American Comedy. Good? Bad? What the hell is it?
Well …I hesitate to analyze it. Why? Dunno. Fear of killing the magic? Or fear my gags aren’t 100% pure — and I’m not Mr Niceguy. If I think too much, I could kill the comedy forever. But to hell with it. Let’s open Pandora’s Box …
OK. The laugh-happy Spirit of Comedy is forgiving, at least the imp I burn incense to. (Laughter can also be cruel. Yeah, yeah. Hold that thought.) So, what to call this friendly sprite? Duh. Uh … The People’s Comedy? Lame as hell. All I’ve got. As I was saying …
The People’s Comedy is forgiving. Not in a high, holy sense. More of a cynical, that’s-the-way-it-is, so what, sense. Husband and wives cheat on each other, everybody cheats on their income tax, politicians lie, everybody lies, that’s life, that’s people, what can you do? Laugh, that’s what. What else can you do?
Dig me now, and groove me later. This cheap grace lets a ton of corruption, badness and bullshit slide. For example …
Wile E. Coyote has an insane fixation on the Roadrunner. Killing and eating the cute little bird is his goal. How sinful can you get? Ah. But Chuck Jones doesn’t want to send the Coyote to eternal torment in Cartoon Hell. Nah. He identifies with the shaggy bastard. (Hell, we’re all Coyotes, right?) Jones is the God of his cartoon universe. The worst torment he can dish out to the sinful Coyote is non-fatal explosions and cliff falls. Strictly speaking, Jones isn’t creating this torment. The Coyote does it to himself, after all. Don’t we all?
This cynically forgiving worldview is the dead opposite of the Nazi mindset. (Uniforms differ. Buyer beware.)
In this banal anal mentality, there are laws and no excuses. Humanity is divided between abusive authority figures and pathetic losers who deserve their abuse. Who do you think you are? Speak with respect to your superiors! The head chef isn’t interested in your opinions! How dare you! You don’t like it, you can hit the fucking gate.If you don't eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat.
Around our sorry planet, these odious chodes take over countries every now and then. Concentration camps, atrocities and stacks of corpses generally follow.
America has its own share of these Authoritarian Assholes. These bastards haven’t taken over yet. But we’ve still got ‘em. (Ask a Black person, if you doubt.) These pigs get the hog’s share, definitely. But they’re not entirely in charge. Why not?
I think because we laugh at them. Or used to.
Go back to the early 20th Century. Take a second look at American comedy. Cartoons and movies. Roll it.
From flivvers to fins, there’s a consistent target.
These funny fictions are packed with Authority Figures. Some are just low-down dirty, mean and nasty. Others have a sneering veneer of class, art, sophistication and money.
Cops, teachers, professors, bullies, bankers, thugs, mugs and pugs.
These Authoritarian Assholes rule, in various pissant kingdoms. They take these kingdoms very seriously. They take themselves very, very seriously.
These Assholes demand respect from their inferiors. And simultaneously possess incredibly sensitive internal seismographs, which detect the faintest tremor of disrespect.
They’ve got hair-trigger tempers.
And boil over with psychotic, murderous rage at any perceived insult. Hate speech? Oh yeah.
Sticks and stones can break my bones. But words can never hurt me.
You f*cking idiot. They’ve got more than words. They’ve got sticks, stones, truncheons, knives, brass knuckles, guns, fists, batons, official documents and pointy beards. They’ll hurt you, all right.
So don’t piss them off, kid.
Don’t give these Assholes any lip. Don’t look them in the eye. Cringe. That’s the smart thing to do. Yes sir, no sir, anything you say sir. Stick with that and you’ll go far.
Those are the rules kid. And these Assholes wrote the rulebook. Life ain't fair, did I mention that? You’ve got to play the game, kid. It’s rigged. But you got to play it anyway.
They win, you lose.
Those are the rules.
But America’s Workingclass Harlequins didn’t play by the rules.
Their legacy is long. My summary is brief.
Bugs Bunny puts on a dress and smooches Elmer Fudd. Groucho brings mobsters, operatic egomaniacs, academic tyrants, ship captains and the enemies of Fredonia to their knees with the power of doubletalk. Charlie Chaplin takes the piss out of Adolph Hitler himself! The Three Stooges destroy every breakable object in sight, along with their powerful enemies, without even trying. Like Houdini with a rummy nose, W.C. Fields escapes the all-American straightjacket of Middle Class morality, respectability, and religiosity, sentimental scorn for booze and broads, gushing love for “the children," evil puppets, and judgmental mothers-in-law, with a dexterous ease that defies our limited human understanding. Yes.
Our Harlequins Heroes did all that. Or their characters did, in make-believe stories in comic books and movies. Unreal, unimportant. The primitive human brain believes what it sees. Our tiny mind thinks: “Groucho, W.C. Fields and Bugs Bunny f*cked with the bastards. Maybe I could too.” Thus, a nobody acts like a somebody. And becomes one. Fiction becomes reality. Huzzah,
A Workingclass Harlequin is something to see. A Workingclass Harlequin is something to be.
So to recap …
Take it away FDR. From beyond the grave, OK? Don’t bust my balls about anachronisms.
Audio: Crackling static. Then FDR’s voice.
“Hello, my friends. It has been said, by some anonymous sage, that every story has its end. Who am I to disagree? It appears to be my task, today, to relate to you the end of one particular story. Which is to say, the story of America’s Harlequin Heroes. And so I shall. These heroes made us laugh, friends. At times, they made us think. But they also poked their pins in the balloons of our great nation’s Authoritarian Assholes. They continued to do so, despite these recent hard times. This had a clear effect, my friends. Year after year, we never stopped laughing at our Authoritarian Assholes. And the balloon-popping pins never fell from out Harlequins’ fearless hands. Was that an empty, futile gesture, my friends? A pin seems quite insignificant in the greater scheme of things. What difference could a tiny pin make? Even many pins? What, indeed? I tell you now, in deep and heartfelt sincerity, that our Harlequins’ pins made a difference, my friends. A profound difference. Yes. I am happy to say that, inspired by their example, America laughed at her Authoritarian Assholes. And. Year after year. Despite all the union busting, backroom beatings, deporations, eliminations, disinformation, red scares, witch-hunts, blacklists, police riots, enemies lists, wiretaps, agents provacateurs, Cointelpro, Mojo Gortner, Wertham’s war on comicbooks, J. Edgar Hoover’s dirtfiles, and Richard Nixon's dirty tricks, America never stopped laughing at them. I do think that it is not coincidental that the Authoritarian Assholes among us didn’t take over our great nation. Entirely. I dare to say that our laughter defeated them. I would also add that our Harlequin Heroes are largely responsible for this victory. And, at this moment, I am now compelled to assert, that it is high time we thanked them. And so we shall. This shrouded monument …
What’s this?
Please excuse me, friends. Please pardon the interruption. A child has apparently run up to the viewing platform and … and handed me a slip of paper? I have no idea why. Ah. Thank you son. And there he goes. Well then … what is the message of this missive? I’m sure you’re as curious as I, friends. Now we shall see how this unfolds. (Sound of unfolding paper) The message reads …
Oh, my.”
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