The Cheeky Monkey

by Tim Ferguson

Ethnic gags often appear in successful sitcoms without causing picket-lines at TV networks. Blackadder, for example, gets away with many an ethnic joke that, if quoted out of context, might cause offence.

  MRS MIGGINS: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur’. It’s French!

  BLACKADDER: So is eating frogs, cruelty to geese and urinating in the street.

  —Blackadder III (‘Nob and Nobility’ by Richard Curtis and Ben Elton)

  The regional stereotype plays upon the broadly-attributed qualities of regional or social groups of a given society. For Westerners, these stereotypes are based on English-speaking Caucasians. Like an Irish joke, these characters are a form of cultural, not racial, prejudice. Some examples are the suburban ocker Aussie Ted Bullpit in Kingswood Country, the snobby upper-class store assistants Trude and Prue in Kath and Kim and the horny Southern Belle Blanche Devereaux in The Golden Girls.

  Regional archetype characters usually have exaggerated accents and are prone to malapropisms. Some accents can be so strong that the character is totally incomprehensible to the audience (though other characters may translate), as in the case of PC Bob Walker in Hot Fuzz by Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright.

  ‘Regionalism’ may become a no-no in a distant feudal future, but for now it’s deemed okay. Be warned: it can rankle with those associated with the stereotype. New Zealanders are kinda over the sheep jokes. And frankly, so are the sheep.

  The gay stereotype is typically razor-tongued, promiscuous, camp as an Army bivouac and often too clever for his own good. Examples include the department store menswear salesman, Mr Humphries in Are You Being Served?, Manhattan cabaret performer, Jack McFarland in Will & Grace and actor-turned-soldier, Gunner ‘Gloria’ Beaumont in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.

  The Gay Stereotype’s stock in trade is bawdy double entendres and sexual banter. He’s a camp, highly emotional and vain person who is rarely, if ever, rewarded with meaningful sex or in a relationship for longer than an episode or two. (Sadly, the writers only push the boundaries—they don’t change them.)

  Catchphrases work effectively for ethnic, regional and gay stereotypes. The catchphrases are readily repeated and speak to the heart of the archetype. The Simpsons’ Indian stereotype, Apu, shows his dogged insistence upon doing his humble duty by saying, ‘Thank you, come again!’ even when his store is a smoking ruin. These catchphrases can be used to make a broader, satirical point. In a lethal parody of wartime Germany’s conscious ignorance of Hitler’s evil, Sergeant Shultz (Hogan’s Heroes) blocks his ears and insists, ‘I know nussink!’ Team America (by Pam Brady, Trey Parker and Matt Stone) defines the isolation of the despot when Kim Jong-il sings his signature song I’m So Ronery (‘lonely’). And Jack (Will & Grace) often says his own name with a cabaret star’s flourish that displays his self-obsessed personality.

  Presenting the archetypes and stereotypes above in fresh ways is the challenge. Archetypes provide a starting point only for the true character-building. You might use the character profile graph to generate new attributes for an archetypal character. Your imagination is the only limit to the characteristics that will set them apart from their forbearers. The ingredient that makes an archetype your own is you.

  Rejecting archetypes as ‘too easy’ is unwise. Nothing is ‘too easy’ in the sitcom business. Great sitcom writers, such as Mitchell Hurwitz (The Golden Girls, Arrested Development) and Gary Reilly (Kingswood Country, Hey Dad..!) have claimed to use archetypes as starting points for some of their characters. Reconcile yourself with the fact that, as soon as you decide your series will need a protagonist and an antagonist, or two antagonistic protagonists, you’re already following tradition, entering territory where cliché and hackney-ism can run rife. Again, you are the factor that will make your characters original.

  There’s no room for a comprehensive list of comic archetypes here—it would fill a book. Should you wish to learn more, read The Triumph of Pierrot: The Commedia Dell’Arte and the Modern Imagination by Martin Green and John Swan (Macmillan), or Lazzi: The Comic Routines of the Commedia Dell’Arte by Mel Gordon (PAJ Books).

  Chapter Five:

  Creating an Episode

  It’s hard enough to write a good drama; it’s much harder to write a good comedy; and it’s hardest of all to write a drama with comedy, which is what life is.

  —Jack Lemmon

  The Hope Principle

  There’s an ancient principle that underpins many comic stories.

