by Tim Ferguson
A high-status character’s flaws can inspire other characters to inflict punishment upon him. In the comedy film Trading Places (by Timothy Harris and Herschel Weingrod), Dan Aykroyd plays ‘Louis Winthorpe III’, a wealthy stockbroker who’s both arrogant and spoilt. Because of these qualities, his employers select him for a nasty lesson in humility. Watching Winthorpe unravel is funny because his negative qualities make his reduction to poverty seem deserved. (Once he’s learnt humility, however, he becomes more heroic in the audience’s eyes. He’s then able to turn the tables upon his employers. Because of their callous manipulations, they suffer terrible—and humorous—losses.)
The own-fault principle keeps characters active in their own journey, as opposed to being innocent victims of something that could happen to any of us at any time.
If an event in a script lacks comic punch, it may be simply due to the fact that all of your characters have a sense of proportion that is reasonable.
Believability
No matter how outlandish comic stories become, they must nonetheless be ‘believable’.
Given that a comic story could include, for example, an elephant juggler marrying his uncle to save the planet from a Tic-Tac invasion, the issue of believability may seem irrelevant. But the believability of any sitcom is based upon two criteria. Firstly:
Once a reality is established, no matter how tenuous or far-fetched it may be, that reality must not change.
The physical laws of the show’s world may be presented in a rudimentary way—the sets, special-effects and props may be crude—but once established, those laws must remain consistent.
For example, the alien Alf (Alf) is quite obviously a furry puppet. Nevertheless, he is always accepted by the other characters as a real alien. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir features a ghost who can only be seen by the widowed Mrs Muir, now living in his house. Although he loves her, love can only do so much and he is never able to kiss her. The action in Bewitched obeys the laws of magic as the characters present them: some spells can’t be fixed with a twitch of the nose; certain procedures must be carried out. The astronaut in I Dream of Jeannie accepts that his flatmate is a genie with godlike powers. The world obeys Jeannie’s commands, but even so she can be trapped helplessly in her bottle. The physics of this ‘reality’ never change throughout the series.
Secondly,
Characters must always act and react according to their natures.
Whatever your characters think, feel or do must always be consistent with their true natures. A gay gerontophilic elephant juggler might agree to marry his ugly old uncle without batting an eyelid. However, if marrying his uncle is abhorrent to the juggler, there must be a credible external motivation to overcome this, such as saving the world, if his nature has a noble bent. Alternately, a gun to the head is a fine motivating tool. Stick a sawn-off shottie in the juggler’s nostril and he’ll be screaming ‘I do! I do!’ even though, clearly, he doesn’t.
The scenario is far-fetched, but the juggler’s choices remain consistent and credible. So long as the peculiar physics of your comic universe are observed, and the characters behave in a way that’s consistent with their natures, the comedy writer is afforded considerable latitude in their portrayal of reality. The audience will accept a scenario that is outlandish, unlikely or heavily reliant on coincidence, so long as they feel they can believe in the characters. If characters act against their natures without proper motivation, even though this may suit the writer’s purposes, the audience will reach for the remote control.
Comedy’s audience suspends disbelief with an eagerness that dramatists must envy. The science fiction world of Star Wars may have been based in a galaxy far, far away, but that galaxy and its outlandish inhabitants are depicted meticulously. A comedy, however, can be performed with glove puppets (Punch and Judy) or crude animations (South Park) because the audience’s enjoyment stems from the characters, not the illusion of reality. Most studio-based sitcom sets are fairly obviously studio sets, particularly when the action moves ‘outside’. The backyard of Home Improvement could never be mistaken for a real backyard. The plants are plastic, the grass is fake, the sunshine is fluorescent. The viewers are given just enough information to accept that the characters are in a yard. After that, their imaginations fill in the blanks as their attention is directed to the action.
In terms of plotting, sitcom takes liberties that drama dare not. Events are compressed and stories can turn on a dime several times in a segment. Stakes rise quickly, moving the story at a breakneck pace that would beggar belief in real life.
