Is the Jewish joke on the verge of becoming extinct?  The Last Jewish Joke, written by the veteran Parisian sociologist Michel Wieviorka, and newly translated into English by Cory Stockwell, argues that in recent years, Jews began to seem less heimish for at least three reasons: The Holocaust receded from memory; Israel’s government became guilty of actions decried internationally as war crimes; and right-wing antisemites who were always present became more boldly vocal.

Reminiscing about when he heard certain jokes, the author compiles his own consoling self-portrait in an autumnal mood. Wieviorka will be 80 next year, and his prose has a tendency to poignantly deem things as the “last” or at their “end.”

English language readers may need to be reminded that, when Wieviorka alludes to family situations in which he first heard Jewish jokes, it is in the context of his distinguished family of overachievers. His sister Annette is an eminent historian of the Holocaust. Another sister, Sylvie, is a psychiatrist and academic, and a brother, Olivier, is a historian specializing in World War II and the French Resistance. The entire mishpocheh is inspired and motivated by the memory of their paternal grandparents, Polish Jews who were murdered at Auschwitz. Indeed, Annette Wieviorka recently published a “family autobiography,” which asked subtle, eloquent, and nuanced questions about her antecedents.

In a comparable emotional aura of reverence, Wieviorka characterizes Jewish comedy of the past as “never malicious” (though apparently insult comics like Jack E. Leonard, Don Rickles, and Joan Rivers never got the memo).

The notion that joking Jews had to be sympathetic victims to elicit empathy from non-Jewish audiences may be true of some raconteurs, but is also belied by historical examples of potty-mouthed rapscallions like Belle Barth, B. S. Pully (born Murray Lerman) and Joe E. Ross (born Joseph Roszawikz), who startled nightclub audiences of their day with profanity.

Later Jewish shock jocks of the Howard Stern variety likewise chose to surprise, rather than charm, the public as a way to win notoriety. And Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, far from relying on vulnerable Jews as victims, presented characters screaming putdowns to elicit hilarity.

To bolster his arguments, Wieviorka refers to the counterexample of Popeck (born Judka Herpstu), a demure, wry entertainer of Polish and Romanian Jewish origin, who at 90 still appears at French theaters with gentle monologues akin to those of the Danish Jewish wit Victor Borge. Popeck presents himself onstage as a grumpy Eastern-European immigrant speaking Yiddish-accented French.

Wieviorka values such exemplars of rapidly vanishing tradition; as a social scientist, he is convinced that because communal settings such as the Borscht Belt no longer exist, the comics who once flourished on hotel stages in the Catskills have disappeared from memory.

To be sure, American standups like Myron Cohen, Jan Murray, and Carl Ballantine, once familiar from TV variety shows, are rarely mentioned now, though  others like Eddie Cantor are periodically rediscovered by a new public, as Cantor was when he showed up as a character in HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. But in his autobiographical deep dive, Wieviorka, who writes here more as a memoirist than a history of comedy, is naturally more concerned with things that he personally saw or heard, rather than any objective history of Jewish comedians through the ages.

Wieviorka also somewhat curiously refers to the “Yiddish-inflected” comedy of Groucho Marx. Apart from the word “schnorrer” which appears in “Hooray for Captain Spaulding,” a song written by Harry Ruby and Bert Kalmar, it is difficult to think of many other explicit Yiddishisms in Groucho’s verbal elan.

Wieviorka’s anecdotes tend to be hefty and hearty, like a family repast of kreplach that remains in the visceral memory for days after being consumed. Some of the quaintly old fashioned tales he refers to recall the precedent of Sigmund Freud’s The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious, a dissection of pleasantries that reflects a sturdy Yekke approach to light-heartedness. Of course, in this optic of Jewish humor, there is no room for concise one-liners from the likes of Henny Youngman or Rodney Dangerfield (born Jacob Cohen). For Wieviorka, as with Freud, brevity was so far from being the soul of wit that it might almost seem non-Jewish.

Another of Wieviorka’s claims appears to conflict with Jewish tradition itself, such as when he states that funny Jews laugh at themselves, never at others, negating the othering of mocked and disdained people in Chelm, a legendary village in Yiddish folklore inhabited by fools who believe themselves to be wise.

