COMEDY REVIEW : Laughing on Empty

Jerry Seinfeld, who appeared Sunday night at UC Irvine’s Bren Events Center, bills himself with all due modesty as “America’s most imitated comedian” as well as “the king of observational comedy”--news to us.

In one respect he’s right; he is at least one of the creators of the tone that informs the burgeoning sump of stand-up comedians nationwide whose acts and attitudes have become so interchangeable that they can now work under the label generic comedy.

The tone works in lieu of content, and it’s borrowed largely from the mock-earnest swell and bogus sincerity of TV commercials. (“Have a headache? Take Anacin.”) It’s ironic, authoritative, snide, rhetorical, presumptive and inescapably banal, a knowing tone, as in “If you want to lose weight fast, try Dexadril” or “Inquiring minds want to know.”

In a way, Seinfeld (who is 34) and his contemporaries--second-generation TV kids--may be powerless to realize that they’ve unconsciously picked up one of the few areas of American address that ring with confidence and uncontested certainty. The irony comes from their instinct that the pitch is hollow and mostly deceptive. But it’s also relentless, like propaganda. After a while, one begins to believe--or at least share a reference.

The tone, then, is one of complicity. But it’s amazing how little else there is. Seinfeld came on to talk about driving the 405 Freeway; airports and airline travel (it seems every comedian must feel naked without a bit on this topic); life as a Cub Scout; going out on Halloween in a Superman outfit (a large part of his act recalls being a kid); gym class; going to the movies (“I wanna see the guy who buys that horse-bucket-sized popcorn”); the Olympics, and horseback riding--with lots of small side forays into one- or two-joke topics, and the occasional one-liner. (“I’m a single guy; I have no other guys attached to me.”)

Seinfeld is a pleasant, effortless performer who works clean (no small feat in this the time of the howling, offal-heaving monkey). The kind of likable smoothie who’s popular in school because he’s a good dancer and gets his date home on time--and even chats with her dad. There’s no vindictiveness in his act. He doesn’t traffic in the mindless hate--or self-hate--that characterizes so many other stand-ups. He uses his body well. His language has imagery and rhythm. He’s expressive. He’s clear. And he’s completely empty.

There isn’t a single portion of his act that isn’t fun--amusing might be a better word--but 10 minutes or so into it you begin wondering what this is all about, when is he going to say something or at least come up with something piquant. With the great comedians, the joke serves a coherent body of observations, or at least a theme. The laugh is an intro to a deeper truth. The less-than-great cut out after the punch.

Seinfeld has no attention span. He’s flipping channels all the time, through kiddie sitcoms and chitchat, and after a while you feel the dread unease of having overdosed on Fruit Loops. Cub Scouts? Halloween? When he announces with all the officiousness of a crime-show narrator that “the first 10 years of your life the only thought is: ‘ Get . . . Candy !’ ” you strongly suspect that this was a kid in whom nothing much was going on.

Not long ago, Seinfeld appeared on “Later With Bob Costas” and mentioned having grown up in Massapequa, Long Island. “There was nothing there,” he said. “There was just . . . nothing .” He grinned incredulously. Hearing that line, you can understand the trouble with his act: He has no frame of reference. Yeats had a line about “paying homage to unevent.” Seinfeld pays homage to insignificance, and he does it impeccably.