There’s a scene in the fourth episode of Martin Scorsese’s Pretend It’s a City (Netflix, out now) which feels like it could be from one of his early films. The setting is a restaurant. Someone is speaking in a loud New York accent to a table of laughing men: “Once, I got robbed in the street in Beekman Place I mean of all the places—and I tried to persuade him not to rob me. In New York. Was I crazy?” The camera pulls away to show a pool table in the foreground. In the background, the speaker can still be heard and seen. Her deadpan face is still visible, as are her animated hands, as are the backs of the men she is speaking to, or more accurately—at. If the restaurant were a slightly dingier joint, it could be straight out of Mean Streets. And if Scorsese were able to write funny women, then the speaker—Fran Lebowitz—could be one of his characters.
Lebowitz is the subject of Scorsese’s new seven-part documentary series. She is sometimes described as a speaker and author, but a more accurate description would be professional wit. Like Dorothy Parker—to whom she is often compared—Lebowitz exists as a kind of mythical New York figure: someone who seems to have arrived on the scene fully-formed, with an unflappable confidence and legendary ability for riffing on any opinion. “How would I describe my lifestyle? Firstly I would never use the word lifestyle. That’s pretty much how I would describe it.” She goes on: how does someone develop a sense of humour? “The same way you acquire height.” What's her attitude towards the wellness trend? “Your bad habits can kill you but your good habits won't save you.” What advice would she give to people in their 20s coming to New York? “Bring money.” These are a few quick-fire gems scatter-gunned through Pretend It’s a City, and if they read as scripted written down here—well they aren't.
Nothing about Lebowitz is scripted—she is perpetually off-the-cuff, inherently funny—and no one finds her funnier than Scorsese. When he’s behind the camera, you can hear him wheezing and chuckling. When he’s in front of it, his grin touches his earlobes, he shakes in his chair until he’s bent double, he clutches at his chest, wipes at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. The documentary is—broadly speaking—framed as an interview between two professionals. But what we’re really seeing is two old pals enjoying each other’s company.
In 2021, this kind of freewheeling, guiltless enjoyment of another person's company is unheard of. As we go into yet another lockdown (number three! Strike the tally!) one of the most soul-crushing elements of daily existence is a repetitive, numbing sense of loneliness. Digital conversation may now be our only sanctioned method of socialising, but I'm all out of Zoom quizzes, to be honest. The idea of a virtual party is even less appealing than going outside, and I haven't had the energy to pick up a phone since September. (Transcript: "What you been up to?" “Nothing. You?” "Yeah, nothing.") But humans are social animals, and a dose of regular interaction is necessary to avoid getting depressed. Sorry: more depressed. So what are the alternatives? Going for a walk? Getting a new hobby so you have something to talk about? Good one. The solution, obviously, is watching more TV.
Pretend It’s a City aptly fills the void of a dead social life. On the one hand, it’s a kind of pre-lockdown throwback: a love-letter disguised as a complaint about the idiosyncrasies of “normal” New York City. (People squished against each other on an escalator, queues outside the theatre—my my! What lives we used to lead.) But there’s also an intimacy about it which feels familiar and fitting, like we’ve been invited to a socially distanced dinner party. In the nearly empty restaurant, Marty sits at the table while Lebowitz—opposite him wearing a permanent “so-what” expression—thinks and talks around a range of subjects.
It’s important to note that Lebowitz is, like many comics, an acute cultural commentator. In an archive chat show interview, she argues with Spike Lee about the value of sports in contrast with writing: artists leave behind a record of work you can return to, she says, whereas the value of athletes often rests in the moment, hinging on the result of a particular game. She is surprisingly upbeat about the impact of technology on children: “If the world means iPads, they’ll be better at the world. And the late Toni Morrison—a close friend—also features in archive footage, arguing about whether it’s more effective to use “we” or “I” in writing when addressing the reader. I’ll let you be the judge of that.
