How “The King of Comedy" is More Relevant Today than Ever

While it may seem that people somehow achieving fame is now a frequent occurrence, it actually became more common since the 1990s, as the media’s focus on celebrity and pop culture expanded dramatically. The rise of the internet, reality shows, and media outlets focusing on celebrity news and gossip led to the emergence of people achieving fame for no legitimate or (arguably) good reason. However, the social platforms of today, which are open to us 24/7 for easy access, help wannabe-celebrities gain international attention in a more personal way to the public. Past sensations like Anna Nicole Smith and Kim Kardashian used the media’s hunger for controversial personalities for their advantage, while newer influencers like Charli D’Amelio and Addison Rae shaped their path to stardom with their own social media pages, cutting out the middle-man of gossip and TV channels. 

But even with these more accessible outlets, the chances of success are slim. Some people spend hours formulating profiles and inauthentic content in hopes that it might grant them internet notoriety, and still fail to become noticed by the masses. This quest for an easy way to live the life of the rich and famous comes with its consequences, such as a fragmented sense of self and reality, and inevitable exploitation by the media. There is no better representation of the dangers of chasing fame than a film set in a time seemingly far removed from this phenomenon; the 1982 black comedy The King of Comedy. 

Released in 1983, the film is another collaboration between director Martin Scorsese and actor Robert de Niro. Unlike other Scorsese-De Niro films like Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, The King of Comedy became more of an underrated cult favorite after its release, than its critically-acclaimed predecessors. The King of Comedy gained more traction among the public after the release of 2019’s Joker, which was inspired by the movie. De Niro plays aspiring comedian Rupert Pupkin, who fantasizes about being famous like his idol, talk-show comedian Jerry Langford (played by Jerry Lewis). 

Pupkin has a desperate desire for fame, yet does not want to actually put in the work necessary to break through the comedy scene, instead wishing to ride the coattails of Langford for his big-break. The entertainment industry is incredibly different to penetrate, but Pupkin is not interested in the humbling process, reserving his dignity by insisting on his own hustle. He wants to skip straight ahead to indulging in his delusions of grandeur, the applause of the audience, and ego-stroking interviews, (which he frequently reenacts in front of life-sized photos of a studio audience and Langford). He wants to take a painless route to fame that simply does not exist, mirroring futile attempts at fame that we see in internet videos designed for virality, no matter how ridiculous, like staged pranks and public disruptions inside a store or restaurant. 

In the film’s opening, Pupkin joins a crowd waiting for Langford outside one of his shows; he is even a semi-celebrity in the crowd, being greeted by other die-hard fans. Attempting to appear as a casual fan, (rather than the obsessive one he really is), Pupkin seizes an opportunity to get inside Langford’s limo, subsequently attempting to convince the comedian to listen to a recording of one of his stand up routines. Langford tries to dismiss him by suggesting to call his office - a note which Pupkin holds onto as he stalks Langford to his office to try to take him up on the empty offer. 

When his methods of stalking do not work, Pupkin resorts to the next logical option; recruiting fellow superfan Marsha, (played by Sandra Bernhard), to kidnap Langford in order to secure a spot on his show for a night, and perform one of his routines. His growing frustration with his ordinary status leads Pupkin to self-destruct, choosing to go to extremities that ironically end up being more strenuous than the slow and steady grind to the top - in addition to the fact that he would be committing a significant crime.

But that does not matter to Pupkin. He sees comedy merely as a medium to achieving fame and ultimately approval. In this dire situation he has created, infamy is better than obscurity. The plan eventually works, and Pupkin’s obsessive dream of performing on a stage and basking in the love of the audience is fulfilled. While his stand-up act does earn him laughs, revealing the surprising fact that he does have comedic talent, his routine is blatantly false. He cracks self-deprecating jokes about growing up in an alcoholic family, having a dead mother, and experiencing relentless bullying. Out of context, his bleak life story explains his criminal behavior, causing the audience to feel pity for him. But the viewers, the real audience, sees through his insincerity. One gaping plothole in his speech is his ‘dead’ mother, who is clearly alive, as we hear her numerous times throughout the movie. Pupkin is willing to fit any image the world wants him to be, in exchange for fame - just like how people literally craft their own false realities online, to achieve virality and internet stardom. Influencers often put themselves into financial and mental strain to portray a picture-perfect life on social media, in return for likes and the positive attention from their followers. They can reshape their content and ‘aesthetic’ to remain relevant and popular. Yet eventually, the 15 minutes ends, and a new cycle of newfound celebrities rise to the surface. 

Pupkin however, by the end of the movie, seemed to successfully generate the media buzz he craved. We see a montage of news clips and magazine covers detailing his arrest, imprisonment, and release from prison, accompanied by news of his best-selling memoir, new manager, and endless amount of entertainment offers. In a bizarre ending, Pupkin is introduced with thunderous applause and seen in the spotlight. 

It is unclear whether or not the ending is real or another one of Pupkin’s fame-filled daydreams. But it’s not Scorsese’s framing of the ending that makes this vague, it’s the fact that society is capable of making Pupkin famous. Celebrity culture can make famous people out of anything; just look at Danielle Bregoli from her Dr. Phil appearance or Jeremy Meeks, the ‘hot felon’. While those are tame examples, the media and the general public also has a tendency to make celebrities out of the worst parts of our society. Take the controversial magazine cover featuring Boston Marathon bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, in which Rolling Stone used an old, attractive photo of him, making him indistinguishable from the rockstars and actors that they usually put on their covers, despite him being a terrorist. Compared to the film, there is little difference between the magazine covers Pupkin graces and Rolling Stone cover of Tsarnaev. Both portray a glamorized depiction of a person society would typically reject. 

Everybody, consciously or not, wants to be famous. The rise of social media tied with this centuries-old dream, intensifies our feelings of inferiority, as we look upon those who were lucky enough to gain internet fame with jealousy. The common chase to be one of these people - the influencers, YouTubers, Tik-Tokers - is collectively driving a crisis in our perception of ourselves, and what it means to be loved and successful. Pupkin’s motivation for losing everything he has for the pursuit of fame - his way of living, his freedom, his sanity - is summed up in the last line of his monologue; “Better to be a king for a night than a schmuck for a lifetime!” In our contemporary world, is it better to be one of the millions of profiles on social media or one of the few that reign supreme, losing yourself with each gain in followers?