Alas, I was working on my final paper, and for some technical reason (I'm sure of NO fault of mine), I lost some of the oh-so-profound analysis on page 7 and the revised "clever" title I created last night. As a distraction, I thought I'd return to the blogger, which seems to autosave even the most pathetic of my ideas.
However, because I'm a bit angst-ridden towards technology right now, I find it highly appropriate that we are watching Office Space on Monday. The music "Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangsta," coupled with the image of three nerdy guys clubbing a copy machine with a baseball bat, embody what I'd like to do to my old-school HP laptop--and its screen which only works 70% of the time. But the film's image itself with suffice for me...
Oh, Office Space. It seems to encompass a variety of the theoretical stances toward comedy we examined throughout the semester. At its most basic, the film is a satire of the American work place; however, it's laden with amazing catch-phrases ("Riiiiiight...that would be greeeeat," "Sounds like somebody has a case of the Mondays," "The Bobs," "Have you theen my thtapler?," "Showin' me her O face," etc.), frighteningly accurate character parodies/caricatures (Milton, the waiter w/excessive flare, etc.), moments of heightened incongruity (via the character who attempts suicide, and, while in a body cast, says "this is the best thing that ever happened to me" and means it, Peter's preference for construction work over the American ideal of a 9-5 job, a rap soundtrack which contradicts expectations for the characters' music choices, etc.), and, finally, Grawe's survival patterning (the protagonists survive: Peter wins the girl, Milton wins the money, and the co-workers return to their comfort zone in an identical position at a nearly identical company).
Still, though Office Space is a satire, it's 10 years old. Initially it worked to mock the present workday and point out how it potentially leads to frustration and insanity. A decade later, can we evaluate if anything, at all, has changed? The reason I ask this is because, with Idiocracy, we discussed how it works as both an exaggeration of the present and a warning about the future: if we "do nothing" and are "not sure" about anything, we will become--and live amidst--abject.
Office Space is still a relatively recent film, but I think, on some level, it did evoke a call to change, albeit a subtle one. Office Space carved a space for more workplace comedies. The Office(s) came out. Parks and Recreation is a new comedy that explores local government offices. 30 Rock shows the dynamics of work when producing a TV show. Waiting, a film, depicts the ridiculous interpersonal dynamics of a restaurant. Though this may be a stretch, I would venture to say that by more and more media pointing out and making fun of the day-to-day idiosyncracies that frustrate us in our non places of leisure, the more likely we are to note our own annoying qualities when we interact with others at work, school, and so on. And we can laugh about them rather than destroying our copy machines...or HP laptops.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Rogen...Revisited
After viewing several of the stand-up presentations, I've noticed a trend: almost all of the comedians made their way into film or television. A few weeks ago, I blogged about Seth Rogen's persona on film; it's always the same, and, to me, it's boring because it's repetitive and no longer endearing. I made the comparison with stand-up comedians who succeed by relying on the consistency of their personas; ultimately, I theorized that it works on stage but not on film. However, I'm beginning to rethink my stance.
The David Spade presentation, for example, pointed out that he plays one of three personas on screen (and also pointed out that Tommy Boy and Black Sheep are the same film). I couldn't help thinking of Adam Sandler in this way, too. Besides general context (a school vs. a golf course), there's not much difference between Sandler's characters and plot in Happy Gilmore and Billy Madison. Wanda Sykes also carries her persona from stand up to film roles and to a favorite TV role of mine--as herself on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Jerry Seinfeld is another comedian who carries both film and stage genres equally well while maintaining the same "character." Thus far, as the presenter mentioned, Eddie Izzard is the only one who takes a dyamic departure from stage to film...
Therefore, I take back my generalization from the previous blog, and I will re-articulate some things. 1) Characters played by comedians can still be funny--regardless of how repetitive their roles may seem. 2) There's a caveat: those characters need to be unique to that comedian. 3) Seth Rogen's "loveable chubby pothead" character can be played by other people. (Take Superbad, for instance. The younger chubby character--developed, not surprisingly, by Rogen--was played by Jonah Hill, another "loveable chubby pothead.") 4) Because Rogen's roles are both replaceable and repetitive, there's a lack of both novelty and actor necessity (ie, we've GOT to have Rogen in this role.)
The David Spade presentation, for example, pointed out that he plays one of three personas on screen (and also pointed out that Tommy Boy and Black Sheep are the same film). I couldn't help thinking of Adam Sandler in this way, too. Besides general context (a school vs. a golf course), there's not much difference between Sandler's characters and plot in Happy Gilmore and Billy Madison. Wanda Sykes also carries her persona from stand up to film roles and to a favorite TV role of mine--as herself on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Jerry Seinfeld is another comedian who carries both film and stage genres equally well while maintaining the same "character." Thus far, as the presenter mentioned, Eddie Izzard is the only one who takes a dyamic departure from stage to film...
Therefore, I take back my generalization from the previous blog, and I will re-articulate some things. 1) Characters played by comedians can still be funny--regardless of how repetitive their roles may seem. 2) There's a caveat: those characters need to be unique to that comedian. 3) Seth Rogen's "loveable chubby pothead" character can be played by other people. (Take Superbad, for instance. The younger chubby character--developed, not surprisingly, by Rogen--was played by Jonah Hill, another "loveable chubby pothead.") 4) Because Rogen's roles are both replaceable and repetitive, there's a lack of both novelty and actor necessity (ie, we've GOT to have Rogen in this role.)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Obligatory Laughter.
Yesterday Jen and I filmed our attempt at a comedy routine/comedic scenario. We had been collaborating on a script for a few weeks, and, though we slightly lauded ourselves for incorporating a few amusing one-liners, we continued to ask each other a central question: "Is this actually going to be funny to anyone else?"
After spending the semester analyzing what elements/theories go into humor, we drew from the critics and Dr. McIntire-Stasburg's lectures to justify our otherwise potentially lame material. My favorite excuse was, "Well, I'm not sure the class will laugh at this, but it is drawing on repetition/incongruity/[insert key term of choice], so it might work..."
I'm not sure, though, if the theoretical justifications did work in this instance. However, we did laugh at ourselves the entire time we were filming--partially because we felt silly (and we kept making references to 8th grade group projects that involved a video camera) and partially because we (and only we) thought the material warranted a laugh. Jen and I attempted to create humor based on what we find funny (and, admittedly, some of it's a bit absurd...though I'll avoid leaking any of the "dynamic" plot details). Still, if we didn't laugh, who would? It was, without sounding too self-critical, obligatory. Our laughter was essentially the laughter of nerves. So, my question is, where does obligatory nervous laughter fit into theories of humor? Perhaps it tends more toward Grawe's notion of survival; though, in this context, it is more the survival of the "comics'" stage presence and less the survival of humanity. On the other hand, maybe, for an afternoon, Jen and I forcefully positioned ourselves as insiders, as "superiors" who could laugh at something that others may not understand? Then again, that theoretical connection is still a bit of a stretch...
After spending the semester analyzing what elements/theories go into humor, we drew from the critics and Dr. McIntire-Stasburg's lectures to justify our otherwise potentially lame material. My favorite excuse was, "Well, I'm not sure the class will laugh at this, but it is drawing on repetition/incongruity/[insert key term of choice], so it might work..."
I'm not sure, though, if the theoretical justifications did work in this instance. However, we did laugh at ourselves the entire time we were filming--partially because we felt silly (and we kept making references to 8th grade group projects that involved a video camera) and partially because we (and only we) thought the material warranted a laugh. Jen and I attempted to create humor based on what we find funny (and, admittedly, some of it's a bit absurd...though I'll avoid leaking any of the "dynamic" plot details). Still, if we didn't laugh, who would? It was, without sounding too self-critical, obligatory. Our laughter was essentially the laughter of nerves. So, my question is, where does obligatory nervous laughter fit into theories of humor? Perhaps it tends more toward Grawe's notion of survival; though, in this context, it is more the survival of the "comics'" stage presence and less the survival of humanity. On the other hand, maybe, for an afternoon, Jen and I forcefully positioned ourselves as insiders, as "superiors" who could laugh at something that others may not understand? Then again, that theoretical connection is still a bit of a stretch...
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
"Russ," LBJ, and the Body Politic
While considering the construction of political satire within Baker's short story/woven anecdote of his journalistic encounters with LBJ in class, I also began thinking about what this satire says about the American body politic. Generally, body politic refers to the idea that a nation's leader is both a physical and metaphorical embodiment of the nation and its subjects. For example, when Bush was president and made comments that may have come across as ignorant or silly (i.e., "strategery" and "nuc-u-lar"), many other countries began to stereotype all Americans in the same way. (As a sidenote, I've noticed many of my blog comments invoke Bush as an example a lot; however, this is not intended to "Bush bash" or be offensive...)
