Cravenomena

I was a teenage Straight Man.

Okay… so I am once again sacrificing truth upon the altar of a good lead. But admit it: “I was a middle-aged Straight Man” doesn’t have quite the same zing, now does it?

Among his many vocations, Craven has worked as a professional actor and, on several occasions (all of them, he admits, long after his teenage years), he has been cast as the Straight Man in a comic duo. Many Broadway musicals over the years have borrowed the “double act” dynamic which originated with vaudeville comedy acts like Smith and Dale or Weber and Fields, and it has been my good fortune to assay the Straight Man or “stooge” role in several dinner theatre productions of shows like GUYS AND DOLLS, A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM, KISS ME KATE and SUGAR.

The value of being a Straight Man will depend on the actor’s definition of success. If, like many performers, you were drawn to show business by a need for personal attention, and you gauge your roles by the volume of audience applause during bows, being a Straight Man will seem like a curse. The Straight Man’s star will always be eclipsed by his partner, the Funny Man — always. There is an inevitable inequality in the balance of the comic duo, as fundamental as hydrogen’s atomic dominance over oxygen in a molecule of water.

A Funny Man may serve himself, but it is the Straight Man’s lot to always serve the Gag.

This may be why the chemistry of the comic duo has, throughout history, often proven volatile. (Neil Simon’s THE SUNSHINE BOYS, which was loosely based on the relationship between the forementioned Joe Weber and Lew Fields, dramatized the bitterness which has existed between so many comedy partners since the dawn of the 20th century.)

If, on the other hand, an actor measures his role by the success of his show, his individual scenes or his “bits,” then being a Straight Man can be an enormously satisfying experience. The Funny Man may bask in the glowing accolades of the audience, but the Straight Man can find enormous compensation in the knowledge that it was he who engineered those jokes which secured the Funny Man his acclaim.

Comedians will tell you most jokes are constructed according to a simple formula:

The Setup presents the gag’s expository, contextual information. A good Setup will engage — and “prime” — the audience using rhythm, intonation and descriptive language.

The Punchline is the surprising conclusion to the major and minor premises established by the Setup. A good punchline usually inverts or subverts the expectations elicited during the Setup.

The Tag is a bit more amorphous. It can be an amusing reaction to the Punchline or another, smaller Punchline that once again reverses the meaning generated by the Setup and Punchline.

In the comic duo, this formula is often divvied up between the Straight Man and the Funny Man, with the Straight Man performing the Setup and the Funny Man delivering the Punchline. (The Tag often goes to the Straight Man as well, although it should be here noted that comedy is a highly inexact science, and there are many variations on this notation.)

It’s a good thing I’m not trying to make you laugh right now, because there is nothing short of suicide and child molestation that is less funny than the analysis of comedy. But in order to fully appreciate the Straight Man, you have to understand the essential nature of the Setup. In the world of comedy, no funny bone was ever tickled without a good Setup. And while, of course, there are many solo comics adept in handling both Setup and Punchline, within the confines of the comic duo, the Setup is the Straight Man’s domain.

As if to illustrate this essential responsibility, vaudevillians often referred to the Straight Man as “the feed,” because it is the Straight Man who spoons out the Setup for the Funny Man. When the laugh finally comes, the audience will associate it with the last person who spoke: the Funny Man. But that laugh was actually sparked in the space between Setup and Punchline, with each component equally necessary for the begetting of giggles and guffaws.

Obviously, this discussion can no more fully impart the power of the Straight Man than the study of pinned specimens can convey the intricacies of moth flight. To truly understand the intricate subtleties of a great Straight Man requires field observation. And Craven would argue that there is no more telling a study subject than the man who is the Nureyev, the Einstein, the daVinci of Straight Men: Bud Abbott.

Bud Abbott had established himself as a great Straight Man on the vaudeville circuit long before he first teamed with Lou Costello in 1936. Born in 1895, he had honed his inestimable skills for close to 20 years before he first announced, “Who’s on first, What’s on second and I Don’t Know is on third.”

Watching Abbott in any of the 36 movies he starred in with Costello is a revelation. While Lou garners laughs with his (sometimes over-frantic) aping and mugging, Bud painstakingly shapes the flow of the duo’s comedy like a wizard corralling a twister with a wheezy pair of bellows. His crackerjack timing… his mastery of the dynamic modulation of their routines… his willingness to defer focus in service of the jape… remain unparalleled. Craven will admit he cannot fairly judge Lou Costello because, when the pair are onscreen together, Craven’s eyes are always on Abbott.

Any actor could learn from him.