Schticky Situation
“A lot of people say to me, 'Dave, how can you, an Orthodox Jew, use a Braun razor made in Germany? ’And I say, 'Hey, give credit where it's due: Those people know how to take the beards off of Jews.’” The crowd, seated in the Museum of Jewish Heritage in Lower
Manhattan, winces. The show had been billed as “There's Still a Fly in My Soup: An Evening of Young Jewish Comedy,” and it was a big hit, up until this point. The all-star lineup of downtown comics includes regulars from Leno, Letterman, and Conan—acts that were far from G-rated, yet no one dared spoof the Holocaust. That is, until David Deutsch steps on stage. “So I guess you don't think the Holocaust is funny,” he apologizes. “But I gotta tell you, it killed them back in Poland.”
Meet the world's worst Jewish comedian. Max Bialystock and Leo Bloom couldn't have dreamt this guy up if they were smoking crack. 33-year-old Deutsch, a high school history teacher during the day, has been waiting for his big break in the comedy world since moving to New York from Milwaukee in 1994. Unfortunately, his funniest material is his résumé: highlights include a questionable stand-up routine that's often booed off stage; dozens of unproduced screenplays (including a “Jewsploitation” film called Dolewite); and a single press clip, which snarkily describes his act as an "exploration of the dark side of Holocaust humor."
The next day, I visit Deutsch in the living room of his apartment on the Lower East Side. Hanging on the walls are a charcoal drawing of a rabbi, two embroi ered pictures from Jerusalem, and a framed print of dogs playing poker. He's still miffed about last night's chilly response. I ask whether he's going to continue performing the genocide routine. "People watch Fiddler on the Roof when they're getting ready for a pogrom and they love it!" he exclaims. "Besides, at least it was Jewish humor. I was the only one up there doing Jewish humor." Is Jewish humor dead? By most measures, we dominate the world of American comedy as much as we ever have. Turn on the TV and you're likely to see a Jew telling jokes on Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, Friends, Will & Grace and on reruns of The Larry Sanders Show, Seinfeld, Mad About You, and The Nanny. Jeffrey Ross, a young comic who has been called "the new face of the Friars Club," performed last New Year's Eve on MTV's Pajama Party, using the same routine that he did on Christmas Eve in front of an all-Jewish crowd. "Today," says Ross, "this kind of stuff works for everybody. It's universal." More than ever, the humor of Jews is playing just as strongly to the Nielsens as it is to the Nussbaums. But to what degree are Jewish humorists today doing what one would call Jewish comedy? Much of our thinking about Jewish humor comes from Freud, who claimed that what made a joke a Jewish joke was self-deprecation. Jews were outsiders who, anticipating attack, launched preemptive strikes against themselves in an effort to feel an increased sense of power. Many have drawn the unwarranted conclusion from Freud's observations that Jewish humor is nothing more than humor of the dispossessed—the kind of wisecracking that comes from being out-
side looking in. While Freud may have overstated his case, Jewish humor certainly has always been intimately connected with outsider status. But these jokes don't seem to work now that we're by and large on the inside. "The time is at hand when the wearing of prayer shawl and skullcap will not bar a man from the White House," begins an old gag. "Unless, of course, the man is Jewish." It's been a long time since this joke was funny, and with Joe Lieberman a serious contender for the 2004 Democratic presidential nomination, it no longer even makes sense. Once the hurdles of history are removed, what’s so funny about being Jewish? The most popular of our current jesters—Adam Sandler, Jerry Seinfeld, and Ben Stiller—are not outsiders. Sure, they deliver classic one-liners and aren't afraid to take a pratfall, but they all play quintessential insiders at ease in their surroundings. These are men who fit in, guys who always get the girl. They play vaguely Jewish characters that are not nerdy, aren't especially nebbishy, and are certainly not outcasts.
We don't laugh at them. We laugh with them. Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nights best demonstrates this new direction of Jewish humor. When Hollywood's first-ever full-length Hanukkah movie came out last Decmeber, it was hailed as "the most Jewish holiday film ever made." The animated feature begins with the buffed-up cartoon version of Sandler, Davey Stone, boozing it up at Chinese restaurant. After ditching on the check, he takes off on a drunken rampage through the quaint, snow-covered town of Dukesberry.
