Bergson's Theory of Comedy Applied to Ace Ventura

Bergson and What It Means to Laugh

Henri Bergson dissects the reasons why comedy works and what it means to be funny in his "classic statement of the principles of humor" (Kelly, Young). Bergson's view of humor comes from his understanding of life, which he saw as a "vital impulse, not to be understood by reason alone" (Kelly, Young). In his work entitled Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, Bergson stresses the important point that laughter and comedy are what separate man from the animals. Animals do not have the ability to laugh at themselves or at others. Humans do. Therefore, comedy is something that is "strictly human" (Bergson 3). Laughter, Bergson states, is always at root human, even if one is laughing at a hat. What is funny is the fact that someone has given that particular shape to that particular hat. That is what is funny.

So, laughter and comedy are human. Yet, strangely, comedy requires that its audience maintain an "absence of feeling" (Bergson 4). How can one be human yet have no feelings? This is a strange and curious contradiction. But what Bergson means is that laughter and "emotion" are incompatible. For example, one might feel great pity for someone who falls down, or one might laugh at the person because falling down is funny. One cannot do both. If one feels pity, one will sympathize and rush to the person's aid. If one finds the incident humorous, one will laugh, then perhaps regain composure and tend to the person who has fallen. Laughter and emotion — empathy, pity, sympathy, fear, sorrow — are mutually exclusive. Laughter is the product of an "unruffled" soul (Bergson 4). A soul affected by pity at the sight of someone falling is not an "unruffled" soul. Laughter requires a degree of "indifference" in the audience.

Yet stranger still is Bergson's contention that laughter is social: "To understand laughter, we must put it back into its natural environment, which is society, and above all must we determine the utility of its function, which is a social one" (Bergson 8–9). This idea fits well with the claim that comedy is human — what is human should bind us to our fellow man. But what of the indifference? If one is indifferent to another's pain and would sooner laugh at it than feel pity, does comedy necessarily serve a social function? It does when one thinks of it as Bergson does. He uses the example of the runner who falls. His fall is involuntary. It disrupts the automatism of the runner's movements — his legs moving up and down, keeping balance. The involuntary nature of the fall is what produces laughter, not the man's pain. Our response may be two-fold: first we laugh, and then we offer assistance. Our laughter is due to the fact that the man has lost control of himself; he is not so self-possessed as he seemed. The fall reminds us a little of how fragile we are. It is a pleasant reminder to those who appreciate a certain perspective: man is not so high and mighty; he is capable of great things, yes, but in the big picture he is still a vulnerable creature.

The runner who falls may also produce in us some pity, which comes perhaps upon reflection. We have had our laugh and now we remember that our fellow man has just realized what we all know — that while he may be capable of great balance, he is not immune to error. If our better instincts prevail, we help him up. He has inadvertently reminded us of our "fallen" human nature — something once identified by the medieval world, less so by the modern world, which tends to follow the naturalistic philosophy of thinkers like Rousseau, who see human nature as pure rather than fallen. But if it is so pure, why do we fall? Comedy may be a direct assault on naturalism.

This notion applies not only to physical humor but to all kinds of comedy. At root, comedy is about blundering, making mistakes, being blind, or "slipping up" when it should be painfully obvious that what is needed to get through life is caution, prudence, and care. Deborah Griggs writes that Bergson's notion of comedy applies not only to slapstick or physical humor, but to intellectual or emotional rigidity or momentum as well: a character who is so fixed on a goal that he is blind to oncoming disaster, or merely unable to stop his momentum in time to avoid the crash; or a character so preoccupied with an idea that she does not see what is obvious to everyone else (Griggs).

One's laughter at another's misfortune does not mean one is passing judgment on that person, but rather that one is recognizing certain defects — as a caricaturist will highlight certain features of a person's face, actions, or manner of thinking. Bergson notes that humor is reinforced by repetition — mechanical repetition, that is. Something considered and thought out is not funny; something spontaneous, ingrained, and automatic — something that cannot be stopped — is funny. A man acting like a runaway train is humorous whether he does so physically or intellectually: "In low comedy, we may see a merely physical inelasticity, while in high comedy, we may see a rigidity of intellect, as well as one of body" (Griggs).

When Ace Ventura: Pet Detective debuted in 1994, there was a novelty and freshness to it: Jim Carrey's pet detective was ridiculously cocky and absurd. He spoofed the detective genre that had been played nearly to death by the Don Johnson Miami Vice television type. But nearly twenty years later, is the film as funny? It certainly does not produce as many laughs on repeat viewing, even if one can watch it with a certain joy. Anyone who has followed Carrey's career will be all too familiar with his comedic "brand" — with Ace it was still novel. What does that say about comedy? That it must be original. Ace Ventura spoofed the detective genre in a fresh and funny way, and it did so in a human way. Carrey's Ace has a heart that shines through in his dedication to the animals and the woman he loves. He will do whatever it takes, including risking bodily injury, to get to the bottom of the case. Because of all this, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective may be called a spoof — low comedy, with some sprinkles of high comedy that appeal to the intellect in subtle ways.

Ace Ventura: High Comedy or Low Comedy?

