Ever hear the behind-the-scenes stories of the Suicide Squad set, where a seemingly deluded Jared Leto would send his fellow cast-mates pig corpses, used condoms, and other such disgusting 'gifts?' Well, Will Smith, Margot Robbie, and the rest have Jim Carrey to thank for inspiring their daily discomfort. Carrey's petulance and mistreatment of his co-stars on the set of Man on the Moon showed his own belligerent attempts to get under the skin of the 'is-he-being-sh*tty-or-is-it-a-gag-is-it-even-funny-either-way' ethos that game-changing comedian Andy Kaufman would come to be known for. Or, was the exclusive, unearthed set footage of Carrey (reportedly buried by the studio so their star "wouldn't look like an asshole") its own meta extension of the performance for our benefit? That is the question that Netflix's Jim and Andy: The Great Beyond teasingly unspools - amidst the laughs, secondhand embarrassment cringes, shots of Carrey looking philosophical and wise with his 'serious artist beard,' and enough Danny DeVito incredulous eye rolls to the camera to fill an entire season of The Office.
The title's tiering is crucial, as The Great Beyond is very much a documentary about Jim trying to make sense of Andy - as a iconic performer, as a comedy paradigm shift, and of his own role in comedy in Kaufman's wake. As a character study of Carrey, it's superbly revelatory, opening the door (probably more than intended) to Carrey's loneliness, and constant yearning for connection at all costs, from childhood class clown to boisterously over-the-top movie star to present day recluse painter and armchair philosopher. His stories of writing himself an anticipatory million dollar cheque as a starving actor or willing the universe to provide him with a bicycle as a poor child growing up in Newmarket, Ontario, are strangely poetic in their melancholy - even more so, somehow, when his steadfast convictions turn out to actually come true, which he treats as a bizarre form of divine providence.
There's a sordid irony in that Kaufman's early career got mired in his 'impersonations' schtick, only for Carrey to deep dive into an impersonation of him, and director Chris Smith is careful not to oversell the juxtaposition, but rather let it speak for itself. He provides just enough (reliably hilarious) archival footage of Kaufman to contextualize the comedian and his cultural impact for unfamiliar audiences, before shifting the spotlight to Carrey. Assessed bluntly, Man on the Moon is, at best, a pleasantly rote vehicle for Carrey's unbelievably on-point embodiment of Kaufman (as even director Milos Forman himself seems to concede in behind-the-scenes footage here). Here, Smith provides a further wrinkle to the film being the unabashed 'Jim Carrey show,' as Carrey's belligerent refusal to break character seems altogether too large for the otherwise seemingly quite relaxed, unpretentious set he's part of.
Kaufman's gags, no matter how ludicrous or purposefully offensive, were always anchored in clear social commentary - poking fun at expectations, or mocking the pompous performativity of wrestling, tabloid journalism, or celebrity culture as a whole. Carrey's on-set antics, refusing to break character, and harassing his co-stars as Kaufman (or, even worse, as Kaufman's obtusely crude alter ego Tony Clifton), are as funny as they are cringeworthy - a prank at Hugh Hefner's Playboy Mansion is particularly inspired. Still, it all plays here with a whiff of desperation - a yearning for the relevance, or rug-yanking mischief of Kaufman. Smith certainly coyly leads the witness by reprising "Imposter," a rap parody from Carrey's In Living Colour days, as a musical leitmotif throughout. Is Carrey's method madness here a p*ss-take on the prima donna movie star, or the real deal? Is the wacky, unsettling climate he conjured worth it in the name of art? Or, Smith teasingly leads us to wonder, does anyone apart from Carrey even particularly care?
Or, going even deeper down the rabbit hole, is it all an elaborate ruse, tantamount to the hoax fights of Kaufman's misogynist wrestling bit - a meta prank that the entire cast and crew were in on, reenacting their simulated discomfort for our hoodwinked benefit? Certainly, it's fair to be suspicious of director Milos Forman, Danny DeVito, Paul Giamatti, and others conveniently having their befuddled reactions to Carrey perfectly framed in front of a rolling camera. Smith keeps things playfully ambiguous throughout, prodding at the ludicrous presuppositions of documentary 'realism' with Kaufman-esq glee, while still never fully showing his hand as to how many layers the onion skin of gag goes. Still, riddle me this: watch Carrey's contemporary serious, philosophical (and beardy) ruminations on his performance, art, purpose, and the universe (mostly pleasant and occasionally insightful hokum, though his reevaluating his later career through the lens of The Truman Show is really pushing it). If you didn't notice the faintest twinkle in his eye, midway through a solemn soliloquy, the moment he thinks the camera has stopped rolling, I'll eat my DVD copy of The Mask. Sssssssssssssscoundrel!
Jim and Andy may not provide particularly revelatory answers to the lofty questions it poses regarding the role, purpose, and justified means of art and creation (though its clever riff on the inherent performativity of documentary 'truth' suggests Smith is well aware such questions are rhetorical). Regardless, it's a fun and magnetic watch, thanks to the overflowing and unfathomably peculiar charisma of its eponymous subjects, who, Smith astutely understands, we could watch for hours. And, if Jim and Andy succeeds at anything, it's at ensuring that, in the face of his rubber-faced jubilance, seemingly cavernous loneliness, and in seeking purpose in his desperately on-point mimicry in the face of peer comfort or basic decency, we can't help but understand, and feel connected to Jim Carrey. To which Carrey would indubitably respond: "Theenk you veddy maatch."
-8/10
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