Making it Explicit

A bit of delayed New Year’s cleaning-up, this: a post I began before Christmas, prompting by seeing Sightseers. The most interesting feature of a worth-catching-though-not-mind-blowing film was the violence, or to be more precise the ways violence was used. A great deal of time is spent building tension as what Tina and Chris are what they will do, interspersed with a few brief but surprisingly graphic depictions of murderous carnage and its aftermath.

I understand that these shots are important to the aesthetic of the film, both as nods to British horror and slasher films, and as providing Tina and Chris with an unpleasant verisimilitude. But, for what it’s worth, they jarred a little with me. In fact, I felt that they worked against the building of tension which preceded them in each case – it might have been better to hold back more, to string us out a little longer by implying rather than showing what happened. They felt a little cheap – which is not to say they cheapened the film as a whole.[i]

All of which poses a perhaps unanswerable question – would Sightseers work without these shots? Unanswerable in that any answer will amount to a subjective judgement and indeed an expression of personal taste regarding the need for violence in a film partly about grisly killings. A slightly more interesting question is whether it would work as a (very black) comedy without explicit violence. I’m inclined to think it would. The explicit bits aren’t funny in themselves,[ii] and I don’t think they were needed to bring out the humour. What’s needed is the contrast between the mundane nature of Tina and Chris’s travels and their wilfully excessive responses to the irritations they encounter en route; and this contrast doesn’t require that we actually see what happens.

A possible if slightly random comparison might be with Lena Dunham’s Girls, celebrated for its gritty realism and audacity, a large part of which involves some non-Beautiful People[iii] having non-stylised sex. This might indicate something about my attitude towards sex and violence respectively, but I think these scenes matter more to the success of the show and to its humour. For a start, they tend to be funny in themselves.[iv] They’re also a good way of getting straight to the key themes of intimacy and gender identity.

Furthermore – though this is more speculative on my part – it might just be that relatively explicit sex has a different effect to violence, particularly when it’s presented in the fairly naturalistic manner of Girls. After all, many of us have had naturalistic sex with non-Beautiful People, whereas very few of us have seen a murder take place, let alone carried one out. In the context of a bittersweet contemporary comedy, the sex still has the power to shock, but it doesn’t feel as though it’s there for that purpose. Rather, it gives Girls a feeling of emotional honesty we can relate to, and without which the show would lose much of its charm. Sightseers is honest in its own way about the frustrations of everyday life, but the violence which results jars any fellow-feeling we might have for Tina and Chris.

---

[i] This isn’t true of all cinematic violence. Sometimes the film requires graphic and even disturbing images (see A Prophet, Hidden, and what seems like half the cinematic output of Korea). None of these, it should be noted, are celebrated as works of comic genius.

[ii] With the exception of the episode involving knitting needles, about which I can say no more.

[iii] Which is not to say that any of the people involved are ugly. This is television, after all.

[iv] A better example is the scene discussed in the opening paragraphs of Elaine Blair’s thoughtful essay on the series.

Attack of the Memecats

Una Mullally’s brief summary of internet humour in one of the many, many round-up-of-the-year articles published last month (a filler of round-ups? A google? An impending Christmas party?) caught my eye. It’s little more than a throwaway comment, but the following in particular got me thinking:

The humour around such ventures is hit and miss, but there’s a jaded predictability to the insistence of laughing at and then spreading increasingly tired gags. Putting the “ah here, leave it out” Dublin holler over footage of an aircraft flying into the Twin Towers just isn’t funny. Neither is a guy looking into the camera on The Late Late Show. Or the laziness of Lolcat text over endless photographs of strange celebrity expressions.

