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In a post-Trump, post-Weinstein, #metoo landscape, the new comedy film Battle of the Sexes, which dramatises the 1973 exhibition match between the then women’s world tennis champion, Billie Jean King, and the former men’s champion and general huckster Bobby Riggs, should be a triumph. Its themes of women’s rights, female empowerment, equal pay, inclusiveness and acceptance are as pertinent today as they were back then. It’s right on. It’s relevant. It’s all about the issues.
Unfortunately, it’s dull as hell. There’s no drama. No edge. Even though it stars some of the most dazzling comic actors of the modern era, there’s not much funny either. Instead, it’s a slowly unfolding morality tale about people going on boring emotional journeys only to arrive at a place of truth and understanding that is blindingly obvious a good two hours before the match point is served. In its desperation to deliver a fair and nuanced portrait, the characters lose any bite; even Riggs, a crass little misogynist who gambled all his winnings and his family’s loyalty in pursuit of his ego-driven antics, is portrayed by Steve Carell as a flawed but loveable loser.
The best you can say about Battle of the Sexes is that it’s completely inoffensive. And in these highly febrile times, being inoffensive is a precious commodity. But here lies the conundrum. What is funny in a newly enlightened world?
Years ago, the comedy writers Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld devised what was to become arguably the world’s most successful television comedy, Seinfeld, with a simple credo: “no hugging, no learning”. No matter what the circumstances, the characters were to remain as steadfastly myopic, self-absorbed and unaware as they were at the beginning of the show’s nine-year run. Audiences adored it: the finale drew more than 75m viewers in the US alone.
Are we too woke to laugh? Or is it that we no longer trust ourselves to judge what’s funny any more?
Doubtful it would draw the same crowd today. Now, everyone has to be on a learning curve. Hugging is near mandatory, even among funny people. Modern audiences seem to have lost their appetite for the awkward, abrasive social interactions that have traditionally underpinned the most popular comedies. David’s latest instalment of Curb Your Enthusiasm, which expresses a solipsism so deep it makes Seinfeld seem cuddly, has seen its viewer numbers shrink by 25 per cent this season. Seinfeld, the highest-paid comedian on the planet, stopped playing university colleges years ago because he found the campus audience had become too politically correct: in a rare exception, he is due to perform at the University of Illinois in January (presumably the undergraduates are “processing their feelings” about this).
Meanwhile, comics who have built glorious careers by judging just how soon is “too soon”, offending anyone and everyone with relish, have taken to radical self-editing. Matt Lucas recently admitted that he wouldn’t recreate many of the characters in Little Britain because they would offend modern sensibilities. When asked if the boundaries of humour were being redrawn, Sarah Silverman replied that “there are jokes I made 15 years ago that I would absolutely not make today”. Which is a pity. Because a lot of them were hilarious.
Is it that we no longer find taboo-breaking controversialism funny? Are we too woke to laugh? Or is it that we no longer trust ourselves to judge what’s funny any more?
Get it wrong, and the retribution is brutal. Witness the strange phenomenon of Lena Dunham, the 31-year-old writer, comic actress and opinionator who seems to have spent the best part of 2017 apologising to whichever section of the community she has most recently offended with an ill-judged generalisation. Last week she was labelled a “hipster racist”, one of a group of privileged bohemians who use denigrating language as part of their social banter. “Mistakes are only mistakes if you don’t welcome them with open arms as a chance to learn,” she has written on social media in yet another (unrelated) heartfelt apologia. Seinfeld would despair.
In the new climate of hyper-awareness, we’re becoming hyper-intolerant. Call it the new puritanism. Or the symptom of an internet culture in which every risqué or ill-judged gag is now sucked of nuance or context and thrust on a global stage to be censured by anyone with half an opinion. I think it’s unfair. Once upon a time comedians or performers took to the stage on the understanding they had entered some kind of social contract with an audience who had usually paid to see them and who generally had some cognisance of their material. Now they must be expected to tailor their act for another audience, the ones who sit at home googling “things that might offend me”.
Of course, we should applaud the erosion of bigoted, racist, sexist and homophobic attitudes wherever we find them. But we should not be cowed by the fear of causing offence. Comedy should shine a light in dark places; it should expose our nasty prejudices and complacent attitudes. I don’t want a cosy hug of humour, I want a walloping slap in the face. I want to be challenged by ballsy, brave, inappropriate material — the type of jokes that make me squirm with discomfort because they expose my own appalling truths. But more than anything else, I just want to bloody laugh.
