If nothing else, Donald Trump’s rise to political prominence proves that The King of Comedy, Martin Scorsese’s masterfully disquieting 1983 black comedy, is more relevant than ever.

In The King of Comedy, no-talent obsessive Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro) stalks his way to success after he kidnaps talk-show idol Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis) and bullies his way into getting a 10-minute spot on Langford’s show. Pupkin is a uniquely media-obsessed megalomaniac. His lack of talent is irrelevant: he succeeds because he cannot process rejection, and he is successful at pushing buttons. Sound familiar?

With The King of Comedy now playing at New York’s Film Forum, Vanity Fair spoke to Scorsese on the phone about how he created Pupkin, from his mustache to his obsession with celebrity.

__Vanity Fair: You’ve said that Rupert Pupkin is sort of like a younger version of you inasmuch as he is as driven, or perhaps obsessed with succeeding at any costs. Before you started shooting the film, you and Robert De Niro talked to some photographers and autograph collectors in order to get a better hand on the character. Did you see yourself in these obsessed fans? __

Martin Scorsese: I didn’t really understand where I stood in relationship to the film, the story, Rupert Pupkin, and Jerry Langford, too, until I was in the process of making the film—the shooting, the editing. I don’t think I necessarily liked what I found. What I mean is: I saw myself in Rupert, on the surface, as somebody that came from that appreciation of early television of the 50s—particularly New York variety comedy shows. Steve Allen, Jack Paar. These personalities were so vivid and so strong that they became something very new to me. I really appreciated that part of what I guess you’d call “show business.” That part of me is there in Rupert, there is no doubt.

Over the years, I began to realize how genuine and how serious my involvement in The King of Comedy was. De Niro noticed that connection in Paul Zimmerman’s script first. De Niro was also more aware of autograph people and the idolization for the sake of idolization of celebrities. I understand that now, but I stumbled my way through it each day back then. Being around Jerry Lewis helped. He was an idol of mine, and represented all aspects of American show business, which meant a lot to me. [King of Comedy] is about a certain aspect of our culture, and also about not taking yourself too seriously, even though I do. All of that came out during the making of the film.

You got the look for King of Comedy from a tailor called the “Shirtmaker to the Stars.”

Lew Magram. [De Niro, costume designer Richard Bruno, and I] walked by his store, and there was a mannequin in the window. We suddenly realized that the mannequin . . . the mustache, and the hair, the suit, the tie, shirt, shoes, everything—Rupert was looking at us. If you notice, the mustache is slightly shorter on one side. That came from the mannequin. [Laughs]

De Niro had been trying to get you interested in the script since 1976. After you reread Zimmerman’s script, were all three of you on the same page about how Pupkin sees and idolizes Langford, and about how to portray characters? Can you think of an instance where your collaborators surprised you with where they took the character?

Not really, because by that time, I had experienced more of that world that Bob had experienced. By the time I’d made Taxi Driver, New York, New York, The Last Waltz—success, failure, all kinds of things happened. And then I kind of began my career again on Raging Bull. After making Raging Bull, I was at a different point in my life, and was able to absorb The King of Comedy better. To a point. In 1981, when I was shooting [King of Comedy], I realized that I had to wipe the slate clean as a filmmaker and start all over again. I literally started relearning how to make movies. That’s what King of Comedy really helped me to do.

The film’s post-production process was lengthy. During a discussion about *King of Comedy *at the Tribeca Film Festival, you singled out an exchange that took 25 or 30 takes: Pupkin asks Shelly Hack’s character . . .

“Let me speak to Jerry.” I think it took even more than that. Then we realized that we were getting into an obsessive behavior. But we enjoyed the nuance in each take. That made it very difficult to edit the film. I was working on the film shot by shot, scene by scene, character by character. I was working on the levels of hostility and civilized behavior, the mixture of those. Today, I heard an artist on NPR say that he was working some place, and was causing a bit of a disturbance. The interviewer asked, “Did they allow that?” Because he was [obstructing] the exit or something. And the artist said, “Well, I was invited to leave.” In effect, that’s King of Comedy. “They threw you out!” “No, I was invited to leave.” [Laughs]

How hard was it to keep Pupkin from being too pathetic, or grotesque, or easy to dismiss?

We tried out slightly different tones with each take. The other actors responded accordingly, but primarily it was [De Niro]. We were exploring; we didn’t really know. It was a very arduous process.

The King of Comedy ends on a note of uncertainty: Rupert Pupkin succeeded, but we don’t know how. Was that ending exactly what Paul Zimmerman scripted? Has its meaning changed for you since you shot it?

No, not really, except that he becomes successful without being good. He’s good enough. That’s the most unsettling part, that he’s good enough. I didn’t really go further than what Paul Zimmerman had put on the page. And by the way: the monologue that [De Niro] delivers is word-for-word from the script. Paul knew it; he was on another level. I was just making movies.

Could Rupert Pupkin succeed today? Would he be different at all, in a modern context?

I don’t see how. And why should he be? There are so many Ruperts around us. There’s so much dilution, and democratizing of what quality is, for better or for worse.