Some gif-based Tumblrs – the scrapbook for a generation – actually yielded some laughs, in particular Dublin Gays and Hungover Owls. But there’s still the nagging sense that trawling through photographs of people who look like things is a colossal waste of time.[i]

I think this is mostly right: there is something about internet humour which tends to make it increasingly jaded and lazy. My best guess is that this is a combination of two broad but plausible generalisations. Humour made for the internet tends to have little depth or nuance. It must work almost instantly, getting a response in the second or two that we typically give to a gif or photo, or the thirty seconds that we might spend on a YouTube clip. That’s why so much of it relies on celebrities or riffs on other well-known clips or tropes such as Lolcat text. The pool from which successful memes are fished is very broad (broader than any previous source of comedy) but very shallow.

Second, successful ideas are reproduced. This isn’t new: everyone has had the experience of hearing the same joke from different people, and usually they won’t have independently come up with the same idea. The internet amplifies this effect, by increasing the number of people who see something amusing and wish to pass it on, and the numbers of individuals who want a slice of the comedy pie and have enough spare time and technical know-how to get involved.  

Something similar has happened in music: the number of people putting out recordings to a (potentially) mass audience is now far greater than ever before, and it’s difficult to see it decreasing in the near future. The means of production and distribution are no longer the exclusive property of a handful of large corporations. But in music, this increases the pressure to stand out by being different (principally by mixing together as many genres and textures as possible). In comedy, the most striking effect seems to be endless variations on existing themes. Ideas tend to get worn out by constant repetition; gems are buried in the landslide of cheap imitations.

That said, I wonder if Mullally’s criticism is a little too sweeping. After all, jokes (particularly short, memorable ones) have been repeated and generated spin-offs for a long time now, without well-established formats (‘What’s the difference between…?’ / ‘How many such-and-suches does it take…?’) becoming obsolete. The fact that there are a lot of bad memes circulating doesn’t make the pictures-of-people-who-look-like-things format, for example, a waste of time in and of itself. It does make the case for greater quality-control, but on the internet it was ever thus.

---

[i] A number of these examples are specifically Irish, but as far as I can see they’re pretty representative of the world-wide web.

What is a Joke? A Dialogue (part 2 - part 1 can be found here)

 

(Note: this blog contains an extremely distasteful and offensive comment - I say 'comment' because whether or not it qualifies as a joke is the reason for its inclusion. Obviously I don't endorse said comment, etc.)

Dear Neil,

 

At the risk of appearing rather churlish in the face of interest from an actual member of the public, I’m not convinced by the equation. For one thing, I’m not sure what difference, if any, holds between ‘+’ and ‘*’. For another, although a joke will often feature all three elements, it seems possible to find jokes that don’t. A simple pun such as ‘Why was six scared of seven? Because seven eight nine’ works almost completely independently of any mood, and its subject matter appears to be nothing other than the potential for double meanings with which the English language, particularly when spoken aloud, is so blessed.

 

But the more general point about mood is well made. Here’s a very similar joke to the previous effort: ‘What did Freud think came between fear and sex? Funf’ There’s a bit more to this joke, for a few reasons – for one thing, the punning is between different languages. But it also involves a shift in what might be termed register, and which is at least close to what you refer to as ‘mood’: what appeared to be psychoanalytic totems are revealed as mere placeholders for wordplay. There’s a change in attitude which isn’t brought about by argument or derision, but by slyer and arguably more effective means. It’s a lot more subtle than the manipulation of mood Frankie Boyle is so good at, but it’s still there.

 

I think your suggestion of constants in the equation, i.e., elements present in every joke or ever good joke, is very interesting. I’m loath to speculate as to what these might be – that way lies the elephant’s graveyard of Theories of Humour – but I’m not so loath that I won’t throw around a couple of ideas for the sake of a blog post. One contender is probably wit (more or less the extra level of cleverness you mention). But witty things are not always funny, as the plays of Oscar Wilde so epigrammatically demonstrate, and not all funny jokes are clever (although interestingly, the best examples I can think of are probably from slapstick).

