Maybe the better question would be: Is Seth MacFarlane the jackass? In the June 18th edition of The New Yorker, there appears an article that should be one of that magazine’s typical pop culture pufferies; clever, knowing, in-depth, but not too taxing. You know the ones: Tad Friend usually writes them. I usually eat them up. I’m not looking for a scathing take-down of Andrew Stanton or The Artist or Anna Faris, I just want more information than I knew before, a few telling details, some cultural context, a little inside dope and a diverting read.
Now, Claire Hoffman, the writer of the MacFarlane piece, doesn’t try to take down the Family Guy creator. In fact, by the end of the piece you can fairly feel her trying, desperately, not to be mean; the article ends, rather abruptly, on a note full of…nothing. Despite the fact that Hoffman clearly spent a fair amount of time with MacFarlane, despite the fact that this is the lightest kind of “serious” journalism, there’s certainly nothing overly positive or even sympathetic in her account. Look, I came away from Friend’s piece on Stanton really wanting to see John Carter (!). Do I want to see MacFarlane’s new movie Ted after reading this article? Not so much. And, by the way, not because I don’t think it will be funny. It might very well be. Certainly, Family Guy and MacFarlane’s other shows can be, in the moments when they’re not so offensive you squirm or so ludicrous you lose track of what you’re watching, pretty damn funny. Almost anything said in Baby Stewie’s voice is bound to generate some chuckles. But MacFarlane comes off as such a—what’s the word?—asshole, that it’s really hard to imagine shelling out $14 for him to be even richer than he already is. (How rich? Croesus rich).
Where to begin? The account of MacFarlane making dozens of people wait three hours for him to begin a table read of a Family Guy script, with no word about where he was, then canceling said read entirely? (He was apparently rewriting the script, but you know: do you have an iPhone, Seth, on which you could call one of your two assistants? I bet you do!) The stories of someone coming to the offices with a personal tanning machine for MacFarlane to avail himself of in the bathroom? The comment that “My father and mother were not…intellectual equals by any means”, which is a really charming dig at his mother. But it’s okay—she won’t be offended. She’s dead. This last is to justify the women he dates; MacFarlane apparently wracks his brain so. hard. every day coming up with poop jokes that he doesn’t want to come home and “talk theoretical physics.” Instead, he wants someone “whose company excites me”. I think we can safely assume “company” actually translates to “boobs.”
But all of that, whatever; MacFarlane’s just another dickish, solipsistic Hollywood manboy who’s made a lot of money for a long time. “Next!” right? Right. No, the best bit comes just three paragraphs into the piece. MacFarlane complains that there is “prejudice against the medium of animation” and that though he doesn’t “care about winning awards, it’ll be nice to do something that is perceived as slightly more significant.” (This, apparently, about his upcoming movie featuring a snarky, foul-mouthed Teddy Bear). Because yes, Wall-E, Up, Toy Story, Fantasia, The Fantastic Mr. Fox…none of these animations were considered “significant.” Throwing The Simpsons at this idea (to inoculate his own shows from calls of triviality, perhaps?) he says, “The Simpsons is a show that outclasses any number of live-action sitcoms, and it has never got any recognition. It’s like Sammy Davis Jr. at the Sands. Everyone recognized that he was a great entertainer and an enormous talent, but, you know: Stay out of the casino.”
So…your TV shows, which feature talking dogs and talking babies and talking aliens and talking goldfish and talking bears are just not recognized to your satisfaction? And that is just like institutional, government sanctioned racism. No, Seth. It’s not. It’s really, really not, in any way, like Sammy Davis Jr. performing in a hotel at which he was not allowed to sleep. And you know what? You make 33 million dollars a year. When you make that much money, in your chosen profession, in which you apparently have carte blanche to do whatever you want? Bitterness is just plain tacky.
