2-Dimensional, Politically Incorrect Truths From Bill Maher

For years, I’ve waited by my phone, hoping beyond hope that the producers of “Politically Incorrect” would call and ask me to be a guest on the show. Ever since the show debuted on Comedy Central years ago, I’ve admired Bill Maher’s ability to assemble a quirky group of guests to talk about serious issues. They take the cue from the host, who is at turns hilarious, biting and moralistic. And after reading Maher’s novel, I truly wanted to be able to say that he had proven as adept as a novelist, but it looks like I may have to kiss my chances to appear on his show goodbye.

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It’s not that the book is an utter failure. It’s not. The story follows the lives of five stand-up comics in New York City in 1979, whose names (which shall not be repeated here) represent an ethnic slur, a synonym for defecation, a crude word for obesity, slang for the male reproductive organ, and, finally, Buck (the one name that can be put in print). The names are grim, and so are the characters. It’s often been said that no group of people are more depressed than comics. Out of inner turmoil comes great comedy.

Maher’s protagonists are unpleasant men, by turns nasty, immature, misogynistic, racist and treacherous. One of them gets a girl pregnant and tries to have sex with her the day of her abortion. Another is a shameless womanizer who gets his comeuppance when a woman named Jill moves in with him, manipulates him and then dumps him. Buck is so self-absorbed that he doesn’t realize how much people detest him, though in the end, he has a drug-induced epiphany in which he finally recognizes “the depth of their hostility toward him.” The fourth is a pathetic young man, who is the only true comic genius, but who gives up comedy because his potential threatens his stand-up comedienne girlfriend. Meanwhile, the last careens through his life, tries to unionize the comics, gets blacklisted from The Club and severs his friendship, shallow and manipulative though it was, with Buck.

There is a certain cinema verite quality to the novel. Maher writes from experience, a fact that he acknowledges in an unusual foreword. It’s rare that a novel begins with a first-person explanation from the author, but Maher does, as if acknowledging that he is a celebrity who happens to be in the unusual position of writing a book. It was written in 1990 and 1991, though some of it was penned earlier than that. “I wanted to see if I could explain the life of the comedian, which, to my and most comedians’ eyes, had not yet been done properly.” The novel, then, is meant as a fictional documentary.

The result, however, is that the characters never become three-dimensional. They are types, and hence the names. None of the women are flesh-and-blood, though at least here, that seems purposeful on Maher’s part. One of the comics gives Buck some advice about a woman he’s dating, and tells Buck, “There’s more of a person there than you may have wanted to recognize.” In Maher’s world, comics are so self-absorbed that it’s almost impossible for them to have a genuine, intimate relationship.

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But the tropes wear thin. Not surprisingly, the book has wonderful depictions of stand-up routines, some straightforward, some of which are parodies, and Maher evokes the seedy desperateness of the comedy scene on the eve of the Reagan era. The book, however, comes to resemble a doughnut, with lots of substance around the periphery and a hole in the middle where the main characters ought to be. It’s difficult to muster much interest or sympathy for people who don’t have real names. They are meant as stereotypes, but in order for the book to have succeeded at a deeper level, they would have needed to become living, breathing people.

To be fair, Maher is not pretending to be a professional writer, and that, perhaps, is the reason for the foreword. He is saying, “Look, I’m a comic and now the host of an eccentric talk show. Here’s a snapshot of a world that helped make me who I am.” That’s fair enough, and admirable. It’s disappointing that he wasn’t able to channel his passion into a story that might have communicated it in all of its depth and breadth.