In regards to LBJ and the body politic, it seems as if "Russ" and his journalistic dialogue with the president comes to represent something beyond a facade of friendliness. What I mean is that Baker provides the reader not only with an insider's view of how politicians position themselves as "nice guys" to get ahead in a journal article, but how a false position of "you're my buddy" vs. not knowing someone from the Jolly Green Giant vis-a-vis the president can come to signify the United States' relationship to others outside the country and among fellow citizens. For instance, the same phone calls LBJ makes to Russ are much like the propaganda that surfaces during presidential campaigns; presidential candidates speak to viewers as if they know them and their situations in order to gain votes. Yet, aside from "Joe the Plumber," most candidates fail to recognize their potential voters/"fellow Americans" beyond the generalizations and directly by name. Finally, though the president/political leader may memorize other countries' leaders' names when preparing for a meeting or to reference their name in speech, some just as easily forget when that country is neither a threat nor a potential benefit.... (And, it's often assumed that many Americans operate similarly...) Just a thought.
In regards to LBJ and the body politic, it seems as if "Russ" and his journalistic dialogue with the president comes to represent something beyond a facade of friendliness. What I mean is that Baker provides the reader not only with an insider's view of how politicians position themselves as "nice guys" to get ahead in a journal article, but how a false position of "you're my buddy" vs. not knowing someone from the Jolly Green Giant vis-a-vis the president can come to signify the United States' relationship to others outside the country and among fellow citizens. For instance, the same phone calls LBJ makes to Russ are much like the propaganda that surfaces during presidential campaigns; presidential candidates speak to viewers as if they know them and their situations in order to gain votes. Yet, aside from "Joe the Plumber," most candidates fail to recognize their potential voters/"fellow Americans" beyond the generalizations and directly by name. Finally, though the president/political leader may memorize other countries' leaders' names when preparing for a meeting or to reference their name in speech, some just as easily forget when that country is neither a threat nor a potential benefit.... (And, it's often assumed that many Americans operate similarly...) Just a thought.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Rogen Rant
This entry may not be particularly scholarly in nature. However, I want to get this off my chest: Seth Rogen is getting on my nerves. When he was on Freaks and Geeks, his offbeat, one-line sarcastic observations were endearing; they made his "freak" character likeable. I think, though, that my problem with Rogen began after Knocked Up.
And I'm pretty sure I now know why. We've spent a lot of time in class talking about how many successful stage comedians adopt a role; the audience begins to have certain expectations of their stage presence, which we've assumed is likely an exaggeration of their true personalities (and personality quirks). In terms of Rogen, he too has adopted a "stage presence." The same one line witticisms that rendered him endearing about 10 years ago on Freaks and Geeks now make him redundant. He plays the chubby, cynical, but generally good-hearted twenty-something in pretty much every film he's in: Knocked Up, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, 40 Year Old Virgin, Superbad, Pineapple Express... (you get the idea). Okay, so Knocked Up was pretty funny; still, the situation the character was in made the film humorous--not the character himself. And Superbad and 40 Year Old Virgin were hysterical only because Rogen was a supporting character instead of a lead.
Okay, so I'm getting to a point here: stand up comedians' success in self-caricaturization (is that a real term?) fails to translate to the same success for actors in comedic roles. There's a lack of novelty when this happens across film roles. And, at least when caricatured comedians are on stage, they can tailor their quirks toward the audience in front of them; film actors perform for an imagined audience and for screenwriters and directors. In the case of Rogen (and Apatow), I think their audiences may be ready for something different...
And I'm pretty sure I now know why. We've spent a lot of time in class talking about how many successful stage comedians adopt a role; the audience begins to have certain expectations of their stage presence, which we've assumed is likely an exaggeration of their true personalities (and personality quirks). In terms of Rogen, he too has adopted a "stage presence." The same one line witticisms that rendered him endearing about 10 years ago on Freaks and Geeks now make him redundant. He plays the chubby, cynical, but generally good-hearted twenty-something in pretty much every film he's in: Knocked Up, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, 40 Year Old Virgin, Superbad, Pineapple Express... (you get the idea). Okay, so Knocked Up was pretty funny; still, the situation the character was in made the film humorous--not the character himself. And Superbad and 40 Year Old Virgin were hysterical only because Rogen was a supporting character instead of a lead.
Okay, so I'm getting to a point here: stand up comedians' success in self-caricaturization (is that a real term?) fails to translate to the same success for actors in comedic roles. There's a lack of novelty when this happens across film roles. And, at least when caricatured comedians are on stage, they can tailor their quirks toward the audience in front of them; film actors perform for an imagined audience and for screenwriters and directors. In the case of Rogen (and Apatow), I think their audiences may be ready for something different...
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Texas Humor
Okay, go ahead and laugh: I'm from Texas. I'm used to laughing about it all the time, particularly because some of the stereotypes (even if I don't conform to all of them) have traces of truth in them...
1. The accent. Ya'll know what I'm talkin' about. Sure, some people tell me, "what, your from Texas? You don't have an accent." Truth is, I've just learned to hide it in certain situations.
2. The attitude. Most native Texans believe that Texas is the best state ever. I'm not so sure about that; but, as an Austinite, I do believe Austin is the best city ever.
3. The oversize cars. Again, not so true for me. I like to save on my gas. There are a lot of giant trucks, though -- especially Ford150s. And they force my little Civic into the slow lane constantly.
4. The food. We all love barbecue (and big portions of it), right? Almost every party in the state features a beans, brisket, and ribs buffet. Those of us who prefer a lighter feast are generally forced to lurk around the bread basket and salad station. But I do love Tex-Mex (and a nice cold Shiner Bock beer; I'll pass on the Lone Star...).
Listing out the general Texas stereotypes for me, as a native Texan, doesn't make me feel inferior. Heck, I'm an insider; I can make fun of my own. And this parallels a lot of the readings we've done--more directly with the Molly Ivins piece (which reminded a lot of Kinky Friedman's writings; "he ain't Kinky...he's my governor") and more indirectly with the gendered humor, the southern humor, and the social humor: we have to laugh at ourselves and our practices in order to a) understand the situations and contexts that make us the way we are and b) point out the situations in which show us our personal flaws (in my case, stubbornness -- other cities are probably just as cool as Austin...) and, in the context of misconception, socially (seriously, not everyone in Texas has big hair, votes Republican, and works for an oil company....). To that, I say "yee haw." I'm off to the hair salon; this time, I'll ask for extra hair spray on my bangs.
1. The accent. Ya'll know what I'm talkin' about. Sure, some people tell me, "what, your from Texas? You don't have an accent." Truth is, I've just learned to hide it in certain situations.
2. The attitude. Most native Texans believe that Texas is the best state ever. I'm not so sure about that; but, as an Austinite, I do believe Austin is the best city ever.
3. The oversize cars. Again, not so true for me. I like to save on my gas. There are a lot of giant trucks, though -- especially Ford150s. And they force my little Civic into the slow lane constantly.
4. The food. We all love barbecue (and big portions of it), right? Almost every party in the state features a beans, brisket, and ribs buffet. Those of us who prefer a lighter feast are generally forced to lurk around the bread basket and salad station. But I do love Tex-Mex (and a nice cold Shiner Bock beer; I'll pass on the Lone Star...).
Listing out the general Texas stereotypes for me, as a native Texan, doesn't make me feel inferior. Heck, I'm an insider; I can make fun of my own. And this parallels a lot of the readings we've done--more directly with the Molly Ivins piece (which reminded a lot of Kinky Friedman's writings; "he ain't Kinky...he's my governor") and more indirectly with the gendered humor, the southern humor, and the social humor: we have to laugh at ourselves and our practices in order to a) understand the situations and contexts that make us the way we are and b) point out the situations in which show us our personal flaws (in my case, stubbornness -- other cities are probably just as cool as Austin...) and, in the context of misconception, socially (seriously, not everyone in Texas has big hair, votes Republican, and works for an oil company....). To that, I say "yee haw." I'm off to the hair salon; this time, I'll ask for extra hair spray on my bangs.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Why Fart Jokes Don't Stink
For my book review, I read Valerie Allen's On Farting, a critical analysis of the use of flatulence to evoke laughter in the medieval period. However, what's great about Allen's analysis is how she connects much of the fart's significance to the present: farts--manifested physically, artistically, literarily, and historically--represent something so innately common to the human condition that laughing at a fart is essentially laughing at humanity. In other words, though her scholarly approach caters to an academic audience of either scatologists, medievalists, or both, the overall point resonates (was that a bad pun?) with even the five year old reader of the popular books Everybody Poops and Everybody Farts. This notion of equalization is like the Bakhtinian theory often applied to bodily releases, in that Bakhtin positions scatological actions as more a reminder of the social leveling of the body (i.e., all humans fart, poop, pee, etc. as methods of digestive self-regeneration).
