Review by New York Times Review
Steve Martin documents his evolution as a comic. IN his often engaging new memoir, "Born Standing Up," Steve Martin recalls an encounter in 1967, at a nightclub in Aspen, with his first serious heckler. "See if you think this is funny," the man said, throwing a glass of red wine at him. The incident feels especially shocking because by this point in the book, almost halfway through, the reader is so sympathetic to Martin - the guy slaved for years analyzing comedians on television, studying them in clubs, torturing himself to deliver something radically new, all the while waiting for even the tiniest recognition - that you take the heckler's assault personally. This ability to draw people to his side is one of the reasons Martin became a star, especially in movies: he makes you root for him without ever seeming to ask. In between laughs, there is a sweetness mixed with something wistful that places him just on the outside and makes you do the reaching. That quality is in much of his writing, too, and there are sections of "Born Standing Up" to be savored. Born in Waco, Tex., Martin was the younger child of Mary Lee and Glenn Martin. The family moved to Hollywood in 1950, when Martin was 5, so his father could pursue an acting career. "In our house," Martin writes, "my mother was called Mama, but my father was always called Glenn." You know right off the bat that Glenn is trouble. His show business career never materializes, and he grows increasingly moody and disaffected, bullying his wife, son and daughter, Melinda. Martin got himself out of the house and over to Disneyland, on his bicycle, where at 10 he was hired to sell guidebooks. He also learned magic tricks, juggling and how to play the banjo, becoming a one-man entertainment conglomerate. His account of his years at Disneyland - he worked in its warehouse and magic shop, and haunted its Frontierland theater - is superb, embodying all the excitement and gratification not only of a budding artist who has found an outlet but of a lonely child who has found a home. He details his stations of the performing cross, starting at the Bird Cage Theater at Knott's Berry Farm in 1963, then going on to write for "The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour" and the Sonny and Cher show. Along the way, he plays clubs big and small and tours, tours, tours. Martin's greatest strength is documenting his evolution as a stand-up comic: how he developed his act, what worked, what didn't and why. And he makes you feel the wear of the road. "I learned a lesson," he writes. "It was easy to be great. Every entertainer has a night when everything is clicking. These nights are accidental and statistical: like lucky cards in poker, you can count on them occurring over time. What was hard was to be good, consistently good, night after night, no matter what the abominable circumstances." It isn't until the last 20 pages that Martin puts his finger on the essential element the book is missing: emotional candor. "I admit that I'm a lousy interview," he writes. "My magician's instincts make me reluctant to tell 'em how it's done, whether it's a movie, book, play or any aspect of personal life. Sometimes a journalist will lean in and say, 'You're very private.' And I mentally respond, 'Someone who's private would not be doing an interview on television.'" Someone who's private would not be writing a memoir, either. People who write memoirs have a story to tell about themselves. People who read memoirs are looking for a story in which to find themselves. Martin willingly recounts some of the more hurtful episodes in his relationship with a competitive, often meanspirited father, but offers no context, insight or fallout, as if just telling were enough. After Martin first appeared on "Saturday Night Live," Glenn, who had become a real estate agent, wrote a bad review of him in the newsletter for the Newport Beach Association of Realtors, of which he was president: "His performance did nothing to further his career." Later, he told a newspaper, "I think 'Saturday Night Live' is the most horrible thing on television." Martin writes, "I suppressed anything I felt about his comments because I couldn't let him have power over my work." Um, really? Glenn's self-loathing, jealousy and rage - not to mention lack of talent - helped turn his wildly talented, emotionally wounded son into a world-famous comedian. But Martin can't make that connection. "As my career progressed, I noticed that my father remained uncomplimentary toward my comedy, and what I did about it still makes sense to me: I never discussed my work with him again." I actually interviewed Martin for The New York Times in 1995, and the man does not lie; he was a lousy interview, indeed. But you know what? That was my problem, not his. He chose to reveal what he wanted, and it was up to me to fill in the blanks. This time around that responsibility is his, and he simply refuses to do it. Maybe it's unreasonable to expect that someone who rocketed to fame wearing an arrow through his head is capable of or interested in deep introspection. But after the publication of his novella "Shopgirl," with its devastatingly accurate depictions of depression, rejection and loneliness - and for a female character, no less - well, those expectations from Martin as a writer are not only reasonable, but mandatory. As any comedian knows: "When you slip on a banana peel, it's comedy. When I slip on a banana peel, it's tragedy." In between those two extremes lies the expression of all the fear, hope, joy, desperation, enlightenment and heartache of living with people who are supposed to love you. More, please. Alex Witchel is a staff writer at The Times Magazine. Her second novel, "The Spare Wife," will be published in February.
Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Martin recounts his tense childhood, his desire to become a magician and his segue into standup comedy in his surprisingly serious and eloquently written memoir. Martin's memories are perceptive and emotionally honest even though he confesses early on that while writing this book, he felt some events in his life "seemed to happen to someone else and I often felt like a curious onlooker." Martin's writing is spare, concise and evocative, and he's a smooth and limber reader, an assured and relaxed, seasoned raconteur. Martin runs through some of his classic comedy routines to give listeners an idea of how they developed into his "anti-comedy" sets (humor without punch lines). "Enjoyment while performing was rare," he reveals. "Enjoyment would have been an indulgent loss of focus that comedy cannot afford." After 18 years of studying, refining and finally succeeding, Martin ends the book when he gives up the solitary standup life in favor of a collaborative life making films. Martin also provides the banjo music that plays between chapters. Simultaneous release with the Scribner hardcover (reviewed online). (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review
Martin gets serious with this account of his career in stand-up comedy, which meant endless gigs and the inevitable loneliness. With a three-city tour. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
