She Can Talk

For some, Joan Rivers and her humor are acquired tastes. I, however, have always thought she was brilliant. Not on those red carpet shows with the constant "who are you wearing?" questions. Nope, to truly appreciate Ms. Rivers, you need to see her do stand-up---the traditional 45-60 minute act. Only then do you really get to the heart of her comedy.

I've seen her in person several times. Ages and ages ago, I got to watch her perform on one of my very first trips to Los Angeles. In a small night club buried in the old Century City office complex. You knew we were going to be her test market for new material when she plunked a cassette recorder down on the piano. That night, Joan, as an actress-comic friend of mine would say, "killed." We did not stop laughing for an hour. The pace of jokes was relentless and left us breathless. A short while later, I got to sample her anew when she was amazingly the opening act for Don Rickles (whom I will get to revisit in Anaheim shortly) at the Westbury Music Fair. All over again, I was gasping for air. I remember one barrage of one-liners that was probably one of my funniest ten minutes on earth.

Joan's career was torrid in the 80s, but, of course, even white hot coal eventually cools. She found herself less relevant and wound up on some red carpet at the Golden Globes chasing down Tony Danza. Or holding court with her jewelry line on QVC and making a mint from those Midwestern yokel women who simply adorn the glittery caress of cubic zirconium. As did most of the public, I lost track of Joan Rivers.

About a year ago, I was on the TV channel surfboard and came across a very recently taped performance of Joan's stand-up on one of those obscure cable networks. I settled in and so did she. As if I was being reunited with an old relative, I sat for the next hour all by myself and let her draw me in. And I laughed again. Long and hard. That evening, Joan told the first "World Trade Center and 9/11" jokes I had ever heard and, ever so skillfully, she made them work. Thoughts and dark humor that probably were rooting around in all our minds, but, as yet, never uttered. Joan managed to pull them off. And, in my mind, she was as hilarious as she was 20 years ago.

And, so, I was a naturally willing recipient when I got Christmas-gifted by "Djinn From The Bronx" with tickets to Ms. Rivers' new show at the Geffen Playhouse last Friday night. And there was quite the crowd to welcome her. Every Beverly Hills Jew over the age of 70. Every West Hollywood gay guy between the ages of 30 and 50. Doris Roberts in the row behind me. And us.

The production itself is a hybrid. Part stand-up, part autobiographical, and part sitcom.

We could have done without the last part.

I'm not quite sure why Joan that this show needed a plot or extra characters. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe, given her age of 74, she thought she needed some moments to go offstage and rest for a bit. Nevertheless, the production was 66% fabulous and 34% blah.

Don't get me wrong. When it worked, it was flawless. When Joan fell into her stand-up routine, her timing was impeccable. The gags worked. Her delivery was pure Koufax. When it was time to be funny, Joan certainly was, lampooning everything from her own plastic surgery to the Olsen twins to Suzanne Somers. Indeed, since she has essentially become her own joke, our fourth row seats gave us a damn good glimpse at some of the worst plastic surgery this side of Cedars-Sinai. Her whole face looks as if it is entirely artificial and was manufactured by one of those Japanese toy companies. I would not be surprised if Joan's head is eventually recalled for containing traces of lead. But, I digress...

Joan uses the stand-up moments to morph seamlessly into some really serious self-reflections. You get the funny and the sad behind the funny. Truly, the comic and tragic masks of old. Joan sits down (at one point, on the floor, from which she has trouble getting up) and straight-talks us all. About her childhood, her rise to stardom, her descent from the very same galaxy, her husband Edgar's suicide which might be a direct by-product of the failure of her Fox talk show. She tells us about how life changed post-Edgar. Her estrangement from daughter Melissa, who, by the way, is now sporting the same Earl Scheib facial treatments. She revisits her public feud with mentor Johnny Carson---a disagreement now eternally unresolved. She may be hiding the wrinkles with beaucoup Botox, but she lets us see and hear all the blemishes from within.

Yet, all of the above gets more than a little upended when the show's authors (including Ms. Rivers) feel the need to bring in some inane characters and a threadbare plot that would make an episode of "Full House" seem like Noel Coward. There is some slop about a ruined dress and the need to find a new one in time for a red carpet affair. It is all a waste and a TiVo-trained audience was looking under their seats for the "fast forward" button. We wanted to get back to the funny. And the not-so-funny.

It's a shame that Joan thought her career and her life were not enough to entertain and enlighten us in totality. Perhaps, that's just one more mark of the neurosis of celebrity. Joan didn't need to try that hard.

As far as I'm concerned, she can always talk. And we can always listen.

Dinner last night: Hamburger and vegetables.