CHAPTER TWELVE
Kristi Rowan Humphreys
According to Susan Brink of the Los Angeles Times, “Mental illness, long taboo or distorted by the media, is making its way into the fictional lives of television characters. Once, mentally ill people were commonly portrayed as homicidal maniacs, evil seductresses and assorted buffoons. Sometimes, they are still. But they are also lawyers, doctors, mobsters and detectives—not always lovable folks, but increasingly understandable human beings.”1 Recently, this shift has made a successful foray into television comedy. With shows like Monk (2002–2009), Raising Hope (2010–2014), and Anger Management (2012–2014), we find mentally ill characters who are lovable and funny.2 These shows center on characters struggling with everything from nervous breakdowns to Alzheimer’s disease and obsessive compulsive disorders; yet just as individuals in reality who deal with similar illnesses are capable of any range of emotions from laughter to anger in addition to life’s successes and failures, these shows underscore the human qualities of these fictional characters—connecting the imperfections of the mentally ill to the imperfections of the human race. The comedy does not function to ridicule mentally ill characters, but rather to expose their humanity—their human abilities to laugh, solve mysteries, care for others, and diagnose illnesses. I argue that these shows apply comedy to mental illness successfully because they focus on respect for the characters, depicting them not as abnormal or marginalized, but rather as imperfect—a quality binding the entire human race. As Monk’s Executive Producer David Hoberman claims, “The more we can portray damaged people as heroes, the better off we’ll all be.”3
In 2014, when Leonardo DiCaprio was nominated a fourth time in acting categories for an Oscar award, and lost a fourth time, James S. Murphy wrote an article in Vanity Fair about this phenomenon and what he calls the “Pitt-Hanks Continuum.” He states that the “Pitt-Hanks Continuum can be used to predict how likely an actor is to win an Academy Award. The more like [Brad] Pitt an actor’s style and roles are, the less likely he is to win. The continuum also explains why the Academy favors actors playing characters who are disabled, mentally ill, gay, or ugly.”4 He finds that DiCaprio has not been embraced by the Academy because he plays characters who do not invite us to share their positions. Like Pitt, he is “cool,” and “cool guys don’t win Oscars.”5 Whereas this chapter is not about DiCaprio, awards, or even films, it is about mentally ill characters who invite us, the audience, to share their positions, and I believe this quality especially has much to do with their success in the comedy genre.
Monk and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders
In the crime comedy Monk, we find an obsessive-compulsive character, Adrian Monk (Tony Shalhoub), who solves crimes as an expert private detective. Unlike other prime-time examples addressing mental issues, such as The West Wing or The Sopranos, Monk’s mental illness is not a side story or extraneous character information, but rather, it is integral to the plot of the series. In the first episode, “Mr. Monk and the Candidate,” Monk’s disorders, and their concomitant stigmas, are spelled out explicitly, when the San Francisco mayor’s wife, Miranda St. Clair (Gail O’Grady), asks Monk how he can possibly investigate anything successfully because she has been told he is “germaphobic, afraid of the dark, heights, crowds, and milk.” Monk’s personal assistant, Sharona Fleming (Bitty Schram), responds by claiming, “We’re working on the milk. He’s making good progress on milk.” This scene is noteworthy for multiple reasons. First, Monk and Sharona not only admit openly to his mental illness, but also, embrace his need for and progress in therapy. Second, and perhaps more important, the scene demonstrates Miranda’s desire to define Monk by his disabilities. She supposes mental illness precludes him from “investigating anything,” and this statement embodies a stigma that operates to marginalize and devalue the mentally ill, regarding mental disabilities in particular as barriers to leading normal, happy, and successful lives. Monk and Sharona assimilate his condition, claiming they are “working on it,” and subsequently, solve the crime successfully.
This stigma is again both underscored and dispelled later in the episode. Despite his best efforts, Monk lets a criminal escape when his fear of heights prevents him from pursuing the man, who climbs down a tall building. The police captain responds to this mistake by saying to Monk, “Don’t expect a medic to help you because after this, you’re a leper.” In other words, when Monk’s mental illness hinders him, the captain is quick to regard his disorder as cause for rejection, as basis to label him an outcast—a common trope in popular culture. However, when Monk succeeds, despite his defects, we are reminded of the danger of assumptions and stereotypes. This scene exemplifies how the show respects the mentally ill character, depicting the flaws of humanity in general, and encouraging us to share this imperfect position. Despite the rejection, Monk alone is capable of solving the case, which negates the captain’s unfair assessment of his condition. Monk is able to thrive despite, and even because of, his disorders, and this compels others, including viewers, to regard mental illness differently—not as leprosy, but as common human imperfection. Consequently, Monk invites us all, as uniquely flawed human beings, to share in Monk’s position, as part of the human condition involves managing the judgments of others.
