Laughter and tears are
both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since
there is less cleaning up to do afterward. – Kurt Vonnegut
“If you’ll excuse me, I
have to go take a shower so I can’t tell if I’m crying or not.” – BoJack Horseman, “Downer Ending” (22
Aug. 2014)
It’s hard today to imagine a world without animated
comedy series aimed at adults. Some of the progenitors of the genre like The Simpsons and South Park are still with us today, though many agree that they are
past their prime. For every success—King
of the Hill, Rick and Morty—there
are failures—Sit Down, Shut Up and
the Napoleon Dynamite cartoon, for
example. Some, like Bob’s Burgers,
start out rough but eventually establish a world and a way of doing things that
makes them worth watching. Others, like The
Cleveland Show, linger for a while, existing primarily as derivative
copycats of previous efforts, reaching for the lowest, grossest, and most mean-spirited
of laughs. Netflix’s BoJack Horseman exists
in a world where influences are easy to spot and imitation is highly
recognizable. Arguably the adage about every story having already been told
applies to animated comedy series aimed at adults as much as it does to movies
and books.[1] In that case, one can easily look for (and find) the familiar in BoJack Horseman; however, that
familiarity doesn’t feel limiting because the series is an innovator rather
than imitator and because it readily pursues the answer to the creative problem
posed by the adage: It takes familiar elements but repurposes them to make
something recognizable but also new.
BoJack Horseman resembles
a typical animated comedy series. Anyone who watches the first few episodes and
sees the bevvy of humans interacting with (living alongside, talking to,
hooking up with…) anthropomorphic animals without blinking an eye could be
forgiven for immediately thinking of Family
Guy creator Seth MacFarlane’s penchant for slotting talking animal
characters into an otherwise normal-seeming family situation. The fact that
these are animals behaving like humans alongside humans serves as a low-key
source of constant humor but also makes its way into more explicit, focused jokes
that serve to remind audiences of the animal characters’ real world behavior.
In one quick shot, for example, a fully-dressed, human-sized pigeon lands on a
telephone wire and bears it all the way to the ground. The “black sheep” of a human
family is adopted and literally a
black goat. BoJack also employs
cut-aways, though these tend to be quick and have more to do with the context
that spawned them than those from MacFarlane’s series. BoJack has its gross out moments, including a scene at the end of the
pilot where the titular character vomits a massive amount of cotton candy off
the balcony of his home. The first several episodes seem like something you
would see on many other animated series.
The show quickly establishes a cast of characters and an
overarching plotline about BoJack’s descent into anonymity and the goal of
completing his memoirs with the help of a ghostwriter, and for a bit it seems
like the series is content with this set-up and the way that similar shows
always reinstate the status quo at the end of an episode, drawing out the
initial premise indefinitely. If characters change, the changes are usually
superficial enough to avoid upsetting a situation that can be mined for comedic
gold time after time. This is part of the suspension of disbelief that comes
with the territory. We have years and years of Christmas- and other holiday-themed
shows that suggest the passage of time in a series like The Simpsons, but Maggie never speaks and Bart and Lisa never move
up a grade in school. Some shows like Family
Guy and Steven Universe purposefully
draw attention to the moments when they refuse to respect these “rules.” Peter
loses his job at the toy factory in one episode and must find a new job in the
next one. The Crystal Gems have a falling out and all is not well at the end of
the episode (or the next, or the one after that). The characters acknowledge
the fact that they should restore things to the way they were because that’s
how these types of things work, but they then refuse to comply.
The implication of the conscious decision not to restore
the status quo is often that on “TV” things always work out, but in the “real
world” (the world of the characters inside our TVs who watch TV themselves)
things don’t work like that. It’s a metafictional stroke, calling attention to
the fact that the viewer is watching television in the first place while also
making explicit the artificiality of that experience—the way that characters
never seem to change and all is always well in time for the next week’s
installment. It’s a move that forces the viewer to confront the fact that what
they watch (and sometimes invest in) is not true. Oftentimes, these shows that
do hit reset on their characters each week do not have anything approaching
character development. Sometimes they make their characters highly mutable and
capable of being whatever sort of person the writers need them to be in order
to make the jokes work for a given week. The cast of MacFarlane’s series, for
example, do not have stable personalities. They have certain traits they
commonly embody, but they generally become whatever they need to become. Stan
Smith of American Dad can be
alternatively a devoted husband, a blithe misogynist who continually disrespects
his wife and all women, a capable problem solver, and a childish buffoon. His
fanaticism and conservatism tend to carry over through all his various roles,
but as a character he is essentially flat. He becomes slightly more tolerant of
gay folks over time, but he’s more or less whatever the writers want him to be
from episode to episode.
