Quit Whining

Finally! With Dorthy Parker's "The Waltz" a comic has put some responsibility on women for this "condition" we're in.

I guess it could have been there subtly before, but the repetitive themes of the stand-up were getting a little grating. Boo-hoo women feel fat. Boo-hoo men don't appreciate us.

Don't get me wrong. I do not think that equality for the sexes has suddenly been solved and I whole-heartedly support the feminist movement. But it needs to be just that: a movement. Complaining about the existence of these gender differences does not really do anything about them.

Parker's "The Waltz" does a great job of pointing out the fact that women need to take responsibility for their own happiness.

I loved looking at the incongruity between the narrator's thoughts and her words. I loved the irony that the narrator, though occassionally questioning her decision to dance, doesn't really recognize that her current misery is entirely her own fault. Instead, she calls her dancing partner a "creature [she's] chained to" (261) and assures herself that she should "kill him this instant, with my naked hands" (260).

Brilliantly, Parker's story works on many levels. First of all, the narrator is clearly illustrated as the product of her own demise. There is nothing wrong with the man asking her to dance, and it is only her fear of stepping outside of social boundaries that has put her in this situation.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, Parker subtly illustrates that the stereotypes about women are not necessarily true. This woman in certainly not docile, meek, and well-behaved (at least not in the privacy of her own mind). Those who could think such vicious thoughts about their dance partners should be able to hold their own in the tough world around them.

I read "The Waltz" as both a call to action and a (more subtle and therefore more palatable) affirmation of women's strength. Yes, Parker seems to be saying, we are strong and capable, so stand up and do something about it.

The Misfits

I couldn't help but notice the similarities between Chris from Calendar Girls and Mrs. Roby in "Xingu." Both women seem set on superficially fitting into some sort of women's society, but neither do. Both are viewed as outcasts from within the circle, and both are powerful--the characters who set the action of the humor into motion.

Chris suggests vodka tasting and nude calendars; Mrs. Roby rejects asinine readings and challenges the women's "intellectual" standards. In the end, Chris is a hero of her intimate circle, successfully altering the women's views of themselves and their traditional roles. Mrs. Roby, however, is cast out of the group; her rejection of the norms is unacceptable.

We've noted that women are often misfits when it comes to stand-up, too. Margaret Cho doesn't dress like a lady, and she certainly doesn't talk like one. Her frank discussion of her sex life would surely leave even Chris blushing in shame. Jeanene Garafolo is a stand-up who rejects traditional roles by refusing to be sexualized in order to acheive fame. Her dress, attitude, and general demeanor set her outside of the traditional view. Even the stand-ups who may look the part of the traditional woman bend the rules.

However, as I mentioned in my last post, some of these women don't seem to be breaking them.

Again, I'm not suggesting that comedy's role is to change society, but it certainly can't hurt. As far as my personal preferences go, I'm finding myself much more attracted to comedy that does seem to have some more aggressive agenda: addressing racial stereotypes, breaking down gender barriers, mocking consumerism. While a joke that's just a joke is fine, a joke that makes me think is better. If that joke makes me think about something that needs to be changed in the world, that's even better still.

I think that there is something different about the way Chris and Mrs. Roby wear their misfit label, and in that difference I feel there is a more ambitious social commentary. Margaret Cho does not do much to break down barriers for women (though she does possibly do more to break down barriers for the gay community--though I'm not entirely convinced she's not merely bouncing around in those stereotypes as well--I'd have to see more of her acts). Neither, despite my general appreciation of her work, does Jeanene Garofolo. In order to be a socially progressive comic misfit, then, how do women successfully break those barriers without merely fitting into them in new ways?

Does Pushing the Boundaries Reiterate Them?

After watching Margaret Cho, who I had only seen brief clips of before, I began to question the gender boundaries of female stand-ups. Admittedly, I haven't seen many women stand-up comedians. Cho's stand-up did remind me of one of the few others I have seen: Sarah Silverman.

Both of these women depend on the boundaries of gender stereotypes in order to be funny. Without the stereotypes that women are supposed to be shy, docile, and quiet, neither of these "shock" comedians would have a show.

Cho's humor depends upon taboos about women's sexuality and female body issues. Her jokes about women's relationship with weight, experimental sexual clubs, and her period all depend on a certain image of a what a woman is supposed to be. As Cho herself says when talking about the images of stick-then models, "If that's what a woman is supposed to be, maybe I'm not one." This same theme is at the heart of her entire performance. Without the preconceived notions of femininity and female actions, her act would not be funny at all.

