Cinematical

The great thing about the Classical Hollywood narrative is that it basically follows the structure of the male orgasm: it's all build, build, build; spectacular release; and then usually a little bit of tidying up before anybody goes home. This is the way most jokes are structured, too, except instead of the clean-up period after the punchline/release, if all goes well the audience laughs - essentially confirming that they're coming, too. The Aristocrats is a film about the process of telling a joke that doesn't work that way at all, and as such, it seems petty to complain that it functions less like a movie than like the blooper reel from the dirtiest sitcom you've never seen.

But when did I ever claim to be above a little bit of pettiness?

The joke itself, by now, as we crest towards the movie's half-life, is old news. A guy walks into a talent agency and says to the manager, "Boy, have I got an act for you!" Then the comedian proceedes to describe the filthiest stage show imaginable. The there are no rules to telling this middle section, except that you've got to use family members of several different generations, and if at all possible, you've got to throw in a housepet. The idea is to drag it out as long as possible, and make it as dirty as possible (common themes are siamese twin mutual masturbation, projectile fecal matter, incest of all stripes) until you can't possibly go on any longer. The final piece of bread on this sandwich? You round it off by having the manager say to the client, "Good lord, that's the sickest thing I've ever heard! Whaddya call it?" The client answers: "The Aristocrats!" If you're Drew Carey, you then punctuate the punchline that doesn't punch itself with a festive fingersnap.

No, you're right - that's not even a punchline, and it's not even much of a joke. Penn Jillette and Paul Provenza, the producer and director of The Aristocrats, are fully aware of both defects. This joke was chosen not because it's incredibly well crafted or inherently hilarious, but precisely because it's not - it creates a forum to capture and explore the art of comic improvisation. The filmmakers fetishize the joke nonetheless, giving it a huge buildup before letting Jay Marshall, a gentle old man with a not-quite charmingly inoffensive take, finally follow through with it. Cue five or six defensive comedians - "No, it's a terrible joke - it's all in the telling..." Nay, lil' Hamlet - the play's *not* the thing, but make it dirty enough, and it'll certainly catch the conscience of the king.

When considered on it's own terms -- that text means nothing next to style; that narrative needn't amount to more than a series of escalating explosions; that anti-climax is, in a way, it's own kind of acheivement -- The Aristocrats is something of a marvel, and it raises interesting questions. Not necessarily about the art of comedy, but about the nature of comedians, both as a group and individually, as very specific kinds of stars.

What *does* it say about comedians - a group that, if this sample of 100 is any indication, are overwhelmingly white, male, middle-aged and straight - that their "secret handshake" is essentially an act of linguistic shit smearing? It wouldn't be off the mark to suggest that this is a hugely masturbatory (pun intended) effort by a bunch of middle-aged white guys, repressed and regressive, struck so giddy by privilege that they've actually invented a schema by which to grade recitations of incest en masse. But it would also be impossible (and needlessly cranky) to suggest that their enthusiasm isn't infectious.  Put it this way: the climate of this film is such that Chris Rock is reduced to stone-faced sobriety, and Jon Stewart's Daily Show arrogance plays like party-pooperism.

But just one more formal gripe before I leave the boys to wow you with their dick and poop mobius reel: it's said in the film by several comics that The Aristocrats is a joke that comics tell other comics, in allegedly down and dirty late-night sessions at bars and coffee shops. Part of the sheer point of its telling, in these situations, is to top the other guy. This would seem to put a kind of primacy on hearing any individual telling of the joke in its entirety, sandwiched by other tellings, in somekind of real-world situation, in order to maintain the urgency of outdoing the last guy. But by whacking each rendition into little pieces, and splicing these fragments into a dense casserole of interview testimony, The Aristocrats completely divorces the joke, and the efforts of all 100 comedians, from that context. "I didn't realise the bill I was on," says Paul Reiser, and that's exactly the problem. If this whole endeavor is about determining stratification through battle -- and there's no way to deny that when Gilbert Gottfried whips it out at a Friar's Club roast and brings hacks like Jimmy Kimmel and Rob Schneider to their knees -- to allow each comedian to go through the motions without the benefit of challenging or being challenged seems to strip the whole practice of its fundamental causal meat. Like the joke itself, it's a film in which before-and-after is nothing if not an afterthought. The Aristocrats, as it stands, feels less like a movie than amorphous art. But to paraphrase the one guy who doesn't pop up - not that there's anything wrong with that.