Yet one thing I've pulled out of Allen's examination is the notion that farts are products of hyphenation; they are both intimate (in that they emerge from the inside of our bodies, and those we share them with become "intimately exposed" with our internal goings-on) and extimate (because they are now outside of us, their odor and sound become part of the air). And this hyphenated nature of the fart makes me think, in the context of this class, not only why farts are comical because they expose something intimately/extimately stinky about the human body but also why they are funny on a communal level that differs from Bakhtin's ideas. The fart is a hyphenated "insider-outsider." Yes, those who "let flee" (as Chaucer might say) the fart, and the fart itself, are often laughed at--as inferior outsiders. Or, if someone is farted on, the fart recipient is inferior, while the farter and the viewers are superior. Yet a certain equalizing element also emerges in the farter: the farter's expulsion of air from the rear is much akin to the laugher's expulsion of air from the mouth. In many ways, the hot air of laughter and the fart are identical (particularly if the laugher has halitosis!), and both spectator and spectacle are culpable. Moreover, the laugher and farter are both releasing something together, and they both often feel better for doing so; thus, the self-fulfillment is mutually collaborative.
At any rate, it seems that farts are funny on numerous levels. And perhaps that's why the fart joke (and the fart itself) remains funny--regardless of historical context.
Yet one thing I've pulled out of Allen's examination is the notion that farts are products of hyphenation; they are both intimate (in that they emerge from the inside of our bodies, and those we share them with become "intimately exposed" with our internal goings-on) and extimate (because they are now outside of us, their odor and sound become part of the air). And this hyphenated nature of the fart makes me think, in the context of this class, not only why farts are comical because they expose something intimately/extimately stinky about the human body but also why they are funny on a communal level that differs from Bakhtin's ideas. The fart is a hyphenated "insider-outsider." Yes, those who "let flee" (as Chaucer might say) the fart, and the fart itself, are often laughed at--as inferior outsiders. Or, if someone is farted on, the fart recipient is inferior, while the farter and the viewers are superior. Yet a certain equalizing element also emerges in the farter: the farter's expulsion of air from the rear is much akin to the laugher's expulsion of air from the mouth. In many ways, the hot air of laughter and the fart are identical (particularly if the laugher has halitosis!), and both spectator and spectacle are culpable. Moreover, the laugher and farter are both releasing something together, and they both often feel better for doing so; thus, the self-fulfillment is mutually collaborative.
At any rate, it seems that farts are funny on numerous levels. And perhaps that's why the fart joke (and the fart itself) remains funny--regardless of historical context.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
You're [not] welcome, America.
If it hasn't been apparent thus far based on my blog posts, I'm a bit obsessed with TV. Well, last night I watched Will Ferrell's (semi) one man show, You're Welcome, America. The notorious funny guy impersonated George W. Bush for 90 minutes with a "plot" woven loosely together by episodic moments from the former president's life and career. I, like many people (regardless of political leanings), enjoy a good Bush joke/impersonation. And, overall, Ferrell did an excellent job mimicking and perfecting the Bush faux pas he once impersonated weekly on SNL. He also relied heavily on repetition of phrases and images in ways that kept the audience in front of him (and me at home) chuckling--particularly when a graphic image of what were supposed to be the former president's genitals kept cropping up in each picture montage.
However, one aspect--especially in light of all of the gender-based discussions we've been having in class--was exceptionally troubling: the show's treatment of Condoleeza Rice. Within one of the picture montages, Ferrell as Bush reflected "lovingly" on every member of the Bush administration. Alongside Cheney's photo, Ferrell discussed how he walked into the White House basement and saw Cheney signing a Faustian "deal with the devil." Colin Powell was only lightly heckled. Rumsfeld and Rove got some harsher attention. After the slide show, "Bush" mentioned that only one person really knew how to keep him working late at night. Then, an actress resembling Rice (but adorned in a SUPER short skirt) sauntered on the stage, accompanied by what can only be referred to as "stripper music." The Rice character danced around Ferrell, positioned herself on the desk, opened her legs widely, and the two actors simulated sexual activity.
My problems with this scene are twofold, with the first being less germane to this class in that females in office/positions of power are ultimately put in imagined scenes of [sexual] subordination--Rice's character was dancing on display for "Bush" and for the audience before positioning herself under Ferrell for the simulation scene. The other issue I take with this scene has more to do with comediennes/actresses in general.
I looked this actress up on IMDB.com (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1386011/), and her name is Pia Glenn. Based on the lack of credits, I'd guess she's early in her film career. However, some user comments indicate her acting/stage career is a bit more developed; she was in Spamalot!. Nonetheless, aside from her striking resemblance to Rice, it seems to me that an assertion could be made regarding females on the stage: to be funny, for the most part, they often have to rely on their bodies and/or sexuality. No one cares what Will Ferrell's body looks like; in fact, it's almost funnier if he's a bit out of shape. (I recall an old episode of Conan where Ferrell arrived nearly nude on set, dressed in an elf hat and green thong.) Sure, some have fought against this (Cho, Garofalo, Roseanne). But, thinking about all the Funny Ladies, most were discussing issues of sexuality/dating, and many used their bodies to do so...
So, to be noticed, or, more specifically, to be noticed as funny, perhaps some women feel they must begin their careers on stage/film by mildly exploiting the female on a holistic level (even the female like Rice who was in a position of power). I mean, I probably would never have noticed Pia Glenn if she had made less of an "entrance."
However, one aspect--especially in light of all of the gender-based discussions we've been having in class--was exceptionally troubling: the show's treatment of Condoleeza Rice. Within one of the picture montages, Ferrell as Bush reflected "lovingly" on every member of the Bush administration. Alongside Cheney's photo, Ferrell discussed how he walked into the White House basement and saw Cheney signing a Faustian "deal with the devil." Colin Powell was only lightly heckled. Rumsfeld and Rove got some harsher attention. After the slide show, "Bush" mentioned that only one person really knew how to keep him working late at night. Then, an actress resembling Rice (but adorned in a SUPER short skirt) sauntered on the stage, accompanied by what can only be referred to as "stripper music." The Rice character danced around Ferrell, positioned herself on the desk, opened her legs widely, and the two actors simulated sexual activity.
My problems with this scene are twofold, with the first being less germane to this class in that females in office/positions of power are ultimately put in imagined scenes of [sexual] subordination--Rice's character was dancing on display for "Bush" and for the audience before positioning herself under Ferrell for the simulation scene. The other issue I take with this scene has more to do with comediennes/actresses in general.
I looked this actress up on IMDB.com (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1386011/), and her name is Pia Glenn. Based on the lack of credits, I'd guess she's early in her film career. However, some user comments indicate her acting/stage career is a bit more developed; she was in Spamalot!. Nonetheless, aside from her striking resemblance to Rice, it seems to me that an assertion could be made regarding females on the stage: to be funny, for the most part, they often have to rely on their bodies and/or sexuality. No one cares what Will Ferrell's body looks like; in fact, it's almost funnier if he's a bit out of shape. (I recall an old episode of Conan where Ferrell arrived nearly nude on set, dressed in an elf hat and green thong.) Sure, some have fought against this (Cho, Garofalo, Roseanne). But, thinking about all the Funny Ladies, most were discussing issues of sexuality/dating, and many used their bodies to do so...
So, to be noticed, or, more specifically, to be noticed as funny, perhaps some women feel they must begin their careers on stage/film by mildly exploiting the female on a holistic level (even the female like Rice who was in a position of power). I mean, I probably would never have noticed Pia Glenn if she had made less of an "entrance."
Friday, March 27, 2009
Funny Lady -- but not "Lady-like"
I promised to comment on in-class material, so here goes. Of all the "funny ladies" we watched, Janeane Garofolo was my favorite. However, I think my favorable opinion of her routine was one of the few. Most of the responses pointed out that her routine was too topical, and, by extension, too dated. Her voice, some said, was too deadpan, her appearance too sloppy.
By contrast, those 3 factors made the performance for me. I found her routine to be refreshing, mainly because (particularly when she was commenting on Steven Segal and TGIFriday's) I agreed with what she was saying, but she articulated the ideas both clearly and comically--something I don't think I could do. I was impressed not only with her approach but also with her non-pretentious wit. As someone pointed out (I think it was Abby?), Garofolo emphasized a lot of "problems" with pop culture, but the underlying tone of apathy--rather than of motivation for change--didn't make her come across as talking down to the audience. That way, if someone was a fan of the gigantic menu, he/she wouldn't have hurt feelings (i.e., no "outsiders" were created).
However, some people in class articulated feelings of being an "outsider" because of the routine. "What's Melrose Place?" some asked. True, pop culture references can be dated. Perhaps Garofolo could have included some context for the setting of the show. But, a lot of the context and tone of her commentary provided answers on context. The blatantly sarcastic "you've reallllly gotta be careful when driving through that rough area" suggested that the area is probably pretty posh. The sarcasm also forced audiences who weren't familiar with the show to interact--they were thinking and participating.