Whereas these treatments of mental illness are important, they are not entirely unique to the comedy genre. However, the ways in which Monk’s disorders feed the comic dialogue of the series are unique. Monk, Sharona, and other characters regularly poke fun, in playful manners, at his disabilities, thus highlighting the show’s management of these issues as imperfections, rather than aberrant human qualities. For example, in part two of the episode “Mr. Monk and the Candidate,” Sharona quits as his assistant, claiming, “I think I have to find a normal job before I go completely crazy.” Monk playfully responds, “Like me.” Then, when Sharona returns to her role as Monk’s assistant, he thanks her by saying, “I’ll never forget you.” She replies, “You never forget anything.” Later, Monk won’t eat a canned good because the can is dented, and he asks if Sharona wants it. She replies, “Of course, I want it; I’m not the mental case.” Finally, Miranda St. Clair attempts to explain something to Monk, comically saying, “You seem like an intelligent person … on occasion.” While these examples are from one episode alone, they represent the spirit of the entire series. By programming mental illness for comedy, while maintaining Monk’s ability to thrive, despite his condition, the show normalizes Monk—it aligns the faulty qualities of his mental disorders with the imperfections of the human race.
In fact, Monk’s disorders, in many ways, function not to weaken his abilities, but to strengthen them. In discussing Monk and phenomenology, Talia Welsh reveals, “Monk is distracted by things that we would likely ignore, but it is because he is distracted by so many seemingly inconsequential things that he notices incongruous elements that solve the cases.”6 Monk’s crime-solving abilities are so closely intertwined with his mental disorders that he exemplifies the ways in which our combined qualities, ones we may consider “proper” or “flawed,” function together to compose inimitable personalities in every individual. Monk himself acknowledges the binary nature of his gifts, regarding them as both blessings and curses. When Sharona asks, “How does it feel always being right?” He replies, “Terrible.” Welsh reveals that like most of us, “Monk’s curious talents have a dark side.”7 Monk welcomes us to share this position, as we recognize our own dark sides—the imperfections and insecurities we manage every day—and the show’s comedy functions to bring these identifications to light.
Monk regularly doubts himself and his abilities, and his condition compels him to state these insecurities explicitly. He often admits, “I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to pull this off.” Recalling, again, the “Pitt-Hanks Continuum,” uninhibited insecurity and statements of self-doubt, such as this, are not regarded by popular culture as “cool” statements—a quality of Monk’s character that strengthens our connection to him. His mental illness obliges him to state the insecurities most individuals attempt to conceal. We find Monk’s honesty, even though motivated by disability and revealed through comedy, refreshing, because it reflects our own struggles with the flawed human condition.
Raising Hope and Dementia
Raising Hope is a show about a 20-something-year-old male, Jimmy Chance (Lucas Neff), who has a romantic fling with a convicted female murderer. When she ends up having their baby in prison, just before her execution, Jimmy decides to raise the baby with the help of his family—his mother, Virginia (Martha Plimpton), his father, Burt (Garret Dillahunt), and his grandmother, Maw Maw (Cloris Leachman). Maw Maw suffers from dementia, and her oscillation between sanity and insanity constitutes much of the humor of the show, as she rarely wears a shirt, frequently refers to her grandson as her late husband, occasionally attempts to breastfeed Jimmy’s baby, and can often be found curled up under Burt’s desk attempting to give birth to puppies. Whereas this disease is no laughing matter in real life, by programming it for comedy, the show underscores our own humanity, which is complicated regardless of illness or disability. Consequently, Maw Maw also incites us to share her position, as the binaries of her condition—much like Monk’s illness comprises abilities functioning both for and against him—expose the imperfect humanity of her character.
This is made especially clear in the brief moments she is lucid—scenes that function as some of the most humorous segments of the show. In the first episode, “Pilot,” Virginia runs out of the house chasing Maw Maw. When Burt asks her what’s wrong, Virginia replies, “She’s lucid … it’s been almost 5 minutes.” Burt says, “Whoa, that is a long one.” Maw Maw reveals the reality of their situation during this sane moment, yelling, “So you’re telling me that I just let all of you live in my house for free? Unbelievable! Pack up your circus and go find another teat to suck on.” While Virginia and Burt are concerned, within seconds, Maw Maw returns to insanity—a state that is more convenient for Virginia and Burt. We know Maw Maw is no longer lucid because she asks Virginia to tell Jimmy to pick up something from the butcher on the way home, as the Greensteins are coming over for dinner and she has only pork chops in the icebox. Relieved, Virginia responds, “We’re good now.” Likewise, in the episode “Dead Tooth,” Virginia recognizes Maw Maw has shifted back into lucidity, so she concernedly responds, “Uh, oh, somebody found her marbles.” Seizing the opportunity, Burt states, “I’ve been waiting for this. Maw Maw, I’m your son-in-law Burt. You’ve lost your mind, and you’re never lucid for very long, so listen up.” Comprehending him, Maw Maw replies, “I understand. Go. Let’s do this.” In these moments, the show venerates Maw Maw’s character, giving her a lucid, independent voice, even briefly, and providing a glimpse of both her straightforward personality and her life before dementia. These scenes lay bare the awareness that the characters are more than their illnesses, that mental illness does not diminish a person’s value. The family often dismisses Maw Maw’s comments and actions because they regard them as illogical, but because the show gives her moments of clarity and transparency, we, the viewers, are pressed to defend her humanity—seeing her as flawed rather than “crazy.”
