I bought his AM&FM and Class Clown albums when I was in junior high, and listened to them over and over again with my friends. We loved it. We were a bunch of goody-two shoes kids, Carlin helped us cultivate a self-image that we were actually harlequins thumbing noses as impotent, pompous authority.
I think by the time I was in my late teens, I'd already started seeing a decline in Carlin's work. Chicago Window Box and later albums just weren't as good as his earlier work.
On the other hand, I remember one of his early HBO specials in the 1980s, where my brothers and I laughed until our heads nearly exploded at a routine he did about the differences between dogs and cats. The cat runs into a glass door at top speed and just walks away, saying, "I meant to do that." Then it crawls under the couch and sobs. "Fucking meow. Fucking meow, man," the cat says.
But, still, I haven't been able to watch his later stand-up. He seemed to have become mired in cynicism. I'm really turned off by cynicism in famous entertainers: You've got millions of dollars, millions of fans worldwide, you do popular shows on cable, you've done movies, you're a cultural icon, you have no right to be cynical.
I thought he was a good character actor. He played a gay next-door-neighbor in Prince of Tides, starring Barbra Streisand and Nick Nolte. He was in a couple of Kevin Smith movies. In Dogma, he played the archbishop who wants to update Roman Catholic dogma with a friendlier, more upbeat image of Christ -- the Buddy Christ. He was in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back as a hitchhiker who explains why it's not gay to give blowjobs for rides.
But I really liked him in Jersey Girl, Kevin Smith's attempt at a romantic comedy, starring Ben Affleck. Jersey Girl is a deeply flawed movie, true, but it's got some great moments in them, none better than George Carlin at the end of the movie, explaining matter-of-factly in seven words (no, not those seven words) why he's allowed his widowed son and granddaughter to move in with him.
I interviewed George Carlin about 20 years ago; he was doing a concert in Sussex County, New Jersey, where I worked for the daily newspaper, the New Jersey Herald. It was a phone interview. I thought even then that he had become cynical, but he was also very gracious and polite. I asked him about an earthquake that was in the news, and he told a couple of jokes about it; I suspect he was trying out some material on me and our readers. This interview was soon after he went into rehab, I asked him if he planned to do any anti-drug spots. He said, no, if he did any, kids would just think he was another old man telling them what to do.
The logistics of the interview were unusual in two ways: One was that he called me, usually when I interview celebrities (not that I do it that often), I have to call them.
The second was that he asked me to tape-record the interview. No one has ever done that before or since -- asked me to record the interview. I presume that was to ensure accuracy, and it was a clever trick. The mere presence of a recording makes it more likely that the interview will be accurate, even if the journalist doesn't use it. The interview subject can record the interview himself, but that's a hassle. How would Carlin know that I actually made the recording, and didn't lie about it? I presume he didn't care that much. I don't like to record interviews as a rule, but I was happy to oblige for him, and I kept the tape as a souvenir for years. I don't know what happened to it.
Carlin re-invented himself a few times: From working-class Irish kid in Philadelphia to successful suit-and-tie Vegas stand-up comedian to hippie comedian to self-described old fuck and curmudgeonly. He wasn't exactly successful as an actor, but he had a steady trickle of roles over several decades, which isn't exactly easy. He was an authentic voice, he left us too soon, and we're poorer for his absence.
Recent Comments