From the film Love on Delivery (1984)
Written by Cai Shenghao, Edited by Xing Hao Wang
Explaining a joke to someone sucks. Not only is it a struggle, but it also ruins the joke for everyone else. Yet, is there anything more human than knowing something is pointless and still doing it anyway? In that spirit, let us explore some prominent theories explaining jokes and humour, asking questions like why and when we laugh. As material for our discussion, we will draw an example from a master himself—Stephen Chow, Hong Kong’s biggest comedy star in the 1990s.
Background
A veteran of late 20th century Hong Kong cinema, Chow rose to fame in the 1990s starring in more than 40 films. A suave and self-assured champion gambler in one, and a vagrant martial artist in the next, Chow demonstrated his onscreen charisma to a captivated Chinese audience. Yet, upon closer inspection, his film plots weren’t the most innovative—his character often conformed to one of two personas. The first was the classic rags-to-riches story, where Chow played the “little guy” stripped of any socioeconomic status. Watching him overcome humiliation and abuse in films like Kung Fu Hustle certainly made it easy for the audience to root for him. Conversely, his other popular persona was a godlike figure blessed with wealth and superhuman abilities but lacking in humility and empathy. In a bildungsroman of sorts, he then loses it all, and only regains his initial endowments following an arduous journey of self-discovery.
Neither of these plotlines were groundbreaking—in fact, they sometimes rendered his films predictable. Chow even often had regular collaborators in his films (with the late Ng Man-tat arguably the most recognisable), many of whom played the same archetypes. Ng in particular often accompanied Chow as a bumbling but well-meaning father figure, whose character’s own background mirrored Chow’s. But if his plotlines were indeed formulaic, what made Chow special enough to be considered a master of his craft?
Back when cable television was still a thing (nearly a decade ago now), my family and I often sat down together for “film weekends.” Many of the Chinese-language channels preferred broadcasting period dramas or wuxia[mfn]The wuxia genre typically revolved around feuding martial artists and warriors in a fantastical ancient China. Possessing superhuman levels of ability, the average fight scene would have swords clanging against spears, whilst their owners performed gravity-defying stunts and leapt from tree to tree. Protagonists were usually of lower social status, resisting tyrannical landlords or seeking atonement for past crimes.[/mfn] (martial heroes). Boasting special effects straight from the 1970s, they hardly sufficed in satisfying the short attention span of a Michael-Bay-era kid. But one film differentiated itself from the others and had everyone roaring in laughter. It unapologetically weaved in generous amounts of crude slapstick humour and tongue-in-cheek wit. It never took itself too seriously and expected its audience to do the same. That was my first experience with mo lei tau.
Translated from Cantonese, mo lei tau means “makes no sense,” and it characteristically combines verbal wordplay, anachronisms, and parodies into one big incongruent package. It plays on social patterns and expectations we have internalised and upends them entirely. This may appear as characters suddenly bursting into modern rock songs in a period drama, or non-sequiturs amidst rapid back-and-forth banter. Other than puns and double entendres, mo lei tau also throws reason out of the window by combining seemingly unrelated and irrelevant elements.
For example, here’s a scene from From Beijing with Love (a parody of James Bond-esque spy films):
Chow’s character (literally Ling-ling-chat or 007 in Cantonese) is showing his gadgets to another spy, Lee (played by Anita Yuen). Both are seated comfortably on a sofa and Ling’s suitcase of gadgets is laid out on the table in front of them. His first gadget, an “F40,” appears to be but an assuming 90’s mobile phone, before he reveals that the metallic layer at the bottom functions as a shaver. He proceeds to demonstrate its usefulness by shaving his sideburns. Next, he pulls out a second gadget—an electric shaver called “model 911”. After switching it on, it begins emitting air and he explains that it is in fact a hairdryer. Lee is frustrated at this point and grabs a white hairdryer from the table, demanding to know why he needs multiple hairdryers. Ling patiently takes the hairdryer from her hand and turns it around, revealing that it is actually another shaver. Lee then asks what he would do if he lost the “hairdryer-shaver” model 911. Ling smiles knowingly and takes off his leather shoe. He proceeds to flip a switch underneath it, and Lee gapes in stunned silence as he reveals that his shoe is also a hairdryer.
