There are a few moments in cinema so uproariously funny, so joyously absurd, so perfectly executed, that they are seared into the collective comedic consciousness like a grease stain on a McDowell’s uniform. For me, the gold standard remains a scene set in a modest Queens barbershop sometime in the late ’80s; a room so thick with testosterone, talcum powder, and unlicensed boxing commentary, it may as well be its own borough.
The year was 1988. The Soviet Union was still kicking, mullets were a patriotic choice, and a pre-Disneyfied Eddie Murphy was ascendant, having parlayed a few years of SNL, some pants-tightening stand-up specials, and a grin that could sell VHS tapes by the truckload into full-on superstardom. Enter Coming to America; a film that asked, “What if the Prince of Zamunda, a fictional African country that clearly had a thriving economy and excellent dry-cleaning services, decided to move to Queens, New York, in search of love, dignity, and fast food?”
Directed by John Landis; he of Animal House, The Blues Brothers, and the “hey-let’s-make-comedy-look-cinematic” school of filmmaking; Coming to America is what happens when a fish-out-of-water story meets the greatest improv showcase this side of Del Close’s wet dreams.
Murphy, in a move of self-restraint so impressive it should be taught in Buddhist monasteries, plays Prince Akeem as the single most decent human being to ever step on American soil. He’s polite. He smiles. He thanks strangers. He cleans his own royal bath. He’s also got Arsenio Hall as his right-hand man Semmi; basically a walking, talking nope-button to everything remotely American. Together, they navigate New York’s grimiest neighborhoods with the dazed innocence of men who’ve never paid rent or eaten microwaved Cup Noodles.
But let’s not kid ourselves. We’re here for the barbershop scene.
Ah yes, the barbershop: cinematic Eden for aging men who no longer box but still talk as if they could knock out Mike Tyson with a good jab and a stern lecture. It’s in this corner of Queens that Murphy and Hall transform into a squad of geriatric philosophers so vividly real, you can almost smell the Vitalis. Four guys; three Black, one suspiciously old, suspiciously Jewish, and suspiciously Murphy; holding court on Joe Louis’ age, Muhammad Ali’s name change, and who’s the real champ. Spoiler: Joe Louis is 137 years old. According to Murphy’s character, that’s a fact.
These scenes are not just funny. They’re fever-dream funny. They are “rewind it, I need to hear that again” funny. They are “pause the tape, I’m laughing so hard I’ve gone blind in one eye” funny. And the best part? You can feel the improv buzzing underneath. You know these takes went long. You know they were ruined by crew members giggling off-camera. You just know Rick Baker; the legendary makeup artist who turned Murphy into an entire AARP meeting; was sitting off to the side muttering, “What have I created?”
It’s here, in this modest little barbershop under a Queens apartment, where Murphy first truly vanishes into character(s); a prelude to his later, latex-covered detours in The Nutty Professor, Norbit, and that one where he played a spaceship or something. But Coming to America was the original; and, arguably, the only one we needed. It was Murphy and Hall in their prime, riffing like jazz musicians with sideburns.
I think of that scene often, like one thinks of a favorite uncle’s completely inappropriate wedding toast; warm, chaotic, slightly offensive, and impossible not to quote. Landis gave them the camera, Baker gave them the disguise, and the rest? Well, the rest is comedy royalty. Queens, indeed.
So if you’ve never seen it; or haven’t revisited it since your last Blockbuster membership expired, go ahead. Watch the barbershop scene. Try not to laugh. I dare you. Just remember: Joe Louis was 137 years old. And he beat Joe Frazier’s ass.
