by Tim Ferguson
In domestic sitcom, characters learn and change, but not fundamentally. Typically their life lessons deal with peripheral qualities that characters can reveal and resolve in one episode, such as a phobia about spiders. So long as the phobia isn’t a running gag through the series (why fix a gag that ain’t broken?) and the character hasn’t dealt fearlessly with spiders elsewhere in the series, the phobia can form the axis of a learning curve without fundamentally changing the character.
Dom-com stories usually travel at a pace that feels natural rather than forced. The reversals may come more quickly as the story nears its climax, but not always.
Dom-com protagonists are pre-occupied with their relationships.
Dom-com explores the minutiae of emotional interaction.
To achieve their desires, protagonists must learn and change—though not fundamentally.
Poetic justice is always served.
The viewer is ‘inside’ the story—that is, they must strongly identify with at least one character in the series.
In domestic comedy, human relationships are under the microscope.
FARCE
BASIL: Do you remember when we were first ‘manacled’ together? We used to laugh a lot.
SYBIL: Yes, but not at the same time, Basil.
—Fawlty Towers (‘Communication Problems’ by Connie Booth and John Cleese)
Farce tells the painful truth.
Farce occupies the next circle of engagement. It keeps the viewer at arm’s length—although only just. It does this in two ways. Firstly, although the characters in farce are recognisable, their relationships with one another hold little intrinsic interest. They do not strive for a genuine and mature emotional connection. For instance, Basil Fawlty in Fawlty Towers, arguably television’s finest farce, is too self-obsessed to engage meaningfully with his wife, Sybil. He calls her ‘the dragon’—and he means it. If the main character or characters cannot truly love, the viewer fails to establish an emotional bond with them. The relationships in farce may be familiar (husband and wife, boss and employee) but they are not explored dramatically.
Secondly, the settings for farce may be recognisable but, unlike the family home, need not be universally familiar. Farces have been set in large manor homes, hotels, home businesses, public buildings and offices. While many of us have been to these locations, we haven’t necessarily stood in the shoes of those who inhabit them. In other words, we may have stayed at a bed-and-breakfast, but few of us have managed one.
Finally, and crucially, farce moves quickly. It pushes its characters through drastic, increasingly rapid and often increasingly unlikely story reversals. The suspense generated by these frantic and accelerating complications is the genre’s main appeal. The emotions sparked by these goings-on may include excitement, frustration, annoyance and Schadenfreude, but sadness and empathy rarely get a look-in. (In a farce–dom-com hybrid such as Frasier pathos may be a regular element, but it’s the dom-com strand of the stories that gets us choked-up.)
In this circle of engagement, though we may not regard the protagonist or protagonists as lovable, we do engage in their troubles. Nobody loves Basil Fawlty as a person, but he appeals to the disobedient child in all of us. Knowing him as we do, we look forward to the harsh treatment he metes out to other, generally more virtuous, characters that enter his world. We don’t particularly care whether Basil is victorious or eviscerated by Sybil. We don’t feel for him. The writers (Connie Booth and John Cleese) never ask us to shed a tear for any of their characters. We are engaged but not emotionally attached.
In essence, farce is the exploration of conflict between a protagonist and their world. This conflict is inevitable given their nature. For example, no matter who walks through Basil Fawlty’s door, he’s going to have a problem with them. Even Mother Teresa might find herself accused of a holier-than-thou attitude by the thin-skinned and self-aggrandising Basil. (How delicious it would be to see the saintly Mother Teresa being forced to clean the kitchen with a toothbrush as Basil shouts, ‘Not so high-and-mighty now are you, you pontificating crone?!’)
In farce, typically it’s every man for himself. That is, the protagonist is self-absorbed and conflict is generated by the constant flow of guest characters from the outside world. Anyone can walk through the doors of Fawlty Towers.
Prejudice, selfishness, social eccentricities and status are the meat and hollandaise of farce.
Farce is often fast-paced and laden with wordplay and complications including misunderstandings and runaway lies. The already brisk plot gathers pace until the chaotic climax. There’s a lot of running, hiding and lying through teeth. Mistaken identities, falsehoods and disguises abound. Doors (both literal and metaphorical) open and close as the characters strive with increasing desperation to achieve their aims. Unlikely or extreme behaviour is commonplace.
Farce protagonists are preoccupied by their own status.
To achieve their goal, farce protagonists may learn peripheral or tactical lessons, but they cannot change in any meaningful way.
The characters are held at arms length by the viewer, but only just.
Poetic justice may or may not be served.
In farce, human behaviour is under the microscope.
SATIRE
There’s a place called a rainforest, it truly sucks ass.
Let’s knock it all down and get rid of it fast.
You say, ‘Save the rainforest,’ but what would you know?
You’ve never been to the rainforest before.
—South Park (‘Rainforest Schmainforest’ by Trey Parker and Matt Stone)
Satire tells the dark truth.
Sitting on the outermost circle of engagement, satire is unconcerned by most questions of character. Rather, it distils and inverts or exaggerates some aspect of our world in order to comment on society at large. One man becomes all men, a politician, all politicians. In a satirical world, moral values, worldly concerns and even commonsense may be upside-down. Just ask Gulliver.