  Ever since Homer (the writer of the Odyssey, not the bloke from The Simpsons), heroic stories have been comprised of some simple elements: a hero strives to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles between himself and his goal. He has weapons, tools, brains and skill. Throughout, his heart burns with an enduring hope that he will succeed.

  If the story is a heroic drama, he’ll triumph. If it’s a tragedy, he’ll fail and die.

  Aristotle’s Poetics states that ‘Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in real life.’ He takes the template above, applies it to comedy and identifies two differences. Aristotle says that comedy doesn’t demand a noble, wise or heroic protagonist—quite the opposite. Secondly, the comic protagonist should lack the weapons, tools, brains or skill they need to achieve their goal.

  There’s a joke about a wide-mouthed African tree frog that illustrates Aristotle’s principle nicely:

  A wide-mouthed African tree frog (a tree frog with a very wide mouth), bounces through the jungle. He approaches a monkey.

  ‘I’m doing a survey on animal diets’, says the Treefrog. ‘What do you eat, Mr Monkey?’

  ‘Nuts and berries,’ replies the monkey.

  The wide-mouthed African tree frog thanks him and approaches an anteater.

  ‘Mr Anteater, what do you eat?’

  ‘Uh, ants,’ replies the anteater pointedly.

  The wide-mouthed African tree frog thanks him and bounces down to the river where he spots a crocodile.

  ‘Mr Crocodile, what do you eat?’

  ‘I eat wide-mouthed African tree frogs.’

  The tree frog purses his lips tightly. ‘Really? You don’t see many of those around these days …’

  The wide-mouthed African tree frog has a goal—to survive. He faces a seemingly insurmountable obstacle (the crocodile is powerful, dangerous and likes eating tree frogs). The tree frog doesn’t have the weapons, brains or skill to escape the crocodile, so he tries the only thing left to him—hiding his identity. His pathetic attempt is his only hope and he gives it all he’s got.

  When it comes to telling the joke, the punchline works best if the tree frog’s eyes seem as innocent as a naughty schoolboy’s. He thinks he might get away with his deception. The more hopeful the tree frog seems, the bigger the laugh.

  We never find out what happens to the frog. The joke is over once the tree frog’s goal, the obstacle he faces, his inadequacy and his enduring hope have been presented. The options for continuing the story (e.g. the frog and the crocodile become friends or the crocodile takes pity and releases the tree frog) are workable, but they’re not comic.

  The tree frog demonstrates the ‘hope principle’ that lies at the heart of cover-ups and distractions (see Chapter Six, ‘Narrative Gags’). When Basil Fawlty is lying to Sybil in Fawlty Towers, his desperation is soothed only by the enduring hope that he will get away with his deception.

  The more forlorn the hope, the more feeble the attempt, the funnier the situation becomes. Watching a character struggle on despite the odds touches something very human in all of us. When they maintain unfounded hope despite their pathetic inadequacy, the odds against them mount and so do the laughs.

  In Welcher & Welcher by Shaun Micallef, Quentin Welcher’s insurmountable obstacle is his own deficient personality. He wants to be a successful lawyer but lacks knowledge of his own failings, and thus doesn’t see that success will never come until he learns and changes. So he resolutely struggles on, filled with a hope born of self-delusion.

  This pri
nciple underpins the narrative arc of individual stories. In Seinfeld George Castanza is as inadequate as they come. He’s short, fat, bald, insecure, petty, dishonest, miserly, angst-ridden, lazy and obsessive. No matter what he turns his hand to, he’s doomed to fail. When George sucks up to his black boss by comparing him to Sugar Ray Leonard, his boss accuses him of racism. George doesn’t believe himself to be racist, but realises he has no black friends. He strives vainly to make some so he can prove his progressiveness to his boss. Finally, George fakes a friendship with his exterminator, but his boss sees through the ruse and now believes George is racist and callously manipulative. The boss exits, furious. When a young waiter innocently remarks that George’s departed boss looks like Sugar Ray Leonard, George races to catch him. But it’s too late. George’s behaviour throughout the episode has rendered the proof meaningless (‘The Diplomat’s Club’ by Tom Gammill and Max Pross).

