Discrete Charms

I don't know a lot about art, but I know what I like. This defense has been the backbone of the bourgeoisie appreciation for the arts. They should please the viewer in some way and hopefully not challenge them. It shouldn't hurt your brain to look at a painting or film. It should be a pleasant experience. I thought about this as I watched Jim Carrey cavort about as Andy Kaufman in Milos Forman's film "Man On The Moon." It was difficult to watch, but knowing the ending, as sad as it was, kept me watching. I wanted to see Jim as Andy push all those buttons on all those stuffed shirts in the entertainment business. I wanted to see him/them push the envelope of performance art to extremes that rarely make the commercial airwaves.
Did I like watching Andy Kaufman? Way back in the eighties I was one of those who couldn't wait for that little foreign guy, Latka, to show up on "Taxi." I thought it was hysterical that he was able to hold live audiences hostage to readings of "The Great Gatsby." Would I have been as amused if I had part of that audience? I'm part of the audience that whooped and hollered when Steve Martin went into his "Wild And Crazy Guy" bit. And "King Tut." And "Excuuuse Me!" I paid to see the greatest hits. I went to have the comedy version of a sing-along. I am part of the audience that caused him to retire from standup comedy in 1981.
The boys from Monty Python surrendered to this notion decades ago, but they may have made the leap that Andy Kaufman was never able to make: cashing in. Now that's what I call "art."