At first glance, Steve Martin’s an unusual candidate for membership of the traumatised outsider/bullied-at-school Comedian’s Guild. He’s not Jewish, black, gay – hell, he’s not even that funny-looking (the slightly premature greying barely counts). And then there’s the name – Steve Martin, as if one bland first name wasn’t enough. But within twenty pages of “Born Standing Up”, his memoirs of his years as a live performer, any doubts about his psychological qualifications for Club Comedy are brusquely kicked off-stage: a terrifyingly dominant and volatile father who barely spoke to him; an early heart murmur which prompted a lifelong battle with extreme hypochondria; panic attacks which plagued him for two decades and included a phobia of night-time (quite a drawback, one would have thought, for a would-be stand-up). This guy was born to be a comedian.

Steve Martin began gigging in the ‘60s, not a decade usually associated with comedy. Flower children dabbling with drugs and making love not war do not a good comedy audience make. There were no dedicated comedy clubs and Martin had to try out his act in folk clubs or, on one occasion, a drive-in movie theatre where the cars were hooked up to the sound system through window speakers and the patrons honked if they found a joke funny. His first influences were old vaudeville acts (“I’m in the dark side of the cattle business.” “Do you rustle?” “Only when I wear taffeta shorts”), but slowly he sculpted his act into something completely ground-breaking and modern, the missing link between ‘50s vaudeville and alternative comedy.

What’s unusual about the book is the detail with which it charts this journey, like some manual for students of comedy: his fanatical pursuit of “originality” and “precision”, where every second, every gesture mattered; his conscious decision to be avant garde, to abandon the punchline, experiment, take risks (before he became stadium-big he would end his shows by taking the audience out onto the street and seeing where the comedy took him, marching them into MacDonalds or into another act’s show). His approach is obsessive. Even as a 15 year old starting out, he’d keep a diary recording how every joke had gone over (“Excellent!”, “Big Laugh”, “Quiet”) and suggesting improvements for the next gig. Every second was analysed, dissected, taped, played back in the quest for the Perfect Comedy Moment. To borrow from philosophy (his other big love), there’s a Nietzschean drive and compulsion to it all, a sort of unstoppable Will-to-Funniness.

The danger is nothing is quite as dull as a comedian talking about comedy (I should know. I am one). And there are certainly times when he makes you want to shout “lighten up, dude!” But it’s this very earnestness and almost masochistic self-analysis which makes the book so fascinating. When success finally came, it was massive and frightening.  He found himself cursed with the comedy equivalent of the midas touch, unable to say “hello” or “what time does the movie start?” without people falling about laughing. He fell into depression and after one particular panic attack had to be taken to hospital. As he lay on the trolley terrified that he was dying, a nurse asked him to autograph the printout of his erratic heartbeat. Celebrity noblesse oblige. He signed.

His mother had no such problems with his success, telling him at one point to get out of the car so she could watch the people staring at him as he walked down the street. He’s incredibly moving about her death and the death of his father, and you suspect that ultimately the book’s raison d’etre is to justify his career choice to them, especially to his estate agent dad whose response to his son’s breakthrough performance on Saturday Night Live was to write a damning review in the local real estate newsletter. It’s as if his whole career, that manic, obsessive toiling for perfection, was merely an attempt to get his dad to say “I love you” (which he finally does, if only in an awkward whisper). And that’s something anyone can relate to, not just students of comedy.

This review first appeared in The Sunday Times.

