Comedy is a broad
church. It accepts the surreal, the slapstick, the cerebral, the visceral, the
crude, the wholesome, the nonsensical and the philosophical. People get very
angry about comedy in the way they don’t about drama. A viewer can sit through
an hour of disappointing drama and chalk it up to bad luck. The same viewer can
sit through a shorter comedy show and become incensed when they don’t laugh
immediately. They forget that comedy is a broad church; that the laughs come in
different forms; that people’s experiences might make them more susceptible to
some jokes than others. It’s the reason why some people walk out of
award-winning Edinburgh shows declaring ‘that’s not funny;’ when what they
really mean is, ‘it’s not my type of humour.’
In my mind the
best thing to be is to be open to laughter from all directions. I know the type
of humour I like best is the profound and philosophical, humour that gets to
the bone of people and institutions. However, I also enjoy watching a grown man
trying - and failing - to throw a pen behind the ear. (See Tim Vine). The
reason I’m ruminating on comedy is because this week I’ve loved two very
different ones: A Man Called Ove by
Fredrik Backman, and the Netflix series Sex
Education. The first features an elderly curmudgeon in the title role; the
second a coterie of young people, all united under one banner: sex.
A Man Called Ove was a publishing sensation in Sweden where nine hundred thousand copies were sold (that’s one in ten
households). Initially, success didn't translate. The book proved a slow burner in the US until word of
mouth spread like wild fire; soon the Scandi novel had engulfed all competitors, becoming a New York Times bestseller. From there, a Swedish film was made and soon, with Tom Hanks on board, an American one will follow. In terms of the book though, its origins lay in blog form. The author Fredrik
Backman wrote regularly about life’s irritations. These pieces took the form of
humorous rants, whereby he would pour scorn on people and institutions that had
crossed him. This young person’s blog would go on to be funneled through a novel, arriving at A Man Called Ove.
It’s easy to see
why Backman chose to use an old character as his mouthpiece: after all, it’s
much more endearing to see an elderly person railing at the world than it is to a young person. We consider it just the elderly moan, since they're the
generation who made do and mend, who saved and sacrificed. They were not
born into a time of unlimited choice (of career, of holidays, of breakfast cereals) - they liked what they liked because that was all there was to like.
After the first
chapter, the story begins in earnest with Ove surveying his principality.
He’s checking to see no one has parked in a signed area, no dog has pissed on
the paving and no one has fucked up the recycling – only an arsehole would put
a metal lid in with glass jars. Ove then is a man who likes things just so. His
first car was a Saab. And his last car will be too. He has routines to
follow, standards to fulfil, expectations to adhere to. It’s important to do
things well whatever it is, to rely on no one but yourself, and treat your home
with respect. Anyone who doesn’t conform to these exacting
ideals are sure to get the raised eye brow treatment.
Over the course of
the book, Backman peels back the frown lines to reveal the younger man that
once was. When we flashback in time to Ove’s early life, we witness a world of
sorrow and pain that has made him the man he is. For all his modern-day
grumpiness, goodness remains. When a trailer reverses into his letterbox Ove admittedly goes postal; soon, however, he’s helping the incompetent negotiate off his drive. Parvaneh, the Iranian immigrant who occupies the passenger seat, will go on to show Ove that not all good things come from Sweden, that some wonderful things can be manufactured abroad, that not
everyone has to be a Saab.
I appreciate from
my description that this all sounds whimsical and melancholic, but let me leave
the first half of this comedy special with some lines from Backman’s novel.
On Ove: ‘He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s torch.’
On Ove denying an idiot a parking space: ‘He stepped out of the Saab triumphantly, like a gladiator who had just slain an opponent.’
On Ove being told his card isn’t working: ‘Ove looked as if the man behind the Plexiglas had just raised the possibility of Ove having erectile dysfunction.’
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'Don't turn your back on the old' might be the message of the book.
|
And now for
something completely different.
Sex Education isn’t a programme that Ove would watch. If he were to
turn it on, ‘hell’ and ‘handcart’ might comprise his reaction. It isn’t wry
or droll. It’s uproarious, rambunctious fun. Creator Laurie Nunn comes out the
traps early, establishing the sex comedy through – well – sex. Two sixth-formers
are racing towards the finish with the girl beckoning her boyfriend to get
behind her as they head into the final furlong; unfortunately, with the end in
sight the jockey dismounts before finishing. Both leave feeling unsatisfied.
In another bedroom across town someone else seeks satisfaction- only alone in
their room. This juxtaposition serves to establish the main character. As whilst Otis sits in Virgin, his classmates are out back, otherwise engaged, locked in toilet trysts. Otis is the classical hero of all teen
comedies: a male geek in want of sexual fulfilment. We’ve seen it all before,
but here it feels different.
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| Otis (Asa Butterfield) |
Sure Sex Education shares in
its gross-out moments of American Pie and
Superbad; yes, it has the cruel
nicknames and mean boy banter of The Inbetweeners,
yet it achieves something richer and kinder along the way. You see, Otis is the
child of Jean, a sex therapist played by Gillian Anderson. Through his mother’s
openness, he knows all there is to know about sex: the mechanics, the biology,
the psychology – he just doesn’t know how to put practice into practise. He’s passed
his theory in flying colours yet can’t bring himself to take the practical. He’s less Otis Redding, more Otis Reading.
His knowledge of
the challenges of sex though will come in handy, as later in the episode he
finds himself in a position where he can dispense advice to a patient. Adam who
we met at the beginning of the episode has got himself into a predicament. A
bully in school, he has no problem in playing the hard man. The trouble lies in
the bedroom, where his penis doesn’t stand to attention, rather surrender to
anxiety. To remedy this, he’s taken his dad’s Viagra. The trouble is he’s taken
so much he can’t move. Otis questions why he’s felt the need to do this. Adam
opens up about his performance fears. Maeve, a pink haired outlier in high school conformity, looks on impressed. In fact, she’s so impressed she begins
to see pound signs. Soon her and Otis are in business. Their clients will be
the students. Their product? Sex therapy. What a business plan! Is there any
demographic more thrilled and scared of sex than teenagers? Any age group that
puts so much stress on it? At least adults have experience, so when things go
wrong they chalk it up to an off day. For teenagers, a minor issue can feel
insurmountable, how will it ever improve?
What if I’m cursed? Worse, what if people talk? This is what Laurie Nunn has
really tapped into: the fact that teenagers are more likely to need sex therapy
than anyone.
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| Maeve, Otis and Adam (left to right). Pic. courtesy Jon Hall/Netflix |
It being sex,
there are embarrassing moments. It being sex, these are often hilarious. People
walk in when they shouldn’t. Something goes up when it shouldn't. Words
are said out loud when they shouldn't. For all of the bedroom
shenanigans though, the best moments are the most private of all: where you see teenage vulnerability. Without falling into the trap of Skins and becoming too issue-led, Sex
Education manages to weave in narratives on slut-shaming, homophobia and abortion. The
skill is that it doesn’t feel preachy or jarring against the mischief; it
feels very real.
Two comedies then.
Sex Education and A Man Called Ove. Completely different, focusing
on very different lives, but both revelatory in a way. Both shine a light on the challenges
of life, whether it be young or old. And that’s what good comedy can do: make you laugh with
lives unlike your own, to see that everyone is scrabbling along, struggling to
look like they’ve got their shit together, when in fact we’re all idiots
making a right cock of things.
A Man Called Ove is available from all good bookshops.
Sex Education is available on Netflix.
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