The series further respects Maw Maw’s character by portraying her not only as the most intelligent member of the family, but often as the most logical and sensible, even while battling dementia. In the episode “Mrs. Smarty Pants,” Jimmy decides to go back to school to earn his GED, but he is struggling to understand what is being taught. He admits to his parents that he is considering asking his educated girlfriend, Sabrina (Shannon Woodward), to tutor him. The parents caution him, claiming, “We have worked way too hard to keep Sabrina from finding out how stupid you are.” To prove his need for a tutor, Jimmy tells his parents to ask him a basic math question. When they can’t, astonished, Virginia says, “We’re too stupid to even think of a question!” She calls for Maw Maw, yelling, “Come here and ask Jimmy a math question.” Maw Maw enters the room and asks, “If the radius of a circle is six, what is the area?” Virginia condescends, saying, “A math question, Maw Maw.” Maw Maw replies, “This is math. The formula is πr2.” Dubious, Burt whispers, “Is she even lucid right now? Square pies?” Maw Maw is revealed to be the most intelligent and educated member of the family. Similarly, in the episode “Cheaters,” Maw Maw and Jimmy are sitting on the couch eating ice cream. Maw Maw has not been lucid for days and believes she has just had her heart broken by a soldier preparing to leave for the Korean War. Jimmy, too, was recently rejected by Sabrina. In her demented state, Maw Maw says, “War. It’s not just hard on the soldiers.” Jimmy plays along with Maw Maw’s delusion, stating, “Yeah, well maybe Korea will be the last one, Maw Maw.” She replies, “Well, they wouldn’t call it falling in love, if you didn’t get hurt sometimes. But you just pick yourself up and move on. There are other fish in the sea.” Jimmy looks at her, astonished that her advice, even through the veil of insanity, is so sensible and helpful. The comedy succeeds because the show respects Maw Maw’s character in scenes such as these, illuminating her as intelligent, wise, and nurturing, even while battling mental illness.
The family has grown comfortable with Maw Maw’s insanity, to the extent that her lucid moments are burdensome because they are abnormal. In other words, the abnormal (Maw Maw’s insanity) has become normal, and the normal (Maw Maw’s sanity) has become abnormal. The family members have adapted to this reality, and they reflect the ways in which we, as humans, adjust to our own conditions. Furthermore, the process of discovery that is involved in these adaptations also composes much of the comedy of Raising Hope. The family often unearths new ways of both improving life for Maw Maw and accommodating her idiosyncrasies. For example, in the episode “Dream Hoarders,” Burt discovers Maw Maw possesses virtuoso Jenga skills, but these talents reveal themselves only when he plays the recording “Istanbul (not Constantinople)” by The Four Lads. He mentions this breakthrough to Virginia, who replies, “I know! It’s weird how music kicks in certain things in her brain. Like the other day, I found out ‘America the Beautiful’ makes her poop faster!” The process of discovery that accompanies any unpredictable illness is a foundational aspect of the series, and the comedy allows us to work through these challenging issues. We recognize the imperfections of the human condition in Maw Maw’s character, and through humor we can identify with those defects in ways that inspire mirth and connection.
Anger Management and Anger Issues
Anger Management features former baseball player turned anger management therapist, Charlie Goodson (Charlie Sheen), who successfully and comically treats patients with mental illnesses, and who has a daughter with obsessive-compulsive disorder. This show differs from previous examples, in that the main character is both therapist and patient. But the show embodies a similar spirit because Charlie is also both competent and flawed, as the show makes explicit his efforts to work through his own anger issues, even while helping his patients do the same. Charlie treats many patients with anger issues, but Charlie’s character is ironically the most compelling example of imperfection. He often attempts to connect with his patients by admitting his own weaknesses and shortcomings. For example, in the episode “Charlie and the Slumpbuster,” he claims to have had a bout of night terrors after sleeping with an unattractive woman, whom he used as his “slumpbuster,” which means that his baseball slump ended when he slept with the most unattractive girl in town—the “slumpbuster.” He admits, “Like all of you, I’ve made mistakes, and yesterday, one of those mistakes reared its ugly head. Look, the lesson here is whatever you do, never use a slumpbuster.” Whereas Charlie is attempting to use his experiences to normalize the issues of his patients, through comedy, we recognize Charlie’s own disabilities. Obviously, the lesson he should have learned is not solely, or even largely, “never to use a slumpbuster.” The real issues with Charlie lie much deeper—something with which the show allows us, the viewers, to identify and connect.