Book Review: Steve Martin’s “Born Standing Up” is a post from: David Schneider's website

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If that is the case, then Kevin’s doing a brilliant job. In Defense of Lost Causes is typical Zizek: exhilarating, inspiring, thought-provoking and sometimes very, very hard. Zizek is a Lacanian-Hegelian (who isn’t nowadays? It’s the new black), constantly drawing on Lacan’s reworking of Freud and his own reworking of Hegel’s 19^th century idealist philosophy as he whips pin-ball style from subject to subject, from Kierkegaard to Borat, from Althusser to internet masturbatathons. Chapter headings like “The Crisis of Determinate Negation” and “Unbehagen in der Natur” (surely a mid-90s German rock band?) don’t exactly conjure up a relaxed deckchair read as the kids paddle in the paddling pool, but what makes the difficult bits worthwhile is the sheer verve and passion of Zizek’s argument. That, and the fact that he scatters so much original thought and mischievous wit as a by-product of his headlong big-brained narrative that you’re conversationally guaranteed – as a particularly competitive friend of mine would put it – to “win” any dinner party. I’m definitely looking forward to extra aubergine polenta for my Zizekian thesis that “Schindler’s List” is just “Jurassic Park” with the Nazis as the dinosaurs, or for my darkly humourous account of the paradox of contemporary China, where no-one can be sure when they’re violating a state secret because what constitutes a state secret is, well, a state secret.

In Defense of Lost Causes asks whether it’s still possible to believe in any Big Ideas (Marx, Freud, the rest of the gang) in this postmodern age where the concept of objective truth has been so thoroughly discredited. More specifically for Zizek, a committed thinker of the Left, does the Marxist Big Idea still have any relevance now that global capitalism seems to enjoy near total dominance? Zizek’s answer to both is an emphatic, post-postmodern (if you’ll forgive the term) yes. To prove his point he sets about defending what some of his detractors (the post-post-postmodernists?) would brand “lost causes”. And when he says “lost causes”, he means lost causes –Robespierre, Stalin, Mao, the philosopher Heidegger who passionately supported Hitler. This is certainly not History’s squeaky clean Boy Band. But that’s exactly what interests Zizek: OK, maybe it wasn’t so good of Heidegger to say that the Fuhrer-state is the perfect actualisation of the people or that the Holocaust is simply another example of the agricultural exploitation of nature (producing corpses rather than wheat). But he should be celebrated for taking the right step (a revolutionary one), albeit in the wrong direction.

What’s more, Zizek continues, the problem with Hitler was that he wasn’t violent or radical enough (probably best not to try and win a dinner party with this one). He misplaced his violence onto the Jews rather than destroying the capitalist system itself. In the end, when it came to real change, Hitler, like Mao and Stalin and Robespierre, bottled it.

Zizek’s keen to point out (understandably) that his aim is not to defend Hitler or Stalin but to step outside the dominant liberal-democratic interpretation of history so as to better understand the task that faces the Left today. The great revolutions may have failed but that shouldn’t discourage us. In Beckett’s words, we must “try again. Fail again. Fail better”. In this way the past can be redeemed. As Zhou Enlai said in 1953 when asked what he thought of the French Revolution  (and this one is definitely suitable for dinner parties): “it is still too early to tell”.

Zizek is fantastically withering about the “postmodern” Left such as Simon Critchley, whom he lampoons for his self-professed status as a “critical, secular, well-dressed, metrosexual post-Kantian” (there’s a lot of them about). Zizek savages them for accepting the capitalist hegemony and confining themselves to sniping at the state from the margins, even counting amongst their heroes of resistance to the state – Lenin protect us – Princess Di. Zizek’s solution is far more radical. He mounts a rousing defence of the dictatorship of the proletariat (remember that one?), seeing in the massively swelling populations of the ghettos, shanty towns and slums a new worldwide proletariat-in-waiting. He calls on us to put aside our fears – of global warming, of biotechnology, of Islamic fundamentalism (which he sees as a symptom, an intrinsic part of its apparent opposite, liberal democracy). Instead we must act, reinventing what he terms “egalitarian terror” to combat the global challenges we face. Egalitarian in that all are treated equally (on global warming, for instance, every person in every country in the world would have exactly the same carbon allowance), but Terror in that those who transgress (polluters, for instance) would be ruthlessly punished for the greater good. He even supports the philosopher Alain Badiou’s championing of informers (were those who blew the whistle on Enron not rightly lauded in the press?).

