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."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
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.)
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