BoJack eschews
this sort of behavior. Rather than hitting reset at the end of an episode, it
steadily builds up backstory and personality for its characters and introduces
plot threads in one episode that do not appear again until later. BoJack learns
that his old friend Herb Kazzaz has terminal cancer in one episode but doesn’t
act on the information until later because, we eventually learn, there is bad
blood between them. We learn that BoJack’s stand-up routine used to suffer
because he was continually asking audiences whether they got what he was
saying. Herb helped him get over that tendency as an adult, but then we flash
back in a later episode to a letter young BoJack wrote to his hero Secretariat—a
letter in which he made a joke and then proceeded to ask his idol if he got it
or not. BoJack’s ghostwriter and eventual friend Diane Nguyen tells us about
sitting on a certain hill to look at the stars when she was young, and BoJack
uses that information in another episode to locate her. Characters have stable
personalities and behave in ways that feel true to them. The plot likewise
feels less like an excuse to tell whatever stories the writers want from
episode to episode and instead works like the narrative in a serial drama. It
builds upon previous actions to create new scenarios. When BoJack purposefully
sabotages his roommate’s rock opera or gets caught frolicking with the actress
who used to play his daughter on the TV series Horsin’ Around, these problems result in consequences down the
line. Some pay off in bigger ways than others, but there is a consistency to BoJack that is missing from other
animated comedies (specifically those aimed at adults). It treats its comedy seriously.
Early on, I characterized BoJack as dumb but fast. It didn’t feel particularly clever (see
the cotton candy vomit scene), but it had good pacing and tossed out new bits
fast enough that the humor arose from the breakneck pace at which the surreal
interplay between humans and animal-humans shifted from one scenario to the
next. However, that’s just the beginning. BoJack
initially received mixed reviews, but critical perception has since shifted
notably. The fact that much of the cast is made up of humanoid animals remains
a source of humor at points, but the show doesn’t rest on the fact that
Horseman is… well… a horse man to
make the audience laugh. Instead, it goes in what could be seen as the exact
opposite direction. It treats BoJack as human and his problems as important.
The situations are still frequently ludicrous, but focus often shifts from
cracking jokes to seriously considering the self-loathing and sadness that the
main character feels.
Not since the episode three turn in the seemingly cutesy,
innocent Puella Magi Madoka Magica has
a shift in tone caught my attention so unequivocally. First, BoJack was just stupidly clever
background noise, but I ended up getting pulled into it. By the time I stopped
watching after the first few minutes of episode twelve of season one, I was
hooked. But not just because it’s a funny show. Rather, because, as Margaret
Lyons puts it in “BoJack Horseman Is
the Funniest Show About Depression Ever,” the show is “radically sad.” Lyons
credits the series with a portrayal of depression that defies the usual
“clichéd, fake-ass TV depression of just laying on the couch for an afternoon.”
Instead, BoJack’s depression emerges not just from his frequently
self-deprecating comments (which are played primarily for laughs early in the
series) and the fact that we are explicitly told he is lonely, but also from
his mistreatment of those around him.[2] His self-destructive behavior and mean
streak serve to alienate him from others, prolonging his sense of loneliness.
Depression is a vicious cycle and oftentimes breeds thoughts that prove to be
self-fulfilling prophecies. BoJack
Horseman seems to understand this and to be able to engage with it in
subtle, at times deeply affecting ways.
*Spoiler warning
for the following example* The twelfth episode of the first season starts
with a flashback to BoJack’s hero Secretariat giving an interview while facing
allegations that he betted on races in which he was competing. Young BoJack’s
letter to the older horse is read aloud on air, and in it BoJack asks his idol
what to do to stop feeling sad. Secretariat tells BoJack that he was sad
himself as a child, and he found the solution in racing. He encourages BoJack
to keep trying and not give up—to keep moving forward. At this point, the
flashback jumps forward in time to a more disheveled Secretariat standing on a
bridge before jumping into the water below to commit suicide. Meanwhile, a
radio in his parked car can be heard playing, and one of the personalities
jokes about how someone’s parked car on the bridge is delaying traffic.
