a review by Jeffrey Overstreet
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Most critics, in my opinion, missed the point of Milos Forman’s Man on the Moon. They missed the brilliance of Jim Carrey’s performance, and took it to be just clowning. They missed the reasoning behind the careful selection of episodes from the life of Andy Kauffman for this paraphrase of his enigmatic life. They missed the fact the movie is about art, not about Andy.
Man on the Moon is about a man trapped in the American entertainment machine. He looks like a comedian. But Andy was different.
Milos Forman’s movie starts at Andy’s childhood, so we can see his obsession with performing for an audience. Not for a camera, but for an audience. He wants the audience to answer him, to play along. He loves being a kid. Twenty years later, he’s still the same. But the entertainment machine gives him orders, refuses to let him take risks and try new things.
Entertainment is predictable, formulaic; it pushes the right buttons and the audience gets what they came for. It does NOT make people uncomfortable or draw them out of their security to see something new. Andy fights for his “creative control” so he doesn’t have to deliver stupid jokes that get a response from laugh tracks. “Those people laughing are dead!” he exclaims in a rage.
We follow him through painful compromises, like condescending to be a part of the sitcom Taxi. But when he finally earns the right to have his own television special, the executives at ABC are not pleased; they don’t understand his comedy because it makes them think. When they try and shut him down, his anger and loneliness explodes. He becomes a monster. He’s a perfect model for the children of today who run to all manner of rebellion because it’s the only way people will pay attention to them. And Andy’s need to be valued and taken seriously lead him to embarrassing extremes.
He plunges suicidally into an act of wrestling with the world’s most intimidating brutes. He whips women into frenzies of hate by hurling sexist language at them only to provoke them into being more assertive. He’s go to any extreme to offend, because he believes that villains do a good work in drawing the best from heroes, and he’s willing to have his neck nearly broken to do it. What is even more surprising is just how convincingly staged his on-camera confrontations are; you never know which of his co-stars are in on the joke and which aren’t. He eventually becomes a media jackass, just to keep people from writing him off as another comic collecting a paycheck.
It’s not until unexpected the shadow of a mortal threat falls over him that he begins his most important work, his turn towards salvation, in a sense. He begins to realize that, while the world will never escape the security of the fast-food entertainment culture, he might accomplish something more valuable if he uses his energies to surprise them with happiness.
I was deeply moved to see the final scenes of this film, where Andy channels all of his creative energies into taking an entire audience and returning them to the carefree laughter and delight of children. It’s a joyful scene.
Forman’s movie suffers perhaps from over-paraphrasing Kaufman’s life. We don’t get to sink very deeply into these chapters; but then again Kaufman was so enigmatic it is remarkable we are able to glimpse as much of his inner landscape as we do. It is to Jim Carrey’s credit that we are treated to frighteningly good imitations of Kaufman’s comedy, but also given glimmers of the inner loneliness, the desperate rage for credibility and attention, and eventually the softening and the tearing open of his heart and his dreams. because his talents. With a solid performance as Kaufman’s agent Shapiro, Danny Devito gives us a character we can sympathize with, the one who can recognize the value of what Kaufman is trying to do, and is willing to take chances to make it happen.
So I have to disagree with most critics in their descriptions of Man on the Moon as a failure. They wanted to be drawn closer the person of Andy Kaufmann. But Kaufmann’s art was to live his life in a way that was a work of art. Perhaps it was an irresponsible work at times, but he preferred to challenge those that encountered him, onstage and off, to think and to engage him imaginatively. Director Milos Forman makes this something of a thematic sequel to Amadeus, focusing on a misunderstood genius whose commitment to his artistic vision came before acceptance, popularity, and even his loved ones.
Andy Kaufman’s lack of restraint makes him something of a tragic figure. With the best intentions, he justified in himself the worst of behaviors. But the movie lets us see him realizing what he has lost as a result, and that makes his turn towards humility and servitude all the more moving. Here in the years where every month introduces a new jackass superstar, Man on the Moon is a relevant piece of work, prodding us to ask questions: Why do the rude and the crass become stars? What are the appropriate limits of creative audacity? What is the difference between entertainment and art? Are we living our lives and practicing our talents with courage, or are we merely playing it safe? How can we live bravely while maintaining integrity? Are there similarities between Kaufman and other famous “rebels with a cause”? This is a profound film, worth re-visiting, and definitely worth talking about afterwards.