The Comic Toolbox: How to be Funny Even if You're Not

by John Vorhaus

  Hope for success and fear of failure go hand in hand in scene after scene. You may say, for example, that a character who fears to run into a mobster also hopes to avoid that fate. This is true. It happens that hope and fear are two sides of the same coin. The best situation of all is when overwhelming, unbearable, excruciating hope and mind-numbing, soul-killing, shorts-soiling fear exist side by side in the same character at the same moment.

  In Catch-22, poor Yossarian clings to the hope that he’ll finally fly enough missions to get sent home. At the same time, he fears that they’ll raise the number of missions again, and he’ll die before he achieves his goal. Hope and fear live side by side in our characters, just as they do in us. As they say, art irritates life.

  STORY LOGIC VERSUS STORY DYNAMIC

  As you try to make your characters’ bad situations worse, you’ll frequently face the nagging fear that you’re not being logical. After all, every time you say, “As if that weren’t enough,” you’re at least admitting the possibility that it is enough. Sooner or later, you start to strain credibility.

  Or do you? Does your reader or your audience really want your story to be logical and rational? Remember that every comic premise presents a pre-existing gap between real reality and comic reality. In a sense, logic is written out of the equation, and credibility shredded, before the story even starts. If your premise is that a mermaid can move to Manhattan (Splash), your audience has already suspended its disbelief. They don’t want logic, they just want laughs.

  So when you’re confronted with a choice between story logic and story dynamic, always make the boldest, noisiest, most dynamic choice, even if it beggars credibility. Exaggerate hope and fear, jeopardy and risk, just as you exaggerate comic attitudes and attributes. You may think you’ve gone too far, but I’ll bet the price of this book you’re wrong. Too much is never enough; you can always make a bad situation worse.

  Readers or viewers can have two possible reactions to a given comic moment. They can say, “I don’t buy that” or they can say, “I can’t believe that.” The former is laced with disdain, the latter with wonder. Obviously, you’d rather evoke wonder than disdain. Well, story logic doesn’t serve wonder; outrageous storytelling does.

  There’s a classic moment in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indiana Jones is challenged by a Semite with a scimitar. The Arab’s dazzling swordsmanship bodes doom for our hero, but Indy calmly takes out a gun and blows the guy away. There is no story logic in this moment—where did that gun come from anyhow?—but it’s a bold and dynamic choice. It leaves the audience laughing and gasping and saying, yes, “I can’t believe that.” There’s a similar scene in Ralph Bakshi’s Wizards, in which wizards clash, one with black magic and the other with the comforting magic of a Colt .45. We make logical choices because we assume that the audience wants them, but this is a false assumption. The best stories have so much boldness in their story choices and plot twists that the audience ignores or forgives lapses in logic. Comedy is not technical writing. If you build something genuinely funny, no one will care if there are a few pieces left over.

  To sum up comedy and jeopardy, then, take the unfocused, unproductive question, “How can I make this scene funny?” and replace it with a simpler, smaller, detail-driven question, “How can I raise the stakes?” Next, divide that question in two: “How can I raise the price of failure?” and “How can I raise the prize for success?” Break those questions down into specifics: “What several outcomes might my hero fear?” “What several outcomes might he crave?” End by asking and dismissing the question, “Is it logical?”

  Once again we’ve taken a mystery and rendered it comprehensible merely by asking and answering the right kinds of questions. Jeez, if you’re not funny by now . . .

  Perhaps you just need a few more tools.

  11

  Still More Tools from the Toolbox

  Most of what I know I learned from watching jeopardy. The trouble is, I know almost all of it in the form of a question. “Who were Isis and Osiris?” “What was Crime and Punishment?” “Where is the Rugby Hall of Fame?” “When was 1789?” Last night, jeopardy taught me the names of the five so-called “simple machines”: the lever, the pulley, the inclined plane, the wheel-and-axle, and the screw. After these simple machines came more complex and intricate ones: chainsaws, dustbusters, clap-on clap-off light switches, etc. This is the way of things: Having nailed the basics, we humans inevitably start hotdogging. Still, while I’m not sure the world really needs a cordless screwdriver (since screwdrivers were cordless already), I do think that an advanced set of tools is useful to the practitioner of any craft. Of course, there’s a fine, fine line between “advanced” and “obscure.” Here, then, are the router and the awl, the Allen wrenches, as it were, of your Comic Toolbox.