Like many writers, Lebowitz has a deep admiration for musicians—music is the purest art form, after all—and there are moments in which her sincerity pierces through the comedy. A segment about Marvin Gaye, for example, is followed by this observation: “Music makes people happier, and it doesn’t harm you. It’s very unusual in that way. Most things that make you feel better are harmful. It’s like a drug that doesn’t kill you.” Nevertheless, there’s always a disruptive aura about Lebowitz which, oddly, reminds me of the sweary veteran actress Miriam Margolyes: her ability to continually unnerve the person she’s talking to, even when it's a close friend like Scorsese. (He touches his face; his eyebrows lift anxiously, like he’s waiting for her to go too far.) Is this effect gendered? Probably. Is it age-related? Probably. “I don’t know why they think I would care,” she says, of young people who ask her for advice. “Maybe it’s something to do with my age, like they’re used to seven generations back caring about everything they have to say.” For the record though, Lebowitz slips through the net as far as clichés are concerned, age or gender or otherwise. She's that rare mix: an entertaining public figure who is entirely her own person.
There is an elephant in the room, and it’s this. How is a documentary about two ultra-rich, ultra-privileged white people complaining about their pre-lockdown lives enjoyable? How is it even watchable? I've been thinking about this question a lot since it aired, and not just because I have a lot of free time. It's because it should, on paper, be unforgivable. It's been nearly a year since theatres were open and the industry is in shreds. We're in an economic crisis. Everyone is incredibly depressed. And here comes Lebowitz—in her expensive tortoiseshell glasses and a cocoon of luxurious pre-Covid ignorance—complaining about not liking the theatre. (People of 2019: check—clap emoji—your—clap emoji—privilege!) At one point, she casually references having a $20m flat. The subject, the tone and content should make this completely off-colour. So how come it isn't?
Several factors come into play when answering this question. Firstly it has to do with delivery. As a speaker, Lebowitz is brusque and rapid-talking to the point where it’s hard to keep up with her. The result is that you get wrapped up in her ideas: there’s no time for lingering on punchlines. Take the structure of this joke for example, bearing in mind she’s 70: “Does complaining about things change anything? Not so far. I mean of course I’m a young woman, and you know the other day I met a psychologist and I asked him about his job and I said isn’t it boring? And he said listen. You have no idea.” The first punchline—I’m a young woman—is brushed aside so casually it’s almost lost. In the mouth of a different writer/comedian, say Larry David, something emphatic might be added after it: “I’m a young man so" (shrug), "you know, there’s still time.” For Lebowitz, there’s not usually space for that. Before she’s ended one joke, she’s straight on to something else, allowing no beat for laughter or applause. The result, crucially, is that she doesn't sound smug.
There’s also a strange warmth in Lebowitz’s delivery. Unlike Dorothy Parker, her devastating one-liners manage to contain traces of affection somehow. When she responds to an audience Q&A, it’s like we’re invited to laugh at the concept, not at the person who’s asked the question. It helps that she’s prone to self-deprecation—“I remember the first time I recognised a lack of talent in myself”—and that when she expresses her opinion, she is able to keep things light. (In her argument with Spike Lee, which could very easily have turned heated, she jokes: “The only person I’ve met who disagrees with me more than you are my relatives.”) All of this makes for easy watching. There is mental stimulation without the burden of feeling an emotional heat burning off the screen, in a way that so much debate—rightly or wrongly—generates in the current climate.
Another reason the series works is that it’s now been long enough since The Old Normal that we miss it in a different way. Unlike six months ago, we can withstand criticism of it. In fact, seeing certain elements lampooned in this way can even be comforting. Getting the tube at rush hour? No thanks. Bumping into people on the pavement? No thanks. Elbow-to-elbow with a stranger in a cinema? Squirm squirm squirm. There’s an affectionate tone to these complaints and frustrations, and yet being able to indulge them allows us a form of realistic escapism. It’s as though real life is still accessible—that we still exist alongside it, if not actually inside it. In all its heady, glorious idiocy: this is a reminder of what normality is like.
The title of “Pretend It’s a City” is a specific reference. It’s taken from a bit about Lebowitz’s frustration with people in New York. “I cannot smoke a cigarette outside a building without being stopped and asked for directions by somebody,” she says. “I mean—pretend it’s a city.” But the title works on another level, as an invitation to viewers: pretend that New York is a city again. Pretend, for a second, that normal life is possible. Pretend that you have one. Sit down, have a glass of wine, put the TV on, and get a vicarious hit of good old-fashioned conversation. Your life existed before, it will exist again soon. Don't worry.
