July 12, 2024
Thanks to Alissa Simon, HMU Tutor, for today’s post.
Laughter is a tricky business. In fact, it’s never a sure thing. What makes one person laugh may offend someone else. I have seen this happen on a number of occasions when some of the audience at a comedy club get so disgusted that they walk out. Comedy is edgy, thorny, and sometimes uncomfortable. This type of laughter pushes our boundaries. But why? When we laugh, what exactly are we laughing at?
Back in 2018, I wrote a post about The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel which asked whether or not comedy allows us to pose questions that would otherwise sound absurd. In other words, sometimes the truth is so complex, confusing, or irrational, that it only makes sense in the form of a joke. We may sense an incongruity, but can’t place our fingers on the reason for it, and so sometimes comedy hits the nail on the head. If the audience laughs, then the proof is in the pudding; the joke hit upon an uncomfortable truth. Why is it funny, though?
When an author, comedian, satirist, or joke makes me uncomfortable, I try to sit with it and figure out what exactly bothers me. Today, I’ll be looking at sections of Aristophanes’ The Wasps. Next week, we’ll continue the idea of uncomfortable humor as we move into Erasmus’ Praise of Folly. (It’s not too late to join the upcoming Quarterly Discussion of Praise of Folly. Email as****@*mu.edu for more information and to join.)
Near the end of Act I of The Wasps, the leader of the chorus stops the play’s action in order to directly mention the author. The leader says: “Now once again, spectators, if you love/ To hear plain speaking, pay attention, please!/ The author has a bone to pick with you/ For treating him unfairly, when, he says,/ You’ve had so many splendid things from him.” He continues to describe the path of Aristophanes’ career, from fledgling author to full-scale playwright with many accolades. It’s a stunning aside. Why does Aristophanes interrupt the play with this reminder of Aristophanes’ greatness? Does it undercut the humor or increase its effects? Does Aristophanes truly believe in his own greatness, or is he poking fun at himself? The longish monologue begins with Aristophanes’ successes and ends by calling the audience dim-witted and obtuse. It’s a bold move.
In this scene, it seems like Aristophanes is poking fun at himself as well as at the audience and maybe even at the idea of greatness itself. In truth, Aristophanes can only be successful if he wins the audience’s love, which means that this section can’t entirely offend them. Later, in Act 2, he doubles down on his tactic by claiming that his jokes are fresh and new and edgy. He advises the audience to give the author more credit when he says: “I advise you to give him/ The praise that’s his due./ If some of his phrases/ Are cutting and keen,/ Nevermind if you don’t/ Understand what they mean:/ Like quinces and apples,/ When laid up in store/ They will keep their fresh flavour/ A twelvemonth or more.”* In essence, Aristophanes compliments the audience, expresses the idea that playwright and audience have been good friends for years, and then claims that the fault is theirs when the play makes no sense. Not only uncomfortable, this runs the risk of truly alienating the audience, as well as the investors and politicians. In other words, the same group of people which financially support his career. If the audience laughs, what are they laughing at? Themselves? The theater? Farce? The unwritten cultural ties between playwright and audience?
To further complicate the matter, the main characters in The Wasps are named Anticleon and Procleon. And though Aristophanes claims the names have nothing to do with Cleon, he clearly intends a political dig at the enigmatic and often bombastic politician. Right at the play’s introduction, Aristophanes states his aim (through the mouth of Xanthias). He says, “Now look, I’d better tell the audience what this is all about. Just a few words by way of introduction. You mustn’t expect anything too grand: but you’re not going to get any crude Megarian stuff either. And I’m afraid we can’t run to a couple of slaves with baskets full of nuts to throw at you. You won’t see Heracles being cheated of his dinner; we’re not going to sling any mud at Euripides; and we don’t intend to make mincemeat of Cleon this time – even if he has just covered himself with glory just lately. No, this is a little fable, with a moral: not too highbrow for you we hope, but a bit more intelligent than the usual knockabout stuff.”
So, Aristophanes claims this play requires some intelligence, does not belittle Cleon, and there’s some moral to be learned. Yet the play revolves around a trial of two dogs, not humans. Difference in culture and time period may make some jokes more difficult to access, but still we laugh. And when we laugh at one of Aristophanes’ jokes are we, in essence, saying that he’s hit the nail on the head? That he found something uncomfortable, but probably also true? If we laugh at, say, the fact that the young Anticleon hates Cleon and his father Procleon loves Cleon, are we acknowledging a truth? We might claim something like: the older generation stubbornly supports hateful politicians. Or that the younger generation only wants new and trendy, but civilized, things. Or does it just mean that there’s the possibility of difference, and that potential is funny in itself? Are their names, Anticleon and Procleon, a little too on the nose for your tastes? Or do they add to the humor?
Regardless of the answers to these questions, comedy continues to capture our attention. It leaves a much different mark than drama, but is well worth exploring. Join us next week as we look at some of Erasmus’ Praise of Folly.
*Aristophanes translator: David Barrett
Photo credit: Shutterstock/ javarman
