Escape Characters

Nervous Laughter

I hate that Chuck Lorre, the writer for "Big Bang Theory," is the same writer for "Two and a half Men."

I'm sorry. Yes. We're talking about sitcoms.

The last time I watched a sitcom I think was when I was living in an apartment with a roommate. "Two and a half Men" was on. The premise of the episode was that the two men were perplexed over the fact that the "half man," the kid, was feeling down for some reason. After 22 minutes of trying to probe, cajole, and force the kid back into his normal self, it is revealed that the kid was unhappy because he was constipated.

That was the whole thing. The kid had to poop. But he couldn't. A story for the ages.

Even before that, I have held a pretty serious grudge against sitcoms. In college, I was forced by proximity to watch all ten seasons of "Friends." Twice. I would wake up in the morning to laugh tracks. Come back after a long day in the computer lab to Monica being neurotic, Chandler being sarcastic, Rachel being emotional, Ross being useless, Phoebe being aloof, and Joey... Joey was abysmal.

I won't say there aren't funny parts to sitcoms. They are all competing for viewership and timeslots, so they have to hire good writers to write funny, simple, "nothing happens" stories that fit into 22 minute slots. I can't expect huge, dramatic story arcs to fit into that format: people would lose interest quickly.

I take issue, however, with their lack of subtlety. The laugh track is probably the most obvious expression of this: the attempt to reproduce the feeling of being in a room with other people laughing. The intended effect is that if you hear other people laughing, you know that it's alright to laugh as well. Even if you didn't think something was that funny, you're more likely to react positively to the show if you think everyone else is laughing. It's a decades-old psychological trick that most people just tune out, but I can't help that I feel like I'm receiving a cue when to laugh, as if I'm not expected to know what to laugh at.

More often than not, I'm the person cackling in the movie theater at something only I think is funny. The laugh track approach I feel is insulting to my intelligence, or at least, to my sense of humor. It's also weird when you're sitting along on your couch, watching something with a laugh track. Even more so when it's in surround sound. Little creepy.

The other problem with sitcoms' lack of subtlety are the characters. For similar reasons to why they add the laugh track, they also fashion the characters in the shows to be less "normal people," and more extreme caricatures. You'll (probably) never know anybody like Lucy Ricardo, or Cosmo Kramer, or Roseanne Connor. The things they do, the things they say, are so outlandish and outrageous that no normal, rational person would scarcely consider them. They're caricatures because they have to be easily digested and immediately accepted. Complex human emotions, interactions, and relationships don't really have much of a place in sitcoms: there is simply no time, and no interest. Viewers aren't watching for an epic yarn, or heavy drama, or really for any intellectually engaging reason: they are watching to be told jokes, watch a short story unfold, and to zone out.

So. With my criticisms now clearly stated, I can tell you that I'm most of the way through the first season of "Big Bang Theory." And it's a weird thing to watch.

The show is about a group of physics and engineering academicians doing research work at a university in California. The "catch" for the show is when an attractive, blonde, twenty-something girl moves into the apartment across from two of the main characters. The slightly more socially able member of the group immediately gets a crush on the girl, and "hilarity ensues."

The laugh track is indeed painful. So much so that I searched "how to remove a laugh track" on Google, and a "Big Bang Theory" discussion on the subject came up as the third result. I felt a little less alone in the world, but no better about the laugh track.

The characters also suffer from the aforementioned: they are caricatures. It doesn't matter that the characters are supposed to be genius-level, now-grown child prodigies, working to solve the toughest problems facing modern science and engineering. They are instead every geek, nerd, and socially awkward person you've ever met, without shame or recourse. The show (so far) isn't about science, or research, or particularly any scientifically or culturally important topic. It is instead about the characters' inabilities to cope with the world outside of their research, their obsessive compulsions, and their struggle with adulthood, and humanity.

I knew about the show going into it. And it still hits a little close to home the farther I get into the show. It's not so much like looking into a mirror. It's more like somebody studied your life: your daily routine, your social interactions, your friends, your hobbies, and then decided to tastefully make fun of you for it all. I'm still laughing at it, but it still fills me with the slightest dread.

Dread, because no matter how accurate or inaccurate, or even whether I'm just projecting my own insecurities onto the characters in the show, a sitcom is above all things carefully designed to reach the widest demographic possible. To do so, it has to appeal to people: they have to be able to relate, to understand what's going on, to care what happens in the show. The show has to establish its brand based on something people feel when they watch it. And while the show has characters that are string theorists and particle physicists and astronautical engineers, the appeal of the show is not their professions.

The brand of the show is how people feel about geeks, nerds, introverts, and more generally, "smart people." And I'm not sure how I feel about how they're handling it.

Take for instance this scene:

The main character, Leonard, orders off the Internet a life-size prop of the time machine from the original movie "The Time Machine." While trying to get it upstairs to their apartment (the elevator is broken), his neighbor, Penny, comes out of her apartment, late for work. The time machine is blocking the stairwell, and she can't get down to the street. Someone suggests Penny go to the roof, hop across the rooftops, and use the stairs on the next building over. Exasperated, she agrees, and disappears up the stairs.

Later, after putting the huge prop in their living room, Penny returns to find Leonard sitting in the time machine. She gets angry, saying that she had a lot of trouble getting to work, so much so that her shift was given away to somebody else, and that she was out a whole day's pay because of Leonard's "stupid toy." She calls him pathetic, and tells him and his friends to grow up, and storms out of the room.

Leonard, visibly distraught, starts to reevaluate his life. He offers to sell the time machine prop to his friends, and begins packing his collectibles and games and other "childish" possessions. His friends try to convince him otherwise, but Leonard is determined.

Sometime later, after finishing packing, Leonard walks out the door of his apartment. He happens to catch Penny, who has since calmed down, and she offers an apology. She asks what he's doing with his stuff in boxes. He tells her he's going to sell it, turn over a new leaf. She congratulates him, and even kisses him. Leonard is about to ask Penny if she's busy later, but from the stairwell comes another, well dressed, well groomed, more attractive man, who interrupts to greet Penny, and rushes her back into Penny's apartment, leaving Leonard and his onlooking friends in the hallway.

Crushed, Leonard goes back into his apartment with his stuff, and starts to excitedly play with his friends and the time machine again. Like nothing happened.

I think what happens here is depressing as hell.

Leonard, pining after Penny for months, decides that in order to get what he wants in life, he has to make sacrifices. At the exact moment he is willing to do so, he is first cut down by Penny's immediate pursuit of another man. His prized possessions in boxes, presumably because he no longer wants to be "pathetic" and "childish," are in his hands, ready to be pawned.

At some point in the show, it is stated that his IQ is 173. He is quantifiably a genius. And yet, he reverts back to what he recently deemed "pathetic" pursuits, presumably for the reason that that is all that can afford him happiness. He remains smitten with Penny in episodes following.

This bugs me on a lot of levels. The first being that the writers, despite a great opportunity, decided against character growth. The second: that this serves as a satisfying conclusion to an episode that is supposed to be dealing with the concept of adulthood (the laugh track tells me so). The third: that this is apparently how people see geeks: obsessive, emotionally shallow man-children.

I won't say this is necessarily untrue. It's just weird to see it depicted explicitly in a nationally broadcast television show, with the damning conclusion that we lead small, inhuman lives, with little but toys, imagination, and diversion to keep us happy.

If there wasn't a laugh track (and wasn't written and acted to account for pausing for laughter), I think "Big Bang Theory" would be an amazing character study.