In Frasier (‘The New Friend’ by Bob Daily), Frasier makes friends with Roz’ new boyfriend, Luke. When Roz and Luke break up, she praises Frasier for comforting her during the split. However, Frasier and Luke maintain their friendship. They do so behind Roz’ back because Frasier doesn’t want her to think he is disloyal.
Next, Roz re-ignites her relationship with Luke and insists that they keep it a secret from Frasier. She feels Frasier has been a true friend by comforting her after the breakup and she doesn’t want him to think she is weak and doesn’t value his efforts.
From this point, Frasier and Roz each behave with the fevered secrecy of someone having a secret love affair.
Roz joins Frasier at Café Nervosa and invites him to dinner as a way of thanking him for his support during her breakup with Luke. Frasier accepts her invitation. Moving aside, Frasier quickly phones Luke and cancels their own secret engagement. In moments, Luke calls Roz to say he is suddenly free. He invites her on a date. Roz secretly accepts his invitation.
Roz then invents an excuse to Frasier and cancels her dinner with him. Frasier feigns disappointment and immediately phones Luke to tell him he is now free to see him. Luke, however, tells Frasier he has just accepted a surprise invitation and cannot meet him.
Frasier returns to Roz, prepared to go to dinner with her. She is so touched by a friendship bracelet Frasier has just given her that she moves aside to call Luke and cancel their date again.
Niles, sitting nearby, has overheard each of Frasier and Roz’ phone conversations. He has said nothing but is clearly unimpressed. While Roz is on her phone cancelling with Luke, Niles heads for the exit. As he passes, Frasier tells him he’s now available for the evening. To Frasier’s bafflement, Niles assures him, ‘No, you’re not,’ and walks out the door.
This series of reversals at Café Nervosa takes less than two minutes.
In reality, this situation would never occur. Frasier and Roz’ friendship is strong and neither is genuinely dishonest. In the real world, Frasier would simply tell Roz that he wishes to maintain his friendships with her and with Luke. Roz might be rankled but she would accept that Frasier is free to spend his time with whoever he likes. Their friendship might be uneasy for a time, but not as bad as a marriage on the rocks.
In sitcom, however, once an object has been established as being of high sentimental or worldly value, the audience knows it will be smashed, stolen, proven a fake, lost, given to charity by an unknowing friend or thrown out the window in a fit of pique. The same goes for relationships. In Frasier’s case, his honest friendship with Roz is threatened by his shenanigans with Luke, since his lies would hurt her far more than an open friendship with her ex.
Secondly, the pace is blatantly implausible. In sitcom a twist can happen within seconds of the stakes being established, but viewers don’t object. Quite the opposite—swift escalation of the stakes is both expected and desired, and tenuous coincidences in the service of rapid plotting are forgiven by the audience and usually accepted by the characters.
Sitcom dialogue may bear little resemblance to actual conversation so long as it is clear and the characters pursue their objectives.
So, how does sitcom get away with this flimsy regard for the ebb and flow of real life? The answer is found in the actions and reactions of the characters. Though they may be exaggerated or compressed, they are nonetheless grounded in a credible response to t
he situation. In a drama, the characters’ actions might be more nuanced and inhibited, but essentially they are the same.
We accept the convoluted scenario above because it’s based in truth: we know Frasier is a psychologist who places a high value on protecting the feelings of others. His action is extreme but stems from a quality that Frasier is already known for. Roz is known for placing a high value on Frasier’s friendship. Her secrecy stems from an appreciation of Frasier’s apparent loyalty. The scene is comic because their disproportionate behaviour breaks the bond of empathy and allows us to laugh at the outcome.
In short, comedy occurs when characters attach exaggerated importance to something we can see is not that important—or alternately attach little importance to something we can see is crucial.
These extreme or disproportionate reactions are what the audience has tuned in for: they are what make the situation comedic. The audience will jack up only when characters act against their nature for no apparent reason.
