas, and many people stopped paying attention, even this seemed strangely part of his master plan.
Now Andy's work is looked upon with nostalgic and starry-eyed reverence. It is very possible that if he lived today he would not be able to cajole the public the way he did in the '70s and '80s. In our age of WWF, political lies and treachery, and quasi-documentaries (see The Blair Witch Project or any Fox show beginning with the title World's Scariest . . .), Andy's role as gentle illusionist would be rendered inoperable.
His Influence
Andy came and went, but left an indelible mark on society. His influence can be seen far and wide, from comedians (Jim Carrey, Robin Williams, and Albert Brooks) to television (The WWF, Saturday Night Live, and any of its knock-offs) to even movies (Shortcuts, Pulp Fiction, and the recent Magnolia resemble Andy Kaufman's work in the way they play with audience expectations). Andy was one of those rare artists that managed to not only set the tone f#or his time, but also for times to come. And artist he was; despite his official moniker as comedian, Andy was much more than that. As Dennis says, among popular entertainers, he was "the first performance artist."
The Legendary Acts
Dennis met Andy in 1972 at a hip comedy club called The Bitter End, a small, rundown yet bustling hot spot. Andy was performing what would eventually become a legendary act: foreign man. Andy walked on stage with shoulders slumped, exuding nervousness and low confidence, and began to perform not as himself, but as a foreigner whose profession should be anything but a comedian. To say Andy performed as foreign man doesn't do his act justice. He was foreign man, and for almost 20 minutes he was possessed, functioning at such a level of realism that anyone, sober or not, would have to believe that this unbelievable embarrassment was the truth. Andy told stories with no punch lines, did "take my wife" jokes with no grit, and performed such horribly unrealistic impersonations that towards the end of his act he had the audience squirming with embarrassment, irritation, and amusement.
By this time, when Andy announced that he would do an Elvis impersonation, the audience buzzed in anticipation of the enormous awfulness to come. Abruptly changing gears, Andy erupted into the best damn Elvis in all of show business, and the Bitter End audience roared with an emotional catharsis that had previously seemed impossible in a club setting.
Over the next few years, Dennis saw this act over 200 times, and he never got tired of witnessing the audience's explosive response, a mixture of amazement, fury, and overwhelming excita#tion.
As Andy's career developed, he spawned new characters until he had a repertoire deeper than a whole comedy troupe's. Most famous among these was Tony Clifton, the devilish id of Andy's many personas. Tony's comically gruff lounge act was entertaining because no one knew just how far he would go. Whether it was pouring water on someone in the audience, enforcing non-smoking and then coming on stage smoking like a chimney, or screaming for silence for the artiste, Tony redefined the phrase "love to hate." But at the time time, a hidden insecurity, even sweetness, would simmer to the surface every so often until the audience felt more sorry for Tony than anything else. Like all of his work, Andy did not take the easy route. He did not do what was simple and predictable--he challenged the audience, challenged them to laugh, get angry, and above all, think.
There were other characters as well: Tony's antithesis Nathan Richards, an almost intolerably nice and sappy performer; Andy as his British self, reading The Great Gatsby and scolding the audience as if they were a classroom of children; Andy as laughing man, a performer who's so amused by his own material he burst into fits of laughter every time he tries to speak; and, of course, his infamous wrestling incarnations. Then there were his acts: doing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" all the way down to 5, then up to 20, then back down until the audience boiled near hysteria; starting conga lines, sing-alongs, and other interactive activities at clubs known for their apathetic audiences; telling horrible jokes, then bursting into tears, then erupting into a conga drum solo. Whatever Andy was doing, he was putting the audience through a whole range of experience.
The Last Laugh
Andy delved into other things as well. He wrote screenplays and books, and created ideas for TV. It's hard not to wonder how far Andy's brilliance would have stretched had he lived. Some say that he would have loved the fact that his career was on the rocks and would have played it for all it was worth. Others say he would have become a country-western singer (Andy's favorite music).
But whatever new form he might have explored, it would have been fresh and cutting edge. When Andy died in 1984 at age 35, the world lost not only a talented artist but a genuine human being--those who knew him remember him best for his kindness and warmth. But considering how Andy continues to affect contemporary culture and how we continue to respond, he must be rolling over in his grave--with laughter, that is.
