Trump, the Insult Comic Candidate

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/29/opinion/campaign-stops/trump-the-insult-comic-candidate.html

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“Today’s comedian has a cross to bear that he built himself. A comedian of the older generation did an ‘act’ and he told the audience, ‘This is my act.’ Today’s comic is not doing an act. The audience assumes he’s telling the truth.”

That was Lenny Bruce, who died 50 years ago this month, describing a particular problem of comedy — the disconnect between the comic and the crowd — which he identified long ago.

Bruce (nee Schneider) was born in Mineola, Long Island, just a few exits away from Donald J. Trump. The resemblance ends there. For one thing, you could generally tell when Bruce was kidding. It’s become anyone’s guess when Mr. Trump is making a joke.

After he spent a year killing it on the road, Mr. Trump is looking to play bigger venues, but his new national, bipartisan audience doesn’t always get it. The professional term for comedians who aren’t getting the reaction they want is “eating it.” This has happened to Mr. Trump a few times lately and, worse, he’s gotten into the desperate comic’s habit of explaining his jokes.

After Mr. Trump said he hoped Russia would hack Hillary Clinton’s emails, he explained, “It was said in a sarcastic manner, obviously.” Around the same time, after he said he liked the sound of a crying baby at a rally, he clarified: “Actually, I was only kidding, you can get the baby out of here.” After he said President Obama founded the Islamic State, he explained, “Obviously I’m being sarcastic, but not that sarcastic, to be honest with you.”

And after Mr. Trump said “maybe there is” something “Second Amendment people” could do to thwart Mrs. Clinton’s opportunity to appoint Supreme Court justices, he had to explain that he wasn’t joking. Obviously he meant that Second Amendment supporters “have tremendous power because they are so united.” Not because they’re armed with guns.

Obviously.

Is this microphone on?

Mr. Trump’s humor is now too hip for the room. And by “the room,” I mean CNN. The problem isn’t his material; the problem is that his act is so well crafted after a year on the road — and the performer so completely inhabits his persona — that the audience forgets he’s playing a part.

We can’t tell what the punch lines are supposed to be, because we’ve lost the distinction between the artist and the role. It’s as if 40 percent of the country suddenly decided to make William Shatner chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff because he did such a good job fighting the Klingons.

Mr. Trump’s campaign has reached that horrible point that comedians know all too well — when they stop wanting laughs and start wanting respect. Bruce understood that desperation, and he knew that comedians in that condition would do anything — anything — when they start losing the crowd.

That’s why Bruce’s greatest sustained routine, “Comedian at the Palladium,” is key to understanding what is happening to the Trump campaign. It’s also a warning.

In “Palladium,” Bruce acts out the story of Frank Dell, a successful but bitter comedian who’s sick of playing joints in Las Vegas. He wants to play the London Palladium, a “class room,” as he puts it. His manager argues against it, like a hundred Trump brand managers must have told Mr. Trump that birtherism was bad for the tie business. But Dell insists.

He takes the stage in London and bombs. He gets nothing. The house booker tells him to cut his losses and go back home, but Dell won’t hear it. “I got a lot of bits,” he tells the booker. “I didn’t do my spicy blue risqué number yet!” He gets one last chance to redeem himself. Like Mr. Trump when he feuded with the parents of Capt. Humayun Khan, Dell finds himself going onstage after a touching tribute to the British dead in the battle of Dunkirk.

Once again, Dell can’t get a laugh. Finally, desperate to get the English audience on his side after all else has failed, he says, “How about this ... uh ... SCREW IRELAND.”

The crowd loves it. A heckler sitting up in the balcony shouts out, “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said all night, boy. That’s right. SCREW IRELAND!” Then the suddenly agitated audience starts furiously ripping the seats out of the balcony.

Like Mr. Trump’s shouting that he will ban the Muslims and deport the Mexicans, in his last shot at the White House, the classiest room of all, Frank Dell starts something he can’t control. He pleads for calm. “Now take it easy, buster, that’s just a joke, you know,” he says, as the mob destroys the theater.