Repeat Offender

Illustration by Jillian Tamaki

Few things in life are as intoxicating as a shared laugh. Humour not only lifts our mood, it unites us, and the idea of being part of such a convivial conspiracy is what makes The Aristocrats so compulsively watchable.

Directed by actor/comedian Paul Provenza and co-produced (and moderated) by Penn Jillette — i.e. the gabby half of magicomic duo Penn and Teller — The Aristocrats is a documentary about the comedy biz’s longest-running inside joke. Every comic knows it (except, as the film suggests, Dick Smothers). The Aristocrats draws on the testimony (some archival) of more than 80 of the biggest names in comedy, all of whom clearly savour the opportunity to explicate, deconstruct and riff on the world’s dirtiest joke. But The Aristocrats is much more than a collective reverie about a noxious gag; it’s an astute commentary on changing social mores and what people find amusing.

Though its precise genesis is hard to peg, the gag in question appears to have originated in vaudeville; it’s the comedic equivalent of a jazz standard, a composition with a universally recognized opening theme and a freeform middle section that encourages players to improvise with abandon.

The set-up and kicker are always the same. A guy walks into a talent agent’s office trying to sell his act. The agent inevitably tries to shoo him away; humble but persistent, the would-be entertainer begs the agent’s indulgence, insisting that his act — which involves his entire family — is utterly unique. The agent relents, and the joke-teller proceeds to describe the most far-fetched, grotesque and appalling sequence of events he or she can dream up. (If you need a hint as to what this might entail, think the macabre spectacle of Grand Guignol theatre crossed with letters to Penthouse Forum.)

After listening to this shocking scenario, the bewildered agent has only one question: “What do you call your act?” With a final flourish — like a sardonically arched brow or a hand-fluttering ta-da! — the man exclaims, “The Aristocrats!”

The punch line itself isn’t funny; at best, it’s absurd. But as this documentary repeatedly suggests, this joke is about the journey, not the destination. Imaginative raconteurs have been able to stretch the “Aristocrats” into an hour-long account — the idea being that the more protracted the narrative, the more cathartic the punch line.

Predictably, The Aristocrats is a paean to the art of joke-telling, which, according to a recent story in the New York Times, has become something of an anachronism. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, jokes — i.e. any humour device with a set-up and punch line — were indispensable. You’d tell them at parties, in the locker room, by the water cooler; they helped you navigate awkward social settings and foster a rep as someone with a finger on the pulse of funny. Given that most jokes slur women, men and/or ethnic minorities, they’re relics from pre-PC times. As a result of our more sensitive era, they’ve given way to less inflammatory — as well as less elaborate — forms of raillery, like observational humour or the casual quip.

Of course, among comedians, joke-telling hasn’t waned — how could it? The “Aristocrats” gag offers every self-styled wisenheimer an opportunity to explore his or her basest impulses, and the comics assembled in this documentary clearly revel in the chance to outdo their peers. Besides reliable wisecrackers like George Carlin, Steven Wright, Sarah Silverman and Hank Azaria, it’s heartening to see that people like Howie Mandel and Martin Mull — comics most of us had written off as milquetoast — can still bring it.

#$!?!@#$!?!: Gilbert Gottfried relating the classic "Aristocrats" joke at a New York Friars Club roast of Hugh Hefner. Courtesy ThinkFilm Productions.

The Aristocrats even provides an example of the joke’s curative qualities. In the weeks after Sept. 11, 2001, a troupe of comedy heavies teamed up to roast Playboy founder Hugh Hefner to raise money for 9/11 relief. Despite being filled with professional jokers, the room at the New York Friars Club was justifiably morose. Saturday Night Live alumnus Rob Schneider stepped up to the podium and flat-out bombed (no surprise there). Gilbert Gottfried — he of the squinty face and constipated, hectoring delivery — followed. He started by delivering some gibes about the mood in New York; sensing tension in the audience, he switched gears entirely, and fell back on “The Aristocrats,” the old standby. Unleashing a torrent of improvised mayhem, he quickly bathed the room in tears of laughter. The world’s dirtiest joke buoyed a crowd that desperately needed a lift. Everybody who attended the event looks back on Gottfried’s screed as a revelation.

For all its verbal zing, it’s a shame The Aristocrats doesn’t look better. Director/cinematographer/editor Provenza has no demonstrable talent for any of his assumed titles; the film has a grainy veneer, the interviews are sloppily shot and the editing is, in a word, brusque. The Aristocrats also suffers from haphazard pacing. Because of lousy sequencing, the most riotous versions of the joke (by Carlin and Pat Cooper) occur towards the beginning of the film; by the time you get to weaker, later attempts by Jon Stewart and Bob Saget (!), the shock has faded.

And yet, even the less-inspired tellings have their use: to show our desensitization to filth. The notion of “the world’s dirtiest joke” is something that changes with shifts in social acceptability; what people found scandalous 50 years ago now only elicits an indifferent “eh.”

Given its elasticity, the “Aristocrats” joke invites the teller to constantly strive for new depths of depravity. Any given version is bound to be scatological, sexist and in many other ways unfathomably demeaning; its only morally redeeming aspect is that it’s fiction. And yet, given the gross-out benchmarks set by comedy series like Chappelle's Show and South Park, looking for new ways to offend seems almost futile. In the second half of The Aristocrats, you might actually find yourself getting a little bored, as comic after comic takes a bash at the joke — and ultimately fails to offer a novel twist.

And then, something of a breakthrough: a staffer at the satirical newspaper The Onion comes up with a scenario that’s so odious, so utterly vile, that it’s downright inspiring. If nothing else, it proves that this age-old anecdote will live to offend another day.

The Aristocrats opens Aug. 12 in Toronto and Vancouver, and nationwide Aug. 19.

Andre Mayer writes about the arts for CBC.ca.

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