Okay, so I love popular culture references...maybe too much. But even without Garofolo's sardonic reflection on the trends of the masses, the comedian, to me, was still pretty funny precisely for the reason that she wasn't too feminine. The girly act, in my opinion, gets stale a lot more quickly than the temporal reference to Michael Bolton and Kenny G...
By contrast, those 3 factors made the performance for me. I found her routine to be refreshing, mainly because (particularly when she was commenting on Steven Segal and TGIFriday's) I agreed with what she was saying, but she articulated the ideas both clearly and comically--something I don't think I could do. I was impressed not only with her approach but also with her non-pretentious wit. As someone pointed out (I think it was Abby?), Garofolo emphasized a lot of "problems" with pop culture, but the underlying tone of apathy--rather than of motivation for change--didn't make her come across as talking down to the audience. That way, if someone was a fan of the gigantic menu, he/she wouldn't have hurt feelings (i.e., no "outsiders" were created).
However, some people in class articulated feelings of being an "outsider" because of the routine. "What's Melrose Place?" some asked. True, pop culture references can be dated. Perhaps Garofolo could have included some context for the setting of the show. But, a lot of the context and tone of her commentary provided answers on context. The blatantly sarcastic "you've reallllly gotta be careful when driving through that rough area" suggested that the area is probably pretty posh. The sarcasm also forced audiences who weren't familiar with the show to interact--they were thinking and participating.
Okay, so I love popular culture references...maybe too much. But even without Garofolo's sardonic reflection on the trends of the masses, the comedian, to me, was still pretty funny precisely for the reason that she wasn't too feminine. The girly act, in my opinion, gets stale a lot more quickly than the temporal reference to Michael Bolton and Kenny G...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Soup vs. The Dish
Okay, so I plan on posting about some of the stuff we watched in class regarding female comedians and gender sometime today; however, because I've been thinking about some of the career discrepancies between the two genders, I wanted to point out two examples from my good friend, cable TV: E!'s The Soup vs. Style's The Dish.
The Soup's host, Joel McHale, is, in my opinion, one of the most hilarious hosts on television. (He also does a comedy tour and was recently in STL, but, sadly, I couldn't go.) Part of his success, undeniably, stems from the creative writers on his show, who find absolutely ridiculous clips from reality television and give McHale a few lines commenting on their absurdity. They also rely heavily on repetition from week to week: viewers can always count on a clip from an unknown TV cooking show called Dutch Oven (viewers can run with that reference without much help...), a year-old clip from Oprah, where the talk-show host swings from a mini bungee cord and complains of her aching female anatomy, an excerpt from one of Tyra Banks' million shows where the model/hostess inevitably makes some exaggerated self promoting/egotistical comment, and (my personal favorite) some sort of clip from The Hills or The City that reminds viewers just how ignorant and fake the stars (and the plots) are.
But McHale's facial expressions, self-deprecation, and timing really make the humor. He raises his eyebrows often, has a deadpan voice, and makes room for a lot of pauses. In comparison, The Dish (with an annoying emoticon before it which actually reads The :Dish), host Danielle Fishel explores similar clips; but, she also comments on clips from bridal shows, excerpts from women's magazines, and makeover shows. Clearly, her target audience is much more female. As such, her delivery is also a bit more gendered: she often uses a high pitched, "valley girl" voice (similar to Caroline Rhea's), fluffs her hair, and makes references to dieting.
In my opinion, her show isn't as funny--even though the basic material and premise is much like The Soup. Its target audience is just too targeted. I mean, as a female in her mid-twenties, I'm part of the target audience, and I think it's too girly. Perhaps my observation, as a female, harkens back to what we were trying to figure out in class regarding the success of female comedians: their hyper-feminized approach can be overkill. Sure, Danielle Fishel may be simultaneously mocking this sort of behavior, but, week after week, it gets too repetitive, the voice gets too squeaky, and the fluffed hair gets, frankly, too fluffy. By contrast, Joel McHale seems to target a broader audience by merely making fun of what's on every TV channel...not just the bridezillas from WE Tv or the strange female celebrity quotes from Cosmopolitan headlines.
The Soup's host, Joel McHale, is, in my opinion, one of the most hilarious hosts on television. (He also does a comedy tour and was recently in STL, but, sadly, I couldn't go.) Part of his success, undeniably, stems from the creative writers on his show, who find absolutely ridiculous clips from reality television and give McHale a few lines commenting on their absurdity. They also rely heavily on repetition from week to week: viewers can always count on a clip from an unknown TV cooking show called Dutch Oven (viewers can run with that reference without much help...), a year-old clip from Oprah, where the talk-show host swings from a mini bungee cord and complains of her aching female anatomy, an excerpt from one of Tyra Banks' million shows where the model/hostess inevitably makes some exaggerated self promoting/egotistical comment, and (my personal favorite) some sort of clip from The Hills or The City that reminds viewers just how ignorant and fake the stars (and the plots) are.
But McHale's facial expressions, self-deprecation, and timing really make the humor. He raises his eyebrows often, has a deadpan voice, and makes room for a lot of pauses. In comparison, The Dish (with an annoying emoticon before it which actually reads The :Dish), host Danielle Fishel explores similar clips; but, she also comments on clips from bridal shows, excerpts from women's magazines, and makeover shows. Clearly, her target audience is much more female. As such, her delivery is also a bit more gendered: she often uses a high pitched, "valley girl" voice (similar to Caroline Rhea's), fluffs her hair, and makes references to dieting.
In my opinion, her show isn't as funny--even though the basic material and premise is much like The Soup. Its target audience is just too targeted. I mean, as a female in her mid-twenties, I'm part of the target audience, and I think it's too girly. Perhaps my observation, as a female, harkens back to what we were trying to figure out in class regarding the success of female comedians: their hyper-feminized approach can be overkill. Sure, Danielle Fishel may be simultaneously mocking this sort of behavior, but, week after week, it gets too repetitive, the voice gets too squeaky, and the fluffed hair gets, frankly, too fluffy. By contrast, Joel McHale seems to target a broader audience by merely making fun of what's on every TV channel...not just the bridezillas from WE Tv or the strange female celebrity quotes from Cosmopolitan headlines.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
"Lookin' for some hot stuff": The Gendered Sounds of Nudity
We talked yesterday about some of the discrepancies between male and female stripping/nudity. In the context of the two films, one of the bigger distinctions I noticed was how the music varies; upbeat disco blares in both the foreground and background of The Full Monty, while more subtle, sentimental music tracks accompany Calendar Girls. Indeed, the music seems to coincide with themes: a middle-aged "girl power" calendar for charity should be accompanied by instrumental tunes, and a struggling group of unemployed steel workers using creative means to support themselves and their families should naturally be accompanied by "Hot Stuff." But, at the same time, I think both films' use of music is deeply ingrained in something else--the power of persuasion, the power to convince the audience that both forms of traditionally unaccepted nudity are okay...and even good. And therein lies the gender stereotyping.
In order to convince an audience that public female nudity is both good and socially empowering in this instance, the filmmakers likely have to incorporate the softer sentimental tunes to evoke the emotional appeal. At times, the instrumental music is upbeat and playful--usually indicating to the audience that the group has achieved some sort of success. (And we see that with the instrumental version of the mild and happy "Sloop John B," for example.) But the music is never scandalous. No one hears "You Can Leave Your Hat On," a tune with suggestive lyrics that concludes The Full Monty.
No, that tune would align the audience with the antagonists of Calendar Girls--the prudish women's club members who initially scorn Helen Mirren's character's idea for the calendar, who believe such a display would be pornographic. As such, my overarching argument regarding the musical choices within Calendar Girls is that, to appeal to a female audience who may be against women's bodies on display (regardless of the charitable intention), other elements of soft sentimentality must be present so that the women maintain their maternal, socially acceptable femininity. Likewise, the disco music in The Full Monty makes the men (who by police and other familial institutions in the film are viewed as negative role models) seem like self-motivated, creative, and comical characters rather than mere strippers. The "Hot Stuff" number in the unemployment line, for example, makes them stand out from the crowd of stressed out job seekers; they are achieving a level of agency that is not only comical...but also stereotypically masculine.
In order to convince an audience that public female nudity is both good and socially empowering in this instance, the filmmakers likely have to incorporate the softer sentimental tunes to evoke the emotional appeal. At times, the instrumental music is upbeat and playful--usually indicating to the audience that the group has achieved some sort of success. (And we see that with the instrumental version of the mild and happy "Sloop John B," for example.) But the music is never scandalous. No one hears "You Can Leave Your Hat On," a tune with suggestive lyrics that concludes The Full Monty.
No, that tune would align the audience with the antagonists of Calendar Girls--the prudish women's club members who initially scorn Helen Mirren's character's idea for the calendar, who believe such a display would be pornographic. As such, my overarching argument regarding the musical choices within Calendar Girls is that, to appeal to a female audience who may be against women's bodies on display (regardless of the charitable intention), other elements of soft sentimentality must be present so that the women maintain their maternal, socially acceptable femininity. Likewise, the disco music in The Full Monty makes the men (who by police and other familial institutions in the film are viewed as negative role models) seem like self-motivated, creative, and comical characters rather than mere strippers. The "Hot Stuff" number in the unemployment line, for example, makes them stand out from the crowd of stressed out job seekers; they are achieving a level of agency that is not only comical...but also stereotypically masculine.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Is it time to quit our bickering (or "wickering") with Ralphie May?
