I read today about a new book by Chris Fujiwara about Jerry Lewis, the American treasure who rose from a partnership with Dean Martin to a brilliant career as an actor, director, and writer on his own. It’s intriguing to think of Lewis the American Jacques Derrida. While Derrida was controversial and even brushed aside in his native France, he found a welcoming home in the United States, where his ideas were infinitely more influential. Likewise, Lewis’ success in the States in incomparable to his level of popularity in France: he’s a God in the land of the Seine.

It reminds me of The Groucho Letters, where you can read letters sent from Groucho Marx to Ezra Pound. An exchange like this seems inconceivable: one was the apex of American modernism, the other was, well, a clown. Yet Groucho could, and should, be seen as a counterpoint to American modernist literature and painting. Just as the Marx Brothers are perhaps inseparable from Ezra Pound, it may probe to be impossible to separate Jerry Lewis from Derrida: both are indicative of perpetual, perhaps irritating, postmodern instabilities.

Picking up a copy of Fujiwara’s book, then will certainly get you thinking about more than just comedy. And regardless of what Richard Brody says, it will be better than watching Funny People.