How much, then, does her act really push the boundaries for women? I'm not necessarily saying that it's supposed to, or even that comedy has that responsibility at all, but there does seem to be a role for comedy to perform a sort of social policing. Comedy can be used to question stereotypes. So, for the sake of argument, let's say that female stand-ups want to question the stereotypes about women. Does depending on those stereotypes to be funny break them or reinforce them? Does it depend on who's watching? Cho seems very aware of her audience, constantly referring to the different factions who may respond differently to certain parts of her performance (such as when she says the gay men are plugging their ears at the talk of her straight sex life). How does this knowledge of audience expectation play into the stereotypes she is using?

Dramedy?

Bouncing off of Abby's post, I began to think about comedy as a genre. The Full Monty and Calendar Girls share, besides normal-looking people stripping, overt moments of melancholy.

The whole premise of Calendar Girls begins over raising money in the name of a recently deceased cancer victim: a main character's husband. Furthermore, his death does not take place off-screen, an alluded to tragedy. We, the audience, see this man; we get to know him; we feel the pain of his death. For me, that pain was very pronounced throughout the film watching the wife's character react at different points. Her cry that "he didn't drink beer" struck me as very tender and sincere. When she breaks down in Hollywood, I was very touched.
This is the most overt sign of drama in this "comedy," but it was certainly not alone. Chris's son's reaction to her stripping is very dramatic and serious. One woman's dissolving marriage is shown in realistic (and not very humorous) ways. The fight between Chris and her best friend over the calendar is painful to watch.

The Full Monty seems a little more balanced in its humor and drama, but it still has some very serious scenes. Suicide attempts. A funeral. A man unable to deal with his insecurities at risk of losing his wife. A man unable to provide for child support at risk of losing his son.
This is not the stuff of comedy, at least, not in the way its displayed.

There are, of course, comedies that deal with serious subjects. In Tommy Boy, an entire town is about to lose their jobs, but I don't think there's much that is "serious" in this film. In Knocked Up, a woman deals with an unexpected pregnancy and the thought of single-motherhood, but there are very few serious moments that address this issue (although, admittedly, there are a few more than the previews would suggest). Weekend at Bernie's is all about a man dying, but we're not particularly sympathetic to that death.

What then, makes something a comedy and something a drama? I think back to some definition I was given in middle school (I think it was connected to the Greek definitions): if the characters are worse off at the end, its a tragedy/drama, if they're better off, it's a comedy.
This doesn't seem to hold up in our contemporary viewings, however--at least not for me.

The connection this had to Abby's post (for me) is that I couldn't think of any female-driven comedies that didn't revolve around men/love/marriage that weren't of this "dramedy" category. I thought of A League of Their Own, but there are very serious moments in that movie. Fried Green Tomatoes has a lot of funny moments, but I'm not sure what side of the divide I'd palce it on. Does this connect back to the stereotype that women can't be funny? In order to display humor, does female comedy have to a) revolve around men or b) revolve around drama?

Respectable Strippers

The thing that struck me as the most different between Calendar Girls and The Full Monty was the reaction of the sons of the main characters.


Chris's son is absolutely devastated when he discovers what his mom's been up to. We see him, in one of the many melancholic scenes in the film, throwing the newspapers with the cover story over the edge of a cliff. He is humiliated and angry with his mother. Though we get some hints that his father has tried to talk him out of this attitude at the very end of the film, we see no reconciliation of this problem.



In The Full Monty, on the other hand, Gaz's son only briefly rejects his father's stripping. (Even then, it's clear that Nathan undergoes something a little more traumatic than Chris's son ever did. After all, Nathan was watching his dad strip in an abandoned parking lot; all Chris's son did was see her picture in the paper.) The rejection does not last, however, and Nathan becomes an active participant in the scheme; in the end, it is his firm words that send his dad out on stage.







What's the difference? Is it gender-based?


I'm not sure that it has to be gender-based, but I think it certainly might be. Chris, being a woman (and an older, married one at that) is not supposed to be stripping. Neither is Gaz, but his performance is met with laughter and jokes, not shame. While Chris's husband understands the artistic and independent nature of her decision to strip, her son does not. Furthermore, there is little "art" to Gaz's performance, but that doesn't seem to stop the majority of the people in his life from supporting him (even his ex, who supports little else that he does).



This could be a commentary on the gender roles of parenting. Chris, as a mother, is supposed to be nurturing, dometic, docile--a role that she appears to have been uncomfortable with even before stripping (thus her problem with the women's club to begin with.)



At the beginning of the movie, Gaz is also not performing in the traditional role of father; he is not providing, and his son sees him as unstable and a little crazy.


