This Brooks Ain’t Babblin’

A lot has changed in the world since Albert Brooks launched his career more than half a century ago as a comedian. A career that more or less revolutionized comedy with his appearances on just about every TV talk and variety show on the air led to landing key roles as an actor and making his own movies as writer-director-star. For instance, the premise of James L. Brooks’ (no relation) Oscar-decorated 1987 film Broadcast News – in which Albert Brooks starred as a highly intelligent reporter who sees his best friend-producer fall in love with the callow news anchor – is the faking of a cutaway during a victim interview. That sort of deception would be quaint at best by today’s standards. 

“That was written to be a big deal then, but we don’t even live in that universe now,” Brooks said. “A big deal today would probably be a murder.” 

What hasn’t changed is Brooks’ approach to his art, an original voice whose perspective on life in America is peerless for its incisiveness peppered with smart concepts and draped in subtle slices of humor drawn from the absurdities of coping as a human being. The Atlantic recently said Brooks has been “consistently ahead of the cultural zeitgeist for so many decades,” while the New York Times praised the first four of the films he wrote and directed between 1979 and 2005 – Real Life, Modern Romance, Lost in America and Defending Your Life – among the finest American comedies ever made. 

Brooks’ life and career was featured in the 2023 HBO documentary Albert Brooks: Defending My Life, directed by his longtime friend Rob Reiner. (When I told him I hadn’t seen it, Brooks suggested I sign up for a free trial, watch the documentary and cancel. “But I think you might have to buy a Lincoln.”)

Brooks, 77, will appear at the Lobero Theatre on May 29 in a conversation with fellow comedian Kevin Pollak, who hosted an interview podcast for a decade. 

Q. In the early days, you would literally test out new material on national TV without trying it out on anyone anywhere. I just rewatched the ones on your website and they’re still outrageously funny and quirky. What gave you the confidence, or nerve, to do that? 

A. There were no comedy clubs in the late ‘60s that you could just run to, so it wasn’t even available if I wanted to do it. But I didn’t. I grew to trust that if I made myself laugh, others would probably find it funny too. I didn’t want other opinions because I was trying to do something that was in my head without editing it. That became the fun part. Every show I worked for, they were thrilled with that. Johnny Carson loved that I didn’t rehearse for him because he wanted to be surprised. 

Not everything went over well with the audiences, though. Did you think, “they’ll come around” or “I don’t care if they do?”

First, I thank God every day that I started a career before social media because I didn’t have to know what you thought. It’s important when you’re starting out to shut out the noise. The only people I had to please were the ones that ran the shows. Back then, an individual could say, “Goddamnit, that guy’s funny. Just put him on.” They were fans, and the magic was that you could do crazy stuff, and it would be fine. You didn’t need a committee or the cloud to say OK. Now, to get on Netflix, their algorithm has to approve. 

Was that the same idea for your movies? 

In terms of following my gut, sure. But it takes years to make a movie, so I knew I better love the idea because I was going to have to live with it. What got me excited about Lost in America was a guy makes a life-changing decision and in two weeks realizes he made a mistake. That’s still funny to me. With Mother, I still haven’t seen a simple story of a 40-year-old guy moving back home, not for financial reasons, but for emotional reasons. Those are basic premises that I get excited about. 

Your movies seem to be about you and something going on in your own life. 

I think that’s what it’s supposed to be. You can do three guys going to Vegas and just make things up, but I wanted to come from a place that I knew and thought about in my life. Modern Romance is an example because when I was in my twenties, I was a person who would drive around someone’s house, and I knew that behavior was crazy. I thought the best way to deal with it was to present it. 

Did it feel vulnerable to bare your own insecurities and questions?

That never bothered me. There are lots of ways you can expose yourself. I don’t live my life at a Hollywood party or to be photographed all day long at a big football game. That’s a breach of privacy. But exploring my human vulnerabilities felt almost necessary. It was a confirmation that I can’t be the only one who thinks how I do. If you’re just acting out human behavior in a relationship or trying to make money, or what you think about death, I want to show what’s inside. Because to me, it doesn’t feel vulnerable. It feels cathartic. 

Which was my next question: Is this how you work things out? Do you learn from your comedy? 

Not consciously. I never thought I’d be better when I finished a movie. But have always believed in digging into the stuff inside when you’re writing. There are big movie comedies that have no attachment to human emotion, and they’re funny, but it’s not me. I want to present what’s real. There’s immense satisfaction from the writing and other people understanding and enjoying it. But it’s not curative.

This is only the second time you’re doing the “Evening With” event, a conversation with Kevin Pollak serving as host. What’s the format?

I told him with the San Francisco shows, just ask me anything. Same thing here. It’s like when I was on Carson. Johnny would make a comment like “Didn’t you wear that shirt last time?” And 15 minutes would just go by. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I think it’ll be funny.