To support some of his claims, the author discusses the 1970s French film The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob, a box office success, now somewhat frantic and dated-looking, starring the popular Gallic comedian, Louis de Funès disguised as a rabbi. More to the point, Wieviorka justly reveres the French Jewish comedian Pierre Dac for his still-fascinating wartime broadcasts from London for the Free French forces. Dac’s sense of humor simultaneously expressing Yiddishkeit and also undermining the enemy’s Fascist ideology is a subject that might have intrigued Freud himself.

To bolster the essentially serious messages of his book, Wieviorka mentions the writers Elie Wiesel and André Schwarz-Bart as well as the painter Marc Chagall, names rarely seen in books about humor.

Wieviorka’s elegiac, end-of-an-era tone might be cheered up by a glance at the Netflix streaming schedule or a visit to a comedy club. Of course Jewish humor is thriving, as Wieviorka himself admits; Le Monde headlined a relevant story about the aftermath of the Oct. 7 attacks, “Israeli comedians are boosting morale in wartime.”

So, for all its methodical, highly intellectual analysis, The Last Jewish Joke might be best appreciated as a moving Kaddish for the demise of anecdotes that were once considered the height of drollery. It is very much a product of brainy French Jewish creativity, which itself deserves to be cherished and celebrated.

The post Has the Jewish joke become an endangered species — Òu sont les blagues d’antan? appeared first on The Forward.

What’s with Baum?
By Woody Allen
Post Hill Press, 192 pages, $29

The last Woody Allen film I saw was Blue Jasmine, which won three Academy Awards including Best Actress for Cate Blanchett and Best Screenplay for Allen. The film was released in 2013, six months before Allen’s then 28-year-old daughter, Dylan Farrow, came forward with allegations in an open letter in The New York Times, that Allen had sexually assaulted her when she was a child. This was her first time speaking publicly about a claim that her mother, Mia Farrow, had been making since 1992, after she discovered Allen had been in a sexual relationship with her daughter, Soon Yi. It was in 1992, when Allen’s 21st film, Husbands and Wives, was released in theaters that we, the public, were given a choice: Choose art and go see the film or choose morality and stop watching Woody Allen.

I, still in college, chose art. So did the public; that film sold more tickets than any of his previous films. I’m not going to beat myself up about it now, as I had been groomed by the corrosive 90s culture to pay little attention to the way women were treated by men. A few cultural gems to put you back in the moment: American Pie; Monica Lewinsky; O.J. Simpson; Girls Gone Wild; Britney Spears; Anita Hill.

I congratulated myself at the time, happy I had chosen art, because Husbands and Wives is a masterpiece of storytelling — so what if Farrow is spectacularly humiliated, as she, innocently playing Judy, the wife of the writer, Gabe Roth (played by Allen), has no idea what in reality he has done? Juliette Lewis, or Rain, is a dark-eyed, hair-twisting ingénue in Gabe’s writing class at Columbia. We learn about his feelings for her, and his wife, when he speaks to the audience in a faux-doc style that allows the central characters to share feelings and perspectives on their lives.

By 2014, when Dylan Farrow pled with the public to believe her, eight years after Allen married his wife’s daughter, whom he had helped to raise, I was long done with all that. I chose morality and I chose to believe the victim. I was done with Allen and I was done being groomed by him from the now ubiquitous presence of Mariel Hemingway, or Tracy, as Allen’s 17-year-old onscreen girlfriend in Manhattan, to Rain, with whom Gabe takes great pains to show that the more than three decades between them is normal, as she had many relationships with the “middle aged set.” But in 2014 my decision was an easy choice, right? Woody Allen hasn’t made a movie that I cared to see since that time. (The latest is 2023’s Coup de Chance, a French language film because, bien sur, the French still love him.)

Enter Woody Allen’s debut novel, What’s with Baum?, which one has to read the same way one might now watch a semi-autobiographical Allen feature film: with skepticism, curiosity about the artist’s intent, and a constant longing for subtext. It’s significant to note that this novel by one of America’s most famous directors was not acquired by a mainstream trade publisher but by Post Hill Press. Allen’s 2020 memoir, A Propos of Nothing, was also published out of the mainstream. After workers at Hachette walked out in protest of its impending publication and when Ronan Farrow, Allen’s estranged biological son and bestselling author and journalist, left the publisher in response, the small press, Skyhorse, published it. This acquisition placed Allen alongside such literary luminaries as Melania Trump, RFK Jr., and Blake Bailey, whose biography of Philip Roth was cancelled by W.W. Norton following sexual assault allegations against its author.

