Hi-Ho, the Glamorous Life: An Analysis of My Relationship to Comedy (With Jokes)

Brace yourselves for Marissa Skudlarek, comic genius.

September is Comedy Month on the Theater Pub blog, so it seems like a good time for me to parse my rather vexed relationship with the idea of comedy.

Simply put, I think I have a good sense of humor, but I don’t get excited about COMEDY! the way so many other people of my generation do. I remember reading a survey (which I am now unable to find on Google) that said that young people increasingly see comedy as central to their identity. Comedy festivals proliferate, and every Millennial seems to be working on a humorous web series. Stand-up comedians, who once upon a time were themselves subjects of mockery, are the new rock stars.

These days, being interested in or good at comedy means that you’re one of the cool kids. And I am inherently skeptical of cool kids.

It wasn’t always this way: for eons, tragedy was the most prestigious genre, and comedy was considered frivolous. But now that the tables have turned, comedians are reveling in their newfound power. And sometimes, I feel, they overreach – they make claims for comedy that it doesn’t deserve.

Comedians like to consider themselves truth-tellers, and at their best, comedy and satire can effectively cut through society’s bullshit to reveal radical, disturbing truths. But this doesn’t mean that all comedy performs such a noble public service. Some comedy reinforces stereotypes instead of smashing them. (In the case of “ironic racism” or “ironic sexism,” comedy tries to have it both ways, which is worst of all.) Sometimes people refuse to laugh at your offensive, taboo jokes because they’re uptight prudes who can’t handle the truth bombs that you’re exploding in their faces, man. But sometimes people refuse to laugh at your offensive jokes because you just aren’t funny. Not every fart joke is a truth bomb.

Because of this strong association between comedy and truth, people often fail to acknowledge that comedy can be just as artificial as drama. It sounds respectable to say, “I loved that play! It made me laugh,” but it sounds suspicious to say, “I loved that play! It made me cry.” Maybe the play didn’t make you cry for the right reasons. Maybe it was cheaply manipulative and sentimental; maybe it played on your emotions. But laughter is always considered above reproach – even though the art of provoking laughter is itself an art of manipulation.

I do appreciate how, in the 21st-century comedy renaissance, women get to join in on the fun. People once honestly believed that women aren’t funny, and maybe it’s true that traditional, stereotyped femininity doesn’t offer much opportunity for humor. Comedy is transgressive, loud, messy, and active; it assaults dignity and convention. And women finally feel free enough to take part in this.

But if I’m a feminist who feels ambivalent about comedy, what does that make me? Does it mean I’m secretly afraid of strong, funny, loud, messy women; does it mean that, deep down, I am a reactionary troglodyte? The Twitter avatar of popular comedy writer Megan Amram (who went to high school with me, incidentally) shows her making a grotesque face: caked-on eyeshadow, dead eyes, double chin. And we are supposed to interpret this as a bold feminist statement. Unlike other women, blushing flowers who bat their eyelashes and pray for male approval, Megan’s not afraid to look ugly for the sake of a joke. I admire her gumption while also knowing that I lack it: when I choose a Facebook or Twitter profile pic, I select an image that shows me at my best (or at least, not at my worst). Megan’s Twitter avatar is supposed to make me laugh, but instead it makes me feel ashamed. I feel that I am a bad person for wanting strangers to think I’m pretty, and that my desire to cater to the male gaze is, for all I know, single-handedly upholding rape culture in the United States.

So you see what I mean when I say I have a vexed relationship to comedy. (To feminism, too.) Furthermore, I think my problem might be that I draw a mental distinction between comedy and humor. I love humor – and I can’t stand humorless people. I often say that I could never write a play that’s devoid of laughter, because I don’t think the world works like that! Our foibles, the absurd things we do to get what we want… these are the basis of drama, and they’re also inherently funny. And even in life’s saddest or darkest moments, people will find things to laugh about (perhaps in a bitter gallows-humor way, but that’s still humor).

But at the same time, I am not sure that I could ever write a 100% comedic play. For me, writing humor means creating a world where funny things can happen. (It could, in fact, be identical to our own world.) Whereas writing comedy implies the creation of a world where only funny things happen – where anything that doesn’t provoke laughter is simply ignored. And I consider that a dangerously false outlook – just as wrong-headed as total humorlessness is.

I think that life teeters wildly between great joy and great sorrow – so isn’t it odd that there are thousands of aspiring comedians, but no aspiring tragedians? We would find it absurd (or horrifying) if someone said that they spend all day thinking of ways to provoke people to tears and catharsis, but we think it’s perfectly natural to spend all day thinking of ways to make people convulse with laughter. And that’s really kind of funny, when you think about it, isn’t it? It could even be the beginnings of a comedy sketch.

