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No one knows for sure. And per this quick-splice, vignette style biography starring Jim Carrey in the title role and directed by Milos Forman (One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Amadeus), even his closest confederates weren't quite certain if their comedian friend was for real. Maybe he was just having a bit of sport with the world in general. That's the prevailing theory, and it's precisely the mind-boggling enigma at the heart of Kaufman's, ahem, charm.
Tapping into the weird star's complicated lunacy, hopping aboard the Andy Kaufman wavelength the way a skilled cowboy would mount a bronco, Jim Carrey continues to ride the sensational crest he scaled in The Truman Show. And although the characterisation never makes any actual sense of the oddball performer who tragically died of lung cancer at the age of 35, Carrey does conjure a uniquely intriguing if not completely sympathetic portrait of Andy Kaufman.
Problem is, much of the comedian's reckless traipse through show biz and the consequences that follow prove discomforting. Viewers who become disappointed when a great Hollywood revelation doesn't assuage the uneasy divulgences of Kaufman's freakish career are bound to blame the film instead of Andy.
But director Forman is to be commended for avoiding the clichéd stencil that usually identifies biopics; the fact-bending embellishment is minimal. He opts instead for a candid, semi-documentary treatment. While lacking the sort of abstract sensibilities that might have propelled Man on the Moon to greater artistic heights, it does establish an aura of integrity, if not one of complete entertainment.
Danny DeVito (The War Of The Roses) as Andy's put-upon manager, George Shapiro, again plays breathless witness to the human disaster. He establishes a sincerely engaging objectivity, credibly telling the tale of this most incredible client. Paul Giamatti shares the recounting duties in a solid stint as Bob Zmuda, Andy's best friend, writer and co-conspirator who penned the book upon which the screenwriters based their work.
When first we meet the Long Island adolescent who will one day portray the endearing Latke Gravas on the sitcom Taxi, he has his well-to-do parents a little worried. Playing to the wallpaper in his bedroom, where he imagines TV cameras are imbedded, little Andy puts on his own children's variety shows. He hones a cast of imaginary characters who will follow him to adulthood and, eventually, fame. The act, an eccentric paean to arrested development, will change little over the years. The same can be said of the little boy.
Dad (Gerry Becker) apparently hasn't read his Dr. Spock. He berates his son for the fantasy, instructing him to perform only before an audience. The child quickly obliges, finding a willing patron in his younger sister. But it's obviously too late. Andy's parents have been ferrying him to a psychiatrist since he was four years old. Was it necessary? The script by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski fails to relate if Master Kaufman's early pathology contained any shrink-worthy sins beyond his bedroom broadcasts.
Flash forward and the determined young entertainer has grown up, physically at least, to be the enfant terrible of the comedy world. Oops. Scratch that. He angrily declares that he isn't a comedian: "I don't even know what a joke is." He also resents being called an actor, and only begrudgingly signs to do Taxi with the caveat that his alter ego, hard-living lounge singer Tony Clifton, is given four guests shots on the show. Director Forman whimsically recreates a kaleidoscope of scenes from the sitcom, neatly utilising the original cast.
Andy manages to ingratiate himself among those who simply see him as a wide-eyed innocent. But those who look beyond the "foreign man" character who becomes Latke soon recognise the aggravating, indignant wisenheimer. Artistic temperament? Perhaps. But if he is neither comic nor actor, exactly what art is it that he's being temperamental about?
A practical joker in search of a punch line as well as an inveterate wrestler of women, his bizarre descent into the world of professional wrestling is humorously chronicled. It can best be described as flabbergasting. This includes a rather disturbing series of preposterous confrontations with Southern champion Jerry Lawler, who plays himself. And as the story goes, it is in the ring that he first meets and defeats girlfriend-to-be, Lynne Margulies, realised by Courtney Love. Miss Love is touching as the woman who supposedly understands him. Too bad she never shares the secret.
Meanwhile, Tony Clifton, Andy's adult answer to an imaginary friend (as well as enemy), joins in the fray. Whereas Andy is an imbiber of health foods and a firm devotee of transcendental meditation, the hard-drinking lounge lizard is more apt to wash a greasy hamburger down with a few shots of whiskey. While all of these occurrences might have seemed odd and curious if not necessarily funny when Kaufman first began to abash the public, Man on the Moon as a behind-the-scenes retrospective highlights how very creepy -- in fact, almost sinister -- some of this stuff really was.
Mr. Carrey's superb sketch of the disquieting performer perceives Kaufman as a Pagliacci transposed, crying on the outside, but laughing on the inside; and ever so keen to get a rise out of whosoever falls for one of his ruses. The hubristic attitude eventually threatens his career. Cherubic, but quick to snarl with no apparent provocation, even the cockeyed ambiguity that fires up his dark side is inconsistent. He's the confounding sort of guy who insults his adoring fans one day (How dare they expect him to be funny?), and then on another occasion invites an entire concert audience to partake of milk and cookies. Which leads us to the $64 question: Is this originality posing as madness, or vice versa?
More than likely, it's a strange combination of both -- the case of an uncertain talent frustrated by his lack of direction and structure. Like trumpet player Rick (Kirk Douglas) in Young Man With a Horn, who fantasises that finding that elusive high note will earn him an identity, Mr. Kaufman is the naughty brat who seeks to perpetrate the ultimate, attention-getting deception. The more embarrassing for his victims, the better.
You see, despite his protestations to the contrary, Andy knew what shtick was. And he plied it well. So well, in fact, that when he died, his closest associates figured it was just another prank. Legend has it that his TV wife, Carol Kane, touched the corpse just to be sure. It's a curious comment on a man's life (especially a comedian) usually reserved for the likes of Rasputin, Svengali or Houdini. But then Andy Kaufman was certainly way out. Much farther out than the moon.
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