Laughing At The System 

Amy Wright

The relationship between artists and the rest of society has never been a simple one. Touted as geniuses in one breath and damned as layabouts and supplicants in the next, sometimes by the same person, a general lack of understanding about the purpose of creative cultures lies at the heart of the notion, often true though not always, that artist can be a harrowing profession, often ending in misery and death. Making things more complex is the fact that, despite the tendency to dismiss it as frivolous, there are generally agreed on standards about what one should and should not to in terms of the creative life. A situation made even more ironic and effable by the fact that those who follow the “rules” can be dismissed as “sell-outs” and what the rules are change over time and place. As with all rules, there are exceptions. Creators who not only overcame the odds and become professionals in their chosen fields but do so by fragrantly breaking the rules, and often laws, of the creative set as well as society. Doing things no one was supposed to do and doing things that, according conventional wisdoms, should not be possible to do.

On of the greatest examples of this in terms of genre is the Science Fiction Comedy. The foundations of Science, Fiction, particularly “hard” Science-Fiction, have long thought to be fundamentally serious. Particularly in literature. The stories there of being largely based on protections to the future grounded in the concrete principles of the present day. Given this pedigree, it is understandable that one could be skeptical about the idea of combining such an august literary form with the frivolity of humor. And yet it is not only possible but quite unique and effective, as evidenced by The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy novels in terms of literature and Red Dwarf and Doctor Who in terms of television, as well as literature, both series having tie-in novels. While Doctor Who is not overtly a Comedy, often involving moments of pure terror, anyone who denies the strong element of humor, particularly in the new series, either has not seen it or are kidding themselves.

As impressive as it is to completely defy conventional genre wisdom to create something that simply not exist, there are those who risked a good deal more than mockery with what they did. Brave, some might argue foolish, souls who cut against the very heart of their societies and not only were not shunned or even incarcerated for their willful rebellion but loved by the very society that they lampooned. Two of the strongest examples of this are in Theater. Specifically English Playwright Joe Orton and the Irish Playwright Brendan Behan. Largely forgotten today, except for those familiar with Theatrical History and/or a keen interest in the Dark Comedy form, Orton and Behan were at the very vanguard not only of their time but of where the world was going generally.

Born of low-means, Orton already had a strike against him in the context of Ultra-Conservative 1960’s Britain simply by being Working Class. A fact which if he felt any shame about he effectively repressed it, being the first to joke about the irony of it all. For instance, upon being presented with a once beautiful thrift shop fur coat by his agent, Orton commented that he always looked best in cheap cloths because: “I am from the gutter.” Added to this social and economic handicap is the fact that Orton was openly gay, at a time in Britain’s history when this could still get one sentenced to two years hard labor. While Orton managed to escape this fate, he did serve six months in an “open” prison, the equivalent of what is called “minimum security” in North America, not for being gay but for being a delinquent with a surreal sense of humor. Specifically, he had “altered” the covers and even inside cover descriptions of a number of library books into funny, often lewd forms. One of the tamer examples involved pasting the images of a monkey’s face into the middle of a large image of a flower on the cover of a book about flowers. If the authorizes were intending to quell Orton’s rebellion, turning him into an upstanding citizen, it backfired spectacularly. If anything, prison was the thing that contributed most to Orton’s later success. Being the thing that Orton credited with giving him the “distance” to be able to really write the work that he needed to in order to get noticed. At least in a positive way, his various attempts at literature having suffered rejection several times before. 