I hope my description managed to do this scene at least some justice. If not (the more likely option), you might have to watch the film yourself! So what’s going on when we laugh in response to a scene like this? What exactly is making us laugh? To answer these questions, let us first examine some existing theories that have attempted to explain humour.
I’m Better Than You
Humour is traditionally an area that philosophers have been unconcerned with, or even scornful of. While our contemporary understanding of humour leans closer to a general quality of comedy, this was not always the case. Tracing back to classical Greece, Plato was unabashedly critical of the ruling elite of the RepublicPlato, Allan David Bloom, and Adam Kirsch. The Republic of Plato. New York: Basic Books, 2016. being fond of laughter. For him, being fond (or a “lover”) of something meant pursuing it insatiably without end. Naturally, he didn’t want his rulers-in-training to become laughter-obsessed, as this would distract them from their duties. In addition, he frowned upon depictions of laughter in Homeric tales, such as this one from the Iliad:
“Unquenchable laughter rose among the immortal gods,
When they saw Hephaestus hastening breathlessly
Through the halls” — Iliad, I, 599–600
Notably, the laughter of the gods here is not any good-natured chuckle, but rather a kind that is borne out of ridicule and mockery at one of their own. The unflattering poise of Hephaestus is a source of malicious humour—an irresistible compulsion that contravenes the gentlemanly behaviour many ancients espoused. This definition of laughter as characterised by scorn and derision persisted even until the 20th century, becoming known as the Superiority Theory.Vandaele, Jeroen. “Humor Mechanisms in Film Comedy: Incongruity and Superiority.” Poetics Today 23, no. 2 (2002): 221–49. https://doi.org/10.1215/03335372-23-2-221. Here, superiority is not confined to physical or material attributes, but includes all general perceptions of “being better than another”. In other words, the theory argues that we derive some form of satisfaction from the inadequacies of others, and that amusement translates into laughter. Having a distinctly identified target means that this is an “aggressive”Vandaele, Jeroen. “Humor Mechanisms in Film Comedy: Incongruity and Superiority.” Poetics Today 23, no. 2 (2002): 221–49. https://doi.org/10.1215/03335372-23-2-221. variant of superiority, as it is characterised by antagonism towards another party. Writing in Leviathan, Hobbes attributes the resulting satisfaction to our innate, competitive nature,Morreall, John. “Philosophy of Humor.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Stanford University, August 20, 2020. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/humor/#IncThe. which makes observing the failures and shortcomings of others most gratifying. In essence, the schadenfreude[mfn]The term schadenfreude refers to the pleasure experienced from witnessing others in trouble or humiliation. Think children laughing at their friends that fall off the slide![/mfn] from comparing ourselves with others who are experiencing misfortune becomes associated with what is humorous.
Something Doesn’t Match Up
It is certainly depressing that we only laugh at the expense of others, but thankfully, this is not entirely true. After all, what about when we laugh at our own silly mistakes? Or in absurd situations, where no party is the butt of the joke? In a famous allegory, Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi dreams of himself as a butterfly, unaware of his identity as Zhuangzi the philosopher and thinker. Upon waking, he questions if he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming it was Zhuangzi. We chuckle at this seemingly absurd thought, though not necessarily at Zhuangzi’s foolishness. It is instead the tale’s anti-rational nature that amuses us—it is incongruent with what we expect of the behaviour of someone waking from a dream, which makes the whimsy of Zhuangzi’s response shine through.
