Steve Martin: Lessons in comedy, life
It’s no secret the Steve Martin of today is very different from the stand-up comedian who came to prominence in the 1970s, wearing a deliberately passé arrow through the head and strutting his stuff to “King Tut.” He’s a more measured ironist now, focused on his literary efforts, bluegrass music, Broadway shows and live performances. Outside of projects like his 2007 memoir, “Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life,” getting Martin, 71, to talk now about his days as “a wild and crazy guy” or movies like “The Jerk” is like asking him to make you one of his bad balloon animals: It ain’t gonna happen.
So it is perhaps a surprise Martin is one of the latest celebrity participants in MasterClass, an instructional website where artists share insights about their craft. Despite a reluctance to revisit the past, Martin makes a sincere tutor (for a $90 course of 25 episodes).
“I definitely tried to make it about creativity and also about life,” Martin said in an interview Friday. “All my thoughts about comedy are metaphorical, applying to anything else.”
Martin spoke further about why he returned to this chapter of his career, what lessons it offers and the extent to which he keeps up with comedy today. These are edited excerpts from that conversation.
Q: What made you want to do a project like this now?
A: I’ve always had empathy with comedians and their struggle. I know it inside out, and the struggles remain the same. I’m always rooting for comedians, especially now that I’m older. Your competitive edge is off. You don’t have to worry about somebody being funnier. Because, as I say, there’s always someone funnier.
Q: Is it fair to say you shy away from invitations to talk about that era of your career — the retrospective thing does not come easily for you?
A: Yeah. You can only talk about it so much. And then there’s diminishing interest in the old you, both from the public and yourself. About 20 years ago, Kevin Kline called me and said: “I’m teaching a course at Juilliard in comedy. Would you like to stop by and talk?” And I thought: There’s nothing you can teach about comedy. I don’t know what that would even be. But I went to the class, and they did some scenes, and I thought, Oh, there is a lot to teach. Through the years, I’ve gathered some knowledge that can be transferred. I actually feel more creative in the last 10 years than I have in that whole time.
Q: When you were starting out, did you have people you considered mentors or instructors?
A: No. However, I did have heroes, like Jack Benny or Jerry Lewis, and little-known entertainers that I’ve seen through my life. My hero, when I was 11, was a guy named Wally Boag [a Disneyland stage performer and street magician]. When I got into college and I was an ironist, I thought, OK, bad balloon animals will be my staple. Fats Johnson was an entertainer who wore rings on his fingers, played guitar and sang and was funny. I said, “Fats, what do I wear onstage?” He said, “Always look better than they do.”
Q: One of your episodes is about constructing a stage persona, an idealized version of who you want to be in performance. Is this what you thought you were doing at the time?
A: Certainly, it’s an evolution. It’s not a ray of light that strikes you. When I first started to think, “I’ve got to be a person up there — how do I be a person?” all I did was take jokes that said “A guy walks into a bar” and change it to “I walked into a bar.” That was a simple thing to think about. You make everything about yourself.
Q: Did you help choose your vintage stand-up and movie clips in the lessons?
A: I only saw those after the fact. I always let other people choose the bits, because I don’t know what works today. I like the idea that someone who wasn’t even born in that era is picking them.
Q: What does that spare you from?
A: Having to look at it, for one thing. But also having to understand what works today. Unfortunately, most comedy is ephemeral. People want their own generation of comedy. You look at an old singlepanel cartoon from the 1890s, you struggle to figure out what was funny about it. It’s a lengthy paragraph, as opposed to a Roz Chast cartoon in The New Yorker.
Q: When you work on a project like this, does it make you want to do standup again?
A: The truth is, I work with Martin Short and I tour with the Steep Canyon Rangers, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. [Last year, when Martin performed as a special guest at a Jerry Seinfeld show at the Beacon Theater], this thing came out that said, ‘Steve Martin’s Return to Stand-Up.’ No. It was stuff I’d done for the last 10 years, only a 10-minute version of it. When I work with Marty, sometimes I wonder if I could do stand-up. Then I think, I don’t want to do an hour on my own and try to remember what comes next. I really like what we’re doing.
Q: By doing this project, are you saying, in a sense, I’m putting this era of my life to bed?
A: Yes. It’s a place to put all this esoterica. It has absolutely no use to anybody, except comedians or people who want to be in show business, or people who want to be creative.
Q: Do you keep up with what’s happening in standup now?
A: Only a little bit. I recently watched Dave Chappelle’s [Netflix specials], really funny. And I didn’t know what to expect, because I had never seen him. I was really surprised because I didn’t know what to expect. I thought it was going to be more radical, in its style, and more flamboyant, in some way. But it was so straight-ahead and entertaining and engaging.
Q: How do you think the Steve Martin of the 1970s would react to the work you’re doing today?
A: Except for a few moments early on, I never saw into the future. I never thought, This is what I’m going to be doing. I knew what I didn’t want to be doing. But I was never guided by an overreaching plan, except moment to moment. I guess I just contradicted myself. But even in the master class, I say, “I realize this contradicts what I just said.” I’d love to count the number of times I said that.