Comedy Rule of 3

 A trio of Netflix profiles, all with overlapping connections:

 

PARALYZED BY HOPE: THE MARIA BAMFORD STORY (B+) - Compared to the two subjects below, two hours with comedian Maria Bamford barely peels away the first layer of the onion that is the sui generis mind of one of our generation's best comedians. 

 

Director Judd Apatow has two modes when he puts on his hat as comedy historian emeritus: either hagiographic reverence (male subjects) or avuncular head-patting (Bamford). He provides a dutiful march through Bamford's life and career, doing justice to some of her best bits and ratcheting up just enough empathy for her mental-health struggles that date to childhood.

Some folks won't have the patience for Bamford, who made her name on the Comedians of Comedy tour in the aughts; pushed the boundaries of comedy in two seasons of her Netflix series "Lady Dynamite"; and settled in as a go-to voice actress for countless animated series (including "Bojack Horseman"). She has pushed her mental illness upfront throughout her career, and her facility with voices might make you think she houses dozens of personalities inside her head. Bottom line, though: She is as funny as they come, a female mix of Lenny Bruce and Robin Williams. 

Apatow allows Bamford's story to unfold mostly chronologically, revealing her disturbing behavior as a child (her artwork back then already was toying with suicidal ideations and frightening imagery) and her determination to reveal to the audience her true self, psychotic outbursts and all. A host of talking heads eagerly line up to pay tribute, including her Comedians of Comedy co-horts Zack Galifianakis, Patton Oswalt and Brian Posehn. We also see a generation of comedians she influenced, such as Sarah Silverman, Natasha Leggero and Tig Notaro. Stephen Colbert, as usual, is articulate in his appreciation of Bamford's obtuse style of comedy, and the ubiquitous Conan O'Brien helps explain what makes Bamford special. Netflix's Ted Sarandos is a superfan who insisted on airing two seasons of "Lady Dynamite," the suits and critics be damned, because he loved Bamford's work and believed in her. 

Bamford's sister, Sarah Seidelmann, provides keen insight through not only fascinating family stories but also her experience as a physician and healer. Their father, Ted, has a touching cameo as well. So much of Bamford's comedy revolved around that Duluth, Minn., family, not only those two, but especially her mother Marilyn; one of Bamford's best stand-up performances was the 2012 special recorded with just her parents as the audience, during a time when she had returned home to recover from her latest health crisis. ("Old Baby," from 2017, is tough to top, too.)

In April 2006, I attended a copy-editors conference in Cleveland. After busing out to an art show and concert by Jon Langford (and fellow Mekon Sally Timms), I was milling about outside the venue, considering my pre-Lyft-era transit options for returning to my downtown hotel. I struck up a conversation with a random guy who suggested I bum a ride in his van with his group. "I'll warn you, though: We're a bunch of comedians," he said. I chuckled. "No, really, we're a bunch of comedians. We just wrapped up our show." And that's how I shared a van with the Comedians of Comedy 20 years ago. I got heckled by them the whole way. The only one I recognized at the time was Posehn. (I didn't watch Oswalt on "King of Queens" back then.) 

As much as I've always wanted to retrofit my memory and recall that the female comedian I tried to flirt that night with was Bamford, research suggests that she had moved on from the tour by then, along with Galifianakis. (So was it Morgan Murphy who rolled her eyes at me?) I have since seen Bamford live in Albuquerque, and I could have seen her the other day in Tucson, when our paths crossed again, randomly. 

Even though there is a hint of condescension once in a while in Apatow's documentary, he gives  full effort in presenting Bamford, then and now, as both a force of nature and a fragile person who has survived her obsessive-compulsive disorder and channeled it into a great career (and domestic happiness). He takes his time digging out interesting stories, like the fact that she started her career wielding a violin in her act. (Suzuki training when she was little couldn't have been good for her anxieties.) If you don't know Bamford, this is a good place to start, before diving backward into her sterling stand-up specials.

NORM: THE TALE OF NORM MACDONALD (B-minus) - Norm Macdonald, the ultimate "comic's comic," is the latest comic to get sainted by Judd Apatow, who turns in a half-assed clip job; even his talking-head segments are canned retreads. 

You either get Norm or you don't, and he, as expertly as anyone who worked a mic during the Age of Irony, walked that fine line between brilliant and stupid. He milked a corny delivery from early on, and he had no qualms about beating a format to death.

