Reflections

    

For my last blog post, I’d like to address what I’ve taken away from a class about laughter; a topic which is most certainly not funny. I think the biggest thing I’ve taken away is just that fact, though. I registered for this class expecting to have a fun time giggling my way through a semester while picking up interesting tidbits along the way, but what I found instead was that the world of laughter theory and analysis was a very serious one, with many great thinkers and scientists involved. This discovery has lent my ideal future profession some degree of legitimacy in my mind. If this many people have thought about laughter, and written about it, then it must be a topic of a somewhat high level of importance. Therefore a comedian must also serve a relatively important role in our society.

Beyond my own self affirmation, however, I have seen a need throughout the semester. This desperate desire to understand why we laugh reflects some level of human discomfort with laughter as a practice. It seems to me that the only explanation for such extensive effort put into the definition and reasoning behind laughter is that man has some fear of frivolity. I myself have written multiple essays this semester addressing this issue of frivolity. I think that the most important thing I could say I have learned this semester is that frivolity is nothing to be feared. Rather, it is something to be embraced, because the world is serious enough. So to whoever happens to stumble upon this blog I say this: go do something silly and meaningless. You’ll be glad you did.

Teller v. Listener

            Mel Brooks once said “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.” The quote brings up two important things for any aspiring comedian to be aware of. First, that comedy and tragedy are far more closely linked than one would think (in Shakespeare, for example, the matter can be entirely decided by whether the characters die or get married in the last act), and second that people, as a whole, are far less likely to laugh at themselves than they are to laugh at others. Once you think about this, it seems to be true, but in that truth there is something unsettling.

            If people are unable to laugh at themselves, then there is no hope for comedy to be anything more than an aggravated attack on another person. The very idea that comedy can go both ways in the joke teller-listener relationship often cushions the blow and makes the listener feel better about being kidded. This need to reassure the listener must be filled, so even if we are unwilling to laugh at ourselves, we must at least try to. A comedian getting roasted on Comedy Central may not actually enjoy the roasting process, but as long as he or she pretends to, then we can maintain the teller-listener balance. In a world where people are professionally biting, the common person needs a way to fight back and feel safe. This is because comedy, for all its apparent light-heartedness, is a harsh game, and sometimes the players need help off the bench.

           

On Bombing

As an aspiring stand-up comedian, there are few things that frighten me more in the world than having a joke “bomb.” Bombing is the trade term for a joke that doesn’t get laughs, and is widely regarded as the worst thing that can happen to you on stage. The feeling is difficult to describe, but allow me to try my hand. Basically every joke in a stand-up comic’s set involves extending himself with the understanding that he will be supported by the laughs of the audience. When these laughs are not there, the comedian has a similar sensation to stepping on a stair that doesn’t exist – the pit of his stomach drops out and every neuron in his brain fires to try to regain “balance.”

The sensation is sickening, but the way a comedian conducts himself in the following seconds can determine whether or not it is fatal for his set. It is easy to succumb to the firing neurons and blurt out another joke. However, this joke is almost always as unfunny as that which bombed initially or even worse. The careful rhythm necessary for a good set is upset, and this joke feels forced and uncomfortable for the audience. With calmness, though, a comedian can save himself from his nose dive. A simple pause will let the audience recognize that a joke has just bombed, but if a comic is humble, the audience will laugh out of a mixture of pity and amusement at how bad the joke was. This weak laugh will keep the set alive and let the comic roll into his next joke unfazed. Sometimes, relishing in how unfunny a joke is can be the best way to make it funny.

On Napoleon Dynamite

            When I was in the 7^th grade my parents rented the film Napoleon Dynamite on a Friday night. That next Saturday morning, my mother told me to bring my bowl of Frosted Flakes into the living room so that I could watch the movie. 82 minutes later I had laughed harder than I could ever remember, and by the time I went back to school on Monday I had watched the movie two more times. My family had immediately fallen in love with the film and was so obsessed that I could already quote a good deal of it from memory. Over the next few weeks the movie really caught on. There was scarcely a conversation in the halls of Grayslake Middle School that was not punctuated with soon to be worn out quotes like “Your mom goes to college” and “Tina, you fat lard.” Indeed, Napoleon Dynamite swept across the entire country. A very short time after the film’s release, you could buy a “Vote for Pedro” shirt at Target.

            Everyone I knew was laughing at the adventures of Napoleon, Pedro, and Deb, but, strangely enough, no one could seem to point out why we were laughing. Napoleon Dynamite was not like anything I had ever experienced before. The film was certainly treated as a comedy, and my peers and I had responded to it as such, but I could not put my finger on any distinguishable jokes. What I eventually had to accept was that there weren’t any. Napoleon never delivered a punch line, but still managed to be one of the funniest characters of the last decade. The sheer absurdity of his actions –trying to feed a Llama ham, doing elaborate hand dances, asking a girl to a dance by giving her a grotesque portrait- were the basis of our laughter. The film was my first brush with absurdist comedy, and is one of the better examples of its effectiveness. It is for this reason that I defend the film against those who deride it as being simply “stupid.” Napoleon Dynamite is a supremely self aware film which is not crippled by its strange and irrational plot and characters, but rather is propelled by them.

My Dad's Laugh

There are few sounds more pervasive throughout my lifetime than my father's laugh. Often beyond his powers of restraint, my father’s laugh is high, bouncing, and unmistakable. Growing up, it was my goal in almost all of our interactions to draw it out. A laugh from my father was a wonderful form of affirmation for my smart-alecky efforts. His laugh, however, was hard for me to earn. I would get little chuckles regularly, but a big laugh was only merited by my very best jokes. A laugh from my father would raise the value, I thought, of anything he laughed at. An episode of Seinfeld became riveting entertainment when I found out that a specific phrase from it could tickle his funny-bone. To make my dad laugh was to really be funny.

            Then, when I was about eleven, we moved to a bigger house and my father offered to host his office’s Christmas party. I was forced to mingle for the first half hour in order to pacify the overstressed, hostess version of my mother. While mingling I witnessed something horrifying. My father was talking with one of his employees, and this employee was telling a joke. I cannot recall the exact joke that was told but it probably revolved around some clichéd topic like golf or a nagging wife. What I do remember clearly was not being amused in any way. The joke was an affront to my father, I thought. The man whose sense of humor I lived and died by did not deserve to hear such an unimaginative piece of joke telling.

            Then I heard it- my father was laughing. At first I was confused. Had I misheard the joke? Did I not understand? Was it a joke for adults? But then I noticed that my father’s laughter wasn’t quite right. There was a metallic quality to it. It was as if a classically trained pianist was playing a jazz standard. The notes were right, but they seemed too practiced- too thought out. My dad was faking it. I realized that his laughter was nothing more than a social tool. He was laughing at this man’s joke because it was easier than being a stick in the mud.

            To this day I try my hardest to make my father laugh. I’ve gotten better at it over the years, and it still makes me feel as good as it ever did. And to this day, my dad has never faked a laugh at one of my jokes. I think that’s because he knows that I won’t be hurt if he doesn’t laugh. I’ll still know that he loves me and will probably laugh next time. Plus, having to work for it makes it all the more satisfying when I do succeed.