It may seem like a challenge to terminal liberals like me who feel a revolutionary act is to occasionally put on the soundtrack from “Les Miz”. But there’s something very inspiring about his radical post-postmodern engagement and the passion and energy of his argument. At last! Someone who believes in something! To the barricades, citizens! Down with capitalism! At least until it’s time for “The Apprentice”.

This review first appeared in Prospect Magazine.

Book Review: Slavoj Zizek’s “In Defence of Lost Causes” is a post from: David Schneider's website

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Is there any sport which divides people as much as cricket? There are those who don’t understand it and don’t care; then there are those who do understand it and still don’t care; and then there are those who see the whole of life through leather-on-willow coloured spectacles. Cricket is not just a game, it’s the Ultimate Metaphor. A friend of mine told me the problem with the Middle East peace process is that everyone’s bowling left arm over the wicket. So that’s that sorted then. He recently got divorced, or, as he put it, he recently “declared on 17 for 2”. That’s 17 years and two children. It’s a miracle his wife has never gave him a taste of his own medicine and hit him for 6 (months in intensive care).

Cricket brings out the Dan Brown in certain Englishman (and we’re talking mostly the English and mostly men). It’s the Knights Templar of competitive sports – there’s the esoteric language which doesn’t quite make sense to the uninitiated (“silly mid-on”, “lbw”, “an England victory”), the mysterious numerology (4 for 32),  the immensely powerful secret names bestowed upon its members (“Johnners”, “Athers”, “Boycs”). No wonder freemasonry never really took hold in England. Who needs to roll up a trouser-leg when you can take off a jumper and give it to some bloke to wrap round his middle over 6 or 7 other jumpers?

Michael Simkins’ book is an entertaining example of the Nick Hornby fat-lad-chosen-last-for-the-football-team genre of autobiography (NevergotpickedLit?), only for “football” read “cricket” and for “fat lad” read “obese ahead of his time” (his parents owned a sweet shop). The books saving grace (W.G?) is that Simkins (nom de cricket: Simmo) may be an average to poor cricketer, but when it comes to wit and telling a good anecdote, he’s as sprightly as Gary Sobers in his prime (was Sobers sprightly? – I’m not sure, but you get the point).

Young Simmo was inspired to take up his bat when he saw Colin Milburn on the telly, one in a long line of England cricketers who were undoubtedly sportsmen but whose waistlines challenge you to describe them as athletes. That, plus the fact that it’s easy for anyone with a full set of teeth and a working upper palate to make the sound of a cricket ball hitting a bat (usually accompanied with an appropriate mime, the air bat being as accessible as the air guitar to the English public schoolboy).

We follow his obsession into adulthood where he runs a Sunday team of similarly devoted nutters. The anecdotes and quirky characters hurtle down at you like yorkers bowled by a fast bowler that I’m not quite knowledgeable enough to name, but, like other good examples of the genre, the book isn’t really about cricket. Set against an English idyll that’s fading away (now more Abi Titmuss than Fred Titmuss as Simmo puts it), it’s more about men and how they deal with lives that didn’t quite turn out how they dreamt they would through a combination of back-slapping camaraderie, drink, nicknames and jokes (Doctor, Doctor! My wife’s swallowed a cricket ball! – What?! How’s that? – Don’t you start!). An entertaining read indeed, or as my recently divorced friend might say, Enjoyment wins by an innings and 79 runs.

This article first appeared in The Sunday Times.

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At this point, any sensible diary would be backing nervously towards the door. Unless its author happened to be one of the six million people signed up to the imaginary on-line world “Second Life”.

For those who don’t know, “Second Life” is a bit like the real thing, only slightly stupider. You design an “avatar”, a virtual you, to look however you want (flatter stomach, larger breasts, lion’s head with fire-breathing capability and a tongue like a water flume). Then you build your own house, get a virtual job, buy virtual stuff and generally fly around (the favoured mode of transport), meeting other people and chatting. You can even make money, exchangeable for real dosh on third-party websites (the richest resident has made about $2.5 million from buying and selling “Second Life” land). It’s the perfect, escapist Utopia, where you can be whoever you want.

