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Comedy shows (and many dramas, as well) hold “table reads,” in which the writers, producers, directors and executives get to hear the actors read the script out loud. As the writers sit and listen, they make a check mark next to every joke that gets a laugh. (For extra precision, many of us vary the size of the checkmark to reflect the intensity/duration of the laughter.)

Usually, at the end of a table read, every script page has at least one check on it, and many have three or sometimes even more. And the general rule for evaluating a script is usually “more = better.” Check marks are treasured like gold, uncomplicatedly loved and desired. And yet…

A script can be overjoked. A script in which every line strives to earn a laugh is as effective as a football team in which every play is an attempt at a touchdown. You end up with an exhausting, overreaching mess that doesn’t have room to slow down and breathe. And it doesn’t feel like it’s about anything other than its own pace.

Something that I myself have witnessed is a progression that sometimes occurs during the production week of a pilot. Writers are brought in to “punch” the script, to make last moment changes intended to sharpen the script. Invariably, piles of jokes are inserted into the script at this point. And sometimes, the show gets worse as a result. Funnier, perhaps, but more manic, less thoughtful.

It’s worth being careful about this when you’re writing your specs. It’s so imperative that the spec be your very best work, so it’s easy to push. Letting a joke have some breathing room, letting characters have a real moment, letting an emotional moment land for a second before you undercut it, these can all be powerful events in a script. Even if they don’t earn themselves a check mark.

Lunch: Sushi at Echigo. I’ve told you before about how their morsels recline on tiny beds of slightly warm rice. Holy cow.

When I was in school, pretending to learn things about Cognitive Science, we spent some time talking about “basic level” concepts. “Furniture” is superordinate. “Coffee table” is subordinate. “Table” is basic level. It’s not an arbitrary division, by the way. The basic level is that level of categorization that meshes with human experience in such a way that it intuitively has a special status. Basic level items are generally given short, simple names, for example, because they’re so central to human experience that they need easy-to-grip handles. Shoe, chair, dog, bird, cloud… these are all “basic level” concepts.

So what does this have to do with comedy writing? Well, the basic level isn’t funny. There. I said it. Deal with it, basic level.

Remember Spinal Tap? Remember what “St. Hubbins” was the patron saint of? “Quality footwear,” that’s right. Not shoes. Superordinate. And, at the other end of the very same spectrum, remember this Buffy line? “I’m not exactly quaking in my stylish yet affordable boots”? Subordinate. The too-general is funny. The too-specific is funny. But, sorry, Goldilocks, just right is not funny.

This can provide you with a quick and easy shortcut to humor, even if you’re not terribly comfortable with joke-writing. And remember to dig around at both ends of the spectrum.

Lunch: a burrito

So, tonight, I stumbled upon a rerun episode of “Scrubs” on Comedy Central while waiting for The Daily Show to start. And I saw a lovely example of a neat trick that can be a real help when you’re writing a spec script. It’s the ol’ unanswered question trick. And it’s based on the notion that you don’t need to explicitly give the audience any information that they can figure out on their own, because audiences like to figure things out. And, even more importantly, that they secretly like to be kept waiting.

It’s such a simple trick. If the story’s been building up to a big question like “Are you leaving me?,” “Will you marry me?,” or “Are you a vampire?,” you can have a character finally get up the nerve to ask it, and while the audience is waiting, breath all bated, pulse all poundy, you cut away to some B-story scene. Then come back to the character who asked the question, behaving in a way that tells you what the answer was: they’re crying, dancing, or lying bloodless in an alley. There’s something totally compelling about never having to hear the actual answer. This is *even though* it seems as though you’re violating one of the basic principals of screenwriting by moving a big moment off-screen.

The truth, is, of course, that the big moment, in this case, is not the action, but the reaction. And it’s made all the more powerful because we join it in progress, and because we aren’t given it when we’re braced for it, but somewhat later. It’s like that trick where someone pretends to punch another person, then pulls the punch, and then sucker-punches ’em real fast as soon as they relax. Neat, huh?

