Heard the one about the hibernating hamster? Meet Will Gompertz. He isn't funny. So he signed up for a 10-week comedy course - and then tried his gags out on a paying audience. He relives a terrifying ordeal Monday July 21, 2008
The Guardian
I can't tell a joke. That's OK: I can't remove an appendix or parse a Latin sentence either; you just learn to avoid the things you can't do. But sometimes you get mugged. It happened to me recently when I signed up to give some lectures on contemporary art on a P&O cruise ship. (By day, I'm director of Tate Media, the arm of the galleries that makes TV programmes, runs the website and produces public events.) P&O wanted my talk to include some "laughs". Laughs? In an art lecture? But it was too late: I'd signed the contract. So I enrolled on a stand-up comedy course.
For the next 10 weeks, every Wednesday evening, in a room above a pub in central London, I learned how to be funny. My tutor was called Chris, and he was the spitting image of Neil from The Young Ones. My fellow students were a mixed bag: wannabe comedians, writers, ad agency types - eight of us in all. Chris provided a microphone that didn't plug in, a tiny whiteboard you could barely read, and a dog-eared print-out listing the contents of each lesson. There was a relaxed, almost romantic feel to the whole enterprise - until I read through the notes to lesson 10. For lesson 10, we had to perform a real live stand-up gig, in a real venue, in front of a real, paying audience. I hadn't signed up for this. It's one thing using jokes to liven up an art lecture; it's quite another performing in front of a bunch of beered-up hedonists who have paid hard cash.
I would have quit at that point, but Chris was already exerting a strange Svengali-like grip on us all. His understanding of comedy was captivating, encyclopaedic. He started by splitting us into three groups. In each, one of us had to describe what we had done that day, starting with waking up; the others had to interrupt with a contradiction, such as "No you didn't," which the speaker had to accept. Facts became distorted, or morphed into fiction. Each story became pretty weird, pretty quickly; funny, too. And there it was, within half an hour of the first lesson, the four golden rules of stand-up: you have to interact with your audience; you need to tell stories; there should be unexpected twists and turns; and exaggeration is crucial.
I realised that Chris was a genius. Next, he listed six everyday topics on his whiteboard, including sex, work and pets, and asked us to talk for three minutes on one of them. We didn't have to be funny; the exercise was about learning to talk with a microphone. Well, this was going to be easy. I've done loads of public speaking, so I thought I'd treat everyone to my best pet stories: my dog and its anal glands, the hibernating hamster I accidentally buried, and my classic: The Goldfish Anecdote. I had a hunch this was going to go well.
They didn't laugh. They didn't even smile. I realised silence actually could be deafening. Chris told me I had to find the humour in my stories. But the truth was - and I already knew it - I just wasn't funny.
Over the next eight weeks, our classes fell into a rhythm. Each time there was a stand-out performer who would then fall flat the following week. Chris taught us how vital it is to be in the present with your audience, to prove it by talking to them, involving them. The more engaged you are with your audience, the more engaged your audience is with you. He told us how important it was to be succinct, to keep the gags coming, that it didn't matter if there was no logical connection between one train of thought and another. He showed us how to construct material from a single observation, something we thought was ridiculous, and from that to build a map of thoughts and questions. We analysed CDs of contemporary greats: Jerry Seinfeld, Eddie Izzard, Jo Brand, Bill Bailey. We learned about bathos, transference, superimposition, anthropomorphism; we learned the setup/payoff, the pull-back-and-reveal, and the difference between a fact-based comedian and a fantasist.
Best of all, we got to talk about ourselves. It was like therapy, only cheaper. We had to find our "persona". In stand-up, there are three principal character types: the high-status comic, where the performer considers him or herself superior to the audience; the audience's mate, when comedian and spectator are on the same level; and the low-status comic, the loser, who the audience find contemptible. I thought I was low status and performed accordingly, but the group never laughed and looked troubled. They considered me high status. So I went high status, and bingo, things improved.
Chris then showed us something extraordinary. We were given two pieces of paper: one prescribed the mood we were in, and the other told us what we thought of the audience. I got "shy" for my mood and "angry" for my feelings toward the audience. Within three seconds of my picking up the microphone, the class correctly guessed both. That's the time it takes for an audience to get a completely accurate reading of you. If you're frightened, they'll know it.