 

Another possibility is incongruity or the confounding of expectations, which was a criterion I suggested in my original article. Interestingly, I came across a possible counterexample to this recently, in Jim Holt's charming little volume Stop Me if You've Heard This Before. It's one of the few jokes, or attempted jokes, to have impacted on a national level - it cost then US Secretary of Agriculture Earl Butz his job when he was overheard making it on a flight from the Republican National Convention in 1976. It is, undoubtedly, quite something:

 

“I’ll tell you what the coloreds want. It’s three things: first, a tight pussy; second, loose shoes; and third, a warm place to shit”[i]

 

Obviously, this is a truly feeble attempt at humour. Holt comments:

 

“What is striking about the Butz joke, apart from its ugliness, is its dismal lack of art. It contains no paralogical twist, makes no unexpected conceptual links; it is merely a clumsy enumeration of racist stereotypes. (Indeed, it is recognisable as an intended joke only by dint of its formal observance of the Rule of Three.)”

 

I’m inclined to suggest that Butz’s comment is not a joke at all. In saying this, I’m not appealing to its crudely offensive nature. Many jokes are crudely offensive; indeed, revolting examples are only a couple of clicks away from this page. But this particular clumsy enumeration of stereotypes lacks the element of surprise, of the reader or audience having to draw a connection themselves, that seems to me to distinguish jokes from brute insults or offensive remarks.[ii] In short, there is no joke to get here. If there’s anything that characterises jokes, it’s that they can be ‘got’, much as commands can be obeyed or questions answered.

---

[i] Interestingly, in each of the slightly different wordings I’ve read – this one is from Time – Butz is said to have used ‘coloreds’ rather than another well-known term for black people. Although one doubts he chose to phrase his point this way to avoid causing offence.

[ii] These can, unlike Bautz’s effort, themselves be witty: for instance (to continue the theme of 70s politics) Denis Healey’s famous remark that being criticised by Geoffrey Howe was like being savaged by a dead sheep. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t say that Healey had in this instance made a joke.

 

 

What is the Joke? A Dialogue

Dissecting the Frog reader and comic presence in his own right, Neil Wates, writes:

Interested to read your deconstruction of the Joke - something a lot of people (including myself) have been trying to get their heads round. I like your approach very much, particularly the point about subverting audience expectations, which reminds me of this masterful, masterful effort from Plum Wodehouse: 

 "Mr. Wooster, how would you support a wife?"

"Well, I suppose it depends on who's wife it was. A little gentle pressure beneath the elbow while crossing a busy street usually fits the bill."

The point I am interested in is what I am loosely terming the 'mood' of a joke (for now). Some of Frankie Boyle's worst stuff uses exactly the same linguistic and comedic conventions as the above, but the darker subject matter makes it a) seem like a different beast altogether and b) slightly funnier/less funny, dependant on your point of view. I guess what I am loosely grabbing at is that in the subjective world of jokes, there seems to be an equation going on where X = effectiveness of wordplay (into which we incorporate subversion of expectation, maybe), Y = subject matter, Z= Mood (or attitude toward subject matter). So, X+(Y*Z) = Joke, perhaps? Does that work?

I've been thinking about the linguistic value of some forms of comedy, not because I want to come up with some breakthrough theory or anything - just because it tends to ameliorate the joke if there is an evaluated extra level of cleverness (is this part of what we call ‘wit’?), though this is often one of the intangible/abstract reasons why one joke is supposedly 'better' than another. This is often completely separate from subject matter, which is noteworthy. I am not ignoring the completely wonderful subjectivity involved in all this, in fact I am trying to work out why linguistic layout effects jokes precisely because different people find different things funny. A fool’s errand it may be, but I have often wondered if there are one or two constants in the equation alongside the subjective variables of sense of humour, recipient's mood, context, experience etc etc.

It also hasn't escaped my notice that true to beautiful ironic absurdity there is some kind of Heisenberg uncertainty principle effect: The more the linguistic tricks are appreciated the less obvious humour therein (for most except the nerdiest of nerds like you and I). Heisenberg's unfunny principle? Who knows. 

 

Neil Wates runs Monster Comedy, which has disappointingly little to do with monsters.