Marissa Skudlarek is a San Francisco-based playwright, producer, and arts writer. Her Twitter avatar (@MarissaSkud) is a photo of the back of her head.

Everything Is Already Something Week 39: It’s Okay To Laugh

Allison Page sharing something personal… and also her glamorous new headshot.

Oooh boy. Everything’s a nightmare. Each day brings a clutch of dark clouds. The news is a series of alarms and images of innocent people in unthinkable situations. Living legends turn into just legends. You’re reminded of your own mortality. Your own illnesses. Your own downfalls. Your own failures. You feel bad about not feeling bad about the right things. You feel bad about feeling so bad about the wrong things. The job market is terrible. Rent costs are sky high. What would you do with a better apartment, anyway? You don’t even keep the crappy one clean. Some people don’t even have apartments. Or dogs. Or families. Or lunch. You don’t take care of yourself the way you should. You’re low on vitamins and high on espresso. You think about how no one lives forever. Not even that guy. You wonder why some friendships don’t work out. Some relationships. Some jobs. Some sandwiches. Nothing seems easy, everything seems hard. What can you do?

Everything’s a nightmare.

It’s okay to laugh.

Sometimes you think you can’t, but you can. Don’t you hope that in your last moments, you laugh? And this probably isn’t even your last moment, so you should consider it. It’s okay not to, for a little while. But please don’t wait too long. It’s okay to think about how bad and wrong something is, and to try to make it better and less wrong, or to just understand it. That’s good. That’s important. But the cause of You is also important. You’re the only one there is, after all. Maybe you think that sounds stupid. You’re right. You should laugh at that, too, if you want.

Share a moment with someone that makes you both happy. Now, look what you’ve done. That’s quite a thing to do. If you miss someone, think about why you liked them so much. I bet they made you laugh. Think about how they did that. Now laugh about that, too. It’s okay to feel bittersweet. Sad. Exhausted. Scared. Filled with ennui. To know that all the answers are hard, and that some might not even exist. To say “Well, it’s not as black and white as that.” It’s okay to be in a weird gray area that makes no sense to you. To say “I’m upset. Nothing will make me not upset.” but recognize that something probably will. And it doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person if you’re able to see the sun coming up over the horizon.

As theater makers, art makers, comedy makers, anything makers – we sometimes exist to provide escapism that is desperately needed. And it doesn’t mean that we don’t care. It’s really the opposite. Sometimes we’re here to face an issue head on, to take on the burden of trying to explore the source of unrest, messed up power dynamics, injustices, loss, mourning, outrage. But sometimes we just need to lighten a load that can be so heavy no one person can bear it all. Because people need to talk about the bad things, work out the bad things, actively try to solve and understand the bad things – but they also need to remember there is some goodness left. A beam of light to look forward to.

Right now it feels like there are a million contests happening at once and all participants are trying to win the “No, This Is The Worst Thing That’s Ever Happened” award and begrudging the pain of others if it doesn’t align with their own pain. Different pain is not mutually exclusive. Don’t worry, all these things can be awful at once. And other things can still be good while those things are being awful. That’s okay too.

Two days ago I wasn’t sure if I thought anything would be funny ever again.

I tried to take a picture of myself smiling yesterday, and this is as close as I could get.

I went to the place where I make comedy, and laid my head down and cried alone for an hour. And then I had to go to a rehearsal, which I considered a nightmare. How was I supposed to be funny? How was anyone? But the strange thing is, within 15 minutes of being there, I was laughing again. I was still sad, don’t get me wrong, but I was laughing. And that did a lot for me. A room full of people all keenly aware that the world just got a little less funny and wonderful – and we were laughing together. That’s a pretty powerful thing. What would I have done if I tried to skip out on rehearsal? I would have gone home and cried some more until I fell asleep, probably. Which is okay, but I think the former was better.

And so tonight I will put some comedy into the world, in front of an audience. I really need that. And I can only imagine that they need it too.

Allison Page is an actor/writer/comedian in San Francisco. You can catch her tonight in the live sketch comedy show Killing My Lobster Goes Radio Active at Z Below, or catch her on Twitter @allisonlynnpage

Everything Is Already Something Week 7: On The Importance of Happy Theater

Allison Page wants you to get happy.