  The hope principle is not underpinned by any moral imperative. It’s completely unjust: it’s not fair that someone should retain hope against all odds and still be frustrated. But comedy is truth. The hope principle recognises that if the worst can happen, it probably will—even if, most of the time, the worst is not too bad.

  You might think a similar principle underpins certain serious narratives, such as the hobbit Frodo Baggins’ journey into the dark land of Mordor in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It doesn’t.

  Yes, Frodo faces seemingly insurmountable obstacles (the all-powerful magician Sauron) and he has enduring hope (‘Where there is life’, he says, ‘there is hope.’). But Frodo’s tools are more than sufficient for his task. His unbreakable sword can detect orcs and goblins. His vial of Elf cordial glows in the dark and blinds giant spiders. He’s accompanied by the future king, the mightiest wizard in the land, three of the toughest warriors in Middle Earth and his manservant, Sam, who will lay down his life for Frodo without hesitation. Best of all, Frodo bears a magic ring that makes him invisible and has the power to destroy Sauron and his armies. Frankly, Frodo couldn’t be better equipped if he had a Hummer with a machine-gun turret. As for his personal qualities, Frodo is brave and noble. For such a shorty, he has remarkably few insecurities.

  The hope principle belongs to comedy alone. Dramatic heroes have it easy by comparison.

  The principle however does not always apply to secondary characters, who often serve different purposes for the writer. George Castanza’s parents, for instance, have one primary story function: to torture George. They’re well-equipped for torturing, with cantankerous natures, sharp tongues and thick skins. And they certainly don’t need any hope to rain misery upon their son, and each other. Most of the time, they effectively act as George’s obstacles. But for a comic protagonist the hope principle is nearly always essential. The hope principle drives a comic hero far beyond rational limits in pursuit of their goal. To make this believable, the viewer must suspend their disbelief. Hope, no matter how slender or ill-founded, has the power to blind both the protagonist and the viewer to reality.

  Comic stories tend to end in ironic failure. Shakespeare, whose comedies and tragedies follow Aristotle’s model, allows his comic heroes to fail ironically—that is, by discovering they never really wanted what they were striving for. Only the purest of heart will achieve their goal, but even then the victory is hollow. For instance, Robin in Robin Hood: Men In Tights (by Mel Brooks, Evan Chandler, J. D. Shapiro) marries Maid Marian, but can’t get her chastity belt open.

  Conventional morality dictates that characters must overcome their personal flaws before they’re rewarded. Modern sitcoms often feature comic heroes who strive against obstacles and maintain an enduring hope of success, but because of their personal failings, they fail and end up where they started. For example, the main characters of The Hollowmen (by Santo Cilauro, Tom Gleisner and Rob Sitch), always end with the status quo or worse. Any victories they gain are, as the name suggests, hollow. And no matter how hard Gilligan and his shipmates (Gilligan’s Island) try, they repeatedly fail to escape from the island. When at last they do escape (in the 1978 reunion special, Rescue From Gilligan’s Island by David P. Harmon, Al Schwartz, Elroy Schwartz and Sherwood Schwartz), it’s not long before they are stranded on the island once more.

  APPLYING THE HOPE PRINCIPLE

  If you’re wrestling with a scene that is close to funny but not quite there, try standing back and looking at the way the characters are striving for their goals. It may lack a desperate ‘any strategy is a good strategy’ edge because:

  The obstacles your comic hero faces may be too small.

  Your comic hero may be too capable of winning because of his personal attributes or the tools he has at hand.

  Your comic hero’s goal is not important enough to him or her.

  Your comic hero is pessimistic.

  The No-Hoper Principle

  The flipside to the hope principle relates to antagonists and is comprised of the following elements: a villain is impeded by a minor obstacle. He overreacts and is doubly punished as a result.

  The no-hoper principle complies with the law of inverse significance: comic characters attribute vast importance to trivial things, and treat important things as trivial. When a comic villain is impeded only slightly, he reacts with all the force at his disposal. These characters never doubt that their bomb-to-kill-a-bug technique will succeed, even though, hidden in the bomb cloud, the bug frequently escapes to fight another day.

  An example is the comic villain who slips on a freshly mopped floor. Rising to his feet, he notices a sign marked ‘Caution—slippery floor’. Angry, he kicks the sign, loses his balance and falls again—harder.