Except it isn’t. As Tim Guest’s astonishing if slightly sprawling account of his slide into alternative on-line worlds makes clear, when it comes to the seedy side, “Second Life” is really one gigantic interactive B-movie, with weirder graphics. This is paradise only for the fraudsters, virtual Mafiosi who, for a real-world price, will have another resident “deleted”. Or for the racketeers who intimidate you by moving a family of giant penises in next door to your dream home (I’m no expert but that’s bound to affect your market value).

And then there’s the sex. One survey revealed that the top 20 most popular venues in “Second Life” included, well, 20 strip-clubs. The avatars themselves come without genitals, but don’t worry, you can just pop into your nearest Genital Shop and buy yourselves a gynaecologically realistic add-on. And whilst you’re there, why not buy yourselves some positions (personally, I’m saving up for the “Male BJ Push-up”). It may not sound erotic, but there’s money in it. One madam, Evangeline, told Guest she made 50 real-world dollars a trick – impressive when you consider that all that’s involved is some dirty talk and a lot of clicking. Still, at least you’re unlikely to contract any diseases except, perhaps, Repetitive Strain Injury.

The problem with a lot of this edgy, virtual world sleaze is it often ends up slightly silly. Evangeline turns out to be a 17 year old boy as, inevitably, do lots of the other protagonists. The virtual Mafiosi of “Second Life” enact tragically authentic virtual “made men” ceremonies and give their avatars names like Tommaso Ludovico, Carlo Platini and, rather less intimidatingly, Gandalf (he was later “taken out”. I think the name was just too embarrassing). To “kill” they dupe their victims into breaking one of the “Second Life” Terms and Conditions then report them to the people who run the website and get them banned. Not exactly the sort of “hit” that will have Hollywood money-men running to make The Godfather: Part IV.
Guest meets one guy, at 24 practically a geriatric, who claims to have made $100,000 of real money in just three weeks selling a fraudulent item in the virtual world “EverQuest II”. Which all sounds very rock’n'roll until it turns out the item was a “Gnomish Thinking Chair”, something unlikely to impress the hardened lifers on the Maximum Security Wing at San Quentin. It’s still unclear whether anyone can be tried in the real world for crimes committed in the virtual world, but the Mafia Capo Guest worked for in “Second Life” was taking no chances. His emails added the disclaimer that he wasn’t a Mafioso in real life, he was only role-playing. It’s clear these virtual criminals are simply terrified their mums will find out and ground them for a week.

Guest has done his time in numerous virtual worlds, you suspect not just for research purposes. He’s met Jedi Knights in “Star Wars Galaxies”, rubbed shoulders with dark elves and ogres in “Everquest 2″ (scene of over 5000  weddings - presumably there are wedding lists at some troll John Lewis’). He’s keen to remind us of the uplifting qualities of virtual worlds, summoning up Freud and Jung and Baudrillard and Sartre like some Ph.D-laden goblin army from sub-Tolkien world “Warcraft 2″ (over 7 million residents and rising). And the subject certainly suggests some interesting philosophical issues: the mind/body dichotomy, the nature of reality – Descartes 2.0, if you like: I click therefore I am (a geeky, teenage boy).

But the truth is humanity doesn’t emerge well from the book: in the Far East, (real) workers spend long hours in “virtual sweat shops” hunting virtual beasts for virtual points to convert into real cash, whilst brutal real-world revenge attacks for killing someone’s character are becoming more frequent. On “Second Life”, people have started offering sex with child avatars. There’s even a virtual world called “Sociolotron” where residents can drug and rape each other.

So despite the fanfare for the digital man (and some women) telling us that the virtual will soon seem as real as the real, that we’ll soon be creating some incredible Matrix-like alternative truth on-line, I will always take comfort in the fact that, every now and then, we’ll still have to log off and go for a wee.