A lot of people have grown to appreciate Macdonald by googling his career highlights or going on marathon YouTube jags. You'll get just as much pleasure curating your own videos -- perhaps more of a kick, because you can let some of his better bits breathe more -- but at least Apatow stuffs a pretty-good best-of into a tightly packaged two hours. Like Macdonald, Apatow by now has a template (he has presumed to be the definitive video biographer of Garry Shandling, George Carlin, and Mel Brooks), and he's not going to stray from it. He's not going to surprise any of the comedian's fans with any of these clips.

 

Some of the one-liners are classics. Like David Letterman, Macdonald was dismissive of his own acting chops, which barely rival Jerry Seinfeld's: "Actors look on me like vampires look on Count Chocula," he deadpans to an interviewer. But then there are his lazy moments, like his meta shtick bombing at a Bob Saget roast as he awkwardly reads gags from a hoary book of juvenile putdowns.

Macdonald seemed like a thoughtful guy (he devoured Tolstoy) and probably was a good friend. We are shown that he loves his mother and his cat. He struggled against cancer, mostly privately, for nearly a decade before dying a few years ago at age 61. He was a polite Canadian who liked to make people laugh. As he claims to one interviewer, that was evidence of making the world a little better at times. His earnest kumbaya shtick is exposed as toothless, though, when he bends over backward to defend the likes of Rosanne Barr and Louis CK during the Me-Too era. 

There are the requisite kudos all-around during this fawning tribute, with a who's who of comic talent heaping praise, all via archival clips. (Apatow wasn't going to put himself out conducting interviews; rather, he leaves it to the likes of Larry King and Howard Stern.) Of course, homage is paid to Macdonald's martyrdom as "Weekend Update" anchor on "Saturday Night Live" in the 1990s, when he refused to stop making O.J. Simpson killer jokes and was fired by Simpson's friend, NBC executive Don Ohlmeyer. 

Again, you can find all those O.J. jokes strung together in one YouTube video, and you can either admire his anti-humor or groan as the weekly bit grows stale and bitter. Apatow's collage of clips isn't essential for appreciating Macdonald's brand of humor.

WHO IS MARTIN MULL? (B-minus) - This sympathetic paean to a very funny guy has one idea and it hammers that idea home repeatedly for 94 minutes. You see, Martin Mull -- who fronted the trailblazing "Fernwood 2 Night" in the 1970s and went on to memorable roles in "Roseanne" and "Arrested Development" -- wanted to be known as a skilled and admired painter.

That's the shtick here. Nearly every scene is a variation on Mull or a fellow actor telling a story about how, son of a gun, he's really a painter first and an entertainer second. Ad nauseam. Mull also overcame substance-abuse issues to age into a kindly elder statesman. Along the way he was a serviceable sitcom character actor, having runs in "Sabrina the Teenage Witch," "American Dad" and "Veep," before his death in 2024.

My favorite Mull will always be his contributions in the 1970s -- releasing albums full of comedic songs and teaming with Fred Willard (and Norman Lear) for the first real talk-show spoof, which blazed a trail for "The Larry Sanders Show" and other imitators. He never broke through in movies, and proved to be a reliable utility man on TV shows for decades, all of which suggests that he was content to take his art seriously, having found sobriety and the love of a good woman.

Unfortunately, this good-guy biography lies flat on the screen and never gains momentum. It is odd that the film was started by Bob Saget, who died in 2022 before finishing it. (Saget looks not-at-all well during his on-camera interview segments.) Famous talking heads show up to pay homage -- Steve Martin (who collected Mull's art early on), Penn Jillette, Patton Oswald, David Alan Grier, Eric Idle and Lear. A wonderful scene reunites Mull and Willard on Mull's couch, reminiscing about their work together (on "Fernwood" and as lovers on "Roseanne"). Of course, Willard died in 2020, and the oppressive weight of death of these various characters throws a maudlin blanket on the whole production. But cheers to Mull for a life well lived, in the pursuit of his creative urges.

(No Apatows were harmed in the making of the Mull documentary.) 

BONUS TRACK

I'll always have a soft spot for Mull's "Let's Get Normal," even if its lyrics hit uncomfortably close to home during middle age:

 

And the trailer for the Bamford documentary, which includes that indelible imitation of her mother and her "Old MacDonald" pterodactyl bit: