By David Blum

Two weeks ago, in a New York Times interview pegged to the release of Bee Movie, Jerry Seinfeld unveiled a disturbing new wrinkle to his affable persona—a sad development to the millions of us who preferred the identity he previously nurtured as the ultimate New Yorker, an accessible symbol of our city’s sense of humor about itself. After describing Seinfeld’s condescending brush-off of an autograph seeker at the Boathouse Café, writer Dave Itzkoff recounted a Seinfeld anecdote of an unpleasant encounter with two fans at this summer’s U.S. Open. Apparently, one of the fans—who Seinfeld felt compelled to describe as “well-dressed”—invited the comedian to come visit the brokerage house where he worked.

Seinfeld said “no.”

“But we really like you,” one of them implored.

“Thank you so much, but this is as far as we go,” Seinfeld replied. In case the star-struck fan didn’t quite understand the rejection, Seinfeld elaborated on his position to the reporter. “This is a sophisticated guy,” Seinfeld said, “that doesn’t understand the TV only works one way.”

But who doesn’t understand? It’s Seinfeld who doesn’t. Television at its best—and that would, of course, include the landmark series that Seinfeld co-created and starred in for nine seasons—functions as a mirror onto the world, and connects the audience with universal themes and comic translations of our foibles and missteps. Is it any wonder, when we see the stars who’ve most compellingly amused us, that we want to invite them into our lives? Sure, the dude at the Open went a little too far, but can you blame him for asking?

Apparently, if you’re Jerry Seinfeld, you can. He has gone from being a geek from Massapequa to the ultimate Bubble Boy, living in his Central Park penthouse and traveling everywhere by chopper or Porsche. He scorns his fans and hates those who want a piece of him. If you doubt me, rent Comedian, a distasteful 2002 documentary that followed Seinfeld as he reconnected to his standup roots in the wake of “Seinfeld” and condescended toward everyone, most especially the audiences who turned out to see him and rub up next to the Jerry they came to know and love. It turns out that’s what he hates the most.

Now, as Seinfeld prepares for the release of his first full-length feature—an animated movie about bees that looks as mediocre in execution as its premise appeared on paper—Seinfeld seems just as happy to be spending his days in defense of his wife, Jessica, whose own smug superiority became alarmingly clear in recent weeks. After disturbing similarities were noted between her best-selling new cookbook, Deceptively Delicious, and an earlier, highly similar book called The Sneaky Chef, Jessica Seinfeld told The New York Times: ‘’I don’t need to copy someone’s idea. I’ve got enough going on in my life.’’ 

Maybe Jessica does, but not Jerry. The Times then reported that Seinfeld “joined his wife on the phone” and said: ‘’Let’s be realistic—my wife isn’t in this for the money or the publicity,’’ adding, ‘’I really don’t think we have another Watergate here.’’ Did anyone say anything about Watergate? No, I didn’t think so.

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One of the scarier aspects of a television obsession is when you realize how much time it has taken from your actual life. With a sitcom—especially one like “Seinfeld” that turns up several times a day on multiple channels—it can mean many hours that might have been better spent actually enjoying human experience firsthand. But that’s just another testament to the amazing achievement of “Seinfeld.” Along with millions of Americans, I turned over a couple hundred hours of my life to watching Seinfeld’s show.

But there’s no argument: Jerry Seinfeld forever transformed American popular culture with the brilliant comedy of manners he co-created with Larry David in 1989—a television sitcom that dared to dwell fearlessly in the realm of real life and played absurdly with matters of human behavior in ways that no one had ever before dared. “Seinfeld” routinely ridiculed its own audience for its foibles, and in doing so reminded us that self-ridicule often works well as a ratings magnet. “Seinfeld” gave us permission to laugh at ourselves, even if we didn’t admit that we were the man-handed, close-talking, un-sponge-worthy fools on weekly display every Thursday night . 

As befits true geniuses in the rimshot-dominated world of  network sitcoms—there’s usually one deserving breakout hit every ten years or so, if that—Seinfeld and David walked away from “Seinfeld” with enough fuck-you money to last multiple lifetimes. Each earned a nine-figure bank balance from the sale of “Seinfeld” into syndication that could easily cripple even the most pathologically productive writer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. A career with only one landmark creative triumph to show for it is something remarkable, and way more than most of us ever even approach. Seinfeld could easily have moved to Montana and raised cattle for the next fifty years, and still deserved an exalted status in our culture.

So what’s the problem? Why do we feel cheated by Seinfeld’s failures, annoyed by his smugness and angered by his unwillingness to be truly creative? Part of the blame goes to the fact that his former partner, Larry David, so quickly found a format to funnel his impulses—one that might arguably even be seen as more profound and groundbreaking than “Seinfeld” itself. To its most ardent fans, “Curb Your Enthusiasm” is the heroin to “Seinfeld”’s methadone—the pure, true high of observational comedy at its rawest, darkest and richest. Playing some twisted and often-unpalatable version of himself, David has dared to divest himself of all pretense and be the ugliest man in his universe—literally (as in the recent episode in which he revealed his possession of “long balls”) and figuratively (as in his casual dismissal of Cheryl’s airplane distress call, in favor of the TiVo repairman).

While David has been delivering season after season of riveting, Emmy-nominated television on HBO—last Sunday’s episode was his 58th, and one of its best yet—Seinfeld has dabbled in several enterprises but achieved real success in none. He hasn’t developed or extended himself in any meaningful creative way; there have been no screenplays, no books, no comic essays for The New Yorker. He could have been his generation’s Judd Apatow—nurturing new comic talent as a film producer—but instead he went directly from “Seinfeld” into appearing in television commercials for companies like American Express.
Marketing seems to agree with him; he included a shameless plug for Bee Movie in an otherwise undistinguished return to television this fall in the season opener for NBC’s “30 Rock.” In the span of nine years, he’s gone from culture hero to shameless huckster.

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It’s sad to see so much talent wasted in the act of hawking credit cards and computers; aside from the droll familiarity of Seinfeld’s comic delivery, the commercials aren’t even funny. But it’s even sadder to see Seinfeld’s hypocrisy on display in doing them. The man who has lately been such a staunch defender of his wife’s latest noble cause—a cookbook designed to promote healthy eating in children—has now lent his voice to a McDonald’s advertising campaign to promote Bee Movie. Does Seinfeld seriously contend that selling Chicken McNuggets is compatible with fighting obesity? It demonstrates yet again Seinfeld’s seeming addiction to making money; he can’t possibly need the extra cash provided by voicing a McDonald’s “happy meal” toy, and yet he can’t seem to say ‘no’ to the prospect of yet another fat paycheck.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be rich; this isn’t meant to be an argument for altruism at the expense of comfort. Seinfeld has earned his garage full of Porsches, his sky-high penthouse with terraces and picture windows, and his East Hampton estate bought for $32 million from Billy Joel. He gives millions to charity and no doubt does far more to help humanity than anyone knows. To all outward appearances, he is a devoted father; pictures of him toting his three children around New York frequently turn up in the tabloids. Nor can anyone blame him for choosing to pursue occasional standup appearances instead of a steady television gig, or for turning down movie roles. (The Times reported that he recently said no to a David Mamet movie—a sensible decision.) Even his reluctance to relate to fans seems reasonably appropriate for a man known to so many, in a world where websites now traffic in every random encounter with celebrities on the street.

But in a city that so often feels like a small town, we can’t be blamed for wanting more from one of our favorite sons.  To New Yorkers who saw in “Seinfeld” a reflection of their own bemused disdain for the flaws in others, it seems logical enough that they would now feel disenchantment over the show’s own stalled-out star. Maybe that’s why Seinfeld doesn’t want to get too close to his former fans—he fears hearing the question that would make him most uncomfortable: What are you doing these days? The answer doesn’t amount to much. As the undisputed master of his domain, it’s up to Seinfeld to solve his creative crisis, or risk the possibility that one day his fans will simply walk past him on the street, having lost interest in the prospect of another great act in the life of one America’s most gifted comedians.