Comedy is an important part of storytelling, and don't let
anyone tell you otherwise. Beyond pure comedies, careful
insertion of humour can be good for many other stories.
"But Sketchley," I hear you hypothetically say,
"My story is far too serious and deep to include anything that might make
someone laugh!"
Fair enough! Comedy is not for every story. I couldn't see books like 1984 or Lord of the Flies being improved by humour,
but still, there are interesting and useful applications
which should at least be considered.
The main appeal of comedy in otherwise serious situations is
that of 'comic relief,' the concept that too much emotionally heavy material
will weigh down on the audience, and that comedic breaks can help combat this. As
well, a bit of comedy can help make writing more believable. After all, comedy
occurs in real life. People make jokes. Funny things happen. That being said, one
should always be careful not to overdo comedy, insert it into
inappropriate situations, or make it obnoxious.
In her article, Kay Reynolds suggests three main forms
of comedic relief: situations, dialogue, and recurring jokes. While all three
are viable options, the main form I personally think requires the most focus is
dialogue, as it presents many choices in method.
There are a few ways to go about comedy through dialogue.
You can give the bulk of the cast a sense of humour (as seen in Firefly or Homestuck), have a smaller group of characters prone to joking
around who still fill vital roles in the plot (as seen in Game of Thrones or The Avengers), or include one or two characters whose primary role in
the story is that of comic relief. While comic relief characters are often
despised in principle, and for good reason, when done properly, they can
actually serve to further serious narratives.
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| Please don't think this is what I'm advocating |
An excellent example of an effective comic relief character
in such a manner is Cabaret's Emcee for
a highly specific reason: what happens when he stops being funny. The Emcee is the
flamboyant, gaudy host of the titular cabaret in Weimar Germany, whose dialogue
is rife with innuendo and flirtation towards anyone he sees (including the
audience). At the beginning of the play, he is a cheery, colourful character,
but as the story gets progressively darker, so does he. With the subtle rise of
the Nazis, the Emcee follows the story's more serious, depressing turn. In his single appearance outside of the cabaret, he reveals how devoid of hope he has
become, and his final appearance, in harsh parallel to his first, is as bitter
and defeated as the rest of the cast. This transition, the most powerful
moment of the play, drives home the message of the play's bleak
ending. While one might argue that this makes the Emcee ineffective as comic
relief in the second act, I would say instead that he has gone beyond his basic role, using his previous comedy and present tragedy to strengthen the play as a whole.