Pedant’s Corner: The Style Maketh The Man

The first Korean rapper to have a UK No. 1 is clearly a matter of sufficient gravity to merit at least a passing post. Gangnam Style’s success quite possibly owes more to the video, twenty zillion YouTubes hits and all, than the accompanying soundtrack. As online sensations are wont to do, it has spawned all manner of homages, pastiches and spinoff versions. One of the more remarked-on of these is Eton Style, which, if you haven’t seen it, is exactly what you would expect some Eton students doing a version of Gangnam Style to look and sound like – and just as amusing.

There’s probably a lot this little episode tells us about internet humour, but what struck me was that Eton Style was billed on YouTube as a parody of the original. In the spirit of online discourse the information superhighway over

 

I feel bound to protest. A parody isn’t any old humorous imitation: it must have some intent to send up the original by showing it as ridiculous, even if it’s ultimately meant as affectionate. Whatever else Eton Style does, it doesn’t present Psy’s video in this light. Indeed, it is arguable that Gangnam Style is literally beyond parody.[i] It’s difficult to think of any way in which it takes itself seriously, and without this it’s hard to see how it could be held up to ridicule. Its various online take-offs are more like the endless versions of Bruno Ganz’s famous scene from Downfall a few years back – having little to do with the original, merely adopting it as a vehicle for satire or sheer randomness (or, naturally, a crossbreeding of the two).

If anything, the bright young things from Eton are ridiculing themselves. Either considered as public schoolboys or as rebels against their own privileged background, they look pretty silly riding imaginary horses, robes billowing behind them. Most people do - except, it seems, the man who started it all.

---

[i] Unless, perhaps, it was done using infants or trained animals, or the elderly.

Dissecting the Franken: Will Franken interview (part 2)

(part 1 can be found here)

 

 

Donnchadh: Your show isn’t political in the sense that you’re criticising individuals or parties, it’s more cultural politics. And what’s interesting is that it’s mostly aimed at liberal pious politics.

Will: I just don’t like people telling me what to do. Liberals, the liberal bent is this weird religion of language – you can’t say this, the whole thought-crime aspect of stuff like that. Plus I just wanted to avoid the political, too… when I moved to San Francisco, there were so many comedians doing anti-Bush jokes. I was obsessed with trying to be different, so I said I’m not doing Bush jokes, I will make fun of the people who make fun of Bush. Which is what I really loved about Chris Morris. I don’t believe the enemy of today is the government – the big enemy is the media.

Donnchadh: Yes, your other big target is junk TV…

Will: It elected our President. I’m not saying what I think or don’t think about Obama, but when Pepsi-Cola changed its logo to match the Obama logo, I thought, we should be wary of this. I find the liberal mentality very funny. Growing up in Missouri, it was a very right-wing kind of environment - ‘Don’t curse, that’s not right’. But the new Christians are the people who say ‘We call it the n-word. Don’t say that word’.

Donnchadh: On a slightly different note, you’ve performed in States for a number of years, is this your first time performing for an extended run in the UK?

Will: Oh, yeh.

Donnchadh: What are the big differences?

Will: It’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.

Donnchadh: This interview?

Will: This interview, right now. Out here, your ego goes through such a grind. You know there’s three thousand shows going on, you can’t care about numbers or what’s going to happen. I love talking to the comedians out here, the identification we all share is an amazing experience.

Donnchadh: And is your status a bit different than in the equivalent festival in the Sates? Would you consider yourself a bit more underground?

Will: Yeh, definitely. I ran into the woman who reviewed me for the Scotsman, she told me something really cool. In San Francisco especially I’m kind of spoiled, it’s a big fish in a small pool thing. She said ‘Isn’t it great, you get to work for it out here!’ And she had this weird fire in her eyes… This was about ten minutes before I was had to go on. I have been afraid every night… every night as I’m walking up there with that beer on the tray, I go ‘No turning back now!’

Donnchadh: Would you notice that there are different trends in comedy over here, things which are popular at the Fringe and that wouldn’t be so popular in the States, or vice-versa?

