Biography/Correspondence: LOVE, GROUCHO

THE BARE FACTS
Title: Love, Groucho: Letters from Groucho Marx to His Daughter Miriam
Editor: Miriam Marx Allen
Publisher: Da Capo
Date of Publication: 1992
Pages: 241
Grade That Means Nothing Coming From Me: C+ (because I’m the big jerk who’s now grading someone’s mail)

SO BASICALLY, IT’S ABOUT…

Collected letters sent by legendary comedian Groucho Marx to his eldest daughter, ranging from 1938 to 1967. The title’s pretty accurate, in that regard.

WHY’D YOU WANNA READ THAT?

Plowing my way through the Christmas presents. This one came from my father. And given the choice between this and a history of the Dutch settlement of Manhattan, this seemed like it would be a little smoother sailing.

AND HOW’D THAT WORK OUT FOR YOU?

I believe the term for a book taking the form of a series of letters is an epistolary novel. (Bravo, Mr. Book Critic, for figuring that out.) It’s a clever approach, because you learn events through a character’s reaction to them, and the author only has to tell you the things that the character might openly express, leaving you to suss out the deeper meanings and the overall arc of the story all by yourself. You get to play detective, reading through someone’s mail to find out what they’ve been up to.

So what if they’re real letters? Well, it’s not a novel, since no one is actively plotting out the twists and turns of their lives. But the effect is much the same, which gives you a unsettling sense of snooping. Yes, we follow Groucho from the depths of writing a Broadway flop to the heights of his successful radio show, You Bet Your Life. Yes, we watch him trying to counsel his daughter as she descends further into alcoholism. Yes, we watch Groucho’s spirits ebb and flow with the end of his first marriage, the beginning and end of his second, and the start of his third. But are we really supposed to know all this?

For a scholar or a biographer, the material is priceless. The character of Groucho is so inscrutable that it is genuinely interesting to find evidence of the man’s mind when dealing with someone like his own daughter, for whom a comedy routine is not necessary. But in the end, he’s exactly what you think he would be: a man, a little insecure, eager for success but uncomfortable with the headaches that accompany that success, and just trying to make himself comfortable and happy.

I shouldn’t complain. I have an understanding with my friend Holly that when I become famous, she will sell all the letters I wrote her, to fund her children’s education. Of course, she has no children and I am decidedly not famous (except amongst the vast readership of this blog, of course), so you won’t need to reserve a seat at Sotheby’s just yet.

SHOULD I READ THIS?

That’s a tough call. The fact of the matter is, reading anyone’s mail can be pretty tedious. After all, it’s mail, and even the most salacious elements are usually few and far between. For fans of the Marx Brothers, this is somewhat interesting, but it’s not as though we’re reading Captain Spaulding or Rufus T. Firefly. Again: it’s mail. It’s not meant to be read by anyone but the intended recipient. If you bear that in mind, and you’re still interested in the at-home, everyday voice of a comedic legend who is trying to maintain a long-distance relationship with his teenage daughter, you will probably find it a satisfactory read. But the main lesson is something we should already know: Groucho Marx was only human, if wittier than most. And if you’ve already got that squared away in your head, this isn’t going to prove very enlightening.

ONE MORE THING…

I mentioned that the title is accurate as concerns the subject matter. However, I must point out that the salutation – “Love, Groucho” – is one he never uses. Indeed, I was surprised to discover that the Marx Brothers did tend to go by their nicknames. But Groucho actually signs most of his letters “Love, Padre,” although on occasion he does sign off as “Dr. Hackenbush,” his character in A Day at the Races. Just so you know.

Shane Wilson was the editor of the late, lamented Greenroom, and writes the blog Last Wilson Testaments.