This review first appeared in The Sunday Times in June 2007.

Book Review: Tim Guest’s “Second Lives: a journey through virtual worlds” is a post from: David Schneider's website

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Is Yiddish the new rock’n’roll – at least as far as Jewish culture is concerned? Is Yiddish the new black? If it is, then one of the people responsible is undoubtedly Aaron Lansky, the founder of the National Yiddish Book Center in Amherst, Massachussetts.

In “Outwitting History”, Lansky tells the story of how he rescued over a million and a half Yiddish books which would otherwise have been thrown away and lost for ever, making them available to a new readership. Beginning in the late 70s, his dedicated team of meshugoyim were a sort of fourth emergency service, called out whenever a library dumped its now unused Yiddish collection in a skip or when an elderly Yiddish speaker despaired of finding an inheritor for his or her beloved treasury of books. In the latter cases, Lansky soon realised that to retrieve the volumes efficiently it was best to work in teams of three – two to do the shlepping and one to act as “designated eater”. On each visit, a mountain of food had to be consumed, memories had to be listened to, grumbles and political antagonisms forged in the old country had to be gone over one final time.

The books he’s saved bear witness to the incredible richness of Yiddish culture – literature, political science, social anthropology, philosophy. From copies of the Yiddish classics to rare books published and then culled in the Soviet Union; from translations of European literature to a Yiddish version of Bambi (“Bambella”, perhaps?). He retrieves volumes from all over the world: the Americas, Europe, even a crate-full from Buleweyo, Zimbabwe containing some incredibly rare pre-war books and a memoir called “Udshtorn: Yerushalayim d’Afrike” (“Oudtshoorn: The Jerusalem of Africa”): an account of life on a commune of Yiddish speaking ostrich-farmers.

But Lansky’s book is not just about the volumes he’s saved. Steeped in yidishkayt, full of humour and bitter-sweet pathos, it reads like a Sholem Aleykhem story. By the 1990s, Lansky’s collectors were being called out less frequently by elderly Jews. Instead the calls came from their children and grandchildren, assimilated Jews who spoke no Yiddish. This may be better for the collectors’ waistlines – not a chopped herring or a lokshn kugel in sight – but we get a sense of a generation passing, handing on its yerushe, its inheritance, to a younger generation amidst feelings of pain, regret and hope. Nowhere is this clearer or more affecting than when Lansky smuggles some of the books he’s saved into the hands of desperately eager young students and teachers in the recently de-Sovietised Baltic Republics, where barely a single Yiddish book had survived.

The richness of this yerushe saturates every page of Dovid Katz’s “Words on Fire”. The book is effectively a biography of Yiddish. Katz traces its family tree back through Aramaic and Hebrew, looks at its birth a thousand years ago in what he terms the linguistic “big bang”, tells us of its early years (the first Yiddish document dates back to 1272), its rapid expansion and geographical spread, right through to the fantastic secular flowering of recent times. On the way we’re offered a marvellously detailed history of Ashkenazi culture and civilisation seen through the prism of its mother tongue: the migrations of Yiddish are the migrations of its people, and its uses mark out their development – first in prayer-books and literature for women, then in Kabbalistic texts, in Hasidic stories, Enlightenment tracts, literature, theatre and politics.

Katz believes that Yiddish is now at a turning point. The dwindling number of mostly ageing fluent speakers in the secular world is now, he reckons, about the same as the ever increasing number of Hasidic Yiddish speakers – about half a million. The future of Yiddish, he feels, lies with the ultra-orthodox, and the incredible secular fecundity of the last two centuries may soon seem like just a blip in the cultural and linguistic history of religious Ashkenaz.

Blip or not, both these books demonstrate the true depth and richness of a culture and language which one 18^th century linguist preferred to call “hebreo-barbarish”. Whatever its future may be, Katz and Lansky have ensured that the cultural achievements of a thousand years of Yiddish are appropriately celebrated and valued.

This review first appeared in The Jewish Chronicle.

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