Over the weeks, we developed our material. I chose the absurdity of art-speak. I also accepted that Bob Monkhouse-style one-liners were beyond me. But I did have a secret weapon: as the youngest of four, I knew from my very first moments of consciousness that I needed to amuse people around me; I had a first-class degree in cheekiness by the time I was two. While the rest of the class concentrated on building up a set based around observations and jokes, I decided to go for improv.
My big idea was to pull someone from the audience to join me on stage. I would make them act out 100 years of modern art movements, while I set about ridiculing them. To finish off, I would go for a top-of-the-range "setup/payoff" gag. I tried it out on the class. I chose Lydia, a Greek TV presenter, as my victim. I had barely put the box on her head before someone shouted out: "Cubism!" She was great; the set wasn't. I asked the class for advice. They said they didn't like it when I swore, and thought I was too assertive with Lydia. And the grand finale gag totally misfired. Still, they had enjoyed hearing about art in a comedic setting, so maybe P&O were on to something.
I set to work on developing my set, trying different things, but I just couldn't make it work. Then came a moment of inspiration: I'd try it on my wife. She saw the problem immediately. My first mistake was targeting a woman, she said; the audience would be far more forgiving if I took the piss out of a bloke. And it was too long; she halved it and halved it again. As for the setup/payoff joke, it was rubbish. "Why not ask the person to yodel?" she suggested. I was perplexed: what did that have to do with anything? "It would just be funny, and then you could say that it wasn't an art movement at all, you just wanted to know if they could yodel." Ah, a classic setup/payoff. Nice.
The good news was that I now had a revised set. The bad news: there were no more lessons in which to try it out. We were up to lesson 10, the stand-up gig. It is not possible to explain how terrified I was. To make matters worse, Chris had decided to put me last on the bill, the traditional spot for the headline act. It was a very cruel decision, and one I suspect related back to a witty aside I had made a couple of weeks before about his hair.
The night got off to a reasonable start. The place was packed. My fellow students ranged from the oddly calm to the visibly shaking. The classmate chosen to open proceedings was Vanessa. She had some experience, and was always a cut above the rest of us. She went well. Next up was Steve, who was clearly petrified. He had always been nervous in class, constantly referring to his notes. He was definitely low status. His set was about al-Qaida. And he brought the house down. There were proper belly laughs, one after another. He found a rhythm he didn't know he possessed. And that's the thing: you never know how good your material is until you put it out there. Steve had genuine talent.
The night went on. By 10:35pm, the crowd was getting tired. Then I heard the MC announce my name and my body convulsed in a power surge of class-A adrenaline. The next thing I knew, I was standing on stage asking the crowd to whoop it up a bit more, while I tried to remember how my set started. Then I was off. They laughed. I did an ad-lib. They laughed again. It was time to try my improv. I chose a bloke with a beard because he was mouthing, "Not me." It could go one of two ways: he would play along or he would screw it all up. I lucked out. The crowd loved him. I loved him. It was working, sort of. At least I wasn't dying. I asked him to yodel and the audience laughed, a lot. And then it was over - a terrifying, exhilarating, extreme adrenaline rush.
Would I do it again? Not a chance. But it's still one of the best things I've ever done. I will never resort to PowerPoint in a lecture again. I will always talk to, and not at, audiences. The whole experience was revelatory. I started out with the intention of using comedy as a means of making an art lecture more entertaining. But these 10 weeks taught me two important lessons: that comedy is art; and if in doubt, yodel.
How to be funny: six golden rules
You must be 'in the present' The audience won't be interested in you if you're not interested in them. Engage.
Know your 'persona' High status, low status or audience's mate - you will be one of them, though not necessarily the one you think. The audience will know straight away.
Tell stories All the arts are about ideas and narrative - and comedy is no different.
Connect your stories back to universal themes Make sure your set has plenty of everyday and topical references; it will help the audience enter your world.
Be succinct If you waffle, your audience will become uncomfortable and you'll lose them. Listen to Seinfeld doing stand-up: he doesn't waste a single word.
Be courageous The desire to run will be overwhelming. Resist it without resorting to alcohol.