Damn. Just damn. There’s a more eloquent way to put
it, but that’s some powerful stuff. The way that BoJack characterizes himself simply
as “sad” and the way that Secretariat picks up on that language and uses it
himself to describe what we know to be depression is so understated and sincere
that it almost seems like this moment belongs to another series. That we then
almost immediately see the comforting figure of Secretariat give in to sadness
himself sends a powerful message. And of course, the callousness of the radio
announcer, whose ignorance only heightens our own sense of dramatic irony, is
its own message as well—not just about sadness and depression but also about
fame and the culture of fame. *Spoilers
end here*
In the A.V. Club’s review of the second season
of BoJack, Vikram Murthi describes
the series as “[a] silly satire of Hollywood culture and a dark character study
about depression, [and its] best feature is that it doesn’t privilege one side
of its premise over the other.”[3] The story is grounded despite the bizarre
parallel universe it seems to take place in. Real world figures like Margo
Martindale and Namoi Watts who keep their own names and human appearances and
are even voiced by their real world counterparts bump elbows with
anthromorphized raven versions of Cameron Crowe and an arachnid “Quentin
Tarantulino.” Penguin Publishing is run by penguins. A Navy SEAL is a literal
seal, and the news anchor on MSNBSea is
a whale. Yet there’s the recognizable “Hollywood” sign (or most of it at any
rate) on the hills. Like BoJack the
series, the world which it occupies is recognizable but new. It’s at times hazy
and surreal like the opening theme and credits sequence suggests, but it’s also
familiar—physically but also ideologically.
BoJack is an
interrogation of a vapid, desensitized culture that becomes, at times, almost
equally vapid and desensitized. It’s an anesthetized world where the new
generation of celeb music icons rises to replace (and deride) the old before
they’re even old, where people start arguments about nationalism and patriotism
over the most inane things (muffins), where the dumb and the pretty seem to always succeed where others
fail: A pretty boy character identified only as “A Ryan Seacrest Type” happily
tells BoJack that he thought he was actually dead (since his career is as good
as dead). “Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner – gentrification?” reads the
ticker below a newscast, reflecting on the illogic of the culture even in the
face of very real, salient issues. On the same ticker, another segment reads,
“I wanted to write novels, you know.” Lyons writes, “Everywhere you turn,
someone’s struggling. A horse sitcom actor. A ghostwriter who’s worried she’s
not making a difference. A nameless, faceless entity typing out the tickers for
cable news shows. Everybody, maybe.”[4] Alternatively, “BoJack Horseman understands that life is tragic and comic in equal
measure, and that embracing that idea without sacrificing one for the other is
the key to success.”[5]
That laughter is always sign of happiness is a common
misconception in our culture. Upon closer inspection, that assumption breaks
down quickly. We often laugh when we’re uncomfortable, after all. Public
speakers break the ice with a joke. When we have to present in front of our
peers, we resort to understatement, self-deprecation, and the deferral of
praise with wit to cut the tension. If we all laugh together, we can get
through this together. We might be happy in a sense because of the communal
experience of sharing a laugh, but the laughter is the result of our shared
discomfort. We acknowledge the fact that if we’re in the audience we may soon
be in front of it. We laugh as much at the jokes as we do at the situation.
Haha, we’re uncomfortable. Black humor, in particular, meets our needs when
circumstances are often not happy and we need to release the tension of being
unhappy. Note the quote from Kurt Vonnegut above, obviously. Note also the
quote from BoJack, which is funny
because of how forthright it is and because of how soul-baringly true it is.
The opening animation for BoJack Horseman highlights BoJack’s personal depression. He doesn’t
seem to move through his life so much as it seems to move without him, placing
him in new situations whether he wants to be there or not. The drinking and
partying are effortless. Even when a plunge into a pool from a balcony
transitions into BoJack relaxing by himself, comfortably, on the water’s
surface, the hazy, melancholic pulse of the music backing the image makes it
surreal rather than relaxing. Of course, BoJack’s posture throughout this
sequence has never radically changed. He goes from lying in bed to lying in the
pool. He eventually raises a hand to block out the sun, but he’s largely a
passive figure adrift in his own life.
That being said, the series as a whole could be read as a
comment on the depression of our culture. If our culture can be said to have a
mental illness, then depression works. At more than one point, BoJack suggests
that nothing matters. Whether he has work or not—whether his memoir paints an inaccurate
picture of him or not—none of it amounts. The eleventh episode ends with him
begging Diane at a question and answer session to tell him that he hasn’t
squandered his life. He similarly begs at another point to be told that he is a
good person underneath all the apathy and anger. A sequence where Diane goes on
at length about the position of women like BoJack’s former co-star Sarah Lynn
in the world when they try to reclaim their sexuality is handled jokingly but
makes a similar point. The length of the diatribe, the fact that this at times
crass show has suddenly incorporated academic-sounding discourse, and the
obsessive way with which the socially awkward Diane pursues her line of inquiry
makes it seem funny; however, in this moment she asks questions about agency
much like BoJack has.