Our friend Ralphie May was on Comedy Central yesterday afternoon. Considering the stir he caused in our class a few weeks ago, I had to watch. Sadly (or, for some, fortunately), he wasn't nearly as provocative as I anticipated, considering how we were all so excited/offended/responsive over Girth of a Nation. May still managed, however, to play with obesity stereotypes, which leads me to some observations.
Earlier in the semester, we talked a bit about written slapstick appearing in Twain; May was able to achieve that in his fat jokes verbally...without moving more than an eyebrow and the microphone. He described the three types of furniture that those with wider statures dread. One was wicker. He didn't really elaborate on it, though. He didn't have to do anything. The audience already roared with laughter. Yet, like the previous May clips, the camera zoomed in on two larger audience members; the pair made eye contact at one another, laughed heartily, and nodded in agreement. It did evoke an interesting visual for those who've experienced problems with wicker. However, May also made me, isolated on my couch, feel pretty culpable. I turned around and stared at the wicker chair next to my desk -- a chair I've pulled out countless times for visitors of all sizes. Never did I think that chair could cause such discomfort for those who may sit upon it, and I imagined all the potentially humiliating situations that could have been created by that chair. The image of May breaking a wicker chair (or, as the comedian also described, the image of his thighs covered in wicker indentations) became an image of a good friend breaking or suffering in that chair. All of a sudden, the joke wasn't as funny. So here's another instance of May creating laughter for all, but simultaneously making others feel (albeit only slightly) aware of a potential issue that never came up before.
Another seat May mentioned was more obvious: the booth. He elaborated on it a bit more this time, describing the impossibility of moving or cutting the table to accommodate his frame. Yet, again, most of the visual slapstick was filled in by the audience members. Either they've experienced it, and they take this time to laugh about a probably embarrassing experience among insiders, or they can at least imagine it and laugh a bit at the mental image. But, the second scenario almost evokes a call to change. Yeah, it may be sort of funny to imagine May himself in that situation, but, more than anything, it's sad -- and, holistically, a real problem in America. We start to feel bad for people getting stuck in a tiny booth... Why can't waiters, if they can't alter the seat, at least provide people with a more comfortable table?
So, maybe on some level, even this sort of self-deprecating "slapstick-ish" fat joke is much akin to satire: we fill in the gaps (sort of like Iser's implied reader?), find our human culpability/self-reflection, and desire to change?
Earlier in the semester, we talked a bit about written slapstick appearing in Twain; May was able to achieve that in his fat jokes verbally...without moving more than an eyebrow and the microphone. He described the three types of furniture that those with wider statures dread. One was wicker. He didn't really elaborate on it, though. He didn't have to do anything. The audience already roared with laughter. Yet, like the previous May clips, the camera zoomed in on two larger audience members; the pair made eye contact at one another, laughed heartily, and nodded in agreement. It did evoke an interesting visual for those who've experienced problems with wicker. However, May also made me, isolated on my couch, feel pretty culpable. I turned around and stared at the wicker chair next to my desk -- a chair I've pulled out countless times for visitors of all sizes. Never did I think that chair could cause such discomfort for those who may sit upon it, and I imagined all the potentially humiliating situations that could have been created by that chair. The image of May breaking a wicker chair (or, as the comedian also described, the image of his thighs covered in wicker indentations) became an image of a good friend breaking or suffering in that chair. All of a sudden, the joke wasn't as funny. So here's another instance of May creating laughter for all, but simultaneously making others feel (albeit only slightly) aware of a potential issue that never came up before.
Another seat May mentioned was more obvious: the booth. He elaborated on it a bit more this time, describing the impossibility of moving or cutting the table to accommodate his frame. Yet, again, most of the visual slapstick was filled in by the audience members. Either they've experienced it, and they take this time to laugh about a probably embarrassing experience among insiders, or they can at least imagine it and laugh a bit at the mental image. But, the second scenario almost evokes a call to change. Yeah, it may be sort of funny to imagine May himself in that situation, but, more than anything, it's sad -- and, holistically, a real problem in America. We start to feel bad for people getting stuck in a tiny booth... Why can't waiters, if they can't alter the seat, at least provide people with a more comfortable table?
So, maybe on some level, even this sort of self-deprecating "slapstick-ish" fat joke is much akin to satire: we fill in the gaps (sort of like Iser's implied reader?), find our human culpability/self-reflection, and desire to change?
Friday, March 6, 2009
Toe-tally Not Funny
Here's a story that I've been chuckling about it all morning, but, in writing, it's not so amusing: my fiance's grandmother apparently has really crusty feet and super long toenails (gross, I know). Anyway, she was taken to a walk-in salon for a pedicure. The nail techs were all cussing about her feet in another language.
See...not funny... I can't retell the narrative--especially in writing. It's like when Eddie Murphy joked about people re-telling his jokes. He's better at them; he's a comedian. But the person who told the crusty foot story isn't a comic. The only explanation I can offer harkens back to presence, timing, and audience. We were positioned as insiders--we all know the grandmother. So, when the story was told, the audience already had a mental image. Also, the "toe" storyteller was actually there; she could imitate voices, bodily gestures, etc., making us feel as though we were there, too.
As someone reading this now, you have no idea who this grandmother is. Her tone of voice and mannerisms also can't be relayed as clearly in writing. And though the new audience isn't privileged as insiders, it's not really outsider either. In this hyphenated group, the audience is, quite frankly, just bored. Alas, I've learned a lesson: I won't retell jokes (unless I was there in person...witnessing the event. But, in that case, I could make the joke my own.)
See...not funny... I can't retell the narrative--especially in writing. It's like when Eddie Murphy joked about people re-telling his jokes. He's better at them; he's a comedian. But the person who told the crusty foot story isn't a comic. The only explanation I can offer harkens back to presence, timing, and audience. We were positioned as insiders--we all know the grandmother. So, when the story was told, the audience already had a mental image. Also, the "toe" storyteller was actually there; she could imitate voices, bodily gestures, etc., making us feel as though we were there, too.
As someone reading this now, you have no idea who this grandmother is. Her tone of voice and mannerisms also can't be relayed as clearly in writing. And though the new audience isn't privileged as insiders, it's not really outsider either. In this hyphenated group, the audience is, quite frankly, just bored. Alas, I've learned a lesson: I won't retell jokes (unless I was there in person...witnessing the event. But, in that case, I could make the joke my own.)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A Pox on Me!
I thought I was open minded and had a sense of humor prior to this course. I laugh at bodily puns; I find scatology and disease funny not only on a basic level but also on a socially symbolic level (hey, I wrote my MA thesis on excrement in eighteenth-century England).
However, Eddie Murphy reinforced my hyper sensitivity this week. I don't think AIDS jokes are funny. I don't think I ever will. Ironically, I find the hidden syphilis puns and references on the Renaissance stage pretty darn amusing and significant. I read Daniel Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year and perceive the narrator's obnoxious, self-righteous tone regarding plague victims to be slightly amusing. Where's the disconnect?
I think it goes back to historical context--a theme that keeps cropping up in this course. We discussed why we aren't offended by Lenny Bruce. We're de-sensitized. And I'm not offended by syphilis and black death jokes because, for the most part, society isn't "plagued" by the diseases anymore. In reverse, in 1983, Eddie Murphy's AIDs jokes probably weren't as offensive because large segments of the population didn't perceive themselves to be at risk: in many ways, Murphy used the disease as a humorous social signifier, as a way of creating insiders to feel superior to outsiders. Now we know even more about the virus, and awareness increases our sensitivity. It's just not funny in 2009. Perhaps this portion of Murphy's routine should go in the vault for a while. If cures develop, and third world nations are no longer suffering from access to treatment, we can laugh at it again.
(Then again, maybe I'm just too sensitive after watching Angels in America over the weekend...right before I sat down to watch Delirious, hoping for some unrelated comic relief.)
However, Eddie Murphy reinforced my hyper sensitivity this week. I don't think AIDS jokes are funny. I don't think I ever will. Ironically, I find the hidden syphilis puns and references on the Renaissance stage pretty darn amusing and significant. I read Daniel Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year and perceive the narrator's obnoxious, self-righteous tone regarding plague victims to be slightly amusing. Where's the disconnect?