Here’s the novel: Asher Baum is a writer in his 50s and he looks familiar: He’s a hypochondriac with a “Semitic” nose; his “Foster Grant black-rimmed glasses [give] him a scholarly air.” “If he were a movie actor,” Allen writes, “he would have played shrinks, teachers, scientists or writers.” He lives in the country with his wife, Connie, even though he hates the country (where to walk after dinner?) and loves Barney Greengrass, which does not exist in the country.

The novel opens with the conceit that Baum has begun to talk to himself, perhaps due to early onset dementia, a device reminiscent of the documentary style that allowed Allen to showcase his inner anxieties and break down the division between public and private in his characters. Technically, it’s also convenient to concretize feelings with words in a screenplay, as everything the viewer needs to know must be said out loud or shown visually. One of the only things that a novel as a genre has got over film is the characters’ interiority, and Allen has made the distinct choice not to use this. So why a novel? I asked myself this often while reading this pleasant debut that, had I not known who the author was, I would have found terribly derivative of Woody Allen. Which is to say, it’s been done before and so much better.

The novel putts along with Asher Baum talking to himself and we learn he has never met his potential as a writer. His wife, his third, whose son Thane has just published a novel to tremendous (if completely unrealistic) acclaim, has cooled to him. Asher believes this might be because of his failure to find success, though it also might be because of the way Baum lusts after other women, with a side of longing for his true love, his first wife, the blonde shiksa, Taylor, who returns to him in the form of Thane’s girlfriend, Sam. Whatever the case, Connie loves Thane and cares for him more than she loves and cares for Baum and while that has always been annoying to Baum, it is now unsustainable, particularly when Thane has gotten all these accolades that should be Baum’s. When Sam takes a ride with Asher into the city, the plot unravels episodically with added moments of predation, racism and misogyny, meant to be skewered or celebrated, one cannot tell. In other words, it’s creepy as hell. But it’s Woody Allen, so we’re used to it. We even, dare I say, long for it.

The thing is, this guy Baum, who references Buster Keaton, Liz Taylor and Montgomery Clift, declares his love for Cole Porter and Gershwin, writes on Olivetti typewriters and hovers over phonographs is supposed to be in his 50s. And these are all the well-known obsessions of Woody Allen, who is 89. Allen might see himself as forever in his 50s, (hey, I am forever 13) but Baum is not. And so, the novel begins to lose its authority.

When the plot thickens (ever so slightly, with lumps) the novelistic devices get messier. There’s a slippery perspective that starts close on Baum then pans out, and there’s an amateurish repetition of exposition in dialogue, another screenwriting tic. The perspective on one occasion defies logic, shifting momentarily to Connie describing her own feelings, which Baum has never tried to understand. And then there are purportedly huge moments — such as when Baum runs into that spectacular ex, Taylor, while he’s with Sam, her doppelganger — which barely leaves a mark on his consciousness or the prose.

What’s with Baum? We don’t know him because Allen has placed him at such a distance. But he wants to be known! And appreciated. He wants to feel up the “Asian” (Japanese or Chinese, her ethnicity flips at random) journalist.  But with novels, the reader needs a reason to turn the page, to know what you’re reading to discover, and Baum as he exists in the woods with Connie, fearing ticks, and all his other Allenesque preoccupations isn’t reason enough. Aside from his two ex-wives and his handsome rich brother, we are also told Baum wrote a play in his youth, “A domestic drama…conflicts, psychological vulnerabilities, foibles and failures abounded alongside the lustful desires and adulterous confidences all up there on the stage for everyone to see.” Sound familiar? And yet this is the most novelistic Allen gets — we as readers are forced to do the analysis; we don’t get anything more.  And here’s the other thing we don’t get: laughs. There is nothing funny about a warmed-over Woody Allen schtick, not on the page anyway.

So why a novel? Why did Woody Allen write this in this form? The notions are cinematic. Just after the climax (suffice it to say that Allen’s love of Chekhov is in evidence as the Act I gun does of course go off), Allen writes, “In a film this would be a fade-out…Go to black and then fade up weeks later.” What’s with Baum? ends like this. We never get back to what it would be if this were a novel, which, hello? it is.

