A Review: “Based on a True Story: Not a Memoir”

We don’t appreciate something until it’s gone is a clichéd phrase but it’s also true. When I heard that Norm Macdonald had died of leukaemia in 2021 I had to pause and think for a little. Norm had been a regular visitor of the Late Night with Conan O’Brien show and his dry, acerbic humour in Billy Madison helped shape my own as a young teenager in Damascus. Desperately craving approval from peers and adults, humour was an outlet for me that I could use to gain attention, respect, and maybe even a girlfriend. He never made any blockbuster comedies or had as high a profile as his other SNL colleagues: Sandler, Farley, or Saget, but he was a force of nature of comedy and at some level it was comforting to still see/hear him in great shows like The Orville. His death made me stop and think of my own mortality in a way that few celebrity deaths had.

I realised that, till that point, I hadn’t actually listened to any of his comedy shows though I’d seen him in some shows. I started to listen to anything I could find on Youtube or Apple Music. I watched and rewatched his 1998 movie, Dirty Work. Finally, I got a hold of his book, “Based on a True Story: Not a Memoir” a semi-autobiographical work of fiction that just doesn’t fit into any kind of genre out there. The book is extremely well written, and Norm’s voice is strong and consistent throughout. The book’s laced with the kind of dark and twisted humour that Norm was famous for, but there’s also a tinge of sadness to it. On one level you can read the book and think it is utter tripe without any truth to it. But if you push past that and just enjoy the journey he takes you on, it charts his journey from Canada to Saturday Night Live and beyond.

The book’s “plot” is structured like any one of the comedy movies of the late nineties, of hapless heroes, comic escapades, tragedy, crises, and then redemption, all told through the point of view of a semi-fictional Norm. The events and characters of this story may be real, but he exaggerates the nature of these events to the point of the absurd, and if you’re a Norm fan you’ll love the way he does it, because it is masterful. As the book draws to a close Norm’s musings over mortality and fate seem genuinely sincere, and they give an elusive hint to the depths in his character. And that’s where I probably felt the kinship with him the most. The humour is a plus, and it’s genuinely funny at times, but as a reader you’re left with the impression that this is all a facade masking a deeper depth of character and spirit. We’ll probably never know. I had been surprised in my quest for Youtube interviews with him to find that the man had been a Christian, but perhaps not in the conventional sense. You get inklings of that spirituality in the book, but like the rest of the scenes, it is only a fleeting glimpse into his character. The book’s not easy to get and quite expensive now on Amazon, about £12 as I write this. But it’s worth it, and one which I’ll keep on my bookshelf for good.

I miss Norm and his humour, and I miss that whole period of my teenage years where comedy seemed so much crazier and darker. He was one of my comedy idols, along with folks like Bob Saget, Jim Carrey, Chris Farly, Adam Sandler and Conan O’Brien (whose show I grew to love a lot more than The Tonight Show) and whilst he was never as popular in the Middle East, I feel he influenced a generation of Third Culture Kids like me who had never fit in anywhere and felt like they were surrounded by crazy people. Rest in peace, Norm, and thanks for all the laughs.

Munzir’s Last Stand

Munzir leaned against an old fir tree to catch his breath. His knees wobbled but now was not the time to sit down. To sit down was to give up and slowly freeze to death deep in this dark Belorussian forest. Some of the others had sat down and given up. For all he knew they might still be there. Sitting quietly, waiting for death. Others had not been so lucky. They were the ones that had been dragged into the Dark kicking and screaming. He was the only one left of the group that had set out in the hopes of crossing the Polish border. He turned to look back from where he’d come. The air was still and all was silent. There were only trees. Trees as far as he could see. Munzir had seen pictures of the Kassab forest reserve whilst growing up in Syria, but he’d never had the chance to visit the coast. Born and raised in Damascus, Munzir knew trees to be quaint lovely things that lined the streets and decorated peoples gardens. The trees in Syria were lovely and docile. They gave apples, pears and lemons. Not like this accursed forest that never ended. He pulled out his battered Samsung phone. He’d made sure to have a full charge before they set out, and the bright light was reassuring. But there was no signal. Not a single bar in two days. He hid the phone in his pocket, suddenly remembering where he was. The dark was frightening but it also hid him. There was a crack of a twig somewhere in the black. It could be something, or nothing. A solitary owl hooted. He pushed off the tree and hurried on in the direction he thought was West, taking care not to make more sound than was necessary. The thing that was chasing him wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t a wolf either. It had picked the people from his group one by one, never letting them rest or gain their bearings. After the first night they’d thought the sun’s light would keep them safe, but they were wrong. He’d never seen what it was. Only a mass of confusion and screaming as another of their number was dragged out into the forest, too fast for any of them to react or help. 

He heard a stream nearby and prayed it might lead him somewhere safe. Maybe there were people close by and he could ask them for a lift or some shelter. Something crashed into the trees behind him. It was loud, deliberate, and no fluke. The thing in the dark was coming for him. His heart raced as his breath quickened. He lost his footing and fell hard onto his front. Sharp pebbles and twigs cut into his hands as he forced himself up. Stay up to live. Stay up to get away. To rest is to die. 

He broke into a sprint, dodging and weaving past the undergrowth. There was no reason to hide or be quiet anymore. The hunter and the prey both knew what was happening. It was coming for him now. The last of the group. He knew there would never be search parties for them. Who would care about some illegal immigrants crossing the border in the middle of nowhere. He thought of his family back in Syria, those that were still alive. His mother, waiting for a phone call that would never come. Maybe in the years to come they’d say so and so had left from Beirut to Istanbul. That the last they’d heard of him was when he’d landed in Bielarus and then nothing. Maybe that was no bad thing. To leave them thinking that he had found his new life in the West and forgotten all about them. The horror of what he’d seen in the past forty eight hours was like nothing in his wildest nightmares. How had he gone from civilization and lights only two days before to this? He fell knee deep into the stream and nearly sprained his ankle. 

The crashing sounds behind him had stopped, but he wasn’t going to stop now. He waded across the water to the other side, stooping to scoop water with his hands to drink. The water was cool and fresh and it revitalised him. He hadn’t realised how tired he was. How thirsty he had been. He stopped then. How long had he been running for? Six months? A year? Something clicked in the back of his mind as he realised how futile it all was. Where was he running to, in the middle of a forest hundreds of miles from anybody. He stopped. Not because he was tired, but because he wished it. Chest heaving with the exertion, he turned to face his fate. Apart from the trickle of the stream all was still. He opened his mouth to speak and only managed a croak. It was probably the first time in aeons that this part of the forest had heard a human’s voice. As if the forest was stifling him from uttering words that would profane this holy place. He cleared his throat and spoke again, and suddenly he wasn’t a frightened creature running for its life in the forest. He was a grown man, and he was tired of running.

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

At first there was only silence, and a part of him hoped that he really was alone. A tree came crashing down, then another, and another, and even in the middle of the night he could make out the Thing in the Dark, wreathed in mist and black, as it pushed its way to the stream’s edge. He picked up a broken off branch from the ground and felt its weight. It hadn’t rotted enough to make it useless, and with enough force he could seriously damage a man. But this was no man. He raised it above his head in defiance and the Thing in the Dark paused for a moment as if unsure of what to do next. 

‘You hear me!’ yelled Munzir, ‘I’m not afraid anymore!’ 

He walked towards the Thing in the Dark, broken branch held high above his head like a broadsword. And the Thing came for him too. And in that moment Munzir felt beating in his heart something he had been yearning for all of his life. He felt freedom.