  At any stage, the villain could stop, think and consider the risks. He could choose to tread carefully over the wet floor, wait for it to dry or avoid it entirely. But he’s a villain. Whether through self-importance, impatience, control-freakdom, anger management issues or any other evildoer shortcoming, the comic villain consistently defies and underestimates obstacles. This mindset is not based upon hope but upon ego. Comic villains cannot see their own deficiencies.

  This principle can work in a broader narrative arc. In Robin Hood: Men In Tights, the villainous Sheriff of Rottingham is frustrated when his wooing of Maid Marian is interrupted by Robin Hood. In the real world, the sheriff would get the girl easily. He’s rich, powerful, educated and handsome, while Robin is a penniless vagabond who lives in a tree. However, instead of adopting a more personable demeanour that might attract Marian, the Sheriff overreacts. He tries to slaughter Robin and his Merry Men In Tights. Fool! He not only loses Marian, but his life.

  Like the hope principle, the no-hoper principle tends to define the story-driving characters. Secondary antagonists tend to act with more moderation. A villain’s sidekick, for example, may advise caution. In Jay Roach and Mike Myers’ Goldmember, Number Two initially advises against Dr Evil’s scheme to produce sharks with lasers attached to their heads. As they are an endangered species he will have to make do with ill-tempered sea bass.

  Because secondary antagonists tend to be more even-tempered they often escape the retribution visited upon their masters. Number Two never receives the punishment his master suffers. Perhaps his name is enough.

  APPLYING THE NO-HOPER PRINCIPLE

  If your villain isn’t working, either in a scene or throughout the story, check them against the no-hoper principle. Your villain might be:

  Too wise. He should be blinded in some way by his ambition.

  Too patient. Though he may have waited calmly for his chance, when he does act he should do so without precision and with overwhelming force. Villains lash out with their eyes wide shut.

  Despite this it should be clear that the villain is a credible threat and could with care and planning easily attain his goal. For example, Dr Evil in Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (by Mike Myers) is a multi-millionaire with weapons of mass-destruction. Comic bad guys are undone as much by their personal flaws and
limited world view as by the hapless protagonist.

  The Victim’s–Fault Principle

  Comedy and tragedy essentially mirror one another. Both are driven by a sense of cosmic justice that punishes sin. In both, it’s essential that the protagonist takes action that leads them, at first unconsciously, towards their own demise.

  The difference between comedy and tragedy is the stakes and the importance the characters place on them.

  In tragedy the protagonist sees the stakes in roughly the same light as the audience. When the Titanic is sinking in James Cameron’s dramatic film of the same name, all the characters are fully aware of their plight. In comedy the protagonist and the audience see the stakes in completely different terms.

  In conventional comedy, the protagonist sees the stakes as very high (and consequently struggles hard for them) when the audience knows they are not overwhelmingly important. Consequently, the protagonist’s punishment is also not generally that severe, although to the protagonist, at the time, it feels like the end of the world. When Frances O’Brien in The Librarians is seen grasping the clothed breasts of an untroubled colleague, she faints from embarrassment. Though context is important, in the real world the incident probably would not cause such a severe reaction and remedying the matter wouldn’t require drastic measures. (‘Amnesty’ by Robyn Butler and Wayne Hope).

  Satire or black comedy reverses the formula: stakes that for the audience are terribly high are treated by the characters as of lesser importance. In Frontline, sensationalist reporter, Brooke Vandenburg, interviews the mother of a crazed gunman holding his children hostage. When the interview needs to be re-shot, she displays her total lack of appreciation of the mother’s distress by asking ‘Would you be able to cry again?’ (‘The Siege’ by Santo Cilauro, Tom Gleisner, Jane Kennedy and Rob Sitch).

  In some cases, a benign character’s flaws, not their sins, can lead to comic events. For instance, a generous character who donates their time to fix a car, despite the fact they have little mechanical knowledge, can inspire laughter when the car runs them over. Though the character is trying to be helpful, they are too stupid or innocent to know the task is beyond them. Gilligan in Gilligan’s Island is a well-meaning but naïve character who discovers some tree sap that he’s confident can glue the castaways’ boat back together. Of course, having raised everyone’s hopes, Gilligan is scolded when the sap proves to be water soluble and the boat sinks. (‘Goodbye Island’ by Albert E. Lewin, Sherwood Schwartz and Burt Styler)