Comedy

Okay, so I've been thinking more about comedy. I haven't really fleshed out all my thoughts, but since writing is a way to discover one's thoughts rather than merely a method of putting down thoughts that are already fully coherent (as I keep telling my students), I'll go ahead and ponder a bit here.

I previously commented on the role of empathy in comedy and how it can deter. As much as I think this is true, I also think it's totally wrong. I remember reading Neil Simon's autobiography years ago, and he describes his experience as a young playwright struggling with his first play. He received feedback indicating that one of his characters wasn't very likable or sympathetic. He replied something to the effect of, "So what? Characters don't always have to be sympathetic, do they?" To which, his buddy replied, "They do if you're writing comedy." So which is it? Do you need to like the characters and sympathize/empathize or should you have distance from them so you can laugh at them without feeling bad for them? Yes.

When I think about it, I can come up with few examples of successful comedy without sympathetic characters. Basil Fawlty and Blackadder come to mind, but the very fact that they seem so exceptional indicates how rare this is. Similarly, I've known people who can't stand The Office because of this very problem. Rather than standing back and laughing, they cringe at the situations. They empathize too much and feel embarrassed for the characters. Personally, I love The Office. The British version is on my list of top television programs ever, and I also am a fan of the American version. In part I love The Office so much because I do empathize with the characters. It achieves something amazing because I both laugh at them and cringe with them.

Or what about Arrested Development, another wonderful show where the characters are hardly likable? Or, going back to my example from last time of the type of book I'm aiming for, how about A Confederacy of Dunces? Ignatius J. Reilly is such a bizarre character that he isn't exactly likable. Do we empathize with him and laugh because we see ourselves in the situation or stand back at a distance and laugh at him?

Maybe the trouble is in the balance. I'm not sure it's possible to accomplish both a great deal of empathy while also laughing. I once saw a play that was ninety percent silly farce and then the final moments aimed for heavy drama. I considered the play a complete failure. I laughed at the humor, but then felt totally thrown off when I was supposed to care about the characters' fate at the end. I didn't care about them because I hadn't been encouraged to care. But if the play had introduced the balance earlier, and let me see greater depth of character initially, perhaps it could have hit that balance. I don't know.

Maybe it's on a spectrum: there's the ridiculous farce end and the highly dramatic end, and you can never span the entire thing. But if you move closer to the middle, then perhaps you can hit both sides. You can like the characters, laugh at their plight, see yourself in their situation and chuckle, and still be emotionally moved. Maybe the reason this seems so difficult to me is that it is difficult. Move too far in either direction, and the whole thing fails. Or to an extent, it depends on the audience. As I mentioned, I think The Office is brilliant. I laugh, but there is a part of me that feels so bad for David Brent. If I had to conclude whether I find him despicable or pitiful, I'd lean toward pity. But that pity doesn't keep me from laughing.

Hmmm . . . I'll have to keep pondering this issue.