Lunch: Tamales at “Mexicali.” Get this, they were totally over-salted. That never happens. Weird.

Hey, Gentle Readers, our little blog-shaped project here got a nice shout-out from Jacob, the amazing recapper at TelevisionWithoutPity who does the masterly job with Battlestar Galactica. Thanks for the mention, Jacob! I’m a fan!

In the same recap, Jacob uses the phrase: “Everything you want, in the worst possible way.” This is an extremely important element of good storytelling, and I find myself surprised I haven’t talked about it before. Giving the audience everything they want, while stabbing them in the eyes at the same time, isn’t just a Battlestar trick, it was one of our storytelling staples at Buffy too, and it should be in your bag of tricks as well.

The classic Buffy example, of course, was giving Buffy and Angel their lovely moment of happiness. Everything the audience wanted! And then revealing that that very moment of happiness had condemned Angel to lose his precious soul. The worst possible way!

If you can find a way so that your spec culminates in a moment like this… it will be delicious. It works for (your more poignant flavors of) comedy, it works for drama… it adds a lovely angsty touch to any meal.

I’m trying to think of other effective examples I’ve seen: Sela Ward saves House’s life (Wanted!) and loses his love and trust (Worst!). Pam doesn’t marry Roy (Wanted!), but Jim’s already gone (Worst!). Orpheus gets Eurydice (Wanted!), but he turns around too soon. (Worst!) Arrgh! It hurts so good!

To do this, set up a goal. Make sure it’s clear that this goal trumps everything. Then figure out a way to fulfill that goal but at the cost of something else. Something vital. Something the gambler didn’t even know they were putting out on the table.

It’s the classic deal with the Devil, and you, the writer, get to be the Devil.

Have fun!

Lunch: turkey burger

I think I might re-read some Jane Austen soon. You know that mood? Jane Austen was funny and romantic. Emma Thompson’s take on her was the best of any screenwriter yet, I’d say. So what’s the trick to, you know, titrating two different emotions like that?

Let’s imagine that you’re writing a spec for a comedy with heart or for a comedic drama. (A recent letter-writer referred to one of these as a “coma”. Is that really used? It’s hilarious.) So you’re mixing jokes in with some more serious content. A good rule of thumb is that when the going gets really serious, the joking should stop. Jokes, generally, undercut emotion. When an audience laughs, they’re relieving tension. So you don’t want that happening when you’re trying to build up the tension. This can be a hard lesson for those of us used to comedy writing – if a page goes by without a joke, we’re certain that we are failing to be entertaining. But, in fact, the sudden lack of jokes can be part of what makes these scenes riveting. Like the sudden absence of the sound of running water, turning off the joke faucet can attract a viewer/reader’s attention. This is particularly true if there’s a character in the scene who is normally a joke factory, or if something about the situation would normally be seen as laughable. Playing it straight can be mesmerizing.

But what if you can’t stand it? What if you really want to joke, but without relieving tension? There are a few specific types of jokes that you can use here.

1. When the character himself is joking to try to relieve their own tension and it isn’t working. We used this a lot on Buffy – something horrible appears and Xander jokes about its appearance and no one laughs.

2. When the character is bitterly self-deprecating. Someone who is laying open the contents of their heart can make a comment about how it’s no better organized than their closet, and it doesn’t decrease the tension because their pain is so obvious and exposed.

3. When the character is trying to appease someone who is angry with them by trying to make that person laugh. Add some jeering humorless laughter in response and you’ve got a real heartbreaker.

There are probably other categories here, but you’ve got the idea.

The interesting thing about these jokes is that they aren’t funny. They look funny, and some part of your brain gives them credit for having joke content. What they convey is bravery and intelligence in the face of anger or pain or fear. They’re endearing. Heart-crushing. But they’re not funny. And they’re great.

Lunch: McDonalds. That Big ‘n’ Tasty Sandwich, the one with tomato. You know the Big Mac doesn’t have tomato, right? Sing the jingle – it’s true.

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