Rather than exploring the nuances of individual behaviour, satire is preoccupied by the machinations of bureaucracies, communities, hierarchies and extended families. We may be entertained by a witty and sustained satirical attack on society, but the characters remain little more than pawns from which we are emotionally detached. Who ever shed a tear for South Park’s Kenny McCormick?
Even the noblest characters in a satire (often found in servile roles) don’t earn the audience’s empathy. We may pity them and even wish them success in their puny endeavours, but we never truly invest in characters who should know better than to passively maintain the status quo.
Consequently, as in farce, satirical characters do not change or grow in any fundamental way. Or, if they do, it’s a sign the series is ending. (Only in the dying moments of the final episode of Blackadder Goes Forth does Edmund Blackadder become sombre as he dwells upon the madness of war.)
Its heartlessness makes it difficult for some viewers to enjoy TV satire, making it the hardest sub-genre to sell. The problem is not that it’s too clever; some viewers simply can’t see the point in watching often unlovable characters rattling around a bleak universe. The problems and conflicts of satirical characters are generally not those of the average viewer. Yes Minister explores the evils of political power. Unless you’ve worked in government, the immediate issues facing the minister, Jim Hacker, won’t immediately resonate, and watching a sclerotic world at its worst can be very uncomfortable. Likewise, many viewers find the subject matter of The Office—the pointlessness and cruelty of the modern workplace—too painful to watch.
TV satire, no matter how funny, is rarely ‘light’. Satire deliberately offends. Whether it’s politics, sex or social commentary, satire takes no prisoners and makes no apologies. Satire challenges and often disparages our world view. The satirists place themselves above society and even religion (a satirist can, after all, cast the Lord as a finger-puppet). Broad appeal and digit deities rarely go together
.
Satire illuminates by contrast, but in doing so it offers a dim view of the human condition. In South Park Kenny’s customary death is never accompanied by a ray of sunshine or a worthy lesson well heard. Kenny dies. Those who killed him are ‘bastards’. Move on.
Satirists tell us what is wrong with the world, not what is right. And yet, it’s not a negative message. Implicit in satire is an appeal for change.
When a nobler character does offer a solution to the world’s woes they are usually ignored. In Yes Minister Bernard Woolley is a junior public servant who generally offers sensible and morally correct advice that is wryly disregarded by those above him. It’s a hard world.
The pace of a TV satire is dependent entirely on the world, issues or group of characters under scrutiny. Using its arsenal of metaphor and parody, satire can race like a Canterbury tale or plod like Don Quixote’s nag.
Satire’s protagonists are often preoccupied with power, justice or social order.
Common satire settings include homes, public institutions, businesses, factories and offices.
Rigid hierarchies, social status and the faux pas, paradoxes or hypocrisies they engender are the meat and flies of satire.
Satire explores human social behaviour.
Satirical characters do not learn or change.
The viewer is emotionally detached.
Poetic justice is usually served—plus ten years’ hard labour.
In satire, society is under the microscope.
CHOOSING A SUB-GENRE
Choosing a sub-genre can be a baffling and frustrating exercise. Baffling because the choice is filled with as many limitations as it is possibilities. Frustrating because, once you’ve chosen, the only way back is to scrap your idea and start again—not that you should ever be afraid of that.
The choice of sub-genre can however be made with more confidence if you begin by examining the theme of your show and your own sense of humour. If your theme encompasses love, belonging, forgiveness, friendship or family, you’ll find a snug fit in domestic comedy. If your intention is to explore human fallibility, loyalty, tolerance and prejudice, farce may present the best field of play. If ambition, greed, systemic social sclerosis and dysfunctional families, groups or organisations tickle your fancy, you’re leaning toward satire.
Your chosen theme will, by and large, dictate the choice of sub-genre. However, most writers are drawn to one sub-genre before another. (I find it hard to resist the allure of the satirist’s godlike power.) If you have a strong affinity with one form, you may wish to re-examine your theme so that it better suits your taste. But beware: your theme or controlling idea must live up to its name. Think of it as your sock and the sub-genre as your shoe. Without the right sock for the right shoe, bushwalking is an uncomfortable business—and no fun to watch.
Let your own sense of humour be your guide. What you find funny is probably what you want to write.
Sub-Genre Hybrids
It’s possible to create a genre hybrid, combining elements of one sub-genre with another. For instance, Shaun Micallef’s Welcher & Welcher is a fine farce–satire hybrid that features a deeply flawed protagonist, complex and escalating stories and a deliciously scornful view of the legal world. There are however some challenges involved in a genre hybrid.
Firstly, the show cannot evolve from one sub-genre to another; it must be a hybrid from the get-go. Each of the sub-genres must be ever-present if only in the thinnest way. The show may lean towards one or the other, sometimes with one side taking the total weight, but the story must remain consistent for both. For example, if your show follows an everyday family who own a Cat that Rules the Galaxy with an Iron Paw, the audience must meet the cat in the first episode. If you introduce a feline inter-galactic tyrant halfway through the series you would bounce from one sub-genre to another. It would be like seeing a magical genie suddenly become a member of the Soprano family. The reality of the world your viewers have accepted is not just shaken by Darth Puss’s arrival—it collapses altogether.