  MICROCONFLICT AND MACROCONFLICT

  Often, the big conflict in your story is crystal clear. Indiana Jones has to escape the Temple of Doom, the prince and the pauper change places, Archie and Meathead hash it out. Often overlooked in our stories are the endless opportunities for small conflict. Putting these tiny skirmishes, this microconflict, into your work will move your comic storytelling to the next level of sophistication.

  Suppose you have two brothers wrangling over the disposition of their father’s estate. The big conflict, the macroconflict, is the battle of the will, and beyond that a battle of wills, in which the brothers’ very destinies are at stake. Microconflict in this setting would be small tussles over who gets the Corvette, or who gets stuck with the ormolu clock, or whose pen they’ll use to sign the will. Notice that the small conflicts reflect the big conflict. What’s being played out thematically is also being played out in the moment.

  A stand-up comic is telling the story of his jaywalking arrest. The large conflict is man versus law. Small conflicts might include the comedian mocking the policeman’s haircut, or a run-in with a drunk in a holding cell, or getting fingerprint ink all over one’s Armani suit. The big theme, man versus law, resonates through all the small conflicts.

  A nun is running a brothel. Her big conflict is, “How do I save these fallen women?” Her small conflicts might include discomfort with casual nudity or foul language or dirty jokes. In a very real sense, when it comes to conflict, the pieces make the puzzle.

  There’s a poetic term for this: synecdoche, the part standing in for the whole. (“What is synecdoche, Alex?” “That’s correct, please select again.” “Okay, Alex, I’ll take ‘Rhymes with Orange’ for a thousand. “) A poet swept up in transports of synecdoche might refer to a flock of birds as “wings upon the air.” Now you might think that such a poet should be lined up against a mime and shot, and I might even agree with you, but still, to get the most out of your comic stories, you must milk your moments, letting small, on-the-spot conflict be the microcosm which reflects the macrocosm.

  You can shoot the poet later.

  Try this exercise: A woman is hitting on a man in a bar. Their macroconflict is her desire to score versus his desire to read the New York Times. List some microconflicts that underscore the major conflict in this scene. Think peanuts. Think pick-up lines.

  In Everybody’s Dream Come True, Albert’s big conflict is his battle of wills with Kathryn. Their microconflicts include arguments over who’s a better pilot, disputes over wing design, pitched battles over table manners, mocking one another’s taste in poets, doubting each other’s courage, arm wrestling and more. In your major current work, the macroconflict is ____________________ and the microconflicts are ____________________.

  If your character is having a bad day in a big way, don’t neglect a single opportunity to give him a bad day in small ways, too. When a man loses his job, his wife, his best friend, his car, his home, and his prized collection of 1940s soda-fountain glasses, all on the same day, it only makes sense to have him step in dog poo, too.

  EAR TICKLES

  Ear tickles ar
e words or phrases that sound pleasing to the ear or look good on the page. Ear tickles include alliteration (“What are words that start with the same letter, Alex?”) internal rhymes, and puns.

  Alliteration. Why does “Semite with a scimitar” sound better than “guy with a sword?” I don’t know. Why do bright colors delight the eye? Some say that there’s a survival reason for colors attracting the eye—they draw our attention to edible fruit or something. While I can’t imagine that the ability to alliterate was passed down to us from our forebears by Darwinian selection, nevertheless it’s true that alliteration does something we like, and letting your punchlines alliterate may make them, oh, say, 5% or 10% funnier.

  All other things being equal, a line that alliterates is better than one that doesn’t. But be aware that too much alliteration soon palls. What’s worse, it calls attention to itself so that your cleverly turned phrase may actually detract from the emotional impact of your joke. By all means, add this skill to your toolbox, but use it judiciously.

  Okay, right now (and this is your comic coach talking), drop and give me twenty—alliterations that is. If nothing else, it’s a workout for your spelling muscles.