Take This Theory — Please! Evolutionary theorist suggests humor played a key role in our development as a species. Tom Jacobs
August 04, 2008
Why do we laugh? It seems like an odd question, but from an evolutionary perspective, it's a perfectly reasonable line of inquiry, and one that has long fascinated Alastair Clarke.
A sense of humor is a fundamental facet of the human experience, common to all centuries and cultures. To Clarke, a British science writer and evolutionary theorist, that suggests it played a role in our development as a species. Otherwise, he reasons, it would never have gotten hard-wired into our psyches.
Humor serves a variety of functions: It can be used to relieve stress, channel aggression, drive home a political point or even attract a romantic partner. "It's the ultimate adaptable skill," Clarke notes. But on a more fundamental level, he argues, it is "an emotional reward for a cognitive process" — a present we receive because our brains have successfully performed an important function. That is, we have recognized a pattern.
"What we're talking about is cognitive development being encouraged," said Clarke, whose ideas are detailed in a short book, The Pattern Recognition Theory of Humor (Pyrrhic House). He argues that for our earliest ancestors, recognizing patterns was an extremely handy skill; those who possessed it were more likely to survive and produce offspring.
Consider the hunter-gatherer who notices that certain birds — plump ones that make fine main courses once they're roasted over the evening fire — tend to congregate in a particular tree. That is useful information. But he then notices they are also perched in similar tree down the way, and makes the connection: These desirable birds can be found in trees with certain common characteristics (say, thick branches). He has recognized a pattern, and in the process greatly increased his likelihood of bringing home food.
Clarke contends this ability to take a set of facts and apply it to a different situation was an important factor in our species' survival. Thus it follows that some sort of reward system would be bred into us for developing it.
But what does that have to do with humor? Everything, according to Clarke, who contends that "getting" a joke — or, for that matter, finding anything amusing, whether the humor is intentional or not — is also a matter of pattern recognition.
Consider a couple of examples. A mimic does a spot-on but slightly exaggerated impersonation of Frank Sinatra. Or a stand-up comedian begins a routine with, "Can you believe how high gas prices are?" In both cases, the material in question is familiar to us since we've heard Sinatra and pumped gasoline. The delight comes from recognizing that familiarity even when the material is presented to us in a surprising, slightly skewed form.
The impressionist presents a caricature of Sinatra's singing, emphasizing his unique vocal mannerisms. It's not precisely Sinatra, but it's close enough for us to "get it." It's the click of recognition that triggers the laughter. The stand-up comedian similarly exaggerates or caricatures the situation he describes, telling us gas has become so expensive he had to sell his car in order to afford it. Again, we recognize the essential situation he describes — the pain of paying for gas — even in its exaggerated form.
Both cases involve recognizing familiar facts in an unfamiliar form — and according to Clarke, this process is enjoyable to us because we have picked up on the pattern underneath the surface material. Clarke contends this basic dynamic applies to every form of humor — even slapstick, which he argues is based on the childhood game of peek-a-boo. But he is quick to acknowledge that everyone's sense of humor is unique.
What we find amusing depends on a variety of factors, including our societal culture and generation. Such factors help determine which references we pick up on, which in turn allow us to pick up on the underlying patterns.
"Different people can find the same thing funny for entirely different reasons," he said. "They are identifying different patterns within that general stimulus."
To elicit laughter, the patterns they pick up on have to be surprising or unexpected — at least to them. The fact someone would fart at the dinner table might be hilarious to an 8-year-old, who is just learning the roles of social etiquette and is struck by how far such behavior diverges from the norm.
"Teenage humor might not be at all amusing to someone in their 60s or 70s," Clarke noted. "People are quick to call certain types of comedy 'immature,' but what they essentially mean is, 'This is old hat. We know about this and don't find it funny anymore.' This happens across time as well. This is why humor becomes outdated. The same references simply don't persist."
Clarke's own life hasn't followed any predictable pattern. After earning a degree in English literature from Oxford University, he established a career as a science writer while pursuing his studies in the origins of humor. He did graduate work in psychology at London University but left before earning his Ph.D. He reports that his short volume, which is written in accessible but academic prose, has been received quite favorably in his native Britain. "A lot of university departments have gotten back to me expressing interest in investigating this further," he said.
