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Let us sing the praises of Eugene Levy, loudly.
This might seem like odd timing, given the opening this weekend of the decidedly unpromising The Man, starring Levy and Samuel L. Jackson. And, we admit, The Man looks bad. Where once Jackson's presence was enough to get us interested in a movie, these days the presence of Samuel L. Jackson in a movie is assurance only that somebody somewhere offered Samuel L. Jackson money to be in a movie.
And the concept -- Levy as a square white guy drafted into jive-talking duty by Jackson's undercover cop -- looks, it's true, like it was dreamed up during a viewing of Bringing Down The House, the execrable Steve Martin and Queen Latifah comedy in which Levy, as a square white guy who talks black, offered the only rare droplets of quenching relief in an otherwise arid landscape of bleached-out despair.
But here's the thing: Levy's a genius. Certified. We've gone on at length previously about our love of the SCTV crew, which is, in our estimation, the greatest assemblage of televised comic talent ever. Yes, better than the original Not Ready For Prime Time Players. Yes, better than Monty Python. And you can spare the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids Rick Moranis jokes. We'll put Levy, John Candy, Martin Short, Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Harold Ramis, Moranis, Dave Thomas, Joe Flaherty et al up against anyone, any day, any time. Christopher Guest's current posse comes close, but then, their ability to compete with SCTV at its peak is diminished somewhat by the fact that two of their strongest members are none other than O'Hara and our man, Eugene Levy. It would be hard to compare the 1927 Yankees with the 1975 Reds if Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig played for both teams.
Levy, for a time, seemed doomed to the kind of gradual career diminishment that claims too many fine comedians: get discovered by Hollywood; move to Hollywood; star in Speed Zone and Bride of Boogedy. His bit parts in Splash and Father of the Bride seemed (a) like favors to the films' other stars, John Candy and Martin Short, and (b) to exist primarily to prompt us to lean over to the person next to us and say, "That's Eugene Levy! He's so funny!" at which point they'd punch us in the arm and shush us, hard.
But a very happy thing happened for Levy, as well as for us, his fans. He enjoyed a dual rebirth of the unlikeliest kind. He was rediscovered commercially in his role in American Pie. And he was rejuvenated artistically with Christoper Guest and Waiting For Guffman.
We can't imagine what it's like to go from groundbreaking comedy series to bit parts in bad movies for many years to suddenly appearing in a top-grossing teen film while simultaneously writing and starring with an artistic equal in pretty much the funniest movies around. We suspect the word is "gratifying." We hope Levy was gratified. Hell, we hope he was fucking ecstatic. We were.
Because now we get to see him in Guest films and other films too, even films like Bringing Down the House, which blew, but he didn't blow in it. And if he had, we'd have forgiven him. And if The Man sucks, we won't care. New York Minute? Have at it, Eugene. Buy a house, build a deck, plate your bathroom in gold. Eugene Levy's got so much credit at our karmic comedy bank that he could buy the karmic comedy bank and fire us all, and we'd still shake his hand on the way out.
Work-wise, he seems to be doing well. (We hear as well that he's an eminently decent chap, who still lives in Toronto and operates without the usual obstructive apparatus that surrounds big comedy stars. So we hear.) Fame-wise, could he use a top-up? Hells yeah! At the very least, the next time someone' s doing a round-up of the freakish number of Canadian comedy stars, and throws out the usual Myers/Carrey/Aykroyd triumvirate, they better put Levy in there too. They damn well better say "Levy." We'd be happy if they'd also say "Flaherty," but it's baby steps, people. Baby steps.
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