I think it goes back to historical context--a theme that keeps cropping up in this course. We discussed why we aren't offended by Lenny Bruce. We're de-sensitized. And I'm not offended by syphilis and black death jokes because, for the most part, society isn't "plagued" by the diseases anymore. In reverse, in 1983, Eddie Murphy's AIDs jokes probably weren't as offensive because large segments of the population didn't perceive themselves to be at risk: in many ways, Murphy used the disease as a humorous social signifier, as a way of creating insiders to feel superior to outsiders. Now we know even more about the virus, and awareness increases our sensitivity. It's just not funny in 2009. Perhaps this portion of Murphy's routine should go in the vault for a while. If cures develop, and third world nations are no longer suffering from access to treatment, we can laugh at it again.
(Then again, maybe I'm just too sensitive after watching Angels in America over the weekend...right before I sat down to watch Delirious, hoping for some unrelated comic relief.)
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Doc-Mock-umentaries
I watched the HBO documentary Right America: Feeling Wronged over the weekend. Filmed by Nancy Pelosi's daughter, Right America chronicles McCain supporters on the 2008 campaign trail. In my opinion, the documentary was funny...but mostly disturbing. With a target audience of Obama voters and with a goal of making them feel superior, the younger Pelosi pokes fun at people with different (often racist) perspectives and attempts to stereotype all conservatives in this light.
Each segment focuses on a specific voter, campaigner, or group of voters. Throughout, almost every subject comes across as close-minded or bigoted in some way. For example, one woman, a suburban mom, treks through her neighborhood, questioning each homeowner about his/her voting plans. At the final home, she sees an Obama-Biden sign. Her jaw drops. She then snidely comments, "Well, two lesbians live there." End scene. Another segment occurs at a Nascar Rally. A group of drunken men with Confederate flags on their pickups yells out against a "black president." Viewers also see a montage of McCain supporters toting anti-Muslim/anti-Obama posters and t-shirts. Only one voter without racist leanings is highlighted in the documentary. His segment is also the shortest.
Clearly more than one non-racist conservative/Republican voter exist, and more than one appeared on the McCain campaign trail, begging this question: when does a "documentary" become more of a mockumentary? The film, though "real," reminds me of This is Spinal Tap or Best in Show. Genre lines have blurred. Indeed, the film Borat plays with this blurring, but it is more obvious in its approach. Viewers do not necessarily feel superior to Sacha Baron Cohen's victims; instead, they feel more superior to his silly character. Bill Maher's Religulous is also a documentary that blurs the lines; however, I would argue that the title, in itself, indicates to the audience that the documentary is an exaggeration, a close-up glimpse at extreme viewpoints. Right America: Feeling Wronged does little to guide audiences toward that extremist view. It's presented as the "norm" within this section of society. And this "norm" is presented to viewers so they (if not on the "right") can laugh at (and condemn) people with these political beliefs. But is it fair to present this mockery in the form of documentary?
Each segment focuses on a specific voter, campaigner, or group of voters. Throughout, almost every subject comes across as close-minded or bigoted in some way. For example, one woman, a suburban mom, treks through her neighborhood, questioning each homeowner about his/her voting plans. At the final home, she sees an Obama-Biden sign. Her jaw drops. She then snidely comments, "Well, two lesbians live there." End scene. Another segment occurs at a Nascar Rally. A group of drunken men with Confederate flags on their pickups yells out against a "black president." Viewers also see a montage of McCain supporters toting anti-Muslim/anti-Obama posters and t-shirts. Only one voter without racist leanings is highlighted in the documentary. His segment is also the shortest.
Clearly more than one non-racist conservative/Republican voter exist, and more than one appeared on the McCain campaign trail, begging this question: when does a "documentary" become more of a mockumentary? The film, though "real," reminds me of This is Spinal Tap or Best in Show. Genre lines have blurred. Indeed, the film Borat plays with this blurring, but it is more obvious in its approach. Viewers do not necessarily feel superior to Sacha Baron Cohen's victims; instead, they feel more superior to his silly character. Bill Maher's Religulous is also a documentary that blurs the lines; however, I would argue that the title, in itself, indicates to the audience that the documentary is an exaggeration, a close-up glimpse at extreme viewpoints. Right America: Feeling Wronged does little to guide audiences toward that extremist view. It's presented as the "norm" within this section of society. And this "norm" is presented to viewers so they (if not on the "right") can laugh at (and condemn) people with these political beliefs. But is it fair to present this mockery in the form of documentary?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Creepy Comedy: No More "Clowning" Around
I have a confession to make: I couldn't finish You Can't Cheat an Honest Man. I barely made it through fifteen minutes. The dummy REALLY gave me the creeps. I've had this sensation before when watching supposedly innocent films, particularly with Wizard of Oz and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
I know Willy Wonka is an adaptation of Roald Dahl's novel, which is, in itself, a little bizarre. But nothing scares me more than Gene Wilder; he's so clownish. Also, the Oompa Loompas are ominously orange. Moreover, I can't watch Wizard of Oz without having nightmares; all of the characters, with the exception of Toto, look like warped theatre masks. I will say, too, that Harpo's costume bothered me somewhat (though Groucho's undoing of cliches in Duck Soup and Horsefeathers compensated for my slight feelings of discomfort).
Nonetheless, I didn't think much of my aversion to the dummy until Dr. McIntire-Strasburg suggested we put audiences in historical context today, and it got me thinking about the nature of grotesque figures. Theorists like Bakhtin point out the celebratory, funny nature of grotesque bodies and figures. But, I would argue that, at some point, these "humorous" grotesque figures became disturbing. Films like Halloween render the disguised figure not one for celebration, but one of fear. It permanently ruined the clown for me. Not that I ever really liked clowns; Ronald McDonald's smile was always a little too friendly. Then we have Chucky...a film about an evil doll.
This trend of warping "fun" figures into evil ones seems to begin in the 70s with all of the slasher films (and real-life news cases) about teens and kids being stalked by some villain, and it still continues when applying the trend to practical situations. For example, in elementary school, many guest speakers visited our classes, warning us of overly friendly people who, though childless, hang around places with children to offer us candy and lure us to our cars. People and actors disguised as clowns and/or carrying dummy dolls seem, to me, to epitomize that creepy child predator...but they didn't always. I think, on some level, there is a generational disadvantage when watching "comedies" that incorporate clownish, exaggerated figures. Perhaps they remind younger viewers of their vulnerability--not in a celebratory, carnivalesque way but in a dark "It" the clown is hiding in the basement" sort of way...
I know Willy Wonka is an adaptation of Roald Dahl's novel, which is, in itself, a little bizarre. But nothing scares me more than Gene Wilder; he's so clownish. Also, the Oompa Loompas are ominously orange. Moreover, I can't watch Wizard of Oz without having nightmares; all of the characters, with the exception of Toto, look like warped theatre masks. I will say, too, that Harpo's costume bothered me somewhat (though Groucho's undoing of cliches in Duck Soup and Horsefeathers compensated for my slight feelings of discomfort).
Nonetheless, I didn't think much of my aversion to the dummy until Dr. McIntire-Strasburg suggested we put audiences in historical context today, and it got me thinking about the nature of grotesque figures. Theorists like Bakhtin point out the celebratory, funny nature of grotesque bodies and figures. But, I would argue that, at some point, these "humorous" grotesque figures became disturbing. Films like Halloween render the disguised figure not one for celebration, but one of fear. It permanently ruined the clown for me. Not that I ever really liked clowns; Ronald McDonald's smile was always a little too friendly. Then we have Chucky...a film about an evil doll.
This trend of warping "fun" figures into evil ones seems to begin in the 70s with all of the slasher films (and real-life news cases) about teens and kids being stalked by some villain, and it still continues when applying the trend to practical situations. For example, in elementary school, many guest speakers visited our classes, warning us of overly friendly people who, though childless, hang around places with children to offer us candy and lure us to our cars. People and actors disguised as clowns and/or carrying dummy dolls seem, to me, to epitomize that creepy child predator...but they didn't always. I think, on some level, there is a generational disadvantage when watching "comedies" that incorporate clownish, exaggerated figures. Perhaps they remind younger viewers of their vulnerability--not in a celebratory, carnivalesque way but in a dark "It" the clown is hiding in the basement" sort of way...
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Penetrating the Three Stooges
I don't think I elaborated enough on my point when I brought up the pervasive phallic imagery and props in the Three Stooges shorts we watched today, which I didn't bring up just to say "Haha, look at the phallic imagery" (though, sometimes, doing just that can make me laugh... I wonder what Freud would say about that...) To me, the phallic symbols play a part in the repetition and survival mechanism of comedy that we were asked to observe. Specifically, the imagery and props seem to heighten the consistent homoerotic undertones that, on at least some level, help the jokes and slapstick work for Larry, Curly, and Moe.
The discussion today ended on the role of women in the Three Stooges, and someone mentioned that women often don't take on the traditionally subservient roles in this medium, which is an interesting point. Adding to that, though the Stooges court women, physical contact between the two genders is limited, and I'm not sure the women take on much of a role in the overall course of action or comedic plot. Even when the woman hides someone under the sand, he is ultimately penetrated by an umbrella wand...by another man. This act of penetration via a phallic object seems to represent a sexual exchange. Not only is this sexually-symbolic exchange both violent and comedic; but, it also is the only physical exchange in the scene, and it is one of the funnier slapstick moments. To reiterate, no act of physical intimacy (violent or passive) occurs between the male and the female.
