Robert De Niro’s collaborations with Martin Scorsese from Mean Streets through The King of Comedy were responsible for some of the most unwavering and distressing examinations of toxic masculinity in the American cinema of the 1970s and early ‘80s this side of John Cassavetes. But each film and performance plays like a very distinct variation on, rather than a repetition of, a theme, viewing De Niro’s hyper-confident and fiercely determined distillations of the male id through the lens of different genres, eras and social environments, reflecting and revealing different qualities and failings about them as if examining a diamond as it turns in the light.
In New York, New York and Raging Bull, De Niro’s characters are defined by their unquenchable propensity for violence (emotional in the former, physical in the latter), but they were also incredibly skilled at their chosen professions. And, in fact, it’s their pure talent, in music and boxing respectively, that draws others toward them, making their inevitably self-inflicted implosions all the more damaging and tragic. Where those two films form a fascinating pair in that both explore a similar character type, but in genres as disparate as the musical and sports film, so do Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, which play almost as photo negatives of one another.
Both of De Niro’s antisocial misfits, Travis Bickle and Rupert Pupkin, grow increasingly dangerous and deranged throughout their respective films, but in filtering their delirium through very different tones, Scorsese finds different avenues for exploring the darkness that lurks in the soul of certain men who demand recognition and success yet are thwarted at every turn. He also presents two distinct visions of New York City—one, scummy, treacherous and wholly amoral, the other, full of bright lights and big stars, and brimming with creative potential and showbiz bravura—and exposes the trappings of a media landscape that, on one end, rewards vigilantism with attention and, on the other, serves as a conduit for the aspirations of ineffectual dreamers.
Like Travis, Rupert sees himself as relatively harmless and as merely wishing to connect with his fellow humans like ordinary people do. Of course, both men are so disconnected from the norms and boundaries of social interactions that they don’t sense anything strange about their huge, often sudden, escalations in their familiarity with others, whether it’s Travis taking Betsy out to porno movie for a first date or Rupert truly believing he’s instantly become close friends with famous talk show host Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis) after scheming his way into his limo and talking to him for a few minutes. What defines these characters is their complete inability to see how intrusive and pestering their behavior is, especially toward those whom they constantly try to ingratiate themselves to. They are imprisoned by their own tunnel vision.
And yet, where Travis’ escalating behavior is terrifying because we’re privy to his dark inner monologues and eventual assembling of a small arsenal of weapons, Rupert remains something of a clown even when he goes so far as kidnapping Jerry to get a spot on his show. With every rejection, of which there are countless throughout the film, Rupert remains unflappably optimistic of his prospects, refusing to believe he’s not late-night material unless it comes straight from the mouth of his idol. There’s an unhinged quality to his refusal to accept “no” for an answer, be it from a secretary, Jerry’s assistant, the late show’s producer and eventually, even Jerry himself, and it’s especially pronounced given he has no stand-up or media experience to back up his claims of greatness. He’s only made rough tape recordings in the confines of his mother’s basement, which he’s decorated as a poor man’s late-night stage, complete with cut-outs of Jerry, a studio audience and, in an amusing nod to New York, New York, Liza Minnelli.
What makes The King of Comedy so effective and illuminating as a character piece is the sly, and very funny, way that Scorsese introduces us to Rupert’s fantasy world. Scenes of him delivering a monologue in front of that giant cut-out audience or an imagined conversation where Jerry is begging him to take over his show for an extended period get right to the heart of Rupert’s delusions and are presented with a slightly surrealist bend that gives them an off-kilter quality that is both queasy and humorous. He’s so focused on the end goal that he never considers the many steps up the ladder he’d need to take to get there. Scorsese and screenwriter Paul D. Zimmerman mine this excessive lack of self-awareness for considerable humor as Rupert awkwardly moves about the entertainment world with all the confidence and earned privileges of a true star, but little of the actual talent.
As hilarious as De Niro is in this role, it’s his symbiotic interactions with the deadpanned Jerry Lewis, in a brilliant role playing against type, and Sandra Bernhard, as Jerry’s lascivious stalker, Masha, that make for the most comedic gold. Lewis plays the straight man to a T, serving as the frustrated foil of the manic Rupert just as Dean Martin did for him for years several decades earlier. Meanwhile, Bernhard’s desperation and frustration serves the same purpose for Rupert, leaving him annoyed and flustered by her constant nagging.
As a duo, working together to keep Jerry captive, Rupert and Masha are a neurotic force whose sheer incompetence leaves Jerry stupefied. Lewis shrewdly stays relatively quiet and observant, the rising contempt registering in his eyes yet only occasionally is released like a geyser blowing once there’s too much pressure. His reserved performance makes De Niro and Bernhard’s almost slapstick routine all the more hysterical as it adds a sense of realism into a scenario that grows increasingly absurd.
If The King of Comedy ends on a similar note as Taxi Driver, with De Niro’s character’s misdeeds ingratiating him to the public, it is an even more full-throated and ironic condemnation of the media landscape. Where Travis’ public celebrity, if it’s even real and not imagined, would only grant him his 15 minutes of fame, Rupert ultimately gets to live out his delusions in front of a live studio audience. For as hilarious as most of the film is, the ending presents a genuinely frightening bit of satire.
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