Martin Scorsese

The King of Comedy

The Departed

Hi, hello, how are you, dear reader? A few weeks ago I once again explored the filmography of one of my favorite directors, Sofia Coppola, and I figured it was high time that I paid my respects to another influential and legendary Italian-American director: Martin Scorsese. Just as I avoided silent films, noir, anime, and giallo films, I’ve avoided writing about the work of Martin Scorsese because, as a passive underpaid film critic and feminist scholar, I am a bit intimidated by his loyal fans and his highly-impactful reputation. Where does one even begin with talking about Martin Scorsese? How does one concisely sum up a 60+ year career spent curating some of the most beloved American bro cinema and some of the most legitimate cultural cachet to ever exist? Well, for starters, he’s a Scorpio (just missed his November 17th bday) who was raised in Manhattan’s Little Italy by his mother and father, who both worked in the Garment District. He grew up extremely Catholic and, due to severe asthma as a child, spent most of his time at the movie theater. Much like Pedro Almodóvar, Scorsese planned to become a priest, but after he failed the first year of seminary school he defaulted to his true passion: cinema. Scorsese studied filmmaking at NYU Tisch and worked as a gaffer for Albert and David Maysles (the directors of Grey Gardens) and would also begin working with lifelong collaborators like editor Thelma Schoonmaker and actor Harvey Keitel, who would assist in his first major motion picture: Mean Streets. Scorsese’s star would only keep rising and his circles would only get more impressive, as he joined the movie brat pack that included the likes of Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Brian De Palma, and Francis Ford Coppola. He would also link up with other prestigious filmmakers like John Cassavettes, who became a prominent mentor of Scorsese’s, and Roger Corman—who championed Scorsese and taught him that great films could be made on tight budgets. Scorsese would make several thought-provoking and diverse films, from Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore to the iconic concert documentary The Last Waltz, but what really put him on the map was his project with writer Paul Schrader: Taxi Driver. Taxi Driver would cement Scorsese’s status as an edgy, confrontational filmmaker who can easily churn out stories of machismo, ill-gotten power, and religious guilt, and he would continue to prove this with Raging Bull, The Color of Money, Goodfellas, Casino, Bringing Out the Dead, Gangs of New York, and too many more to count and recount. After a few flops Scorsese fell into a deep depression and addiction, but Raging Bull, and specifically the lead Robert De Niro, pulled Scorsese out of his cocaine addiction and put him back behind the camera. I’m not completely opposed to black-and-white movies about boxers that seem mildly-to-extremely depressing, but I was far more curious to watch the film that Scorsese and De Niro made directly after Raging Bull, the underrated and (at the time) misunderstood satirical classic: The King of Comedy. The King of Comedy is a far departure from the serious, action-y, bro-down stories Scorsese typically chooses to tell, and instead presents us with a hilariously dark farce that, by today’s standards, could be considered downright wholesome. The film introduces us to real comedian Jerry Lewis, who is playing a Johnny Carson-type late-night host named Jerry Langford. As Jerry finishes up a show and exits the stage door to get to his car, he is bombarded with a swarm of grabby fans and autograph hound—like an impeccably-crazed Sandra Bernhard who jumps into the car with Jerry—and our main character, Rupert Pupkin (De Niro), who saves Jerry from her. It is complete and utter pandemonium outside of his car, so much so that Jerry doesn’t even bother fighting with Rupert, who is now riding with him. Rupert dreams of being a great stand-up comedian like the ones Jerry features on his shows. Once a comedian makes it to a late-night show like Jerry’s, there’s no stopping their career from taking off, and Rupert deems himself more than worthy of this honor and this task. Jerry, exhausted and annoyed, finally makes it back to his apartment and leaves Rupert outside—assuring him that if he call his office, someone will be in touch with him. Rupert is beaming with joy and gratitude, and we see him shortly after this evening, having lunch with Jerry as he is praised mercilessly for his sharp wit. Except, Rupert never actually gets lunch with Jerry, he just goes back to his mom’s house, to his room in the basement, where he talks to and congratulates himself, as he sits side by side with cardboard cutouts of Jerry and his once-guest Liza Minnelli. Rupert is not just delusional about his aspirations of comedy, he is so driven by his ego that he will stop at nothing to get what he desires. He sits in the waiting room of Jerry’s office and waits there, hour after hour, day after day. Even when he runs into an old friend from high school (Diahnne Abbott) who offers him kindness and a seat at her bar, he is dead-focused on making it onto Jerry’s show. Eventually, with the help of kooky Sandra Bernhard, Rupert hatches a plan to kidnap Jerry, and make his way into that late-night stand-up spot once and for all. Robert De Niro is relentlessly funny and terrifying, in a way I’d never before experienced. This character is such a specific kind of deranged who can mimic empathy and humanity and general social niceties, but at his core he is only concerned with his lofty, outrageous dreams. I’ve been raised on tough-guy