At Carnegie Hall, 1981, Andy Kaufman performed an absurdist variety show. At the end, he didn’t close with applause or thanks. He simply stood in silence. One full minute. No punchline. No cue. Just stillness.
And then he took the entire audience out for milk and cookies.
I recently watched the documentary Thank You Very Much and let me tell you: it’s beautiful. Watch it.
I’d never seen any of Andy Kaufman’s original work before this, but within minutes I was totally absorbed. The soul of his art shares the same soul as my sense of humour. That mix of mischief, depth, tension, and truth. It’s not just comedy, it’s disruption.
Modern comedians I admire like Eric André, I feel are carrying Kaufman’s torch. Even if he doesn’t cite Andy as a direct influence, the ripples are undeniable. The spirit of chaos-as-commentary is alive and mutating.
At surface level, Andy looks like he’s just committing to the bit. But if you watch closely, you realise he’s mocking the bit itself. At an early point it becomes clear that Andy is not a comedian. He’s a performance artist, a fool, a Jungian jester whose mission wasn’t to be loved; but to reveal the absurdity of seeking love & fame through masks.
He created Tony Clifton, a belligerent, sexist, drunken lounge singer. A complete asshole. But he didn’t just act as Tony. He became him.
He booked venues under Tony’s name. Performed in sunglasses, with a beer belly and a bad attitude. He’d insult the audience, smoke like a chimney, guzzle alcohol, eat meat; all things Andy, a committed vegetarian and clean-living spiritualist, never did.
Tony wasn’t just a role, he was a full-blown psychic container. Tony was allowed to speak and move through Andy with complete freedom. People left his shows angry, confused, sometimes even disturbed. And that was the point.
Andy found some success acting in a show named Taxi as the character Latka. The catch? He hated being pigeonholed into playing just one character. so he had a clause added to his contract: he could appear in one episode as any character he wanted. So one day, he brought Tony Clifton to set with hookers, belligerence, and zero explanation. He was escorted out by security and had the entire cast in shock – ready to rip up their contracts.
Then came his Intergender Wrestling Champion era. Andy wrestled women on stage. Yes, wrestled. He taunted them, degraded them, then pinned them down to win. The audience was appalled. But it wasn’t about domination; it was about exposing the absurdity of masculinity, spectacle, and performance. He created enemies. Then laughed at the outrage. Then laughed at himself for laughing.
Everyone wanted to know: Who is the real Andy Kaufman?
But in my view, there isn’t one. Just like there’s no single real version of any of us.
We are not fixed personalities. We are shifting ecosystems; masks wearing masks, characters playing characters. The phrase “that wasn’t the real me” is a polite lie we tell to preserve continuity. Kaufman’s art showed us the truth: there is no “real” you. Not in the way we pretend.
Reality isn’t as serious as we think. Identity isn’t as solid as we fear. And that’s why Andy wasn’t just funny; he was art in motion.