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The title of the new documentary Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work suggests several things, not the least of which is that the 77-year-old comedienne is, to put it nicely, a royal pain in the ass. Throughout this short and perceptive film, Rivers openly addresses her opinionated nature, her laughably luxurious lifestyle, her shockingly confrontational comedic style, her complicated relationship with her daughter Melissa, and, perhaps more than anything, her addiction to the business of being watched. These actions would all fit comfortably on the resume of a self-obsessed "diva," but what makes Rivers such a watchable and fascinating subject is that these attributes are presented unapologetically and unencumbered by any half-baked notions of sainthood.
Directed by Anne Sundberg and Ricki Stern, a team better known for documentaries about Darfur and America's neo-fascist leanings, A Piece of Work begins with close-ups of Rivers's face preparing to be coated in make-up in front of a mirror. Like any show, she needs to show her best face for Sundberg and Stern: Shots of her without make-up are brief and could be counted on one hand. Indeed, Rivers treats cosmetic products and plastic surgery as a sort of war paint for show business, a profession she's stayed alive in since the late '50s. Though she started in dinky comedy clubs and playhouses in Greenwich Village, Sundberg and Stern begin addressing her career as she became a regular on The Ed Sullivan Show and, eventually, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.
The comedian's relationship with Carson, which ended after she accepted an offer to host a rival show to The Tonight Show on Fox, is seen as every bit as tumultuous an affair as the suicide of her husband and business partner Edgar Rosenberg. Incorporating the recent dismissal of her longtime friend and manager Billy Sammeth, Sundberg and Stern visibly outline Rivers's long history of being left by people she counted on and several disappointments, none funnier than an early rant at a small comedy club denouncing Melissa's refusal to do a shoot for Playboy.
Like the comedian herself, the directors get more mileage out of embracing the here-and-now than they do in wallowing in the past, as fascinating as the charting of the escalation of her reliance on cosmetic products is. Holding a blank appointment book up to the camera, Rivers gravely notes, "That's fear." For Rivers, entertainment is her chosen profession and she is a desperate workaholic. Along with tour dates and rehearsals for her recent play, much of Sundberg and Stern's more current footage follows Rivers during her filming of the second season of The Celebrity Apprentice, the winning of which begets an avalanche of work and results in a joyous glow on Rivers' face. But it is hard to take the comedienne seriously when she asserts, "If I had invested wisely, I wouldn't be doing this."
If A Piece of Work as a whole is ultimately not as lacerating as a late moment where Rivers ferociously calls out a heckler while on stage, it is only because the subject refuses to take herself completely seriously; she's a pro and knows that entertainers, by nature, should be allergic to pity. The film doesn't make a blatant case for legacy the way the utterly hilarious Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project does because, to Rivers, legacy is something you think about when you're done with your job, and that's a distant thought. In the film's final scenes, Rivers is preparing to open for Rickles in a 4,000-seat theater; the sheer size of the place makes her gasp. Still, shuffling offstage as Rickles prepares to go on, she looks like someone working at something that comes naturally. For Rivers, that entails little more than acting like herself.
Directed by Anne Sundberg and Ricki Stern, a team better known for documentaries about Darfur and America's neo-fascist leanings, A Piece of Work begins with close-ups of Rivers's face preparing to be coated in make-up in front of a mirror. Like any show, she needs to show her best face for Sundberg and Stern: Shots of her without make-up are brief and could be counted on one hand. Indeed, Rivers treats cosmetic products and plastic surgery as a sort of war paint for show business, a profession she's stayed alive in since the late '50s. Though she started in dinky comedy clubs and playhouses in Greenwich Village, Sundberg and Stern begin addressing her career as she became a regular on The Ed Sullivan Show and, eventually, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.
The comedian's relationship with Carson, which ended after she accepted an offer to host a rival show to The Tonight Show on Fox, is seen as every bit as tumultuous an affair as the suicide of her husband and business partner Edgar Rosenberg. Incorporating the recent dismissal of her longtime friend and manager Billy Sammeth, Sundberg and Stern visibly outline Rivers's long history of being left by people she counted on and several disappointments, none funnier than an early rant at a small comedy club denouncing Melissa's refusal to do a shoot for Playboy.
Like the comedian herself, the directors get more mileage out of embracing the here-and-now than they do in wallowing in the past, as fascinating as the charting of the escalation of her reliance on cosmetic products is. Holding a blank appointment book up to the camera, Rivers gravely notes, "That's fear." For Rivers, entertainment is her chosen profession and she is a desperate workaholic. Along with tour dates and rehearsals for her recent play, much of Sundberg and Stern's more current footage follows Rivers during her filming of the second season of The Celebrity Apprentice, the winning of which begets an avalanche of work and results in a joyous glow on Rivers' face. But it is hard to take the comedienne seriously when she asserts, "If I had invested wisely, I wouldn't be doing this."
If A Piece of Work as a whole is ultimately not as lacerating as a late moment where Rivers ferociously calls out a heckler while on stage, it is only because the subject refuses to take herself completely seriously; she's a pro and knows that entertainers, by nature, should be allergic to pity. The film doesn't make a blatant case for legacy the way the utterly hilarious Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project does because, to Rivers, legacy is something you think about when you're done with your job, and that's a distant thought. In the film's final scenes, Rivers is preparing to open for Rickles in a 4,000-seat theater; the sheer size of the place makes her gasp. Still, shuffling offstage as Rickles prepares to go on, she looks like someone working at something that comes naturally. For Rivers, that entails little more than acting like herself.
