  Comedy
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Comedy is not a science, it is art. Therefore there are no rules and it can be very subjective. What one person finds funny is that at which another might cringe.
One thing worth noting is that when analysing comedy and what is funny, it is almost like it is only visible out of the corner of your eye. As soon as you try and look directly at it and analyse it too much ... all of the funniness disappears. ~ Christian Cook
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I find that it is hard to keep humour out of my own writing, it comes from a sense of the ludicrous, I would have said ridiculous, but the former is just that touch more zany, a note I always like to strike.
It makes me have this slightly hall-of-mirrors outlook on life, always seeing things from a slightly distorted point of view. It limits me as a writer, making my romance or fantasy, even my horror stories, laughable attempts at different genres.
What is comedy in writing? I feel that anything that makes one crack a smile, or feel lighter in the heart, qualifies for that term.
Trying to analyze it further - despite Mr. Cook’s warning - how does one go about achieving this in one’s own writing, by conscious effort and recognition, not by happy accident?
Much of comedy contains variations on the elements of surprise, incongruity, conflict, repetitiveness, and the effect of opposite expectations.
What do I mean? Well, let’s take ...
Surprise: Most physical comedy is based on the element of surprise, although sadly it is becoming less surprising and more expected, it’s just no longer funny in many slap-stick comedies. This is purely visual, and in movies this is easy - the sight of a fat man struggling to get over a wall - just as he succeeds in hoisting himself to the top – his pants rip. It was the mainstay of innumerable Laurel and Hardy movies. Charlie Chaplin said contrasts did it for him - himself as lithe and nimble hero in tatters pursued by awkward clumsy uniformed cop.
But in comedic writing, is it possible? Yes, but the description must be deft. I turn to the master of comedy in my eyes, for sheer understated portrayal of such slap-stick: P. G. Wodehouse in "Leave it to Psmith". This is what he writes of a character’s fall downstairs, another physical comedy favorite:
“With stealthy steps he crept to the head of the stairs and descended.
One uses the verb ‘descend’ advisedly, for what is required is some word suggesting instantaneous activity. About Baxter’s progress from the second floor to the first there was nothing halting or hesitating. He, so to speak, did it now. Planting his foot firmly on a golf-ball which the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, who had been practising putting in the corridor before retiring to bed, had left in his causal fashion just where the steps began; he took the entire staircase in one majestic, volplaning sweep. There were eleven stairs in all separating his landing from the landing below, and the only ones he hit were the third and tenth. He came to rest with a spattering thud on the lower landing, and for a moment or two, the fever of the chase left him.”
Incongruity: This is simpler, the right person in the wrong place, say a nun who walks into a strip-tease joint. Or it could be someone in the wrong clothes – even the wrong body. Or two people of opposite statures and size staring into each other's eyes with goofy love. Or the new Head of the Dept. of Literature walking in to work, carrying a large bound copy of Dr. Seuss under his arm.The possibilities are endless, the explanations infinite. One can stretch the situation as far as one likes.
Or one can sum it up with a couple of deft words. I did mention my notion of the perfect comedy writer – for those who came in late – it’s P.G.W. himself. Well he has some delicious similes that create such fun-ny descriptions because of incongruity. These cause me to snicker softly even upon re-reads.
“She turned me down.”
“Turned you down? How?”
“Like a bedspread.”
Or:
“Have you been listening? Do you follow me?”
“Like a Leopard."
Conflict: Yes, conflict inspires comedy too. Just imagine a character who wants to be a singer, currently earning a living as undertaker. He auditions for American Idol when he is at the extreme cut-off age; he has prematurely grey hair which he refuses to dye. He’s competing against hip young things in ripped jeans and pierced appendages, with pink and purple streaked hair or Mohawk cuts. No – wait, it actually did happen – and he won!  But as a situation, this conflict could be written to be funny.
Repetitiveness: How can that be funny, it usually was underscored heavily in red ink by my English teacher, not an ounce of humor in those thick lines in glaring crimson. Well, here it means to use it as tool, and not aberration, deliberately - to underline the note. It was overused in typical cross-talk comedies, but is still effective, when used with panache.
