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?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Music and Carnival Laughter
While I was perusing others' blogs, I stumbled upon a comment that Dr. McIntire-Strasburg left someone about Bakhtin and the carnivalesque. To paraphrase what Bakhtin argues in Rabelais and His World, carnival allows social hierarchies to dissolve, and bodily elements such as excrement, reproduction, drunkenness, exaggerated bodies (i.e., animalistic bodies, dwarfs, giants), and food consumption bring people together in communal laughter and celebration. The world is "inside out."
Thinking about the carnivalesque inverted world made me return to my first blog entry, where I glossed over some of Jimmy Buffett's funnier songs: "Cheeseburger in Paradise," "Pencil Thin Mustache," and "Why Don't We Get Drunk." All three of these songs embody the essence of carnival in that they celebrate basic bodily acts of drunkeness, sex, and consumption in a humorous manner. Also, when people attend Buffett concerts, they abandon their regular identities and collectively become "Parrotheads," drunkenly singing along with Buffett. At a recent Buffett concert, additional cues pointed to the inverted realm, where prohibition and laws failed to exist: signs throughout the parking lot read "NO ALCOHOL OR TAILGAITING." Yet Parrotheads placed their own makeshift tiki bars next to the signs, and policemen drove by, deliberately ignoring the laws...if only for a few hours. Arguably, Buffett's music, lyrics, and persona promote the collective essence of carnival laughter, which may be why the singer remains so successful.
Other musicians create carnivalesque atmospheres; however, I can't think of many who do it quite so well and so consistently. Chuck Berry's "My Ding-a-Ling" is one song where carnival themes blend together for a humorous 7 minutes of bodily celebration, but others by him aren't as definibly carnivalesque. Another carnivalesque contender could be Bruce Springsteen; he specifically mentions the carnival, dwarfs, and alcohol in some of his songs ("Spirit in the Night," "Blinded by the Light," etc.). He also brings together various classes through his pro-blue collar themes. Yet because his lyrics rely so heavily on dark political issues at times, the longevity of the carnival is undermined.
The carnival theme also has me thinking about concerts where people arrive in disguise (I've heard people at Marilyn Manson and NIN shows do this; correct me if I'm wrong). There are some carnival elements there in people's abandonment of identity, and cynical/sinister laughter emerges as well. But, the darkness and and cynicism almost makes these concerts "anti-carnival." The world is indeed inverted, but something is amiss.
What about musical parodies like those by Weird Al and Adam Sandler? Hmm... They take others' themes and ideas, and they turn them "inside out." The collectivity seems missing, though. Rarely do I see people abandoning original lyrics in favor of singing "I'm Fat" or "Gump." Adam Sandler pokes fun at traditional opera through is Opera Man character on SNL; but, I don't see huge groups of people gathering together to celebrate the lyrics of "Seven Foot Man."
Overall, when it comes achieving traditional notions of the carnival, Jimmy Buffett--at least to me--is the big cheese[burger].
Thinking about the carnivalesque inverted world made me return to my first blog entry, where I glossed over some of Jimmy Buffett's funnier songs: "Cheeseburger in Paradise," "Pencil Thin Mustache," and "Why Don't We Get Drunk." All three of these songs embody the essence of carnival in that they celebrate basic bodily acts of drunkeness, sex, and consumption in a humorous manner. Also, when people attend Buffett concerts, they abandon their regular identities and collectively become "Parrotheads," drunkenly singing along with Buffett. At a recent Buffett concert, additional cues pointed to the inverted realm, where prohibition and laws failed to exist: signs throughout the parking lot read "NO ALCOHOL OR TAILGAITING." Yet Parrotheads placed their own makeshift tiki bars next to the signs, and policemen drove by, deliberately ignoring the laws...if only for a few hours. Arguably, Buffett's music, lyrics, and persona promote the collective essence of carnival laughter, which may be why the singer remains so successful.