On the surface, Dukesberry bears a strong resemblance to Trey Parker and Matt Stone's South Park, but the status of Jews in Sandler's world couldn't be more different. The one Jewish family in South Park, the Broflovskis, is a frequent target of ridicule. Mr. Broflovski wears a yarmulke, Mrs. Broflovski is a yammering yenta, and their son Kyle plays with his “imaginary friend,” a turd called Mr. Hankey. When Kyle tries to teach his pal Cartman how to play dreidel and sing the “Dreidel Song,” Cartman chimes in: Here's a little dreidel, it's small and made of clay, but I'm not gonna play with it 'cause dreidel's fucking gay...Jews play stupid game...Jews, that's why they're lame. In Sandler's cartoon land, Christmas and Hanukka receive equal billing as separate but equal expressions of holiday spirit. Menorahs and Christmas trees stand side town center, and Sandler, unlike Kyle Broflovski, doesn’t complain of being a “lonely Jew on Christmas,” but rather chants joyously, “It's time to celebrate Hanukkah!” Eight Crazy Nights is a watershed moment for Jewish humor and perhaps the most ecumenical vision of Judeo-Christian relations ever seen on the big screen. It culminates in Sandler's latest version of his hit, “The Hanukkah Song”: Osama bin Laden, not a big fan of the Jews/Well maybe that's because he lost a figure-skating match to gold-medalist Sarah Hughes. In Sandler's America, Jews are not only winners, they kick ass.
Before the age of the jetplane, when New Yorkers wanted relaxation, good food, and a nice, Jewish vibe, they went to the Catskills. In the 1950s, the summertime Eden of bungalow colonies and over 900 hotels provided the nation with a rich supply of talented humorists who redefined America comedy. It's where Danny Kaye, Woody Allen, Buddy Hackett, Jerry Lewis, even super-cool Lenny Bruce honed their craft in front of tough but appreciative audiences. Today, only three of the storied resort hotels remain: Kutsher's, the Neville, and the Raleigh. I went to visit what's left of the famed borscht belt, where modern Jewish humor was born, to contemplate its death.
The nightclub at the Raleigh Hotel seats up to 1500, but on the Monday night in the middle of December when I attend, the hote manager tells me only 170 will be in attendance. It will be a younger crowd than usual, he adds, as we walk into the nightclub. I check out the “younger than usual crowd” and their polyester suits, bouffant hairdos, and gaudy costume jewelry. What do the older crowds wear, I wonder. I sit down just in time for the headliner. The woman next to me unwraps a piece of candy. Her husband adjusts his hearing aid. In a world where most Jews have moved on to gazpacho, comedian Modi still does borscht. The muscular 30-year-old has appeared on The Howard Stern Show, BET, and even had a cameo on The Sopranos. But his biggest influences aren’t Seinfeld, Sandler, or Stiller, but Sid Caesar, Freddie Roman, and Alan King. He is greeted with a flat reception from the audience, but it doesn't take him long to win them over: “A 90-year-old man marries a 60-year-old woman,” he starts. “On their wedding night, she says, 'Irving, come upstairs and make love to me.' He says, 'I can't do both.'” The room thunders with laughter... Modi continues: "I know a guy, Moe Ginstein. Tells his friend, 'You gotta get me into the club.' Friend says, 'Moe, they don't want Jews, so when you register, don't tell them your name is Moe Ginstein, that you drive a big Cadillac, and that the kids go to Brandeis. You gotta fudge it up.' So Moe goes to the register and says, 'I vant I should be a member.' They give him a form. It says 'name.' Jack Smith. 'What kind of car do you have?' A
Saab. 'Where do your kids go to school?' Yale. 'What's your religion?' Goyishe.” The crowd explodes. If they laughed any harder they would need ambulances. The elderly couple next to me embraces.
After the show, I meet Modi in his dressing room—the same dressing room that man of the Catskill legends used. Half of the light-
bulbs above the mirror are burnt out and a large portion of the ceiling is discolored by flood damage. Playing here is a big deal for Modi. “You see,” he tells me, "old school Jewish humor is alive and kicking." I'm taken aback. It's true, the audience was laughing at his classic Jewish jokes, but somehow the entire experience felt cheap and inauthentic. Had I jus witnessed an art form that was "alive an kicking!" or something more like a serviceable cover band blasting out a bunch of mold oldies? Here at the Raleigh, the jokes remain
the same.
