Steve Martin

He walks onto an arena stage in a pristine three-piece white suit, projecting the absolute certainty of a Vegas headliner. Then he puts a novelty arrow through his head and twists uninflated balloons into animals. He plays an entertainer who believes he is a genius, delivering cheap magic tricks and non-sequiturs with smug satisfaction. He paces the stage, doing erratic little dances, working the crowd into a frenzy over deliberate nonsense.

He invented the rock-star standup, and then he left.

In 1981, at the peak of his fame, he stopped doing standup to make movies. For thirty-five years, he refused to perform the act that made him a cultural giant. When he finally returned to theaters alongside Martin Short, they built a comfortable, loose vaudeville show. He plays the haughty straight man, absorbs Short’s insults, and plays bluegrass banjo.

His solo act breaks the basic rhythm of a joke. He will wind up for a massive punchline, build the tension in the room, and then abruptly stop to play the banjo or clip his fingernails. The audience laughs at the empty space where the punchline was supposed to be. He buries these structural tricks under a layer of broad physical silliness. He sells fake noses and rubber fish with total commitment, using the slick timing he learned as a teenager demonstrating gags at the Disneyland magic shop.