  Internal rhymes. Consider the difference between the phrases “comic toolbox” and “levity toolbox.” The first is a vowel rhyme. The “ah” in “comic” finds a complementing “ah” in “toolbox.” In “levity toolbox,” there’s no such vowel, or internal, rhyme. Just like an alliterated phrase sounds marginally better to the ear, a phrase driven by an internal rhyme gets slightly better play. The distinction is truly minimal, but the careful and diligent comic writer seizes every opportunity to improve his or her words, no matter how marginally.

  Notice that I could have used the phrase “humor toolbox” instead and rhymed the “ooh” in “humor” with the “ooh” in “toolbox.” Which is better? No way to say. It’s entirely subjective. One wonders, in passing, if internal rhymes are a survival skill. One thinks not.

  As an exercise, go back to something you’ve written recently and see if you can add the filigree of internal rhyme to your work. Puns. I’m not a pun-loving guy. I don’t think they’re jokes, or even jokoids; mostly, they just take up space where a real joke could otherwise go. Many writers and stand-up comics and cartoonists confuse puns with jokes, and I think they do themselves a disservice. The best reaction you can hope for with a pun is a groan; the very best reaction you can hope for is a big groan. To put it another way, if puns are outlawed, only outlaws will have puns.

  A pun is a word or phrase bent or twisted in such a way that it suggests something new without leaving its original meaning completely behind. A pun gives a reader or listener a little puzzle to solve. Twist the phrase insufficiently and the puzzle solves itself. Bend the phrase too far and it becomes impossible to solve. Whether a pun works or not depends largely on whether the audience brings with it enough information to solve the puzzle. If you don’t know the old National Rifle Association slogan, “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns,” then you probably didn’t get the pun above. That’s okay with me. I don’t want you to get too enthusiastic about puns anyhow.

  Well, why not? Because a pun has no emotional content. There’s no truth and no pain in a bent phrase. It’s a verbal gymnastic and nothing more. It may demonstrate your cleverness, but it can’t touch anyone’s core. It’s like being able to tie a knot in a maraschino cherry stem with your tongue. It may get you free drinks in bars, but it won’t help you find true love.

  All these elements—alliteration, internal rhymes, puns, plus “funny words,” hard consonants, joke names, and other linguistic jumping jacks—must be handled with care. Though tweaking a phrase or substituting a “funny word” for a non-funny one can make a marginal joke marginally better, in no way can any of these small tools make a bad joke good or make an un-funny line funny. At best, they’re sequins; at worst, they’re tacky and self-conscious gaud.

  I use these tools very late in the writing process, and then only if I’m sure that going for the ear tickle will in no way harm the real meaning of my line or my scene or my story. This whole class of humor calls so much attention to itself that it can end up ruining otherwise funny material. Still, it may be worth an extra 5%, and 5% is better than nothing.

  DETAILS

  Often the difference between a good comic moment and a great one is the application of detail to the picture. Why refer simply to a “dog” when you can identify the dog as a dyspeptic rottweiler with the words “Born to sniff crotch” branded on his haunch? Why have a character “walk” across a room when you can have him prance, or dance, or ooze like melting snow?

  Detail helps your cause in two ways: First, it makes your story, sketch, routine, or essay much more vivid to the reader or listener. This draws people more deeply into your work, creating more emotional investment, and thus more tension, which you can release as humor. Second, actively going for detail gives you a keener sense and a clearer picture of your own work. Plus, detail is a self-improving tool. The more you seek to make your details really rock and roll, the better your details will become. Going for detail strengthens both the work and the worker.

  Here’s a paragraph built on ordinary nouns, verbs, and adjectives:

  A man drives down a street. At a stoplight, he pauses to light a cigarette, so that, when the light turns green, he barely misses getting hit by another driver running the opposite light. The man looks at his cigarette and says, “It’s a lucky thing I stopped to light a cigarette.”

