Who would win in a fight to the death: A low-quality pony with two legs zooming around at Mach 10, or a workout class of middle-aged moms flying from the ceiling via bungee cord? My money’s on the pony.
I posed this question to a group of girls as an icebreaker during my first week of college — an inquiry received with raised eyebrows — before the conversation redirected to the hellish Claremont heat and how “everyone in McKinney is dead.” Though I initially detected an immense chronically-online vibe from the group (in the most loving way), we all seemed to be riding different wavelengths.
Was I behind on the joke, or just a Vine ahead? More importantly, and most selfishly, was I considered funny? I swung and missed with this specific group joke-wise, but in the grand scheme of annoying Instagram reel references, it would have hit home with someone. Still, it hurt my ego.
Before college, I struggled with my identity as someone from a small town. I felt like a fish out of water; my sense of self, humor and stories are all rooted in the smallness I knew. In college, being exposed to people from completely different walks of life has convinced me that comedy doesn’t provide a universal community.
On one hand, I realized there’s no need to utilize humor as a be-all and end-all in defining our collective sense of self. At the same time, though, shouldn’t humor be shared? Sure, humor is bound to differ from culture to culture, person to person. But in the past, there appeared to be an underlying logic to what could strike a collective laugh.
I’m thinking about how sitcoms served as catalysts for a shared sense of community. Mainstream movies and shows beloved by the public, like “Friends,” “Seinfeld,” “Frasier” or “Cheers,” became universal through cable. These classic sitcoms are funny, but they go beyond a mere giggle. Through television, comedy was made digestible and relatable for a general audience. The audience knew what to expect at the same time, in the same space.
Every aspect of production, from its action to its writing, catered to the audience and felt immersive. By including familiar sets and environments — decked-out bachelorette pads and coffee shops with catchy names — viewers felt like they were a part of a shared world. Viewers heard the studio audience orchestrate when it was appropriate to laugh, cry or clap. They got the bit and felt they were part of the crew.
This shared understanding pushed past primetime into real life, unifying audiences in a way that extended past the credits.
“People wanted 700 versions of Kramer cartoonishly bursting through Jerry’s door, and a resolution tied with a ribbon in 20 minutes. Still, sitcoms offered a sense of community that more modern TV shows fail to do.”
In comparison to more recent shows, characters in these sitcoms might appear flat or schticky. Who cared about the interiority of the voices on screen when they offered comedic relief and comfort? People wanted 700 versions of Kramer cartoonishly bursting through Jerry’s door, and a resolution tied with a ribbon in 20 minutes. Still, sitcoms offered a sense of community that more modern TV shows fail to do.
These days, nihilism is the name of the game. The transition from traditional comedies into dramedies, such as “The Bear,” “Breaking Bad” and “Barry,” leaves traditional sitcoms behind. These shows are characterized by their character-heavy storylines, sprinkled with occasional punchlines and jabs at satire.
Although comedies have always been human-centered, modern television seems to throw the comedy genre in the trash.
Characters in popular dramedies nowadays appear realistic and dynamic; they’re so full of strife and emotion, and that can be appealing. Walter White feels alone and afraid — so do we.
Fear has seemingly usurped humor as a simpler community catalyst. Misery is timeless, and melancholy and anxiety are often easier than telling a joke. Now, writers are scared to make the audience laugh in much the same way we are with our friends and peers.
At the end of the day, attempting to be funny means being vulnerable. Misery is timeless, and being expressive about anxiety or grief is easier than simply telling a joke. The catharsis of depictions of trauma comes easily in part because it eludes the nuances that exist in humor, instead opting for emotional binaries and relatability.
Comedy, however, can contain infinite stories, jokes and situations. That multiplicity can create genuine collective experiences and connections, but it can also be lonely when the joke doesn’t land.
Yes, humor makes you vulnerable, but it also creates a kind of collectivity. The comedy of traditional television was an invitation for the world to be dragged out of melancholy, into a third space that we are in dire need of today.
Tess Tarchak-Hiss SC ’30 watches way too much TV and literally tried shifting to be the seventh Monty Python member during COVID. She hopes that by exploring comedy through different lenses, she can find at least one person who understands her costume for gay Halloween.