I will turn to my favourite writer once more, from the same volume - "Leave it to Psmith". Here’s a passage that illustrates my point. Lord Emsworth's (he's a wealthy, amiable but muddle-headed peer) brother-in-law Joseph Keeble has just asked for a loan of three thousand pounds, to be kept secret from his wife, Lady Constance Keeble.
"Err ... about the money ..."
“Money?” Lord Emsworth’s eye had become vacant again. He was reading once more.
“Money? Money, my dear fellow? Money? Money? What money? If I have said once,” declared Lord Emsworth, “that Angus McAllister is all wrong on the subject of hollyhocks, I‘ve said it a thousand times.”
“Let me explain, this three thousand pounds ...”
“My dear fellow, no. No, no, It was like you,” said his lordship with a vague heartiness, “it was like you – good and generous – to make me this offer, but I have ample, thank you, ample. I don’t need three thousand pounds.”
The refusal, the misunderstanding, becomes more amusing by the absent-mindedness achieved with that repetition. It could characterise dogged determination on a bill collector’s part, or the relentless refusal of a loved one, but aptly used, it is a valuable tool to lighten the moment.
Lastly,
Opposite Expectations: This could be a blend of any or all of the the preceding ones, just choose and mix. This one is from my own archives:
I was a young doctor in my first job, eager and determined to be impeccable in both manner and bedside chatter, showing empathy and interest in the person, not just the patient.
I had this young horological engineer admitted for typhoid fever - thin, with spectacles that made him look like an earnest child; he had rebellious curls that flopped onto his forehead. He was pallid, languid and interesting.
I had felt drawn to him from the moment he'd cracked a weak smile and said from his half-propped position in bed, "I now have the time and the inclination!" I always ended my rounds at his bed; thus able to linger for a little longer chit-chat.
As I made my rounds I saw that he was being efficiently mothered, even smothered, by a gargantuan lady with a massive up-swept bun. This juggernaut had buttressed him in bed with a wall of pillows; whisking out a napkin the size of a tablecloth, she had wrapped it around him, like a shroud. She was forcing down his throat the same gruel he had earlier refused to touch, when the diet trolley had come around. Inexorable spoonfuls made their way into his mouth like primed missiles, and he perforce swallowed, in meek acceptance of the bounty.
As I neared his bed, she had laid him down again, tucked him in, gathered herself and her voluminous folds of attire, and was making her regal progress out of the ward. I got a something in between a glare and condescending nod for my share of gratuity.
I looked down upon my most engaging patient. Whilst I laid cool, trying-hard-to-be-professional, fingers upon his pulse; I made casual conversation,” I am sure your mother’s visit was good for you.”
“It might not be so good for you, doctor, if she were within hearing range.” I found him winking at me.
My pulse was the one that raced, as I leaned a little closer and asked in dulcet tones, one turtle dove cooing to another - “Not so good for me? Why?”
“That was my wife!”
See what I mean? The twist in the tail ... no, the twist in the tale ... in the tail of the tale ... well, you get it. That is the most effective one; it forms the punch line of jokes.
There are various classifications into parody, satire, irony, farce etc. – but most writing humour falls into the basic sub-types I have found. I welcome discussion on how to hit the funny bone in the correct spot.
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This is my very first Newsletter, as Guest Editor, so I have no feedback to report. Maybe I can give you something upon which to ponder - do you feel analysis in writing, especially comedy, defeats the purpose? Is being funny something that has to come spontaneously, or can one learn to add in precise measured quantities?
I know that for me, humour is insidious, it works its way into anything I write; it may be just a smidgen that is detectable by only a few, but it will be there. I am like a stubborn cook who once created a signature dish by adding this one ingredient, and I cannot help adding it to everything now, from hors d’oeuvres to dessert. Seen the cinnamon, anyone?
Analyzing comedy is like dissecting a frog – it can’t teach you how to make one and it ends up killing the frog. ~ Chris Rock
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Comedy: March 18, 2009 Issue [#2942]
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