Chris, then, further removes herself from her perceived role as mother by stripping for the calendar. Gaz, on the other hand, solidifies his role as father by using it as the opportunity to finally provide for his son. This would explain why Chris's act alienates her from her son while Gaz's brings him closer to Nathan.



One final thought about this observation: would it have been different if Chris had had a daughter? I can't remember what the woman's name was, but one of the women who stripped for the calendar was frequently shown with her daughter--a daughter who fully supported her decision. Is there something that makes a daughter more able to understand her mother's actions than a son? Is this why Nathan was able to relate to Gaz?

If a Tree Falls in the Woods . . .

The book I'm reading for my book review (which I mentioned in the last post) makes an interesting point about stand-up (and I might argue comedy in general). The author notes that the audience makes the joke. There is no joke if the audience doesn't laugh. He carries this on to say that "[t]o criticize a joke is to miss it" (Limon 12). Compared to other artistic pursuits (like opera and novels), we cannot depend on a critic to tell us what is funny; the audience determines what is funny. If the audience laughs, it is. If the audience doesn't, it isn't. Period. End of discussion.

This gives the audience a lot of power. I think this is also what makes comedy (particularly stand-up) so risky. Perhaps the people sitting in front of you are the type of audience that will find this hilarious. Perhaps they're not. If not, your show is destined to be a failure. There is nothing that you can do to change that. Perhaps this is the only art that takes this sort of control away from the artist. While a badly-reviewed painter can argue that the audience just doesn't understand his vision, the comic doesn't have the same opportunity. The audience's laughter is the thing that determines success.

We've talked about the relative timeliness of humor in class several times, but this concept of audience-control adds another dimension to it. It's really odd to think about viewing stand-up as a recording created in front of a live audience. We are now the audience, but the comic has no chance to react to us. In fact, in some instances (such as when we watched George Carlin) the comic is no longer living; he will have no opportunity to consider us as an audience. With Chris Rock's compliation presentation we see the same act given in front of three different audiences. They seem to receive it postively in all three instances, but Rock had no way of knowing that they would and I'm sure that the shows were not exactly the same. He had to adjust slightly each time, reacting to the audience's feedback. He cannot react to ours. We are watching it after the fact; his act is permanently trapped as a recording.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, but I do think that this has interesting reprecussions for humor. What happens when our audience has the sole power to determine the success of our art? At the very least it makes me respect comics a lot more.

"Mommy, why does Eddie Murphy need a shoehorn?"

I've always found in interesting the different types of roles comedians can play in their careers. It brings up interesting questions about persona to view a comedian's whole collection of work.

While watching Delirious, I found myself wondering how Eddie Murphy ended up in the roles he's most popular for today: Shrek, Dr. Doolittle, The Nutty Professor. Comparing the vulgarity of his early stand-up to the family-friendly image of his present work is a bit shocking. I mean, this man made Daddy Day Care for crying out loud; he can't talk about the faces 18-year-olds make during sex! I wonder how many children have stumbled upon Delirious playing on HBO only to have their jaws drop.

The same sort of incongruous message was obvious to me when I watched Bob Saget. I associate Bob Saget with Full House: a well-mannered, fun-loving guy who just wants to take care of his kids. This image made him perfect as a host on America's Funniest Home Videos. I obviously knew that the image was a persona, but it wasn't until I saw The Aristocrats that I really started to pick that persona apart.

For those of you who haven't seen it, The Aristocrats is a weird meta-joke about comedians telling what is apparently a famous inside joke among comedians. It is shock humor through and through. The basic premise is a man goes to an agent and says he has a family act to pitch. He then pitches the most vulgar, obsence, and disturbing thing you can think of. The agent asks, "And what do you call yourselves?" and the man responds with "the Aristocrats."

The two images are impossible to reconcile if you believe either of them to be the "real" Bob Saget. But comedians' personas are difficult to deal with; we expect them to be themselves, or at least somewhat hyperbolic versions of themselves. In the book I am reading for my book review, Stand-up Comedy in Theory, or, Abjection in America, the author notes that

"comedians are not allowed to be either natural or artifical. (Are they
themselves or acting? Are they in costume?) Reality keeps returning to stand-up
performance, but the deepest deisre of stand-ups is to be, with respect to their
lives, unencumbered"

Obviously, in the examples I've given, I'm comparing two very different genres: stand-up and movies. In movies, there is no question that the actor is playing a role, a very specific, characterized role. However, the success of a movie largely depends on the viewers' ability to suspend disbelief and pretend that the actor is actually in that role. If we have an image of a comedian from watching stand-up performances (one that we think of as "true" because of the blurred lines of stand-up) is it harder to set that image aside when watching that comedian in a movie role?