Idle states in the book that women aren't funny because they can't bear to be laughed at.There's a robot writing a dissertation on comedy, and a bunch of sub-Catskills comedians, and Idle's own theories about comedy (which seem borrowed and not terribly insightful), and Idle's theories about women (which are kind of appalling*), but then also murders, conspiracies, and dog defenestration. And that's just in the first 100 pages, which is as far as I got before giving up. Life is too short for dull books. Touted as a comedy, the book slowly but surely develops into a snowball of murder, death and mayhem. Fun right? No, not in the least. Everything that could go wrong does go wrong, in a bad way. You don't laugh, you sit there with your jaw on the floor wondering how the hell it could be promoted as a comedy..the entire book is a JOKE, the revolutionary Nobel-winning-theory-of-everything really killed my parrot, so to speak. I'm even going to have to insert a spoiler to rant properly. Ahem. [ The concept of comedy being the mysterious expansive force in the universe is just stupid. I think Idle just thought it was brilliant that levity sounds similar to gravity. I know it's not to be taken literally, but it bugs the heck out of me to claim that humor is a fundamental force simultaneously as claiming humor is a uniquely human concept (which may or may not be true, as many animals play, laugh and even prank). Excuse me, but don't nuclear forces, electromagnetism, and gravity affect... um, everything? How can you have a fundamental force that is only relevant to humans? I can't ignore the blatant double standard The are two types of comedian," states Carlton in the preface to his dissertation, "both deriving from the circus., which I shall call the White Face and the Red Nose. Almost all comedians fall into one or the other of these two simple archetypes. In the circus, the White Face is the controlling clown with the deathly pale masklike face who never takes a pie; the Red Nose is the subversive clown with the yellow and red makeup who takes all the pies and the pratfalls and the buckets of water and the banana skins. The White Face represents the mind, reminding humanity of the constant mocking presence of death; the Red Nose represents the body, reminding mankind of its constant embarrassing vulgarities.

Is there enough dark matter so that the gnawing effect of gravity will eventually pull the Universe backwards, or is there enough laughing matter for levity to escape the restraining pull of gravity and permit the Universe to go on expanding forever. Take your pick. The optimistic, ever-expanding Universe, or the depressingly collapsing Universe? Manic or depressive? White Face or Red Nose? Tragic or comic? Conspiracy or fuck-up

Carlton being my favorite character...an inspriringly original robot that chose to defy DNAcism (just one of the clever terms the book offers). Fast paced funny light read and quite possibly a valuable how to for comedy business.

 

  Kristi rated it 2 of 5 stars

The Road to Mars was truly funny -- well written with an extremely clever premise. There were even occasional moments of absolute brilliance, and I laughed out loud many times. However, what sunk this book were the two extremely graphic sex scenes. We're talking blush-and-cringe-and-look-away-in-embarrassment graphic. Not sexy. Not funny. They didn't in any way enhance the book, and I found it disappointing that Idle engaged in such trashy, self-indulgent writing. It's too bad, because the book was hilarious.

  Pedro rated it 4 of 5 starsCarlton é um andróide, modelo Bowie 4.5, que vive no futur ou se desloca nele .....
O cara branca é o palhaço austero, alto e magro, que faz sempre a papel de sério e que tenta fazer o seu número, invariavelmente destruído pelo nariz encarnado, baixo, gordo, anárquico, que humilha sempre o outro enquanto lhe baixa as calças. Enfim, o gajo das tartes. Se calhar fazia-se aqui um paralelo interessante com a vida real. Ou melhor, um exercício de imaginação: quem são os gajos das tartes das nossas vidas? Aqueles que subvertem constantemente tudo o que os outros fazem, mascarando com humor um mega ressabiamento contra todos aqueles que, modestamente ou não, vão fazendo pela vida? Alex e Lewis são autores de vaudeville cómico, comediantes de serviço de um paquete de super luxo chamado Pincess Di que faz a ronda pela galáxia, ronda essa chamada o caminho para Marte. Depois disto, bem, é a confusão total, ou não tivesse este livro saído da cabeça de alguém que passou os anos 70, sim, 70, não foi engano, a derreter o cérebro com ácido. E por grande que seja a tentação de descrever a história do livro, sei perfeitamente que o indescritível não se descreve. Lê-se, apenas. Penso que agora, perto do fim, poderia dizer que o autor foi um dos Monthy Python. (...pausa para prestar o culto devoto dos culturalmente correctos...), mas isso para mim não tem significado, uma vez que não me encontro entre os seguidoras dessa religião. Apenas gosto deles, mas não escrevo tratados de devoção infinita ao seu talento. Por uma razão simples. Era tudo das drogas. Ninguém reparou que a partir do momento em que deixaram de se drogar acabou a criatividade. Ninguém acha estranho que em todas as profissões o apogeu venha com a experiência e que no mundo do espectáculo o apogeu venha no princípio?