But where do these expectations come from? Some of them come from our environment—as signals and stimuli we have gradually learned to both interpret and give meaning to. The sound of barking means dogs are nearby, and the sound of crickets chirping means it’s night time (and they’re looking for potential dates). This also means that the same stimulus can be interpreted differently by two separate individuals, which might explain why not everyone finds the same joke funny. For example, an animal lover hearing the sound of barking might glance around eagerly for its source, but someone traumatised by an unfortunate childhood encounter might react instead with apprehension. If these cognitive schemas represent the ordered and rational world that we have gradually come to know, then incongruity is the chaotic force that contradicts it entirely. It delights in anachronisms and thrives in subverting expectations. But is it automatically irrational just because it goes against what we understand as reason?
German philosopher Immanuel Kant understood humour as “the sudden transformation of a strained expectation into nothing.”Morreall, John. “Philosophy of Humor.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Stanford University, August 20, 2020. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/humor/#IncThe. What’s different for Kant is that laughter or humour doesn’t bring anything positive (nothing is gained), but it does resemble a mental exercise of sorts. The norms that shape our reality are momentarily challenged, and that’s it—we laugh as our thoughts shift for a bit, but nothing really changes. We don’t walk off having learnt something about ourselves or others, but the punchline has served as a brief distraction, at best. Therefore, according to this theory at least, laughter, and perhaps by extension incongruity itself, are of no merit to the rational individual.
The heir of a rich relative wished to arrange for an imposing funeral, but he lamented that he could not properly succeed; ‘for’ (said he) ‘the more money I give my mourners to look sad, the more cheerful they look!’
— Immanuel Kant, the Critique of Judgement
Kant’s definition has since been refined in many ways by subsequent thinkers. For one, laughter is indeed in part a physical response, but it would be an understatement to claim a complete lack of accompanying intellectual stimulus. We do enjoy the act of laughter, and the warm sensation that follows. It puts us in a more pleasant state of mind and cheers us up when we are upset. Another aspect is how lightning-fast the transitions between humour and seriousness are, which incidentally, Chow often plays on for laughs in his films. Think of switching from serious dialogue to witty dialogue, while keeping the same tone and deadpan expression. That may be why comedic timing and delivery are so important in a comic’s repertoire, such that two comics can recite the same joke and yet one bombs completely. The incongruity itself isn’t exactly why we laugh or are amused, but rather the epiphanic moment—the realisation after putting two and two together. In that sense, we do not always laugh immediately after the punchline is delivered, but sometimes a moment after (insert J.K. Simmons laughing here).
Laugh Some More
The list of humour-related theories does not exhaust itself here. Have we come closer to understanding why we laugh? I certainly haven’t. But that’s part of the beauty of pondering over these theories and comparing them to each other. I began with a question in my head after watching a film. I pondered, searched for answers, and found none. And you know what that means—I have an excuse to watch more of them.
As a final “mental exercise”, let us return to the scene of Ling and his gadgets. The humour in the scene is not only from the incongruity between the physical appearance of the gadgets and their actual functions, but also from how we’ve been ingrained to expect these unassuming spy gadgets to be capable of extraordinary feats. We all know what a shaver-looking object should do, but can we say for sure what it will do? Chow proves us wrong, not once, but four times. For some of us, the moment of realisation might be split into two parts—when Ling verbally explains, and when he demonstrates the gadget in practice. It is, after all a multi-sensory experience—some of us “get it” when he speaks in Cantonese, and others when the shaver begins emitting a whirring sound. But at the end of the day, everyone on the sofa laughs and I daresay Chow would call that a success.
Aristotle called those unable to appreciate a joke “boorish and unpolished”.Aristotle, William David Ross, and Lesley Brown. The Nicomachean Ethics. Ed. rev. Oxford World’s Classics. Oxford: Oxford university press, 2009. Today, we call that a lousy date. But what hasn’t changed is the social experience of sharing a joke, or watching a comedy film together on a Saturday night. After all, humour is best enjoyed in healthy doses of sharing, and we all need more of that now, don’t we?