In another Stooges clip I watched before class, "Monkey's Uncle," the homoerotic undertones occur sans a phallic prop: one "Stooge" (I can't figure out who's who just yet) churns butter, while the other stands behind, grinding on the lower half of his body. As soon as the pair finishes churning, the fluid-like butter splatters everywhere. No women are present. I'll spare the deconstruction here; you can use your imagination.
I'll briefly provide two more examples just to prove this is a trend and that my imagination isn't completely dirty and so I can make my overarching point. The first involves the phallic stick again, as a Stooge (I think it was Curly) attempts to nail it into the ground, and it keeps popping back up as another Stooge approaches. The second one involves a more intimate setting--the pitched tent where the trio snoozes and snuggles together, giggling and accusing the others of toe-licking/tickling. Perhaps I'm taking on an anachronistic viewpoint--maybe in the 30s and 40s it was common for men to tickle one another in such close quarters without any other implication. However, I think it has more to do with the need for intimacy as a means of survival, and, given that the Stooges thrive in a homo social, hyper-masculine, violent setting, women are not needed for that intimacy.
And the exclusion of women can also contribute to the trio's laugh-generating schema, for the intimately violent male-to-male exchanges, though sexually-charged, seem accidental. That exchange can be funny in that it's unexpected. But this approach is not new to the Stooges. Shakespeare and other Renaissance playwrights employ (often "accidental") homoeroticism on the stage because only men were allowed on stage until the Restoration period. Men playing the roles of women, who cross-dress to penetrate exclusive circles of men and then have "female" characters fall in love with them is a centuries-old plot, particularly in the genre of comedy. Confusing traditional roles of sexuality and, in the case of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, the roles of gender allows the audience to witness something as insiders. The subjects/actors, as outsiders, are generally unaware of their homoerotic escapades.
So, do the Stooges, in all of their "low humor," actually reflect some of the "high culture" humor in Shakespeare, a humor that is multi-layered and comments on various social and cultural issues? Or, are the Stooges simply "groundlings," borrowing basic elements of an age-old comedic tradition and using them only to be violent? I'm still thinking on that one...
The discussion today ended on the role of women in the Three Stooges, and someone mentioned that women often don't take on the traditionally subservient roles in this medium, which is an interesting point. Adding to that, though the Stooges court women, physical contact between the two genders is limited, and I'm not sure the women take on much of a role in the overall course of action or comedic plot. Even when the woman hides someone under the sand, he is ultimately penetrated by an umbrella wand...by another man. This act of penetration via a phallic object seems to represent a sexual exchange. Not only is this sexually-symbolic exchange both violent and comedic; but, it also is the only physical exchange in the scene, and it is one of the funnier slapstick moments. To reiterate, no act of physical intimacy (violent or passive) occurs between the male and the female.
In another Stooges clip I watched before class, "Monkey's Uncle," the homoerotic undertones occur sans a phallic prop: one "Stooge" (I can't figure out who's who just yet) churns butter, while the other stands behind, grinding on the lower half of his body. As soon as the pair finishes churning, the fluid-like butter splatters everywhere. No women are present. I'll spare the deconstruction here; you can use your imagination.
I'll briefly provide two more examples just to prove this is a trend and that my imagination isn't completely dirty and so I can make my overarching point. The first involves the phallic stick again, as a Stooge (I think it was Curly) attempts to nail it into the ground, and it keeps popping back up as another Stooge approaches. The second one involves a more intimate setting--the pitched tent where the trio snoozes and snuggles together, giggling and accusing the others of toe-licking/tickling. Perhaps I'm taking on an anachronistic viewpoint--maybe in the 30s and 40s it was common for men to tickle one another in such close quarters without any other implication. However, I think it has more to do with the need for intimacy as a means of survival, and, given that the Stooges thrive in a homo social, hyper-masculine, violent setting, women are not needed for that intimacy.
And the exclusion of women can also contribute to the trio's laugh-generating schema, for the intimately violent male-to-male exchanges, though sexually-charged, seem accidental. That exchange can be funny in that it's unexpected. But this approach is not new to the Stooges. Shakespeare and other Renaissance playwrights employ (often "accidental") homoeroticism on the stage because only men were allowed on stage until the Restoration period. Men playing the roles of women, who cross-dress to penetrate exclusive circles of men and then have "female" characters fall in love with them is a centuries-old plot, particularly in the genre of comedy. Confusing traditional roles of sexuality and, in the case of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, the roles of gender allows the audience to witness something as insiders. The subjects/actors, as outsiders, are generally unaware of their homoerotic escapades.
So, do the Stooges, in all of their "low humor," actually reflect some of the "high culture" humor in Shakespeare, a humor that is multi-layered and comments on various social and cultural issues? Or, are the Stooges simply "groundlings," borrowing basic elements of an age-old comedic tradition and using them only to be violent? I'm still thinking on that one...
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Grawe and George Carlin's "Modest Proposal"
Yesterday in class, it was decided that the latest Carlin segment fits more with the "incongruity" theory Davis proposes. However, to me, it also fits in with Grawe's categorizations of the different types of comedy that reach toward survival: throughout the segment, Carlin often moves from everyman to buffoon to villain--encompassing several of the types.
The beginning speech on "modern man," though rendering Carlin to be a cliched, mechanized paradox, seems to embody Grawe's assertion on everyman comedy that "There are no clear categories of characters....The message [...is] that human survival is guaranteed by people's ability to lay down their own special gifts and cooperate for the survival of society" (40). Indeed, Carlin erases the "modern man" into nothing, but he is a cyclical nothing, patterned on catch phrases and marketing scams that cause American society (and the American consumer) to function and survive.
The next section, when Carlin digresses on about American obesity, education, and shopping habits, seems to reflect the "buffoon comedy," which, according to Grawe, "may present a society of eccentrics. But societal solutions are not generally open to the buffoon" (41). Grawe adds that the buffoon character is often an outcast, which is interesting to note, considering Carlin separates the audience in front of him from these buffoons--making common American characteristics seem separate from the constructed elitist crowd in front of him. Therefore, as an audience, we can ridicule these buffoons (even if we may demonstrate similar behaviors). Moreover, Carlin questions how these buffoon characters survive by contemplating their daily consumption, digestion, and reproductive activities. Still, they survive...even if they are "too dazed to feel all the slings and arrows that outrageous fortune hurls at [them]" (42).
Villain comedy surfaces once Carlin addresses business owners and lobbyists, who tend toward "evil and destruction." Grawe writes, "If the human race [in the case of Carlin, an American consumerist buffoon race] is to survive, there must be some way to avoid the destructiveness." Moreover, according to Grawe, the villain can be overcome, but he continues to reappear and challenge the human race--here, in terms of providing a lack of education, evoking a sense of complacence and devotion to 9-5 jobs, and enticing the American to purchase "gizmos."
The routine concludes with another episode of villain comedy; specifically, Carlin's ability to make the audience dislike the villain becomes Swiftian when he then proposes that the audience puts itself in the place of the villain--a TV executive plotting for a mass-suicide reality show. At this point, it becomes difficult to tell whether this portion of the dialogue even fits within Grawe's notion of human survival as comedy, since Carlin posits that all abject members of society receive free t-shirts or a small wad of cash to jump to their death. However, Grawe does emphasize that "a formal definition is not that comedy is an action of survival or an action in which someone survives. Instead, comedy creates a patterning throughout the work that asserts humanity will survive" (47, emphasis added). By placing the audience as one of the villains who does survive, Carlin satirically forces listeners to contemplate the current pattern American society treads upon, and, by extension, a call to action comes about: breaking the pattern of consumerism and physical destruction will lead to greater human longevity--the "modern man" can separate himself from the paradoxical patterning of consumerist discourse to survive...making Carlin's segment align clearly with Grawe's theory of comedy.
The beginning speech on "modern man," though rendering Carlin to be a cliched, mechanized paradox, seems to embody Grawe's assertion on everyman comedy that "There are no clear categories of characters....The message [...is] that human survival is guaranteed by people's ability to lay down their own special gifts and cooperate for the survival of society" (40). Indeed, Carlin erases the "modern man" into nothing, but he is a cyclical nothing, patterned on catch phrases and marketing scams that cause American society (and the American consumer) to function and survive.
The next section, when Carlin digresses on about American obesity, education, and shopping habits, seems to reflect the "buffoon comedy," which, according to Grawe, "may present a society of eccentrics. But societal solutions are not generally open to the buffoon" (41). Grawe adds that the buffoon character is often an outcast, which is interesting to note, considering Carlin separates the audience in front of him from these buffoons--making common American characteristics seem separate from the constructed elitist crowd in front of him. Therefore, as an audience, we can ridicule these buffoons (even if we may demonstrate similar behaviors). Moreover, Carlin questions how these buffoon characters survive by contemplating their daily consumption, digestion, and reproductive activities. Still, they survive...even if they are "too dazed to feel all the slings and arrows that outrageous fortune hurls at [them]" (42).