The ending, which brings the reader out of the story, reminded me again of Husbands and Wives. Mia Farrow’s Judy is meek and mousy and yet through her passive aggression manages to get everything she wants. Fine. Sidney Pollack’s Jack drags his hot aerobics instructor girlfriend, also named Sam, out of a party by her hair and we are on his side. Fine. And Gabe Roth has succeeded in normalizing a relationship with Rain. Fine. For her birthday, at a party at her parents’ well-appointed Upper East Side apartment, Gabe has brought her a delicate jewelry box that, when it’s opened and the ballerina spins, plays Kurt Weill’s “It Never Was You.” (Judy Garland sang this in her final film. If you want to hear her sing it, go ahead — it will undo you.)

The song’s title foretells the film’s finale: A thunderstorm, an open window, a kiss. And then, the hook!  Gabe tells Rain they can’t be in a relationship, what with her, a student, and so young! Rain is of course disappointed, but she understands. It never was you, you see. And we believe Gabe, we do, because we have always believed Woody Allen, even if we can see it now so clearly for what it is. But then, in the denouement, breaking that fourth wall, Allen tells the camera that he’s working on a new novel, which he explains is less confessional, more political. And then, astonishingly, Allen turns to the camera, looks the viewer in the eye and says, “Can I go? Is this over?”

And, with that, it was.

When I went to purchase What’s With Baum?, the bookseller wouldn’t look at me. “I’m reviewing this,” I said, by way of explanation, and she breathed out, relieved. It’s a political act to read this novel. It is not the 90s. I am no longer a college girl sitting around a seminar table hoping to one day be a writer, my professor also trying to kiss me (no stormy night, no music box, but I still have a pile of signed books, all his). Is it fair to bring up the movies? I think so — those films were brilliant and complicated and funny and they captured a time, long-gone now. A novel can also do all of those things. This one, Woody Allen’s debut, relies on what we’ve already read and seen and witnessed. But you won’t learn anything you don’t already know.

The post A bespectacled, Jewish hypochondriac with literary pretensions and a creepy fascination with his stepson’s girlfriend — Guess who? appeared first on The Forward.

(JTA) — When Rabbi Adam Mintz’s Modern Orthodox congregation was first looking for a space on the Upper West Side, finding one that worked was no simple task.

Kehilat Rayim Ahuvim, the fledgling congregation, didn’t have the resources — i.e. tens of millions of dollars — to buy a property and develop their own building, so the plan was to rent. 

But renting space for a congregation comes with very specific needs. 

They needed a room that could fit the entire congregation, which would typically draw 50 to 80 people for services. There had to be a second space for kiddush lunch after Saturday mornings. The building needed to be on the Upper West Side, where its congregants, who’d broken off from Lincoln Square Synagogue following a lay leadership dispute, lived and could walk to synagogue. Perhaps most importantly, the space needed to be available for them on Friday nights and Saturdays, plus the major Jewish holidays. 

And all this in the Manhattan real estate market.

Finally, after a months-long search, Mintz, on the advice of a congregant, found a spot that checked all those boxes, housed inside the National Council of Jewish Women’s building on West 72nd Street.

“God was smiling at us one day,” Mintz said in an interview.

“You can’t go on StreetEasy and find a synagogue space exactly as you want it,” Mintz said. “And that space on 72nd Street, I guess we walked past it every day. But it took somebody — one of our members had this amazing idea.”

Mintz said the arrangement was a win-win. For Mintz, his congregation had a place to meet while paying below market rate. Meanwhile, the NCJW was now benefiting from a new stream of income while housing a Jewish group, a partnership which Mintz said “strengthened the Jewish community.”  

That search was just one example of the effort — and creativity — required to secure a space to congregate in New York City and solve the “edifice complex,” as Mintz refers to it. 

“As real estate prices have gone sky high, New York City — and especially Manhattan — congregations have had to get creative,” said David Kaufman, author of “Shul with a Pool.”

Kaufman has written extensively on the history of American synagogues, including the entry for synagogues in Kenneth Jackson’s “Encyclopedia of New York City.” In that entry, Kaufman segmented the history of the city’s synagogues into four phases — the latest of which, starting around 2000, details the challenge of finding space as rents have skyrocketed.

“In my early years, the ‘70s and ‘80s, New York was not like that,” Kaufman said. “Rent was not astronomical and you could find premises for various purposes. Nowadays it’s nearly impossible.”

Congregations have indeed gotten creative, leasing from a variety of properties that moonlight as synagogues. A “shul community” called Kehillat Harlem rents out a storefront property on Harlem’s Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. Modern Orthodox synagogue Prospect Heights Shul is housed in Luria Academy, a Jewish school in Brooklyn.