If the Catskills were the Mecca of Jewish comedy, then the Friars Club was the Medina. The New York clubhouse opened in 1911 as a fraternal organization for entertainers and Jewish funnymen (and more recently women—it was exclusively a boys club until 1988). Those who have spent time there speak of it with near-religious reverence. Although famous as the breeding ground for many Jewish comics including Jack Benny, Milton Berle, George Burns, Red Buttons, Sid Caesar, Eddie Cantor, Shecky Greene, Don Rickles, Phil Silvers and Henny Youngman, the English Renaissance structure that houses the New York Friars Club is affectionately known as “The Monastery.” Unlike the borscht belt resort hotels, the Friars Club is flourishing. Membership is up, and a deal with Comedy Central to broadcast their legendary celebrity roasts has brought in a reported quarter of a million dollars. Yet even at the Friars Club, Jewish humor is proclaimed dead. Despite taking over 19,000 pies in his face, Soupy Sales, 77, is still going strong. He dips a piece of smoked trout into horseradish. “Adam Sandler and Jerry Seinfeld are not Jewish humor,” he proclaims. Mickey Freeman, who did the Catskills and The Phil Silvers Show before becoming one of the Friars' most sought after roast masters, agrees. “Adam Sandler doesn't have a Jewish sensibility. Even though he sings about lighting the menorah, it doesn't feel Jewish.” He tells me a joke to illustrate his point: “Man walks into a bar and says to a girl, '$1000 if you make love to me my way.' She says, 'What's your way?' He says, 'On credit.'” Freeman grins. “You see. It has a Jewish feel to it.” Jeffrey Ross concurs. “Buddy Hackett's a guy who's as Jewish as you can get, but you're not laughing at the Jewish content of his jokes,” he explains. “You're laughing at his being—his delivery, his eyes, the way he talks out of the side of his mouth, and the way his shoulders move. The way his smile breaks out at the end of the punch line. You're laughing at his very essence.”
So, Buddy Hackett could be doing a joke about Santa Claus drinking a scotch while watching NASCAR, and it would still be a Jewish joke? Ross beams. “Yes!” Jack Carter, who starred on Broadway, in motion pictures and television, and was once regarded as one of the top Jewish nightclub entertainers in the world, cuts me off mid-sentence when I bring up the topic of Jewish comedy. "There is no Jewish comedy today, there is only embarrassment!" he barks. "Seinfeld works like an American. The real Jewish humor is gone now. It's a memory. Today, comedians who dwell on Jewishness do so crudely." Pat Cooper, the Italian master of the rant and rave and star of many Friars Club roasts, has long held that if he were Jewish he'd be the biggest comic on the planet. I ask him whether the age of Jewish comedy is over. He screams back at me, "My friend, the age of true Jewish comedy is over. Jerry Seinfeld doesn't have the flair. He doesn't have the balls.”
Outside of a few hotels in the Catskills, the steam room at the Friars Club, and a long list of gated condo communities in Florida (almost universally referred to as “Cemetery Village”), it seems that Jewish humor barely survives. Soupy Sales says that Triumph the Insult Comic Dog—a hand puppet, for chrissakes—is the closest he's seen to “a real Jewish comic today.” Certainly, the Russian accent, cigar, and comic rhythm call to mind old comics like George Burns, Shecky Greene, and Don Rickles. But it is a real pie in the face of history when the most successful Jewish comic we've all heard of is a plastic dog.
David Deutsch is back onstage performing in the annual “New York's Funniest Jew Contest,” hosted by Freddie Roman. Deutsch has lost count of the number of times he's failed to advance beyond the first round of this event. Tonight, the competition is fierce. There's a guy who sings in a Yiddish accent about love in a retirement home; an elderly gentleman who actually performs in Yiddish even though few in the audience understand the language; a religious man who reads jokes he got off the Internet; and grandma who tells cute stories about her children and grandchildren. It's a Jewish crowd, so Deutsch opts for his routine on Orthodoxy.
It goes over like the Hindenburg. “But seriously, folks, Orthodoxy offers the best cover for male pattern baldness,” he says. “It always breaks my heart when I see a bald spot on a Jewish man, knowing that all he needs to do is put on a yarmulke. Then you're not bald...you're pious!” Some laughter from an elderly woman at the back of the room.
She’s on a cell phone with her daughter. “Now, I know some of you are thinking that anybody can wear a hat, but let's face it, if a 30-year-old suddenly starts to wear a fedora and he hasn't joined either a synagogue or a swing band, he's bald.” Like every year before, Deutsch gets a mercifully quick hook. A few days later, I talk to him about this year's contest. He's still raving. “I got robbed!” he hyperventilates. "Freddie Roman told me I was very funny. I lost to a guy dressed like a cowboy singing western songs with Yiddish stuff in them!” He wipes the sweat off his brow. “I think the fix was on. The prize was opera tickets—and that's something you don't offer unless you know the person who's gonna get them likes opera!” David Deutsch might not get the big laughs. But these days he doesn't even have a chance of turning his Jewish roots into gold - telling Holocaust jokes is never going to earn him a star-turn on Leno. Too Jewish to be hip and too self-consciously hip to be successful at being Jewish, Deutch must find solace as a comic bottom feeder. “I'm thinking about converting,” he offers. The delivery is good, but the feeling of dread while waiting for a stillborn punch line is torturous. “I could be a funny Episcopalian.”