Like everything in a sitcom, plot development is subject to one overriding priority: time. Comedy moves fast. Events that, in a film, might take ninety minutes to unfold, a sitcom may cover in as little as twenty-one minutes. There’s no time to establish stakes or raise them at a realistic pace. Nor is there time to include more than a rudimentary introduction to the characters involved, or establish a series of events that might explain a coincidence, unless those events themselves comprise a story. Better to allow the coincidence and move directly on to how the characters deal with it. By and large sitcom writers must assume the audience is familiar with the regular characters’ personal traits and go straight to getting those characters into trouble. This is often done by highlighting only the traits that will be challenged by events in the story.
When the grouchy doctor Becker (Becker, ‘Point of Contact’ by Michael Markowitz) saves the life of a choking woman, she starts to send him small gifts. Becker however has a well-established fear of meaningful bonds with others, so he finds the woman’s attention threatening. His friends assure him she is merely being polite but Becker is convinced she is a ‘psycho’ stalker: ‘Next she’ll be dancing on my lawn wearing my skin for a hat!’ By the time the woman explains she is a nun and her gifts were simply an expression of her Christian gratitude, Becker’s fear of human connections has caused him enough anguish to fill the episode.
Typically, new or cameo sitcom characters enter the action at a run, generating story almost before they’ve been established. This is why so many sitcom cameos are archetypes or caricatures: the writers show only that which will push the story forward.
EXERCISE
Take a familiar sitcom character and see how swiftly you can put them in a position in which one of their qualities is challenged. For the sake of the exercise, allow yourself 150 words of action and/or dialogue to start the scene and throw a spanner in the works. Chances are, the quicker you can raise the stakes and threaten the character’s equilibrium, the funnier those 150 words will be. If you can do it with fewer words, so much the better.
Make sure however that the character acts and reacts in a way that is true to their nature. Their actions may be extreme, but they must be justifiable in terms of their objective and personality traits.
An example of this almost-immediate challenging can be found on the first page of the first scene of ‘The Barber’ by Andy Robin, for Seinfeld. George Castanza is applying for a job with a small but prestigious company. The boss, Mr Tuttle, likes George and it’s all going swimmingly. He praises George for his ability to grasp things quickly (‘I don’t have to explain every little thing to you’) and George agrees.
Mr Tuttle hires George and continues, ‘Of course—’ but the interview is interrupted by a secretary who informs Mr Tuttle of a phone call he has to take. Mr Tuttle bids George farewell without qualifying his ‘Of course—’
George is left on tenterhooks—‘Of course’ what?!
George’s supposed ability to grasp things quickly is trashed. His pride and tendency to fawn to power are no sooner established than they’re exploited: George decides that, in order to keep the job, he must maintain the façade that he knows every aspect of the job.
The rest of the episode is devoted to George’s deceitfulness and tenacity as he chooses to lie instead of simply asking for a clarification. His reaction to the situation is disproportionate—in reality, we’d all point out to Mr Tuttle that he was interrupted before he could mention an important detail.
Comic Storytelling
The demands of a classic comedy story in structural terms are much the same as those of drama. There are three acts, comprising a set-up, complications and a resolution. Once the protagonist, their world and their goals have been established, the protagonist faces ever-increasing risk and conflict as they strive to achieve their goals. The obstacles inhibiting the quest grow in size, potency or number until, in a brief and climactic final act, the protagonist either overcomes the obstacles, reaches a stalemate or is defeated. In most cases, the resolution stems from the nature and actions of the characters. A comedy character’s tools, status and moral backbone are usually inferior to those of drama characters but, experimental stories aside, comedy and drama stories tend to follow the same ancient pattern.
