The exceedingly Jewish blasphemy of Curb Your Enthusiasm
to err is goyish; to complain about it is jewish
In my previous newsletter, I discussed the concerning lack of Jews cast in Jewish roles during an era in which media representation has become a key issue for progressives. This, in effect, is the sequel to that post.
For twenty years, Larry David has been mining humor out of everyday life, and for twenty years it's made for one of the greatest comedies on television. Simultaneously a satire of Hollywood jadedness and a hyperbolic rant against mundane nuisances that everyone hates but no one has the energy to complain about, Curb Your Enthusiasm is David's second sitcom to become a cornerstone of American pop culture. It is also the longest-running show that one might describe as truly and authentically Jewish.
The Judaism of "Curbed" (as it is affectionately shorthanded) is not the Judaism of a synagogue. It is not a religious expression, but a deeply cultural one. Larry David, the fictional character, is adamantly opposed to the idea of stepping into a shul, and some of Curbed's best material is mined from the tension between the Jewishness oozing from every pore of his body and the fact that he hates religion as emphatically as he hates people in general.
As a stereotype, the misanthropic Jew has long roots. The first time someone accused Jews of being antisocial was in ancient Greece, and we haven't stopped kvetching since. Even the Torah calls Hebrews a “stiff-necked and stubborn nation.” Though it tends to defy definition, there is something about Jewish misanthropy which feels like a true and vital part of our culture. It is lox on the bagel of Jewish flavor, something salty to balance the sweetness we contain in equal multitudes. But like lox, it serves a nutritional purpose. It is a coping mechanism we have developed in response to our historical role as the outsiders of every society in which we have resided. That is why it so often expresses itself through humor. The alternative is total despair.
Larry David, the real person, is interesting because, within the slice of Hollywood he occupies, he is the opposite of an outsider. He is, instead, the ultimate insider and the godfather of contemporary comedy—there is no one too famous to make an appearance on Curbed. Perhaps that explains why his comedy so often targets the most trivial of first-world problems. With no real enemies to fight against, the fictional Larry must invent them. You can take the Jew out of his immigrant Brooklyn household and put him in Hollywood, but he can't leave his generational trauma behind.
That essence presents itself in David’s insistence on centering his Jewish identity even as he balks against it. For someone who scorns religious practice, the extent to which David has steeped the world of Curbed in Judaism is a culture shock for gentiles. My TV may not be equipped with smell-o-vision, but frequently the Jewish atmosphere of the show is so palpable that it is possible to imagine the scent of pickled herring. Were it not for the villas and palm trees scattered across every frame, you might never realize the show takes place in California. Its principal cast, from Larry’s closest friends to his sworn enemies, are all defined to a great extent by their proximity to or distance from Judaism. When Larry is asked by non-Jews whether he is one, his response is unfailingly a sheepish, "Eh," and he mocks every scant signifier of faith whenever the opportunity arises, but when his identity is truly threatened, when his Jewishness is scorned, he proudly proclaims himself "a big Jew."
Perhaps this push-pull, more than anything, is what makes Curbed so authentically Jewish. In my previous newsletter, I wrote about The Shrink Next Door, a show which prominently features Jewish culture while casting only one actual Jew and, unlike Curbed, loves to center itself around synagogues and other Jewish institutions. The show is part of a broader trend of movies, shows, and plays that fetishize Judaism but won't cast Jews. For all the trappings of Judaism, these shows are hollow simulacra of the real thing and ring inauthentic to Jewish audiences. At their core, they are minstrel shows put on for goyim. Meanwhile, Curbed rages against those trappings because David knows that, at the core of our souls, real Jews have a sense of conflict about their identity. He knows that what makes a show Jewish isn't prayer or synagogues. It isn't a display of devotion to the Lord. We leave that for the Christians. No, what makes a piece of media Jewish is a big middle finger pointed straight at the Creator because even in the Bible, the name "Israel" was not given to our people until the moment Jacob slapped the shit out of God.
In naming the problem with casting Jews in Hollywood, comedian Sarah Silverman points out that Jewish writers are often heavily involved with shows that are about Jews but which do not cast them. In response to the bigoted counterargument that "Jews control Hollywood," Silverman muses:
The original studios were built by Eastern European Jewish immigrants who came here and were not allowed to participate in other jobs. They were not allowed in most other industries. And of course there are many Jews behind the camera, especially writers and producers. But I think there's a shame and a self-hatred there… Jewish characters maybe, but not portrayed by actual Jews. That's too much. Too often, I think, Jewish writers don't want to see themselves reflected in art, not the way they see themselves. They want an ideal instead, saying their words and representing themselves back at them through crystal blue eyes.
There is no greater demonstration of Silverman's point than the juxtaposition of The Shrink Next Door with the concurrently airing eleventh season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Where the Jews of the former embrace the signifiers of Judaism, Larry David desecrates them. While they wear yarmulkes, Larry jeers, "Yarmulke alert!" But where their Jewishness is surficial no matter how many prayers they sing or tallit they don, David's is deep and his performances are born of hard-won experience. The hair around his bald spot seems to perfectly outline the spot a yarmulke should sit, and his refusal to put one there is, somehow, the most Jewish thing about him.
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