When asked, “What’s the best role you’ve ever played?” my impulse is to respond with whichever was the most grueling. The most grueling is easy enough to ascertain – it’s Lavinia in TITUS ANDRONICUS. Grueling to the max. She’s raped by a couple of guys and disfigured. Her hands are cut off, her tongue cut out, and then – just because, ya know, not enough has happened to her yet – her dad kills her. The particular production I was in was just completely exhausting. I wore a bloody straight jacket and scream-cried through a gag for what seemed like an eternity. The gag was soaked with fake blood, which I basically ingested every night and would cough-up or sneeze-out for weeks. It was really difficult and actually physically painful sometimes but I got a lot out of it, and because it was a horrifying thing to watch, naturally I was praised for it. Because it’s one of those things that sort of makes you feel sick. You leave the theater and it’s hard to sleep because FUCK, that was horrifying, right? That show really made me feel like the world is a pit of darkness filled with angry snakes and bees. Yay! We love tragedy!

Anthony Hopkins is having a GREAT TIME.

Look at the Academy Awards some time. How often are nominated films deep, dark, sad pits? LES MISERABLES was nominated the last time around and it literally has ‘miserable’ in the title, in case that happened to slip by you.

It seems people tend to think (particularly creative people inside the various facets of the entertainment world) that the more grueling story is the more valuable. The more horrific, raw, heart-crushing, hope-squashing, wallowing in sadness stories are the most worth telling. Show us the lowest forms of humanity! Show us those huddled masses you’re always talking about! This seems to me accentuated even more so in the bay area. The more creative we think we are, the more creatively involved we are in the world, the more prone we are to want something to be wrenching in order to consider it real art. (Whatever ‘real art’ means.) Suck my soul out and spit it into a toilet full of other cast-off souls! That’s the only way to make me feel alive! Punch my heart out with the darkness of humanity! OMG let’s make Joseph Conrad’s HEART OF DARKNESS into a stage play!

I fall into that category all too often. If I’m doing sketch comedy or improvising or doing a stand up set – sure, let’s have a great time! But if I’m doing theater? Ohhhh it better be making you feel fucked up beyond measure or it’s not worth it! So you can imagine my surprise when, last night – opening night – of PRELUDE TO A KISS, I found myself feeling just…amazing. Happy to be alive. Happy to be doing this show. Happy to be HAPPY. Happy to be making other people happy. Stop the theater train, I want to get off! Where’s my required misery? Where are my MISERABLES? Why isn’t Julie Taymor cutting my hands off and shoving sticks into my arms? This isn’t art, this is…what is this?

In case you don’t know anything about it, PRELUDE is sort of a romcomdram, but one with real heart. You meet these two characters: Rita (that’s me, ya’ll) and Peter (played by the magnificent and dreadfully handsome Nick Trengove). They fall in love really quickly in spite of Rita’s fear of the world and all the bad things in it, the uncertainty of it all. They get married, and at the wedding reception an old man (Richard Wenzel) asks to kiss the bride. He does, and as the kiss happens, they switch souls. (Word is still out on whether it happened on a Friday and whether or not that Friday was freaky.) Peter then has to spend his honeymoon with someone who looks like the woman he loves, but he can feel that something is terribly wrong. SO WACKY, RIGHT GUYS? All of that is good fun, but shit really hits your heart-fan when Peter finds the old man containing the soul of the love of his life. Important questions are raised about life, love, perceptions, fear, illness and death. They still love each other, but she’s in an old man’s frail body. What does that mean for them? What does it mean for us? What does it mean for you?

Make no mistake, PRELUDE is here to make you feel good. I mean…REALLY good. Heart-swellingly happy and contented. Life is worth living, people are worth loving and though you will not always be alive, you are alive right now (if you’re not, let me know, I’d love to meet a ghost.) and you must not waste this. Do not waste this. It’s all you’ve got.

It was pointed out by the director during rehearsals that one really interesting thing about this play is that there aren’t any bad people in it. None of the characters are out to hurt each other. No one is evil, malicious, or war-mongering. They’re honestly all good people. How often do you see that? You might think that’s a red flag that the story won’t be interesting or engrossing but it absolutely is. It just also happens to have the side effect of making you feel really good about being alive.

Maybe some of the big blockbusters are full of war, blood, pain, sorrow, murder, tragedy and constant strife, and there is definitely a place for that but maybe we need something else, too. Maybe we need to be reminded that we’re not here only to suffer through things and never see the light at the end of the god-forsaken tunnel, but that we’re also here to experience happiness, bliss, powerful love, complicated connections to other human beings, great sex, passionate embraces, a smile given and a smile received, a knowing glance, a hand to hold, and the knowledge that it cannot last forever, and so we must enjoy it now, because there’s no better time. It’s the type of story I think people really need. It’s a story that feels like coming home after a long journey. If that’s not art, I don’t know what is.

Catch Allison in PRELUDE TO A KISS at The Custom Made Theatre Co. Thursday – Sundays and/or follow her on Twitter @allisonlynnpage