The difference is that comedy stories, particularly sitcom stories, compress the twists and turns of the classic three-act structure. Drama can present its stories in a natural flow, but a sitcom episode must distil its reversals and revelations to their essence. Most quality sitcom episodes could be stretched into a satisfying ninety-minute dramatic film narrative. This might require expanding the scope of the characters’ emotional journeys, adding depth and detail (i.e. back stories) to their path towards lasting change and giving greater attention to character, including simply making them more competent, but the essential plot elements would remain unchanged. For instance, in The Golden Girls the elderly Sophia discovers her new beau, Alvin, has Alzheimer’s disease. Her journey goes from the set-up (Sophia meets Alvin and likes him) to complications (Alvin’s memory and mood become erratic, the relationship is endangered) and then to resolution (Sophia decides that she can’t help Alvin and lets him leave her life forever). Meanwhile, Rose, the most childish of the four older women in the show, finds that her teddy bear is being held hostage by a ruthless gangster girl. Only when Rose changes her outlook and defies the terrifying girl does she get her bear back. (‘Old Friends’ by Terry Grossman, Susan Harris and Kathy Spear).
Sophia’s story could easily fill a longer narrative. Alzheimer’s disease, and the complications that go with it, is rich territory for any writer. The themes of such a story might include the loss of loved ones, the slow erasure of one’s identity and the awful living death that the tragic condition can impose. More time could be spent exploring Sophia’s character, her past and the elements of her life that are under threat if she chooses a lifelong relationship with Alvin. Her journey towards Alvin and her final surrender of him could underpin a heartbreaking feature film. Even Rose’s story could be adjusted to provide the basis for a thrilling B-story; for instance, the teddy bear could become a human relative and the girl an adult kidnapper. Its theme (helplessness in the face of a lost loved one) reflects that of Sophia’s story in a different context. There’s no doubt the two tales could be interwoven, their emotional scope broadened and the characters’ journeys given greater texture. Sophia relinquishes her love while Rose fights for hers … Yep, if you like a tear-jerker, this story could be your cup of tea.
The humour in Sophia’s journey in this episode stems from the playfulness of her relationship with Alvin; we see her sarcastic wit juxtaposed with her schoolgirl’s excitement at the romance. Having laughed with Sophia, the audience is vulnerable when the dark truth of Alvin’s illness hits home (see Chapter Six, ‘Sitcom Poignancy’). Rose’s story is rendered comic by making the object of her affection a teddy bear rather than something the audience would consider more worthy, such as a per
son. Similarly, the threat to her great love is reduced in stature from a gangster to a little girl (who nevertheless retains many of the gangster’s qualities). The unspoken sorrow of Rose’s story is that, having lost her husband, she’s reduced to loving a teddy bear.
When developing a comic storyline, begin by exploring its dramatic possibilities. (I won’t go into this process: there are many books on the structure and substance of drama.) Once the events, stakes and emotional journey of the characters are worked out in a series of dramatic acts, focus on one or two of the characters’ core personal qualities that are challenged by the story. Where a dramatic film narrative may challenge a protagonist in many ways, revealing layer upon layer of their character, sitcoms tend to focus on only one or two key character traits. Tugging only one of these ‘puppet strings’ (main desire, unconscious need, weakness, strength, love, fear, outlook or public perception) can produce the core of a sitcom story. In Yes Minister, Sir Humphrey’s main fear—the loss of control—motivates his actions and is the basis of his anxiety. Remember, believability is rooted not in realism, but in the actions of characters in accordance with their natures. Whereas in drama characters learn progressively from the dramatised events of the story, in sitcom changes of objective must come swiftly. A perennial narrative gag is the ‘reversal’, in which characters suddenly change in response to pressure or a realisation. For instance, a man who claims to be courageous and firm of purpose, when threatened with a pocket knife, might immediately hand over his wallet. These swift reversals lay bare the weakness, hypocrisy and self-serving natures of the characters, but to get a laugh they must be set up and paid off instantly. With less than twenty-one minutes to tell a three-act story, there’s no time to savour the emotional nuance. Just tell the damn story. Sitcom demands we deliver each step of a story clearly and simply, and then race to the next one.