The Doleful Dignity of Rodney Dangerfield

By Joseph Wakelee-Lynch

Dangerfield's character, of course, lived on a diet of disrespect, and he truly was a kind of Everyman. Most people who have felt humiliated, I expect, could appreciate his art.

When Rodney Dangerfield died earlier this month, we lost a unique comedic voice: the perennially put-upon loser. Jack Benny built much of his character on personal flaws, and Charlie Chaplin's Little Tramp suffered countless indignities. But, Rodney Dangerfield – he said it best himself – “got no respect” from anyone, ever, in any circumstance. Dangerfield's character, of course, lived on a diet of disrespect, and he truly was a kind of Everyman. Most people who have felt humiliated, I expect, could appreciate his art. I'll miss him greatly, because I've always believed comedy has a place in the Gospel message.

Dangerfield entered the world as Jacob Cohen in 1921 in Babylon, Long Island. His was a tough life from the start: His father left the family and his mother struggled to raise him and his sister. In his late teens and 20s, he tried comedy, finding a small taste of success in the Catskills of New York. But he gave it up at 28, when his career seemed stalled. In the 1960s, in debt and living in a seedy New York hotel, he went back to stand-up. This time he found his trademark forlorn voice, and in 1967, he got a shot on the “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

In the '70s, when he would appear on “The Tonight Show” and elsewhere, he struck me as the funniest comedian alive. The restless eyes, the uncomfortable jerk of the tie, the twisting of his neck – he seemed as if he felt perpetually trapped. But, Rodney had so honed his distinctive comedic persona that he was on a par with Richard Pryor and Jonathan Winters.

I was always astounded that Rodney could completely break up an audience even though they knew where all his jokes were going. Unlike the Little Tramp in Chaplin's films, Dangerfield's routines never ended with him enjoying a brief moment of dignity. He never won a few and never got the benefit of the doubt. You would think that his routine would quickly tire because his angle allowed for no surprises, which is at the heart of comedy. Yet, at his best he would deliver a side-splitting litany of indignities, each more embarrassing than the one before. Building to a comic crescendo, his jokes were like small fireworks exploding in sequence. That's where Dangerfield's surprise was, bursting from a phrase, or even the emphasis on the initial consonant of a word. Then, just when I thought he had hit a peak, he would deliver the closer, the funniest joke of all.

There were two distinct qualities that made Rodney's humor unique, and neither one had to do with being the fall guy. First, his pathetic situations were always rooted in reality. In contrast to Henny Youngman – who seemed to strip away all detail to get to the punch line – Dangerfield would briefly sketch a scene that was utterly imaginable: a doctor's office, or a mechanic's garage. That made Rodney real as few other comics were.

Second, his cadence – the rhythm in which he delivered the words in his jokes – was exquisite. His lines would roll like waves, some larger, some smaller, some slower. He would accent a syllable or a word, or stretch the last word of clause or sentence, creating a pause for an image to assemble in my mind. His mastery of cadence was exquisite. It created the space for me to realize, perhaps sub-consciously, “Yeah, he knows what life is like.”

Comedy is subversive (which is why Lenny Bruce, Dick Gregory, Richard Pryor, Mort Sahl, Roseanne Barr, and Chris Rock were, or are, considered dangerous), and so is the Gospel, especially the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55) and the Beatitudes (Matthew 5).

If surprise is at the heart of comedy, then one of its greatest characteristics is turning the conventions of the world upside down: the powerful get their comeuppance, the pretentious are revealed as fools. Comedy is subversive (which is why Lenny Bruce, Dick Gregory, Richard Pryor, Mort Sahl, Roseanne Barr, and Chris Rock were, or are, considered dangerous), and so is the Gospel, especially the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55) and the Beatitudes (Matthew 5). Jesus, himself, spent most of his time with people who got no respect in his society: prostitutes, tax collectors, the Samaritan women with seven husbands, lepers. Even his first 12 followers were the farthest thing from leaders of the community, nothing special at all.

And what's funnier, as Rose Marie Berger, associate editor at Sojourners magazine, once pointed out to me, than Mary meeting Jesus after the Resurrection and mistaking him for the gardener? (John 20:11-15) Or Paul's great line to the Athenians, who prided themselves on their intelligence and knowledge of the latest ideas? He points out, tactfully, that if they are so smart, why are they worshipping a God that has no name? (Acts 17:19-23) I'd say, then, that jesters and clowns give us a glimpse of heaven. So, I'd bet that at least a few of those who are at God's side are comedians.

I'd prefer to avoid ascribing much philosophical meaning to Rodney's persona, or, especially, trying to Christianize his message. Dangerfield was a comic, as funny as the best of them and more so than most. And it's ironic that behind that doleful mask and his chronic unhappiness, he exuded dignity. Dangerfield's honor doesn't lie in his having overcome his circumstances, because his interviews reveal that he himself wasn't sure that he ever did. To me, Rodney's dignity was found in his routines. He reminded us that we are a people of weakness and foibles, and, oddly enough, that our nobility was mixed in there somewhere. Dangerfield's routines are still funny when you read them. But you had to hear them to cry.

Joseph Wakelee-Lynch is a Witness contributing editor, and his regular online column is The View from Sardis . He lives in Long Beach, California, and may be reached by email at wakeleelynch@earthlink.net .