De Niro films so I’d never quite seen this man as anything other than “you talkin’ to me?”, but he is so perfectly, uncomfortably funny and unhinged in this film—I was astounded. I always knew Sandra Bernhard as the character actress queen of cameos, but here she is a fully-realized, fully-wackadoo character that I found to be endlessly entertaining and irresistibly hilarious. I can understand how the twisted sense of humor and bonkers premise in The King of Comedy was maybe too much for audiences in 1982, but watching it in 2023, it felt positively quaint. A crazed wannabe comedian holding a successful comedian hostage? Not only does that seem tame in this day and age, but I could very well see one of these new flew-too-close-to-the-sun comedians of the Netlfix/TikTok era doing this very thing—with less funny results (I’m lookin’ at you, Matt Rife.) I won’t even get into this film’s influence upon the movie Joker, because if I’m being honest, it just seems like straight-up plagiarism on Todd Phillips’ part, but you can see hints of The King of Comedy in countless pieces of other media. I watched an old breakdown of this film and its takeaways from Siskel and Ebert, and Siskel didn’t really see the entertainment value in a film that is “so cold and so cynical”. But as strange and eerie as The King of Comedy is, I would’ve loved to have known his take on the next Scorsese feature that I watched, the very cold and very cynical Best Picture Winner of 2006: The Departed. The Departed is one film that marks a shift between Scorsese’s muses—from De Niro to DiCaprio—and it’s a shining example of this filmmaker’s developed sense of style, proclivity for mob stories, and insistence that his films be a minimum of two and a half hours. [This is not my favorite DiCaprio/Scorsese affair, that would be The Wolf of Wall Street, which is the only other Scorsese film to have made an appearance on this blog thus far.] The Departed is one of the most beloved bro cinematic masterpieces of all of Scorsese’s filmography, and of all film in general—ask any film bro in your life, if it’s not Pulp Fiction or Fight Club or Inception, it is The Departed. Like most Scorsese affairs, it features a bevy of bros going through crises that are both physically-dangerous and existentially-dreadful, depicted by an insanely stacked cast of Leo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, Martin Sheen, Anthony Anderson, Kevin Corrigan, Alec Baldwin, Vera Farmiga, and Jack Nicholson. Jack Nicholson is Costello, the boss of the large South Boston Irish crime syndicate, and he does basically whatever he wants, as he explains in a voiceover while The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” plays in the background. We’re then introduced to two young men—Colin (Damon) and Billy (DiCaprio)—who are both loosely connected to the mob, but experience vastly different trajectories. Colin works for Costello from a very young age, and is groomed to be a spy as he makes his way through the Boston police academy—eventually becoming a Sargeant. Billy, on the other hand, has mob blood but wishes to be a cop. When it’s discovered that rookie Billy has ties to this old Irish mob family, Detectives Queenan (Sheen) and Dignam (Wahlberg) scoop him up and task him with going deep undercover to infiltrate Costello’s crew, and find who the mole is inside the Boston State Police department. My problem with mafia stories is often my problem with Jane Austen stories—too many names to remember. I was able to follow The Departed with some ease, but as more characters were introduced, more rats were suspected, and new dynamics came into play, what I found myself losing was interest. I made my way through, however, enduring varying levels of tough-guy Bostonian accents and encountering one nondescript macho mobster after another. And as entertaining as it was to hear Vera Farmiga with a Boston accent and as jarring as it was to hear both Damon and DiCaprio say the F-slur, I wish I’d been as mind-blown by the end of this film as I’d sensed that I was supposed to. The most intriguing thematic aspect of The Departed was also the most obvious one—the fact that the cops and the mobsters are corrupt, the idea that either side will do whatever ruthless, inhumane thing is necessary to achieve the desired result. And this sentiment is worthy of sharing and exploring, I’ve just seen it done so many other times, in television like The Sopranos and in films that I cannot share without completely spoiling them. The Departed is absolutely compelling and this kept me curious, but I can’t say that I was more satisfied by this film’s resolution than I was by The King of Comedy’s. What I appreciated about this film were its surprising discussions of philosophy and psychology, but what I didn’t appreciate was how dull and dreary all of the blue-and-black suited men made me feel as they trudged their way through their very stressful and depressing existences. I can’t say that I blame the film bros for loving The Departed, not only because it’s a decent film, but because who among us can resist the cinematic jingly keys of Leo DiCaprio holding a gun? Well, I could, actually, but that doesn’t make me any better than the average Scorsese scholar. My biggest question throughout the entirety of The Departed’s web untangling was where the hell was Boston icon Ben Affleck? The world may never know why the Duke of Dunkin’ Donuts didn’t at least make a cameo in this film but one thing I do know for sure, is that I have many many many MANY more Scorsese films to watch—it’s just a matter of narrowing them down. Thanks for reading along this week, dear reader. Ciao for now!