An American evolutionary psychologist, Norman Li of the University of Texas, expressed mixed feelings about Clarke’s work, calling it plausible but arguable. “I believe that it is generally consistent with what some others have hypothesized,” he said in an e-mail message. “For instance, others have proposed that resolving the incongruency among patterns is humorous.”
Li believes Clarke could be correct in proposing that cognitive development is, in evolutionary terms, the primary function of humor. But he adds that “the various social dynamics of humor” that have been identified by researchers such as University of Maryland neuroscientist Robert Provine “are more than random applications of a pattern-recognition reward system. At the least,” he adds, “such a system may have been evolutionarily co-opted for use as a social device.” In other words, pattern recognition is hardly the whole story.
Clarke has completed a second, longer volume on the subject, which is aimed at the general public. The book, titled simply Humor, will be published in November in both the U.S. and U.K. (presumably with different spellings of the title). He insists his line of research does not diminish his enjoyment of watching comedy. Sure, one part of his brain may be analyzing a scene or a joke, but another part is enjoying it. "Laughter," he noted, "is involuntary."
Clarke politely but firmly refuses to discuss the types of humor he personally finds amusing. He prefers to maintain a stance of scientific objectivity and avoid accusations of bias in favor of one form over another. After all, who wants to face the pro-pun lobby?
Writing sketches Richard Herring, David Mitchell and Robert Webb
The Guardian,
September 22 2008
You may be tempted to crack straight on with a sitcom, but start small. Containing an idea in a two-minute sketch will teach you about structure, establishing characters and how to write pithy, economical dialogue.
It is easy to put on a sketch show at your college, pub or on the internet. A producer will be happier to read a page or two rather than a whole script and there are radio and TV shows which are looking for shorter sketch material, which means you have a much better chance of selling your work.
I started my professional career writing topical sketches for the now defunct Radio 4 show Weekending. I actually pretty much loathed the programme, as it was rather formulaic and rarely biting. Yet I stayed for a year, serving an apprenticeship that taught me many skills: from the mundane business of how to format a script (for this and further advice see www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom ) to technical tricks such as how to avoid clunky exposition like:
FX: Knock on door
MAN: You asked to see me Prime Minister!
This opening establishes location and characters artlessly. You need to look for more subtle ways to inform the listener or you will lose their interest and respect. Don't treat them like they're stupid.
I soon learned that even though we were paid by the minute, that it was foolish to write 5 minute sketches. The show was only 25 minutes, so longer skits would be binned, while lightening gags might fill a gap. It was economical to be economical.
Now I prefer to stretch an idea as far as it will go, then a little further. If you can learn to write a blistering 60-second skit with four laughs, a beginning, a middle and an end, then everything else will be easy.
While Weekending is no more, there are plenty of sketch shows on radio and TV that invite outside contributions. If there are lots of writers' names in the credits, write a couple of sketches in an appropriate style (even if it's not your particular sense of humour), send them to the producer and you will probably get feedback.
Or you can set up your own sketch group and take a show to the Edinburgh Fringe or film it for YouTube. Try to make your own material as original as possible. When Stewart Lee and I began writing together at university, we set rules about things we wouldn't write about: celebrities, parodies of TV shows, political satire, all of which were in vogue. By limiting ourselves we came up with a lot of unusual ideas and created our own voice.
Sketch writing tips
· Keep an eye out for interesting real life characters. My driving instructor seemed overly critical of my inability to drive, given that that was the reason I was employing him, so I wrote a sketch about an instructor who berates his pupils for being non-driving idiots.
· Don't start with a catchphrase. It will seem forced and probably end up with you creating a one joke persona. Create the character, write some sketches and a catchphrase might present itself. Look at Al Murray the Pub Landlord. It's a multi-layered persona and the catchphrases "I was never confused", "rules is rules" and "glass of white wine for the lady" come out of the character rather than vice versa.
· Starting with a simple premise and exploring the consequences can be better than trying to conceive something outlandish. Monty Python's dead parrot sketch begins with the premise of a pet shop owner selling a customer a deceased bird. The genius is in the execution.