Villain comedy surfaces once Carlin addresses business owners and lobbyists, who tend toward "evil and destruction." Grawe writes, "If the human race [in the case of Carlin, an American consumerist buffoon race] is to survive, there must be some way to avoid the destructiveness." Moreover, according to Grawe, the villain can be overcome, but he continues to reappear and challenge the human race--here, in terms of providing a lack of education, evoking a sense of complacence and devotion to 9-5 jobs, and enticing the American to purchase "gizmos."
The routine concludes with another episode of villain comedy; specifically, Carlin's ability to make the audience dislike the villain becomes Swiftian when he then proposes that the audience puts itself in the place of the villain--a TV executive plotting for a mass-suicide reality show. At this point, it becomes difficult to tell whether this portion of the dialogue even fits within Grawe's notion of human survival as comedy, since Carlin posits that all abject members of society receive free t-shirts or a small wad of cash to jump to their death. However, Grawe does emphasize that "a formal definition is not that comedy is an action of survival or an action in which someone survives. Instead, comedy creates a patterning throughout the work that asserts humanity will survive" (47, emphasis added). By placing the audience as one of the villains who does survive, Carlin satirically forces listeners to contemplate the current pattern American society treads upon, and, by extension, a call to action comes about: breaking the pattern of consumerism and physical destruction will lead to greater human longevity--the "modern man" can separate himself from the paradoxical patterning of consumerist discourse to survive...making Carlin's segment align clearly with Grawe's theory of comedy.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The BUTT of a Joke: Villainous Bottoms?
Not to be "cheeky," but I've been troubled by the theorist's ignorance in Comedy: Theoretical of the physical "butt" when he wrote about butt comedy. On top of that, why does the butt comedy, "an important variant on villain comedy" (45), have to be villainous at all? The label is disturbing in that it conflates persons within butt comedies with "generally disreputable figures, dominated by idiosyncrasies, which the audience is enjoined to deride....Human beings survive, but only as deformed characters" (45, emphasis added). It seems as though the critic really means to invoke the word "ass" to describe the comedy; "butt," according to the Oxford English Dictionary, only works as the "thicker or hinder part of a hide or skin." "Ass," on the other hand, can work as an abbreviation for "asinine," which is defined as "having the qualities by which the ass is characterized; obstinate, stupid, doltish."
So let's deconstruct butts. Butts are a natural body part, and they are far from villainous (unless we have food poisoning or are stuck next to someone on an airplane just who had a greasy meal). Butts allow us to survive on a daily (often regular--if we eat DanActive, take Metamucil, or enjoy leafy veggies) basis, for they are the final place of abjection/digestion; we ponder on our butts while "at stool," we thrive upon our butts to release waste, and we sit on our butts regularly--relying on them for a supportive cushion. Where is the deformity? Why should we deride and villainize the butt?
To respond, I again posit that "ass" that should replace the critic's description of this type of villain "variant." The "ass" is in fact an animal, and the very notion of deformity is often when a human's physical characteristics blend with that of an animal's. One may potentially argue that "butt" works with Shakespeare's Bottom character, who works as comic relief in A Midsummer Night's Dream. However, "bottom," in addition to meaning "butt," can also denote a level of baseness or "low" humor. Butts don't have that double meaning. Asses do. You can call a villain an "ass," an "asshole," or call him "asinine." (And, I should point out that Bottom isn't exactly a villainous character.)
Okay, so maybe the theorist's reluctance to invoke the term "ass" here relates more with George Carlin's forbidden "seven words." Perhaps the theorist, too, attempts to couch the term of insult within a natural body part out of fear of academic/professional scorn...but, for the sake of linguistic accuracy, I think he should take a "crack" at rethinking this label.
So let's deconstruct butts. Butts are a natural body part, and they are far from villainous (unless we have food poisoning or are stuck next to someone on an airplane just who had a greasy meal). Butts allow us to survive on a daily (often regular--if we eat DanActive, take Metamucil, or enjoy leafy veggies) basis, for they are the final place of abjection/digestion; we ponder on our butts while "at stool," we thrive upon our butts to release waste, and we sit on our butts regularly--relying on them for a supportive cushion. Where is the deformity? Why should we deride and villainize the butt?
To respond, I again posit that "ass" that should replace the critic's description of this type of villain "variant." The "ass" is in fact an animal, and the very notion of deformity is often when a human's physical characteristics blend with that of an animal's. One may potentially argue that "butt" works with Shakespeare's Bottom character, who works as comic relief in A Midsummer Night's Dream. However, "bottom," in addition to meaning "butt," can also denote a level of baseness or "low" humor. Butts don't have that double meaning. Asses do. You can call a villain an "ass," an "asshole," or call him "asinine." (And, I should point out that Bottom isn't exactly a villainous character.)
Okay, so maybe the theorist's reluctance to invoke the term "ass" here relates more with George Carlin's forbidden "seven words." Perhaps the theorist, too, attempts to couch the term of insult within a natural body part out of fear of academic/professional scorn...but, for the sake of linguistic accuracy, I think he should take a "crack" at rethinking this label.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Othering Ourselves: Ralphie May's Commentary on the "Masses"
The only two moments where Ralphie May had me laughing were when he said "Pope-pourri" (I love puns) and when he was making fun of Open Water (because I always thought that movie looked like a snooze-fest). However, I think his routine has comedic merit in that he forced insiders in the audience to become--albeit collectively--outsiders; part of our discussion on what makes something funny regularly centers around the notion that insiders are able to "get" and laugh at the joke. Ralphie May, on the other hand, is able to construct the Other as ourselves. Let me explain.
Usually literary critics assert that we cannot construct someone outside of ourselves, for our discourse and perceptions ultimately are our constructions--they mirror us. I think May comes close in this construction, though, because he attributes the construction to someone on the outside; accordingly, the "we" [traditionally a Caucasian, Western "we" ] sees "norkeling" and "cuba diving" as abnormal activities of "the Other." Yes, when he describes his experience in the movie theatre, some of his racially-charged material is indeed offensive (to me at least). At the same time, when he quotes the couple's commentary from behind him, it allows his audience to see how [traditionally Caucasian] mass culture can be viewed from the outside: A movie about a newly married couple floating around in the water for 2 hours seems absurd. And most movie-goers and film critics acclaim the film for its merits, which, on some level, seems additionally absurd.
This We/Other inversion happens again with the Pope story. I'm not Catholic...I'm not even religious. However, Western culture ingrains in us, if not an appreciation, at least a level of respect for most religious figureheads and traditions. When the Pope died, I watched the news coverage. I thought those who paid respects did so out of spiritual reverence. May, however, positions Western audiences as outsiders. The Catholic Church becomes symbolically equivalent to a sports event--foam fingers and all. We begin to see ourselves as an Other, as a commodity-fixated "mass" (bad pun).
As such, though May's jokes are politically incorrect, he seems to point out that political incorrectness is primarily a construction in itself. By stepping outside the self-constructed discourse of what makes sense, what's worth watching, and/or what's socially acceptable--be it religious institutions or the latest film, we find ourselves to be just as "other" as the Other.
Usually literary critics assert that we cannot construct someone outside of ourselves, for our discourse and perceptions ultimately are our constructions--they mirror us. I think May comes close in this construction, though, because he attributes the construction to someone on the outside; accordingly, the "we" [traditionally a Caucasian, Western "we" ] sees "norkeling" and "cuba diving" as abnormal activities of "the Other." Yes, when he describes his experience in the movie theatre, some of his racially-charged material is indeed offensive (to me at least). At the same time, when he quotes the couple's commentary from behind him, it allows his audience to see how [traditionally Caucasian] mass culture can be viewed from the outside: A movie about a newly married couple floating around in the water for 2 hours seems absurd. And most movie-goers and film critics acclaim the film for its merits, which, on some level, seems additionally absurd.
This We/Other inversion happens again with the Pope story. I'm not Catholic...I'm not even religious. However, Western culture ingrains in us, if not an appreciation, at least a level of respect for most religious figureheads and traditions. When the Pope died, I watched the news coverage. I thought those who paid respects did so out of spiritual reverence. May, however, positions Western audiences as outsiders. The Catholic Church becomes symbolically equivalent to a sports event--foam fingers and all. We begin to see ourselves as an Other, as a commodity-fixated "mass" (bad pun).
As such, though May's jokes are politically incorrect, he seems to point out that political incorrectness is primarily a construction in itself. By stepping outside the self-constructed discourse of what makes sense, what's worth watching, and/or what's socially acceptable--be it religious institutions or the latest film, we find ourselves to be just as "other" as the Other.
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