If the circle of engagement shifts and the reality of a show’s world changes, the viewer asks, ‘How am I meant to see this show?’ A narrative that repeatedly jumps between one sub-genre and another is not a sitcom, it’s a sketch show—with long sketches. This schizophrenia demands the viewer change their distance from the action while trying to follow a single narrative.
To work as a coherent entertainment, Darth Puss must be a character from day one, and he needs to remain throughout the series, even if only in the background, constantly conditioning the characters’ lives. Viewers may only get hints of his true identity (a wheezing sound, a black mask, assertions of fatherhood) but as long as they know that the family home is also Imperial Headquarters then they’re ready for the world you’ve created. (3rd Rock from the Sun establishes its alien family from the start and, though the issues they deal with are common and contemporary, the alien identity of the protagonists is never neglected or questioned.)
To combine sub-genres, and their inherent restrictions, remember the relationship between their respective circles of engagement. Those that sit next to one another are more easily hybridised, but dom-com, in the first circle of engagement, sits uncomfortably with satire, in the third. It’s hard to ask the audience to peer down on the action from a God-like distance and at the same time pull on their heart strings.
Farce however sits relatively easily with both dom-com and satire. Its arms-length vantage point can be relaxed or extended to accommodate the demands of its fellow sub-genres. It’s a balancing act.
Domestic comedy and farce blend most comfortably. Domestic comedy is primarily about touching our hearts and keeping us close to the characters, but it’s not a huge stretch to place an antagonistic, bigoted granny in the mix. If the granny is at the centre of the show, the show is essentially farce: she’s the star and her nature drives the conflict. But if granny is simply near, or shares, the centre of the show, her farcical nature can be a source of conflict without driving the major action, and the show is basically dom-com. A dom-com can incorporate farce’s chaos so long as the viewer maintains empathy for one or more of the characters. Without that the show is simply a farce in a domestic setting.
One of the most successful dom-com–farce hybrids is Frasier. The characters pursue their everyday desires and we love them for it but Frasier also has a farcical aspect to his personality. Clever but self-absorbed, he manipulates others and lies his way into many complex situations, forcing him to take increasingly frantic action to put the toothpaste back in the tube.
Notwithstanding its proximity to farce, satire is the hardest sub-genre to hybridise. Satire keeps the viewer at a distance, and thus reduces both the bewilderment generated by farce and the emotional punch of domestic comedy.
The Librarians (by Robyn Butler and Wayne Hope) has the hallmarks of a farce–satire hybrid. The protagonist, Frances O’Brien is, like most farce protagonists, prone to conflict with virtually everyone she encounters. She is a highly-strung, passive-aggressive, devout Catholic librarian while her colleagues are masterfully drawn caricatures of the denizens of an urban community. We cringe at Frances’ panicked shenanigans and sometimes pity her, but we feel no deep emotional attachment. Though her prevailing sentiment is ‘poor me’, Frances dominates her library, maintaining a fixed big-fish–small-pond hierarchy that is portrayed with satirical scorn.
In a dom-com–satire hybrid, viewers are asked to empathise with individual family members while accepting that the social structures around them, including perhaps the family itself, are the true problem. It’s hard to feel for a group of people who have no insight into their most basic condition. For example, can we really care for a terrorist with girl troubles or a Nazi with an overbearing mother? Dom-com works because it touches our hearts. Satire works because it removes us from our empathies and engages our brains.
There are, nevertheless, successful examples of the dom-com–satire hybrid. The Royle Famil
y, for instance, explores the sclerosis of the modern family. We love the characters and can be engrossed by their emotional struggles, but we are always aware of the overall bankruptcy of the modern family—at least as it’s presented in the show. To achieve this, however, the writers largely restrict themselves to stories that can be told in the family lounge room. The workplace, the dole office or the neighbour’s kitchen can never be visited without threatening the shallow illusion of the Royle Family world. Of course, the concept of a lounge-room show may have come first, but the genre hybrid certainly forces this restriction upon the show. Once the writers (Caroline Aherne and Craig Cash) committed to this hybrid they couldn’t break out of that lounge room without losing the show’s laser-like focus. Aherne and Cash turned this restriction into a virtue. Genius—pure and simple.
If you’re still learning the ropes of TV comedy, however, you might be wise to walk before you can run. Pick one sub-genre and make it work for you. You can re-invent the wheel later.
The Power of Three
The number three is perhaps the most useful number in communication. For human beings, a pattern of three is a readily appreciated rhythm. Our brains are geared to recognise, comprehend and find satisfaction in a pattern of three. In sitcoms, the ‘principle of three’ is a technique that will get structure and dialogue humming.
The number three is everywhere in human culture. All around the world people count to three to co-ordinate a group lifting a heavy object. Firing squads follow three steps: ready, aim, fire. Meals are comprised of three courses: entrée, main, dessert. Christian Churches recognise a Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Stories are comprised of three acts that each consist of three steps: harmony, disturbance and resolution.