Skip to main content

Maria Bamford

I sometimes think the person in the world who most closely resembles me is the deranged writer Maria Bamford. I don't know a ton about her. Here is what I inferred from her (now-canceled) Netflix show. She had early success. Great success! But she lacked a moral compass, and when she began to think about what she was doing in the world (shilling for an evil corporation that may have been Target), she fully melted down. She went away for a long period to make vision boards and endure many depressing hours of group therapy, and now she is determined to be a decent person, or at least to tell the truth as much as possible.

All of that "resonates" with me, except maybe the stuff about Target. I do know what it's like to spin out of control, and then to feel embarrassed about having done all that spinning. What's so admirable about Bamford is her willingness to revisit the messy old stuff now, in the present, in her work. And that self-scrutiny seems to come from a generous place. If her aim is to make people feel better about their own sordid lives, then I'd say she succeeds.

This is a clip I love:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe17RymMqWI

Its premise is that Maria has an abundance of warm feelings for the human race, in theory, but her own limited psyche prevents her from making use of that warmth. For example, though she imagines, in her heart, she is a skipping, bubbly Maria von Trapp, she finds, in her daily practice, that she is actually a bit stingy. Even a bit passive-aggressive. Case in point: She sends many eggplant and pizza emojis to a friend who has a flip-phone, and she recalls that that friend can't see the emojis, and she keeps sending them anyway. (I love this special, small bit of meanness, and I'm certain it has never before made an appearance on a Colbert stand-up segment, or anywhere else. It makes me think of those moments at work when someone comes to me clearly looking for a moment of commiseration, and I blithely deny the person that moment, because I am feeling just a little bit lazy or unpleasant.)

Maria's social anxiety and/or BARTLEBY THE SCRIVENER tendencies keep her from fully committing to various "fun" activities that friends propose. One zany friend thinks swing-dancing would be great. (Maria isn't so sure: "They still do that? The war is over. It's OK. Everyone has access to pantyhose now.") The idea of a CrossFit-esque course immediately sends Maria into a fantasy; there's a tough-talking, fascistic "instructor" named Tonya, and on Day Five, she will announce, in front of the group: "Maria! Come on! I wanna see you PUSH IT!" And then there is the proposal to go horseback riding: "Horses bite? And also the guides are two lesbians who used to date but now they don't anymore and they just run a business together?"

Beyond the loony, wonderful specificity of Ms. Bamford's writing, there's the satire of mealy-mouthed behavior and indecisiveness. Maria can't bring herself to say: "No. This is not the life I've envisioned for myself." So instead she says, soberly: "I tell you what I'll do. I'll go horseback riding for five years. Five years, nothing more. And then I'll leave the automatic charge on my debit card, and monthly amounts will continue to be deducted for the rest of my life, without purpose, because I'm unfocused and disorganized. Do we have a deal?"

But the all-time best Maria Bamford scene is here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtLY6pa2zcY

It's Bamford satirizing office culture. "We're a little crazy here! We do things a BIT DIFFERENTLY! It's a nuthouse! People are always struggling with the fax. I say, DID YOU DIAL NINE? It's TRICKY! You have to dial NINE to GET OUT! ...We have bagels on Mondays, but once a month Rajiv brings muffins and do you know what we call that? MINI-MUFFIN MONDAY! Seriously, you're going to want to kill yourself--but hold off till Friday, because that's CASUAL DRESS. No tees, no hats, no titties!"

Maria imagines a job setting that would actually qualify as a nuthouse, and she wants this job: "Hi, my name is Zantathos; I'm the talking rabbit. I'm in charge of the volcano? You'll be working with Thor; he's the dwarf; he's kind of a drag...."

Bamford sees the world in a way no one can match. She takes the quotidian and makes it miraculous. And she's my number-one nominee for a Comedy Hall of Fame, if ever such a thing pops up.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...