Specifically, Diane wonders whether women can reclaim their sexuality for
themselves or if the attempt only causes them to play into the desires of the
male gaze that is so prevalent in society. Is it even possible to make a
change? Are we paradoxically stuck aware of our problems but unable to solve
them from within? These are questions posed by postmodern theorists such as
Linda Hutcheon when they look at media that attempt to offer a critique (like
the ostensibly satirical BoJack). Can
we use the flawed systems to point out the flaws in the system? BoJack spoofs Hollywood culture using a
filmic medium. It pokes fun, but does poking fun accomplish anything or is it
just another type of complacency in the sense that it allows us to acknowledge
we’ve got problems but to also laugh at them, feel that release of tension, and
thus return to a problem-riddled existence feeling better without really doing
anything about it? If we’re just stuck,
does anything really matter? If we’re not really stuck, then is the only thing
preventing us from making a better choice our own cowardice? Charlotte suggests
as much to BoJack during a flashback to a time when she was dating Herb and
BoJack was still a sober, idealistic comedian unaware of the tar pits (literal and
metaphoric) beneath his feet.
I once heard that trends in America start on the west
coast and work their way eastward. If that is true, then Hollywood culture is
defused throughout our national culture. Even if that isn’t strictly true, it’s
safe to say that the ideals of Hollywood are important parts of our culture.
Despite the fact that the internet has increasingly allowed independent voices
to be heard, allowing encounters with cultures not nearly as homogenized as
those found in Hollywood, we still regard Tinsel Town as the place with the
ideal bodies, the ideal careers, and the ideal lifestyles. Sunny, boozy, and
maybe a little bit perfect. Dreamy actors and actresses who get paid to look
good and to sport the sorts of bodies we lust after while living the larger
than life lives we’d like to lead.
Consequently, there’s a telling scene in which BoJack
converses with his longtime rival Mr. Peanutbutter. BoJack has been cast in the
role of Peanutbutter for a film, and the two are wearing similar outfits as
they talk. Peanutbutter is hung up on the fact that BoJack is not right for the
role because his shirt is wrong (it isn’t a v-neck) and that that constitutes a
massive inaccuracy; however, as an audience, we can appreciate Peanutbutter’s
shortsightedness. BoJack has the wrong shirt and the wrong body. He’s a horse
instead of a dog. Peanutbutter is a well-meaning, golden-haired doof and
something like the ideal of the male Hollywood success story. He’s done some
acting that he is moderately well-known for and has turned to reality TV and
starting his own production company to further his career. Meanwhile, the
prosaic BoJack is almost universally disliked because of his abrasive personality.
Reasonably intelligent, biting, clever, and not in peak physical
condition—BoJack is a better surrogate for the American viewing audience than
Peanutbutter, yet the latter is closer to embodying the ideals of Hollywood
culture. He represents its idealism and its stupid but likable insistence.
BoJack, on the other hand, is an example of its futility and unsustainability.
Aware of his own limitations but desperate to succeed within those imposed on
him by society (to be seen and liked again), he refuses to grow or change
because he is obsessed with Horsin’
Around and the period when his career showed so much promise.
BoJack Horseman vacillates
between comedy and drama and between ideals and harsh realities—between the
heights toward which we aspire and the low reality that we sometimes only
secretly acknowledge as the truth—and this is a thoroughly American sort of
humor.[6] We have always aspired to a dream (the American Dream) while daily
confronting the disappointments of waking reality. The disparity between what
we idealize and want and what we must make do with brings us back to the
questions of agency and whether we can get ourselves, culturally, out of our
sadness and disappointment. We may be aware of the fact that we are sad or that
we’re stuck in some ways, but we may not be able to get out. We may only be
able to laugh.
Notes:
[1] There is an
argument to be made that what all these different mediums need is an infusion
of new stories that capture the experiences of previously under-represented
groups of people.
[2] Lyons, Margaret. “BoJack Horseman Is the Funniest Show
About Depression Ever.” Vulture. New
York Media, 11 Sept. 2014. Web. Accessed 29 Jul. 2015. <http://www.vulture.com/2014/09/bojack-horsemans-radically-funny-sadness.html>
[3] Murthi, Vikram.
“Absurdist Humor, Biting Drama Groom BoJack
Horseman into one of TV’s Best Shows.” A.V.
Club. Onion, 17 Jul. 2015. Web. Accessed 29 Jul. 2015. <http://www.avclub.com/review/absurdist-humor-biting-drama-groom-bojack-horseman-222415>
[4] Lyons
[5] Murthi
[6] Rubin, Louis D.,
Jr. “Introduction: ‘The Great American Joke.’” The Comic Imagination in American Literature. Ed. Rubin, Jr.
Rahway, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1973. 9.
Print.
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