Will: I think there’s much more experimentation going on here. I mean,  I haven’t seen The Boy With Tape On His Face, but I’ve seen the posters – for something like that in the States to have that big a poster, I don’t think you’re going to see that. That’s the stuff that really impresses me – the fact that a guy with tape on his face can get that big a billing. It also makes me feel safe, going ‘He can be weird, I can be weird’.  The first time I saw Python’s Flying Circus, the first time I heard Frank Zappa’s Uncle Meat, the first time I read Waiting for Godot, I felt like, ‘I’m not alone and I’m not insane’. Cause I was making weird noises and doing faces as a kid... Or I was trying to do a certain type of comedy that was the same comedy, and once I saw Python and that stuff, I thought it doesn’t have to be that way. Maybe the stuff that you find funny actually is funny, and it doesn’t need to be this linear bullshit you see on the mainstream stand-up shows. It can be weird and subconscious.

Donnchadh: And twenty years later here you are. Thanks Will.

Will: Cheers.

Dissecting the Franken: Will Franken interview (part 1)
 

One of the stand-out acts at this year’s Fringe, at least in terms of heavyweight reviews, is San Francisco-based character comedian and one-man sketch troupe Will Franken. We discussed Python, politics, and other disappointingly non-alliterative topics.

 

Donnchadh: To start with a boring question, tell us a little bit about yourself and how you got into comedy?

 

Will: That’s always a hard question. I was a very lonely child, and somehow I picked up the ability to do voices. I had a cassette recorder, and I loved to talk to myself. When I was really young, the SNL episodes would come on, with Chevvy Chase and John Belushi, and I thought those guys were such rock stars and I wanted to do that. Then when I saw Python, years later, I thought that was the coolest format I’d ever seen.  My first actual show was at sixteen - we did a three-person sketch revue up at this coffee shop in a university town about a hundred miles away. We did a Hindu version of It’s a Wonderful Life, concepts I wouldn’t do now. I’ve never done the traditional stand-up form, I’ve always been more in love with sketch. I love the idea of a face, a voice, a setting, working with the writing to be able to accomplish a joke.

 

Donnchadh: Did you carry on in university?

 

Will: No. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and I thought I’m just going to go to school and get a Masters. I actually started teaching at that time, as an adjunct professor. I was one of those fun professors, which I hate - when I took classes I preferred the dry boring guys that everybody else hates, because I’m there to learn. But I was the kind of fun guy who spent about fifty minutes three times a week trying to make everybody laugh. So I learned improv through teaching, as well as flirting with the students, but that was college so they were legal.

 

Donnchadh: I was going to ask you, was your background an improv one?

 

Will: Improv? I starting riffing about three years ago, I started putting riffs into my act, but I’ve always been more into scripting stuff.

 

Donnchadh: That was the question I was going to ask, because while I was watching your show I got the feeling that, while it was obviously very tightly scripted, the characters seemed to be coming from the characterisation. It seemed to me that you were starting from the vocal or the physical characterisation and spinning it out from there. Would that be the way you develop your ideas?

 

Will: I never write anything down. Ninety-eight per cent of the time, I will just start talking, I’ll start with the voice or face, work with that until I’ve got something of an idea. I won’t even attempt to write anything down until it’s locked in my head first.

 

Donnchadh: The other striking technical feature of your show was the way that your sketches tended to segue quite seamlessly. You didn’t have any blackouts, you didn’t have any music between scenes, so it tended to move from one sketch into the other. Is that a deliberate choice on your part?

 

Will: That was Monty Python. One of the coolest things about those Flying Circus episodes was… they called them links, and sometimes just referencing the fact that they didn’t have a link was a link in and of itself. Or James Joyce even farther back, the whole idea of a stream of consciousness.  I remember Terry Jones in an interview from a couple of years ago, he said they loved a show that Spike Milligan was in, but what killed it for them was the punchlines. They’d be doing these crazy things, and all of a sudden they’d end with a punchline. And he said, we wanted to do what they were doing but never end it, and have it go in and out…