The beating of the homeless by these teens largely fits Wills’s analysis. If the judge who adjudicated the case is right, the boys may indeed have been mistreated by others in the past. In response to their own abuse, and as a means of feeling better about themselves, they may well have sought opportunities to feel superior to others. The homeless were convenient targets. They are at the farthest and most jagged margins of society.
I hesitate to take this analysis too far. At best, downward comparison can explain only part of behavior as extreme as these beatings. That these actions happened in groups may be an another important factor in how the events played out. Extreme antisocial behaviors are more likely to occur in groups in which people become deindividuated and thus feel less responsible for their behaviors and less aware of their motivations.23 Also, maybe these teens were bored and the simple entertainment value of their behavior contributes to explaining it. But these additional factors seem insufficient for understanding the core motive for these actions; in such cases, downward comparison explanations help provide a plausible reason for actions that can otherwise seem so puzzling. The pleasing enhancement to the self, albeit at the expense of these luckless men, may have been a seductive psychological boost.
Bradley found the teen’s explanation of “it was fun” unsatisfactory. We probably resist such explanations because they not only reflect poorly on the boys, but also on human nature, and, therefore, on all of us. Wills also emphasizes that his theory assumes that we are ambivalent about finding gratifications from downward comparisons. Doing this produces mixed feelings, and, certainly, no one is admired for doing so.24 When a downward comparison explanation fits, we resist it. Wills, however, argues that few people, especially when psychologically primed by their own failure or low status, refuse the opening for self-enhancement through favorable comparison. And we know from the empirical work by Wilco van Dijk and colleagues described in Chapter 1 that schadenfreude is more likely if the misfortune happening to another person bolsters our self-esteem—especially when it is in need of a boost. Add the ingredients of group psychology and an especially safe, dehumanized target and downward comparisons, even ones that are engineered, may be a tempting option.
THE SUPERIORITY THEORY OF HUMOR
In a sense, schadenfreude implies something funny. The misfortune causes us to smile and sometimes laugh in ways that we would if we heard a good joke—told at another person’s or group’s expense. In fact, some explanations for humor offer a link between downward social comparisons and schadenfreude. Perhaps the longest standing theory of humor has social comparison at its core. Superiority theory assumes that when people laugh, it results from their awareness of superiority over another person. This approach goes back as far as Plato and Aristotle, but the 17th-century philosopher Thomas Hobbes is credited with its full expression. In The Leviathan, he wrote that “sudden glory”
[i]s the passion which maketh those grimaces called laughter; and is caused either by some sudden act of their own that pleaseth them; or by the apprehension of some deformed thing in another, by comparison whereof they suddenly applaud themselves. And it is incident most to them that are conscious of the fewest abilities in themselves; who are forced to keep themselves in their own favour by observing the imperfections of other men.25
Laughter, in Hobbes’s analysis, often stems from a sudden sense of superiority. And, consistent with Wills’s ideas, the pleasure in sudden superiority is more likely to occur in those who are “conscious of the fewest abilities in themselves.”26 Indeed, the superiority theory of humor dovetails nicely with the idea of downward comparison. Wills also stresses the connection by noting that humor often entails a negative event happening to another person, causing a pleasurable response in an audience. A downward comparison takes on this incongruent pairing of a negative with a positive in that the negative event is happening to someone else.27
A downward comparison view on humor assumes that it involves self-enhancement by comparing oneself favorably to another. It also takes threat to self-esteem into account. Wills observes that many examples of humor concern topics about which the audience feels “insecure,” such as sexual inadequacies, uneasy relationships with one’s boss, ethnic inferiority, and the like. Humor, in social comparison terms, relieves insecurities by providing a flattering social comparison in these and other aspects of life.28
As I noted, humor often arises at another person’s or group’s expense. But at whose expense more specifically? As with downward comparisons, the preference is a safe target. Audiences laugh at jokes that focus on people of lower status, often ethnic, racial, or religious groups usually disliked by the audience. Many comedians more or less make downward comparisons their stock in trade. Insult comics, in the tradition of Groucho Marx (“I never forget a face, but in your case, I’ll be glad to make an exception”29) and Don Rickles (“Oh my God, look at you. Anyone else hurt in the accident?”30), add extreme elements. There is little evidence that we fundamentally object to this approach, even in these extreme forms. We love it. What comedian can waste an opportunity to go for the comic jugular when given examples of anyone displaying a human frailty? Most of the jokes in the opening monologues of late-night talk shows highlight the foolish behaviors of others. Such behaviors are free gifts for a comedian. When people become objects of downward comparison humor because of the exotic nature of their failings, contemporary comedians such as Jon Stewart will show gratitude for the comic material—and wish it a long half-life. Stewart rejoiced in reaction to an extraordinary gaff committed by a politician during a political debate in November 2011: “Are you not entertained? There is so much meat on that bone, and it is all breast meat.”31
