Don’t mention the granddaughter! I mentioned it once…

I haven’t been following the Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross controversy that closely — partly because nobody is reporting it in America for obvious reasons — but I do think it provides a perfect example of what happens when a comedian crosses the line of discomfort.

A great deal of comedy is structured around targets: Politicians, ideologies, occupations, etc. My problem with Brand’s and Ross’ behavior is in their target specifically. Why are they picking on Andrew Sachs? What is funny about leaving obscene messages on the answering machine of the guy who played Manuel? I know very little about Mr. Sachs but I have seen the odd interview with him and he seems perfectly friendly and respectable. Hell, he accepted their apology in no time at all, and was extremely graceful about the matter. And that’s why their prank has backfired so severely. Imagine if they had left obscene messages on Michael Winner’s phone or some other self-absorbed, sleazy old British celebrity. Either nobody would give a damn or most people would celebrate prank.

Sadly, this kind of mean-spirited comedy is more and more prevalent today. I’m not singling out Brand or Ross — I actually quite enjoy the latter and I’m happy that they’ve apologized for their mistake. — but an overall trend in comedy (US and UK) that confuses satire with insult. It reminds me of that guy who singled out African-American Obama supporters in Harlem by disguising McCain policies with Obama’s name. Amusing, maybe, but what message were they trying to send? That all African-Americans are stupid? As though you couldn’t do the same to a handful of idiotic McCain supporters.

The days of Chris Morris duping vapid celebrities into supporting bogus causes like Fuck’d & Bomb’d or Nonce Sense are over. Now, any gotcha moments without context or meaning are considered funny. But people forget that Morris’ programmes were never fueled by a desire to bully. Anger, certainly, but he knew never to cross the line of discomfort. The idea that somebody thought leaving those messages on Mr. Sachs’ machine would be funny just shows you how little comedians care about that line today.

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On a semi-related note, John Cleese made an appearance on Countdown w/ Keith Olbermann last night. My patience for the left-wing Bill O’Reilly has waned in the last few months but ever so often I decide to tune in, and the Gods of television decide to smile upon my decision. Olbermann has referenced Monty Python as an influence many times; It’s glad to see he finally roped one on the show.

Thanks a lot, Joel Silver!

There’s a brief sequence in Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten that compares live performances of Clash songs in pubs to those in sold-out arenas. The latter had no soul because these passionate songs about race and poverty had been crammed into a corporate blender and became pieces of punk self-parody. Now, I realize that Guy Ritchie isn’t half as effective an artist as the late great Joe Strummer, but the analogy still holds up when comparing his latest, RocknRolla, to his memorable debut, Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels.

Does Ritchie really know anything about the London crime scene? Probably not. He certainly didn’t grow up amongst the characters he makes films about. But the charm of Lock Stock, even 10 years later, stems from the authenticity of the world it portrays, whether people like Barry The Baptist exist or not. The budget was barely a million pounds, there were no big names to carry the film besides Vinnie Jones — only a name in the UK — and a brief cameo by Sting, and for all its shameless rip-offs, Ritchie’s style actually felt original. You immediately got the sense that this new director was a bold and determined kid aiming to make the best possible piece of entertainment without relying on the Hollywood men in suits.

Now, Ritchie is relying on those men in suits, and in particular, the cantankerous Joel Silver. RocknRolla is unmistakably commercial. It regurgitates the tone and structure of his first two outings, and as we all know, Hollywood thrives on infinite mass production. Names like Gerard Butler and Jeremy Piven fool us into thinking that Ritchie still cares more about the actors than the star power, as these aren’t exactly Will Smith and Will Ferrell, but still; I miss Jason Flemyng and Steven Mackintosh, for example.

This isn’t a Guy Ritchie film. This is Guy Ritchie doing a Guy Ritchie film. To be fair, he’s not the only director of his generation to lapse into self-parody like this, but at least Wes Anderson isn’t whoring himself for the major studios. The soul is gone. The passion is gone. The excitement is gone. I was looking forward to his Sherlock Holmes film; not anymore, with or without Robert Downey Jr.

Thanks a lot, Joel Silver. Thanks for taking one of our most promising entertainers away. Thanks a fucking lot.