Consider the subtlety with which Ace Ventura sprinkles high comedy in with the low comedy slapstick. Carrey's face, behavior, antics, and the way he carries himself are goofy enough to cause a smile if not outright laughter. A teenager unaccustomed to such flagrant rebellion — Carrey disregards all social codes with great aplomb — will applaud Ace and his over-the-top shenanigans. An adult who has seen such things enough times may smile fondly, recalling perhaps the innocence of childhood. The comedy obviously appeals to a younger audience craving some sort of social disruption within the rigid machine of school assemblies, classroom lectures, and parental authority.

Where does the high comedy come into play? It may be seen in the fact that Carrey is playing a type: the detective who will do whatever it takes to solve the case. We have seen this type in hundreds of older films, such as The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep, both starring Bogart and both serious representations of the crime thriller genre. Carrey's comedy appeals to one's highbrow instincts because it plays upon an appreciation of genre conventions; it does not reject them but satirizes them with reckless abandon. Carrey's Ace is aware of genre conventions but, as he does with everything conventional, he is out to shatter them.

Is the film a spoof, or is Carrey simply spoofing a genre? It seems to be the latter. If the entire film were a spoof, no one else in it would seem to be in on the joke — yet no other character appears to be. This indicates that Ace is spoofing other detective films largely by himself. True, at times when Ace is the only character on screen, the film joins in on the fun. For example, when he is at a swanky party looking for Snowflake, non-diegetic music is heard: the theme to Mission: Impossible, as Ace hams it up on screen, making a grand production of jumping over a railing and "scaling" a wall, reaching to open a handle and swinging himself in through a doorway — never in any actual danger. But this is not Airplane! — a classic spoof in which every character, setting, and action is designed to mock the airport thriller genre.

Ace is not exactly a derelict, but he is outside the conventional social order. He is an outcast as far as the police are concerned — they are the ones with "real" authority, yet Ace does their job better than they do. He is under suspicion from his landlord, who believes he is housing animals in his apartment (he is). His wardrobe and hair are clownish representations of the Don Johnson Miami Vice detective type: coolness taken to a bizarre and exaggerated extreme — the Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned and paired with combat boots, clown pants, and an exaggerated wave in the hair. Ace stands outside the social order. Yet his boyishness, his never-fading smile, and his self-assurance make him seem justified in doing so. He almost makes the case that it is not he who is somehow inhuman but rather everyone else.

This is apparent in the person of Sgt. Aguado, whose sole purpose seems to be to ridicule Ace. Of course, Ace always gets the upper hand and makes Aguado look foolish, but that does not keep Aguado from trying at every opportunity. Part of the detective genre's tradition is that the detective and the police are on opposing sides, and this convention is respected in the film.

Ace as Social Outsider

What registers as comedy in this movie is the absolute rejection by Ace of any social convention: he drives with his head out the window because he cannot afford to fix his windshield; he wears clothing that might get anyone else committed; he walks with a strut that seems powered by sheer excess; he talks through his posterior at choice moments; he defies authority with great tenacity while displaying his superior intellect. In short, Ace is an ace — just not one a 1994 audience would have been accustomed to seeing. He is brought to life by Carrey's slapstick ability and perfect charm. He delivers one-liners with skill: when his landlord grumbles "Ventura!" Ace responds without looking, "Yes, Satan!" then turns, sees the landlord, and says, "Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else!" — all the while maintaining a face of pure playfulness. He is having as much fun as the audience. Both Carrey and his audience are in on the joke, reveling together in the overturning of social pretension.

Roger Ebert suggested in his 1994 review that Ace Ventura will appeal primarily to adolescent culture. But does that mean only adolescents will find the film funny? Not at all. Every adult was once an adolescent, and the film may happily return the adult viewer to that carefree, innocent stage of life when goofiness was funny precisely because it was so different from the automatic, strait-laced way of life that adulthood foretold. Ebert fails to appreciate the joke and admits as much — one wonders why his soul is so ruffled. He states:

"The movie basically has one joke, which is Ace Ventura's weird nerdy strangeness. If you laugh at this joke, chances are you laugh at Jerry Lewis, too, and I can sympathize with you even if I can't understand you. I found the movie a long, unfunny slog through an impenetrable plot. Kids might like it. Real little kids" (Ebert).

The irony is that Ebert is exactly the kind of figure being ridiculed by Ace: the stuffy, pretentious sort who does not know how to be a child again. Ebert certainly has his good points, just as the millionaire Ron has in the film, but neither has a sense of humor or knows how to embrace the childlike spirit Carrey embodies. Courtney Cox's character appreciates Ace's antics in spite of herself, recognizing that he is well-meaning, able, witty, and charming after all.

Conclusion

Bergson's theory of comedy applies to Ace Ventura because Ace meets all the requirements Bergson sets out. Ace is human — more human, in fact, than many around him: he is capable of erring and succeeding; he is made up of passions and reason; and most importantly, he is able to tap into his inner child. Ace is also indifferent in the right sense — indifferent to social conventions that are needlessly restrictive. He wants us to laugh at ourselves, at him, and at each other. Ace's comedy is also social: it brings people together and gives them something to talk about. When the film debuted, it was all younger audiences could speak of, quoting it endlessly. It prompts those of us with an unruffled soul to drop our pretensions, to reconsider ourselves, and to embrace the childlike spirit Ace possesses. He asks us to forget ourselves for a moment and to laugh at that which makes us human — at that which makes all of us alive. As Bergson suggests, comedy is that which reminds us we are alive. Those who fail to find Ace funny may also, sad to say, be partly dead.