A more recent variant of the superiority theory of humor is advanced by psychologist Charles Gruner. He likens the experience of laughter to winning.32 Gruner uses “winning” in the broadest sense: “getting what we want.” This can mean winning an argument, reaching a goal, or defeating something in nature, such as finally digging up a stubborn tree root. What is funny, in Gruner’s view, turns on who wins what, and who loses what. Often, when we find something funny, we are winning because of someone else’s stupidity, clumsiness, or moral or cultural defect.33
Gruner’s ideas are consistent with evolutionary psychology. Our ancestors’ struggles for survival in the competitive conditions of scarcity and competition for mates would have bred emotional reactions to rewards (victory) and loss (defeat). In sports, where norms do not forbid expressing joy in victory, we often see self-assertive, aggressive laughter. One can see examples of the “thrill of victory” in competition events that are captured and preserved in the media. Remember U.S. swimmer Michael Phelps reacting to his 2008 Olympic relay victory? How about Tiger Woods fist pumping after making the clutch putt that catapulted him into a commanding position deep into the fourth round of the 2008 U.S. Open? Gruner claims that the feeling of winning strikes a chord that harkens back to our evolutionary past, where a competitive triumph surely aided survival.34 Open pleasure, especially when the outcome is sudden and the result of struggle, is a natural reaction to winning. Is it any surprise that hyperbole such as, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die,” made by comedian Mel Brooks, can seem more than simply eccentric?35
The superiority theory of humor is also supported by research showing how people use social comparisons at the intergroup level to boost self-esteem. Humor that entails disparaging an outgroup is one way of enhancing one’s own group and, indirectly, one’s own self-esteem. Indeed, studies confirm that we are more likely to laugh at jokes that disparage outgroups rather than ingroups; this makes us feel better about ourselves.36
The superiority theory of humor is not an all-encompassing explanation for when and why people find things funny.37 Other explanations focus on incongruity (a conflict between what is expected and what actually occurs) or release (a relief from strain or stress). But, as Wills argues, a downward comparis
on perspective implies that such factors are secondary processes and “merely technical devices, serving to obscure the process of presenting another person’s misfortune for the enjoyment of the audience.”38 They serve, in part, to circumvent the hesitancy that people feel about making downward comparisons. Similarly, Gruner is undaunted by other approaches to humor and claims that he can see superiority as explaining any example of humor. As someone who often studies the dark side of social comparison, I am less concerned about the debate on the broad origins of humor. What is relevant in explaining schadenfreude is that superiority resulting from downward comparisons is present in many cases of humor. It may well be a sufficient condition for humor, if not a necessary one.
THE CODE OF THE WOOSTERS: LIGHT HUMOR IN DOWNWARD COMPARISONS
The unmatched comic writer P. G. Wodehouse set most of his stories in pre–World War I Edwardian England. He populated these stories with upper-class characters who mostly lived lives of leisure and who frequented big country mansions with servants in tow. But the apparent narrowness of the setting and times did not prevent Wodehouse from producing some of the most inspired comic writing in the English language. J. K. Rowling, creator of the Harry Potter books, always places a Wodehouse volume by her bed.39 A considerable part of Wodehouse’s humor involved lighthearted schadenfreude. A good example is The Code of the Woosters, which the late writer Christopher Hitchens put high on his list of favorite books.40 Like many Wodehouse novels, the plot of The Code of the Woosters is complicated and the narrator, Bertie Wooster, through no major fault of his own, finds himself in all kinds of troubles for which there seem no solutions. Bertie lives a pampered life and has a lazy intellect, but he is a lovable character even so. And, fortunately for Bertie, his uncommonly gifted and skilled valet, Jeeves, finds inspired ways to save the day. The satisfying moments, when those who have tormented Bertie are finally cut down to size, are rich in downward comparison–inspired schadenfreude, for Bertie as well as for readers.
Early in The Code of the Woosters, we meet Spode, a beefy, threatening character who is intent on physically assaulting both Bertie and one of Bertie’s friends. But Jeeves uses his network of fellow valets to discover an embarrassing secret about Spode.41 This knowledge gives Bertie the power to reduce this bully to a meek, obsequious lapdog, such that the “red light died out of his eyes.”42 Here is how Bertie analyzes the pleasure he gets from the power he has to humble Spode:
I felt like a new man. And I’ll tell you why.
Everyone, I suppose, has experienced the sensation of comfort and relief which comes when you are being given the runaround by forces beyond your control and suddenly discover someone on whom you can work off the pent-up feelings. The merchant prince, when things are going wrong, takes it out on the junior clerk. The junior clerk goes and ticks off the office boy. The office boy kicks the cat. The cat steps down the street to find a smaller cat, which in its turn, the interview concluded, starts scouring the countryside for a mouse.
It was so with me now.43
Bertie can be forgiven for actively exhibiting joy from a downward comparison because Spode is a true menace and he is shown to deserve humbling (I will discuss a lot more about the important role of deservingness in schadenfreude in later chapters). The novel is alive with other instances of downward comparison, but they are mostly of the standard, passive variety. In another sequence, Jeeves tells Bertie that a police officer, Constable Oates, who has also been unreasonably hostile to Bertie, has been hit on the head. Bertie replies:
“Blood?”