No less abrasive than his earlier work, Orton’s work for the stage, radio and television, managed to balance the mood and conceal the outrage behind a veneer of Middle-Class respectability. The darkness of the gutter that bore him lurking just below the surface. This is epitomized by his debut radio play The Ruffian On The Stair. Ruffian is at first difficult to distinguish from any other radio drama of the day. Until the slow reveal of darkness, perversion and death laying beneath the up until that point benign if strained interactions between a middle-aged, middle-class couple and the rough looking young man who has unexpectedly visited them. It was not sheer frivolity and desire to mock pretension that drove Orton’s creative endeavour. He also had a genuine fear and loathing for the system as a whole. Not only what it stood for but the depths to which it would stoop to maintain its power. Orton’s ultimate statement on the subject came in 1965 with his most famous stage-play, Loot. An exercise in relative morality, none of the characters in the play can be described as innocent. They all have their own agendas based on selfish goals. Yet even the two main characters, who are clearly shown to be thieves with little regard for others, become at least broadly sympathetic when suffering the brutal force of the State. Which is represented by a police inspector investigating their robbery who gains entrance to the home of one of thieves during perpetrations for his mother’s funeral. The inspector gets into the house by claiming to be from the Water Board. A front he maintains even while beating one of the suspects senseless trying to get him to confess and disclose the location of the stolen money.

Far from being shunned on account of his humble beginnings, sexuality and obvious issues with authority, Orton was the darling of the London upper-class, who pride themselves on being patron’s of the arts. Most of his shows had sold-out runs and Orton was honored with several awards. Recognition which he accepted with a characteristic amiable smirk. More than likely appreciating the successes but knowing full well the source of it. In one notorious acceptance speech, he laid it all out, stating that his plays were about “people who get away with it.”

Brendan Behan was similar to Orton in terms of class, social context and willingness to veer towards the dark. Though, if anything, had an even better sense of humor about it all. Born in Ireland before the liberation of the south into the Republic of Ireland in 1949, Behan’s relationship to the British Authorities as somewhat different than Orton’s, Behan being a prominent member of the Irish Republican Army during the Anglo-Irish War. A position which ended up with him serving time in prison. Yet, despite this history Behan’s approach to satirizing the powers that be is not one of rage or even mockery but self-deprecating humor, presenting situations in which no one is in the right and institutions are neither good nor bad. They are just what they are and will never fundamentally change. This is an essentially Absurdist world-view, basically positing that the best we can really do as people is find amusing ways to pass the time before we die. This point is driven home with Behan’s pitch black prison comedy The Quare Fellow. Which was a major hit, particularly in England. The play takes place in a Dublin prison on the eve of an execution. Rather than a damning criticism of the prison system it presents the instruction as it really is. A flawed collection of human beings. Some good, some bad, some cunning others incompetent. This is made most clear with the characterization of the main group of prisoners and the main Warders or guards. Prisoner A. is described as a “Hard Case” (career criminal), who as already done two “laggings” (a sentence of five years or more). Prisoner B. on the other hand is described in the stage directions as “a gentle-looking man and easy going.” It is interesting to note that only three if the prisoners are ever referred to by their name, either in the dialogue text, stage directions or even the cast list. An example of the dehumanization of an institutional context such as a prison. One that is also applied to the prison staff, only four of them ever being refereed to by name, all the other characters on this side of things being described either by their function (“The Prison Governor”) or a nickname (“Holy Healey”). Despite the somewhat negative reputation prison guard have built up over the years, none of Behan are particularly bad. A couple of them actually being really nice. This is particularly true of Regan, one of the senior Warders, who finds the whole idea of the forthcoming execution quite distasteful and sneaks the prisoners cigarettes as a sort of bizarro world act of compassion. The majority of the humor from the prisoners is ironic and situational. Literal gallows humor, used as a way to cope with the desperation of their situation. This starts right at the beginning with the first interchange between Prisoners A. and B.

Prisoner A.: Nice day for the races.

Prisoner B.: Don’t think I can make it today. Too much to do in the office. Did you hear the commotion last night round D. wing? A reprieve must have come through.

Even the political jokes, what few there are, come from a case of comforting disinterest. This is best shown in a line about how things changed, or rather didn’t, when the South of Ireland went from a colony to a Free State in 1922. One of the older prisoners mentions how there was some worry that the new domestic government would cause undue changes to the status quo in the prisons. Thankfully, the only thing that really changed “we’re the badges on the Warder’s caps.”

The more things change the more they stay the same. Thank goodness for that.