But even after a congregation secures a space, it is not necessarily out of the woods. 

Independent minyan Darkhei Noam had been renting from Manhattan Country School on the Upper West Side since 2017. Its lease at MCS was set to expire in 2034 — but when the school went bankrupt this summer, the congregation was left scrambling for a new home. 

Similarly, the Fort Tryon Jewish Center has been renting from the Fort Washington Collegiate Church in Upper Manhattan, but the church’s closure is forcing them out at the end of December, according to an email sent to their mailing list. 

Paul Wachtel, the former co-chair of Darkhei Noam’s board who was involved in their building search, said it was “very difficult to find a place.” The cost of renting property can be prohibitive for a congregation that only uses the space a few times per week, he said.

“We need a space for all the Jewish occasions and events, but it would be impossible to buy and difficult to rent unless we have a partner who would make use of it at other times during the week, like an educational institution,” Wachtel said in an interview during the search. That search recently concluded — for now — when Darkhei Noam came to a one-year lease agreement with the Trevor Day School.

Mintz said he believes the optimal model is to rent space from a large Jewish organization’s building. He stuck to that model earlier in September when his congregation moved, after 21 years at NCJW, into the Marlene Meyerson JCC Manhattan, rebranding as the Shtiebel @ JCC.

Mintz said he was excited by the move, for starters, because the congregation would be moving into “probably the busiest Jewish building in Manhattan.” (Mintz had long wanted to move into the JCC; things were finally set in motion after KRA held a service there last year, which served as something of a trial run, while its own air conditioning was broken.)

About a month into the relocation, Mintz said the Shtiebel @ JCC has been successful, with new people “from the community and people connected through JCC” joining services every week. His congregation is also planning to use the JCC’s rooftop sukkah.

But Mintz said this model — renting space from a Jewish organization — goes beyond just the JCC, and that he’d like to see it “replicated everywhere.” He added that big synagogues often rent out their spaces to non-Jewish organizations between services, and could do so with smaller Jewish nonprofits in mind.

“Whether it’s synagogues looking to find space in Jewish buildings, or big synagogues looking to rent [out] space to Jewish things — and nothing wrong with the non-Jewish things — but I think within the community, it only strengthens the community,” he said.

Kaufman said he hadn’t seen much precedent for the concept of a congregation leasing space from a Jewish community hub.

There are examples, Kaufman said, of congregations that were formed within organizations, such as at the Educational Alliance (originally called the Hebrew Institute) and the former Young Women’s Hebrew Association building on 110th Street.

“But in none of these cases is it another congregation that moves into and takes over space in one of those buildings,” Kaufman said. “So that is new to me.”

UJA-Federation of New York, the city’s largest Jewish organization, “regularly gives space to community organizations — including synagogues — for a wide variety of events and activities in our building,” public relations director Emily Kutner said by email. But she said that until now, “We have not been approached by a congregation to hold services in our building.”

Other Jewish organizations have been approached, and have rented out their space.

Temple Emanu-El’s downtown campus moved last year into the Center for Jewish History’s building. Executive director Dina Mann said the search involved looking at “dozens” of commercial spaces and reaching out to other “mission-aligned” nonprofits and museums that “could have had spaces.” 

“I think having a similar sensibility about how to approach different aspects of Jewish community and life in New York is helpful. Specifically around security,” she said. 

Another perk of being in the building, Mann added, is that “our religious school kids get exposed to different aspects of Jewish history.”

Rabbi Jonathan Leener, who leads Prospect Heights Shul, said the synagogue’s partnership with Luria Academy has opened up new opportunities in jointly applying for grants.

“It made sense to be like, ‘Wow, we could split this,’ and working really together to take advantage of what’s out there,” Leener said. “We’re hoping that some of the larger foundations and philanthropists are attracted by this model of Jewish community, of working together.”

As congregations like the Fort Tryon Jewish Center continue searching for a home, Mintz said he’d love to see a fund that incentivizes Jewish partnerships by kicking money to both the hosting and renting organizations. Some congregations face more obstacles with this model than others; FTJC, for example, serves the community of Washington Heights, which lacks Jewish organizations that could house tenants.

Still, for congregations that are walking distance from those organizations, Mintz said he believes these partnerships could be fruitful for all.

“It’s such an important real estate model, and we don’t utilize our real estate properly,” Mintz said.

The post Many smaller NYC congregations rent their space. As real estate prices soar, how do they find a home? appeared first on The Forward.