Charlie perpetually attempts to treat his patients by assimilating their issues and revealing his own similar faults, which, alone, is reflective of our imperfect human conditions. We each embody a desire to connect, to find commonalities with one another, and Charlie personifies this need. In multiple episodes, Charlie treats prison inmates dealing with anger issues. Attempting to connect, he exposes his own troubles, and in an interesting turn, the inmates often diagnose and advise him, sharing their own related experiences. However, their stories are illogical and humorous. When they claim not to like someone or something, they respond through murder or arson. One inmate talks about losing his girlfriend, in an effort to identify with Charlie’s loss of a client, but the inmate claims to have killed a man upon discovering his involvement with the girlfriend. The comedy lies in the inmate’s claims that this is also the best solution for Charlie’s anger.
We connect further with Charlie because he makes mistakes. Even as a therapist, he is characterized as flawed—as requiring therapy and connection himself. This is revealed through comedy, and we identify with Charlie’s human need to relate. In the episode “Charlie’s Patient Gets Out of Jail,” one of Charlie’s inmate patients, Cleo (James Black), is released, and with nowhere to go, Cleo asks to stay with Charlie. He allows this, but soon discovers Cleo sleeping with Charlie’s ex-wife. Charlie permits him to stay, and the next morning over breakfast, Cleo says to Charlie, “You know, I’m proud of you. In group [therapy], you tell us to let go of our anger, and you do it. You really walk the walk. Thank you. Because under normal circumstances, a guy comes into your house, eats your food, sleeps in your bed, oils up your ex-wife—a guy could get pretty upset about that.” Charlie responds, “Well, I always say to lead by example. Could you pass the butter please?” Cleo replies, “Oh, yeah,” and he takes a slice of butter for himself before passing it to Charlie. Charlie explodes, yelling, “That’s my butter! You didn’t ask! You just took it! And now you’re just going to smear it all over your toast right in front of me!” Cleo interjects, “If you don’t want me using your butter, all you have to do is say so,” to which Charlie responds, “We’re not talking about butter,” as he appropriates a dispute over butter to help him deal with his anger over the ex-wife. By aligning Charlie’s imperfections with those of his patients, in addition to his efforts to manage those defects, the show respects the characters, the therapeutic process, and allows us to do the same—encouraging us to share their positions in the human struggle.
Television comedy has a unique function regarding mental illness and popular culture. It allows us to laugh at our own human condition, giving us permission to address even the most difficult or taboo aspects of humanity in ways that inspire mirth and identification. Moreover, television comedy reminds us that we are all human, and despite individual illnesses, disabilities, or conditions, we can relate to being imperfect—and these imperfections are often amusing. Our flawed condition equalizes us, and once we concede this, we are more able and willing to laugh at ourselves. Television comedy unifies us on this level, allowing us to unveil our insecurities, share the positions of others, and laugh at our own complications, and humor succeeds in this capacity because the shows respect the mentally ill characters, depicting them as capable, successful, and ultimately, human. Instead of marginalizing or devaluing the mentally ill, comedy allows us to see beyond the disability and recognize characters as fellow human beings working through their own individual struggles, discovering independence and fulfillment, despite setbacks. Ultimately, these shows bring to the fore issues commonly concealed, and this gives us permission to address, and even laugh at, our own wonderfully imperfect human condition.
Notes
1. Susan Brink, “Mental illness sans clichés,” Los Angeles Times, November 13, 2006, http://articles.latimes.com/2006/nov/13/health/he-mediaside13.
2. For this study, I viewed the following: Monk: Season One. Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD; Raising Hope: Season One. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD; Raising Hope: Season Two. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD; Anger Management: Season One. Lionsgate, 2012. DVD.
3. Quoted in Brink.
4. James S. Murphy, “The Pitt-Hanks Continuum: Why Leonardo DiCaprio Didn’t Win the Oscar,” Vanity Fair, March 3, 2014, http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2014/03/leonardo-dicaprio-oscar.
5. In 2015, DiCaprio finally won an Oscar for his portrayal of a grief-stricken and abandoned frontiersman in the wilderness in The Revenant. Consistent with Murphy’s assessment, DiCaprio wins for a role that loses the “cool” aspect, as he takes on the challenge of becoming a type of character rarely represented on the big screen.
6. Talia Welsh, “Mr. Monk and the Phenomenological Attitude,” in Mr. Monk and Philosophy: The Curious Case of the Defective Detective, ed. D. E. Wittkower (Chicago: Open Court, 2010), 6.
7. Welsh, “Mr. Monk,” 12.