We all anticipated it: the inevitable stumble on the path to comedy greatness. And yet, Midge not only avoided that dreaded fall, she soared. (Except, perhaps, during her courtroom appearance, but let's not dwell on that.) Her dedication to the craft was evident in her pink notebook scribbles and her unwavering attention to comedy records. However, as Susie quipped while trying to sneak a fry, there are certain lessons in comedy that can only be grasped under the bright lights of the stage.
And oh, how Midge learned those lessons the hard way. Her first foray at the Gaslight, unassisted by the crutches of drugs or alcohol, revealed her rambling was not quite as charming as expected. Perhaps it lacked the spark of humor, the punch of a well-timed joke. Plotwise, it seems a convenient twist to have Midge, a diligent student in every other sense, step onto that stage so unprepared. Surely, someone as astute in comedy as Susie wouldn't have let her take the stage without the bare bones of a routine. But given that Midge has captivated audiences with her wit and the contents of her purse alone, I'll overlook this minor discrepancy and imagine that she truly believed that's all it took.
The part I struggle to comprehend is Midge's rationale for seeking a ghostwriter, given her theoretical disdain for jokes not crafted by her own hands, stemming from her tumultuous past with Joel. Granted, the art of joke-crafting is demanding, but the external shame of potentially using stolen material is an even heavier burden, especially considering it was the catalyst for the demise of her marriage.
Nonetheless, we are treated to the sight of Wallace Shawn, portraying the comedic parasite Herb Smith, devouring the scenery with the same fervor he consumes his kasha varnishkes. Even when Midge discovers that the pile of joke cards he sold her is a mere facade (albeit accompanied by a free pickle), Shawn radiates pure joy, seemingly lost in his own world of hilarity. It's a perfect union of actor and script, leaving me to wish for more of his presence.
And so, recycled jokes once again become the dividing line in Midge's relationship with Susie. Susie is enraged by Midge's foolish decision to circumvent her comedic guidance, while Midge is furious that Susie is allowing her to falter. This leads to a bitter split between the two women, which, for Midge, also signifies the shattering of her newly discovered dream.
The amusing paradox is that Midge encounters significantly more challenges in her uptown life than she does at the Gaslight, yet she tackles them with remarkable composure. It's difficult to fathom how someone with such audacity to stride into a department store and sell herself as a potential elevator operator, or boldly advise a stranger on the perfect shade of lipstick, would abruptly quit over a few heckles from beatniks. Yet, despite the transition from a Chanel-clad housewife to a B. Altman makeup counter girl being a tenfold more daunting ordeal for any other woman, Midge blossoms in her first brush with the working world. She even finds joy in the ticking of the time clock.
Midge's new job presents the show with a fresh canvas to conjure up another '50s fantasia, where wage slavery has never looked so enticing. There's a new set of licensed music to accompany the scenes, lavish department-store sets, and tailor-made dresses that are a sight to behold. There's even a casting call for Santas, a pricey absurdity, and a trio of new work buddies: the pragmatic Mary, the boy-crazy Vivian, and the glamorous model Harriet. While the real-life B. Altman women hawking Cherries in the Snow likely faced an endless grind of pay disparities, varicose veins, and relentless sexual harassment, this show has enough rouge in its handbag to brighten any grim reality.
Midge's exuberance in embracing her new role as a career woman is even more peculiar as it clearly weighs heavily on Rose, who still harbors a sliver of hope that Midge and Joel will reconcile. She barely utters a word to her daughter throughout the episode, and even nonchalantly dismisses the backup babysitter for being "a drunk." On the brighter side, Midge's enthusiasm for work garners her some begrudging respect from her father, who initially doubted her but is now adorably proud that she's managing her life independently.
Joel, however, is a different story. He's systematically destroying relationships in his quest to integrate Penny into his world. Though she performs well at dinner with his parents, they abhor her: "You practice on shiksas, you don't marry them," his father notes, while his mother simply concludes, "No." Penny's presence also creates a rift with Archie and Imogene, who boycott a chance to see The Music Man, presumably in solidarity with Midge. Personally, I'm on the "tired of Joel" team and believe Midge would be just fine without him, but given the current trajectory of this season, I fear we're in for a long haul with him. My prediction? He'll ultimately atone for his transgressions against both his wife and comedy by swapping roles with Midge (and, undoubtedly, clash heads with Susie immediately).
For now, one thing is clear: Comedy is Midge's calling. Even when she thinks she's settled into her new life behind the makeup counter, the urge to entertain others finds her. Unlike her doubts about motherhood, this isn't a setback of any real significance. It's a mere detour, and she'll soon be back onstage, shining brighter than ever. Whether this narrative arc satisfies you is, like chopped liver on challah, a matter of personal preference.