“Yes, sir. The officer had met with an accident.”
My momentary pique vanished, and in its place there came a stern joy. Life at Totleigh Towers had hardened me, blunting the gentler emotions, and I derived nothing but gratification from the news that Constable Oates had been meeting with accidents.44
The novel ends with the subplots coming together and neatly resolving themselves in a manner not unlike a Shakespearian comedy. Bertie is happy because he is no longer threatened by people like Spode, Constable Oates, and others, and this also eases what has been a string of assaults to his self-esteem and general well-being. He is also gratified because his actions have helped two couples end their love squabbles and because he has found ways of benefiting his aunt and uncle. His aunt avoids losing a coveted servant, and his uncle obtains a much-desired cow creamer. With Jeeves, he reflects on the complex troubles he has suffered and Jeeves’s brilliant solutions for these troubles. They are in their room in the country house where most of the action has taken place, and they hear a sneeze coming from outside. Earlier, Bertie had been wrongly accused of plotting to steal a prized object from the home (the cow creamer). Constable Oates was ordered to stand guard outside Bertie’s window, to prevent him from escaping until morning, when he would be taken to court. But Bertie has been exonerated, and no one has told Oates that his watch is unnecessary. Rain has begun “with some violence.” Bertie reacts:
I sighed contentedly. It needed but this to complete my day. The thought of Constable Oates prowling in the rain like the troops of Midian, when he could have been snug in bed toasting his pink toes on the hot-water bottle, gave me a curiously mellowing sense of happiness.
“This is the end of a perfect day, Jeeves. … ”45
Using fresh images, incandescent language, and plots impossible to predict and yet so fitting as they unfold, Wodehouse puts a wondrously comic mirror up to nature. A generous portion of his themes relies on the schadenfreude felt by his characters, as well as by his readers, but this hardly leaves a mean-spirited taste. There is no real cruelty in his “stern joy”—no beating of the homeless. If Bertie gets pleasure over someone’s humiliation, it feels right under the circumstances. Also, it’s simply the way of the world to feel this emotion, especially if life has been placing you at a disadvantage and you need a ration of downward comparison.
In the next chapter, I continue to focus on how downward comparisons can create schadenfreude, but I add another ingredient: group identity. This is no trivial factor. There is something about “us” and “them” that quickly shifts to “us” versus “them.” When we are strongly connected to a group, misfortunes happening to the members of rival groups can be thrilling. Examples from sports and politics will provide sufficient proof of this.
CHAPTER 3
OTHERS MUST FAIL
When a nimble Burman tripped me on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. … The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all.
—GEORGE ORWELL1
The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other guy die for his.
—U.S. GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON2
It’s not enough that we succeed. Cats must also fail.
—SAID BY A CANINE IN A NEW YORKER CARTOON3
If you have ever checkmated someone in chess, you know the experience of winning a zero-sum game, in which one person’s gain or loss translates exactly into another person’s loss or gain. A clear memory I have from high school is taking my queen and flicking over my friend’s king as I said, “checkmate,” with understated yet pointed emphasis. Perhaps a small thing, but my friend had beaten me in an earlier match and had gloated over the win. This was low-stakes competition among high school kids, but no less intense for this fact. “Gentleman, start your egos,” as comedian Billy Crystal once quipped.4 I can still see the proud smile on his face when he had agreed to the rematch. As a result, beating him was a keener joy.
Although part of why beating him was so satisfying was his gloating, the zero-sum nature of the game told another part of the story. The pleasure I felt was from my winning and his losing. Both enabled satisfying gain for me.5
Athletic contests are also zero-sum, and emotions are keyed on the outcome. As a parent of two girls, now grown, I spent years engaged in youth sports, sometimes coaching, but usually as a spectator watching the games. I often stepped bac
k to watch myself and the parents of other kids on our team reacting to the ebb and flow of games. Errors by the other side would often receive as many cheers as the successes of our own team, especially as the teams’ age group increased. Sometimes, the pleasure over the other side’s mistakes more than matched the pleasure of a good play by our own kids. If you think about it, this is hardly a nice thing. When a child commits a turnover in a basketball game, for example, it is a misfortune for the child—maybe a mortifying one. Why should we feel comfortable clapping and cheering? The context of sports seems to make it kosher.
WHEN MEMBERSHIP IN GROUPS AFFECTS SELF-ESTEEM
The triumphs or defeats of our children produce personal gain or loss. Watch the faces of parents when their children perform, especially during unguarded moments, and there is little doubt that our identification with our children is usually total. The best example I can think of occurred during the 2012 Summer Olympic Games. The parents of American gymnast Aly Raisman were in tense synchrony with their daughter as she performed her difficult routine on the uneven bars. The NBC “parent cam” captured their shifting and swaying, and this video quickly spread across the internet. It summed up something that all parents experience.6 The phrase popularized by ABC Sports, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,” applies to our children’s performances as much as to our own. And so events that help them succeed, even if they involve another child’s failure, can mix pleasure with sympathy.
The Joy of Pain Page 5
