DADDY ISSUES
Comics working in the shadows of their fathers
“When I was 18, dad wanted me to do standup,” recalls Rain Pryor. “And I was like: ‘Are you crazy? You’re Richard Pryor, dad. That’s impossible.’ A regular comic can go to an open mike and work out material. I have to go and be funny right away.”
The list of job requirements for a comedian is short: make people laugh. However, for those who also happen to be children of famous comedians, that list multiplies: be as funny as your parents, espouse their same opinions, be a conduit for them, answer for their actions, serve the role of holy relics after they die. All the while, of course, they struggle to cut their own paths as anyone following in a parent’s footsteps would — except in a very public way.
Rain Pryor, now 47, did eventually try standup, but it isn’t her passion. She instead performs autobiographical solo shows and is a cabaret singer. It’s no coincidence that each of the children interviewed for this article pursues an art form slightly different from his or her parent’s.
“I’m grateful that he never did standup,” Camilla Cleese says about her dad, Monty Python legend John Cleese. “Part of the reason I tried it the first time is because I saw it as a way to establish myself as a separate entity.”
Still, fans of her dad occasionally ask her to do his famous silly walk. “I have the same weirdly double-jointed legs,” the 33-yearold comic says, laughing. For all their similarities, though, she asserts, “I know I’m not as funny as him — that’s not my goal.”
Such disclaimers are another commonality among kids of comedians. “My dad is the funniest guy I know,” says A.B. Cassidy, speaking of the Farrelly brothers director Bobby. “I rank, like, 19th in my family. My sister had to explain jokes to me.”
Earlier this year, A.B., 24, adopted the stage name Cassidy. “Farrelly is such a specific brand of humour and I don’t want those preconceptions about my comedy,” explains the standup, who mines her experience as a butch lesbian.
She says she even removed a poop joke from a TV script she’s writing because it felt too close to the gross-out comedy associated with her dad.
Pryor admits once using a pseudonym, Cynthia Grossman, at an open mike in Albany, N.Y. Max Silverstein, on the other hand, never needs a fake name because his dad, Andrew Dice Clay, already has one. Drumming is Silverstein’s professional pursuit — he and his brother Dillon are in the band Still Rebel — but he’s also been “quietly doing open mikes for 10 years,” he says. “It’s a weird hobby to have. I grew up at The Comedy Store,” he explains, referring to the marquee club in Los Angeles where his dad often performed.
Other comics at these mikes usually know who Silverstein’s dad is, but they don’t bring it up.
Professional settings are different. “In standup, I am never just Rain Pryor,” she says. “It is always, ‘The daughter of ...’”
It’s a way to wow the crowd. And, Camilla Cleese says, it’s also sometimes a cruel joke. “I still get hazed about it at one club in particular. It’s very deliberate. They introduce me as John Cleese’s daughter. I feel the room turn.” Suddenly the audience is judging.
Another thing Cleese says: “I don’t envy Kelly or Rain.” She’s speaking of Kelly Carlin (daughter of George), Pryor and the shadow under which they live as children of, arguably, the two most iconic standup comedians in history. Camilla has met them — and also Silverstein and Cassidy.
“It is a club in some ways,” Carlin says. “It’s a club when your parents are alive. And it’s another club when your parents are dead and you are the focus.”
Carlin, a storyteller and memoirist, didn’t find her voice until after her father died. In 1999, she wrote a solo show, her first onstage endeavour, about her mother’s death. “I gave my dad the script to read and he said it made him uncomfortable and that he would never stop me, but he would not come to any performances. This completely cut me off at the knees.” She did the show for friends, but cancelled its scheduled six-week run — and then went to graduate school to study Jungian psychology.
After George’s death in 2008, the comedian Lewis Black, who knew about Carlin’s storytelling work, invited her to tell family tales on a cruise ship for which he was booking talent. It worked and she developed the show into a theatrical run and then a book.
“To fully let go of the mantle of being George Carlin’s daughter, I had to walk through the fire of it,” Carlin says.
She says she spent nine years engaging with her dad’s fans “24/7 on social media” and supporting her dad’s legacy. Last year she donated his archives to the National Comedy Center and told fans that she was finished talking about her dad, a request they have largely respected.
She describes playing the role of George’s daughter, during her book’s promotional tour, as a “strange privileged hell.”
Pryor also feels that she plays two roles on stage. “If I mention (my dad) in a show, it triggers this thing ” for fans, she explains. “It encroaches on your process to grieve. It wasn’t just Richard Pryor that died. That was my father. ‘Oh, we get it, we miss him, too.’ No, dude, you’re a fan. I miss my dad.”
But having a famous name can take you only so far. Off stage is a different story. Silverstein says the brashness of his dad’s persona can work in his favour: “I meet people and they’re like, ‘I would’ve thought you were a total d---.’ Because they thought I was going to be, I come off as way nicer.” It’s almost like a joke. “Yeah, my dad is the setup and I’m the punchline.”
It is a club in some ways. It’s a club when your parents are alive. And it’s another club when your parents are dead and you are the focus.