Other musicians create carnivalesque atmospheres; however, I can't think of many who do it quite so well and so consistently. Chuck Berry's "My Ding-a-Ling" is one song where carnival themes blend together for a humorous 7 minutes of bodily celebration, but others by him aren't as definibly carnivalesque. Another carnivalesque contender could be Bruce Springsteen; he specifically mentions the carnival, dwarfs, and alcohol in some of his songs ("Spirit in the Night," "Blinded by the Light," etc.). He also brings together various classes through his pro-blue collar themes. Yet because his lyrics rely so heavily on dark political issues at times, the longevity of the carnival is undermined.
The carnival theme also has me thinking about concerts where people arrive in disguise (I've heard people at Marilyn Manson and NIN shows do this; correct me if I'm wrong). There are some carnival elements there in people's abandonment of identity, and cynical/sinister laughter emerges as well. But, the darkness and and cynicism almost makes these concerts "anti-carnival." The world is indeed inverted, but something is amiss.
What about musical parodies like those by Weird Al and Adam Sandler? Hmm... They take others' themes and ideas, and they turn them "inside out." The collectivity seems missing, though. Rarely do I see people abandoning original lyrics in favor of singing "I'm Fat" or "Gump." Adam Sandler pokes fun at traditional opera through is Opera Man character on SNL; but, I don't see huge groups of people gathering together to celebrate the lyrics of "Seven Foot Man."
Overall, when it comes achieving traditional notions of the carnival, Jimmy Buffett--at least to me--is the big cheese[burger].
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Women's Humor & Defamiliarization
Yesterday during our class discussion on the female literary humor, I kept thinking about Viktor Shklovsky's "Art as Technique." Here, the critic describes the process of "over-automization": "perception becomes habitual, it becomes automatic" (15). In essence, as we read or participate in our daily lives, we lose sight of the very shape of things--we don't think, we don't look, we don't sense. Shklovsky posits, however, that the way to break from the cycle of automization is through art, for successful art renders the normal object unfamiliar, through a technique he calls "defamiliarization" (16).
Defamiliarization essentially encourages viewers to see objects or situations outside of their normal context. In the excerpts we read from Redressing the Balance, most of those authors rely on the technique of defamiliarization in order to make their pieces funny. The most obvious example--and one we mentioned several times yesterday--is Anna Stephens' treatment of the corset. Indeed, an outsider interprets the corset as a side saddle; at the same time, the reader (particularly the reader familiar with a corset) must now take on that outsider's perspective and "defamiliarize" the ordinary object.
Defamiliarization also surfaces in Knight's journal entry, and, I would argue, can only occur in this way because she is an outsider--and she is female. Readers familiar with travel are forced to re-view the expedition from a new perspective, one where girlish fear coincides with standards of manner and, for lack of a better word, her feminine "prissiness."
In many ways, defamiliarization shares traits with incongruity. However, the artistic quailities of defamiliarization are greater. Changing situational expectations does create humor, as audiences often appreciate the element of surprise. Defamiliarization plays with this element of surprise, too; but the technique also plays with audience's senses and perception, and, because of this, it requires more aesthetic participation.
For more on Shklovsky:
Shklovsky, Viktor. "Art as Technique." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 15-20.
Defamiliarization essentially encourages viewers to see objects or situations outside of their normal context. In the excerpts we read from Redressing the Balance, most of those authors rely on the technique of defamiliarization in order to make their pieces funny. The most obvious example--and one we mentioned several times yesterday--is Anna Stephens' treatment of the corset. Indeed, an outsider interprets the corset as a side saddle; at the same time, the reader (particularly the reader familiar with a corset) must now take on that outsider's perspective and "defamiliarize" the ordinary object.
Defamiliarization also surfaces in Knight's journal entry, and, I would argue, can only occur in this way because she is an outsider--and she is female. Readers familiar with travel are forced to re-view the expedition from a new perspective, one where girlish fear coincides with standards of manner and, for lack of a better word, her feminine "prissiness."
In many ways, defamiliarization shares traits with incongruity. However, the artistic quailities of defamiliarization are greater. Changing situational expectations does create humor, as audiences often appreciate the element of surprise. Defamiliarization plays with this element of surprise, too; but the technique also plays with audience's senses and perception, and, because of this, it requires more aesthetic participation.
For more on Shklovsky:
Shklovsky, Viktor. "Art as Technique." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 15-20.
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