  Now watch what happens when we substitute for detail:

  A greaseball with a joke haircut tears down Spiro Agnew Boulevard in his teal green 1969 Dodge Daytona and careens to a last-second stop at the world’s longest stoplight. He whips out a pack of John Player menthols, jams a butt between his pallid lips, scrapes a strike-anywhere match on the fly of his faded Levi’s, and wraps himself in a fog of blue smoke and sulfur. The coughing jag lasts like a life-time-almost as long as the light, which, after a glacial epoch or two, finally turns green. Because he’s still hacking like a madman, the greaseball is slow off the line. He jets out—and then stands on his brakes a split-second before being creamed by some psycho in a Suzuki Samurai who clearly can’t tell the difference between red lights and green. “Damn,” says the greaseball, admiring his ‘rette. “Who says these things are hazardous to your health?” He coughs up some phlegm and furiously drives on.

  A couple of tools I used here were exaggeration and the will to risk. I’m much less interested in making the thing logical than I am in making it fun. And always, always, I’m asking myself have I pushed the material as far as I can? Should the cigarettes be regular John Players or menthols? Should the cars be a Daytona and a Samurai or a Hyundai and a LUV truck? This sort of work can be pleasant and relaxing. Since all I’m doing is simple substitution, one detail for another, the work can only improve. It’s all gain and no risk . . . a creative person’s paradise, as far as I can tell.

  Which detail is “the best?” There’s no way to tell. In the end, you just play God and use the details that delight you. The good news is that just as there are no absolute right answers, there are no wrong ones either.

  Here’s another plain-brown paragraph. Please rewrite it for detail. The interesting thing is that no two people will come up with rewrites that are even remotely alike.

  It’s the start of daylight-saving time. A woman wakes up in the morning and goes around her house resetting all her clocks. She resets the clock in the kitchen and the clock in the living room and the clock in her bedroom. The telephone rings. It’s her mother, asking her if she remembered to reset her clocks.

  Like some of our other tools, detail is subject to overuse.

  You can get so caught up in detail that you lose sight of your story or your drawing or the point you were trying to make. Particularly in screenplays and teleplays, there’s a fine, fine line between amusing d
etail and distracting detail. Heap on too much arch detail in your scene direction, for example, and you’ll only take the reader off the page, calling attention to your cleverness instead of your story. It’s not easy to capture just the right amount of detail, but it’s always easier to go too far and then pull back than it is to push ordinary stuff to new limits. So give yourself license to go too far. Detail, not variety, is the spice of life.

  THE EYEBROW EFFECT

  Red Skelton used to do this routine where, in the process of putting on clown makeup, he applied eyebrow pencil to his eyebrows. He accidentally made the right eyebrow just slightly larger than the left, so he’d correct the problem by adding some pencil to the left eyebrow. This, inevitably, made that eyebrow just slightly bigger than the right. So he’d add some more to the right, then the left, then the right, and so on until his eyebrows extended up over his forehead, down the back of his neck, and on into the next county. For reasons which are no doubt clear to you, astute reader, we call this type of joke “the eyebrow effect.”

  How can you use the eyebrow effect in your own work? Simply by setting up a situation where the solution to a problem creates a slightly larger problem, the solution to that problem creates a larger problem, which creates a larger problem still, and so forth and so on, straight over the horizon.

  Suppose you have a bumbling comic murderer trying to remove his fingerprints from a crime scene. He starts by wiping all polished surfaces with a handkerchief. Then he realizes that the handkerchief has his monogram, so he decides to burn the handkerchief. He sets it alight, but the fire gets out of hand and spreads to the curtains, setting off a smoke detector, which emits a piercing scream, which wakes the neighbors, who call the fire department. Now he’s got a raging fire on his hands, and the authorities are on the way. Trapped by the blaze, he uses a fire extinguisher to create an escape route for himself. Outside the building, he hurls the fire extinguisher back into the blaze, only to realize that now the fire extinguisher has his fingerprints on it. In a desperate effort to eradicate physical evidence from the scene, he plunges back into the blaze, where he dies a fiery death, proving once again that crime—especially stupid crime—does not pay. This tool is a specific application of “making a bad thing worse,” one in which the comic character makes his own bad thing worse, and then worse, and then worse and worse again. Two other things to notice are the relationship of comedy to jeopardy in this small moment and the fact that the sequence is comic to us but deadly serious to the person trying to clean up his own mess.