Exercises: Character comedy
Watch a whole morning of daytime telly. Look out for an interesting character and then try and write a sketch about them. Don't try to parody the shows you have watched, just try to find a persona and then put them into a real life situation.
Many of the Little Britain characters were created this way.
Mitchell and Webb on writing sketches
Make sure you have an idea before you start. It's no use sitting in front of a blank screen saying "right, it could be anything." "Anything" isn't a brief, it's a mental wilderness. You need to decide what you're going to write before you write it, and this is best done away from the winking cursor.
A sketch needs a premise, a core funny idea that is its reason to exist. As soon as a sketch begins, the audience looks for this premise and it needs to be apparent. Presenting a character? Make sure the funny thing about them is expressed early. Taking the piss out of some element of modern life? Present it at the beginning and quickly undermine it.
You need the element of surprise in comedy but, before that, you need to make people comfortable with where you are. There need to be, to quote the protesting philosophers from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, "rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty". So establish the setting first, make it clear why it's funny, throw in a surprise and get out. Ideally the last joke, or punchline, should be the best but the sad fact is there are more premises than punchlines. It's a great argument against intelligent design.
Sketch comedy doesn't benefit from the audience's loyalty to characters, it's only as funny as its last joke. But its advantage is that it can embrace any setting, subject or situation. Use these strengths by having lots of short and contrasting items. That way, if the audience doesn't like one sketch, you soon get the chance to win them over with something else.
Writing for stand-up Richard Herring and Josie Long
September 22 2008
In the early 90s I met Jimmy Tarbuck backstage at a show. I told him I was a struggling comic. "Good luck!" he said as he puffed on his cigar, "comedy is the hardest job in the world!" I don't agree with Tarbuck. It's not as hard as being a fireman or a brain surgeon or in the SAS or (given that you work for 20 minutes a night and then get drunk), as hard as working in an office. Still, most people would rather eat their own liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti than perform stand-up comedy.
At its best, stand-up comedy is the purest and most immediate medium for comedy and possibly even self-expression. What other outlet allows you to have an idea in the afternoon and then try it out that evening to an actual audience? The jokes, although important, are not in themselves enough. You need to be able to appear relaxed and confident, control the room, think on your feet, involve the audience without letting them steal focus from you, and adapt your style and material to dozens of different, difficult scenarios. The only way to gain these skills is to get up on stage and do gigs. As many nights a week as you can. Probably for at least five years.
All those things will come to you, if you have the right stuff. So if you're starting out, then what you need to concentrate on is your material. Most clubs have an open spot where an unpaid wannabe can do five minutes. The audience will be quick to judge you and you're trying to get booked, so start small. Write a five-minute script (don't overrun), with a punchline every 30 seconds, with your best three jokes at the start and another belter at the end. Make sure that the jokes are original. Make sure you know exactly what you're going to say. Practice and be prepared for failure.
Once you feel comfortable on stage you might have the confidence to try out stories or even to reveal your personal secrets. Be truthful and funny will come. You will also find that you do a lot of your "writing" on stage. When you are in the zone you find you can leave behind the script and just chat. Inspiration strikes and you discover new avenues, even in well trodden routines.
Josie Long on writing for stand-up
If you want to start writing stand-up, try not to feel like there are any conventions you have to subscribe to. There are no established rules as to what your show should contain. Try to find your own voice. Think about what you find funny and what you would want to see if you were watching. It's not helpful to second-guess the audience's tastes in advance. It's better to take risks and perform material that may not work if it is something you genuinely think is hilarious. Everyone has bad gigs and through them you will develop and evolve as a performer.
All of that having been said, it's good to be economical with your material. Only use things you feel are essential. It's not just about enjoying yourself onstage, but about finding a way of conveying your sense of humour to other people. Try as many different ways of writing as you can, and try to write as much and as often as possible. Don't decide against trying a joke because it doesn't fit the style you've chosen for yourself. Include any ideas for jokes you have.
Write at home on paper, steal your best conversations, do specific research, write by speaking out loud on your own, play writing games, take good ideas onstage then bat them around and improvise, note down things you see or are struck by ... you never know what will develop into a longer routine or piece.
· Josie Long won the Edinburgh Festival's best newcomer award in 2006
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