The Useful Flatness of Sketch Characters

I’ve devoted a lot of posts to talking about things like game, structure, and comedic juxtaposition.¹ But sketch is not just a funny idea; it’s a funny idea realized through characters. Your premise will live or die based on how well your characters sell it.²

If you’ve taken other writing classes you might have an idea of what makes a strong character. Unfortunately strong characters are sort of out of place in most sketches, which tend to be populated by archetypes, living cartoons, and flat characters defined by a single trait.³ But, weirdly, this is a feature, not a bug because unlike other popular forms of entertainment, sketches aren’t built on plot.

Media that rely on on traditional narrative also rely on interesting, complex characters because plot and character are inextricably intertwined. The whole point of a story is to see a character confront challenges, grow, and change in some fundamental way. Or, in the case of episodic TV, to at least confront some inherent part of themselves (whether or not they make a permanent change). But these are all elements of plot.

Sketch, again, is about game. A single premise. No one grows. No one changes. No one learns lessons. We, the audience, don’t have time to get to know anyone. We won’t be coming back next week. The traditional idea of what makes a good character is completely out of place in the world of sketch. Given all this, what the hell are we supposed to do with our characters?

The key, I think, is an absolute commitment to truth. You want your characters to feel real, if not unique. You have one heightened, unusual thing: the premise of your sketch. Everything else should be depicted as realistically as possible. It’s a comedic thought experiment; we want to see how a reasonable person would react to an unreasonable situation. If your characters start behaving in ways that feel unnatural, then the experiment is compromised — it no longer reflects the world as we know it, so the unusual thing becomes irrelevant, and the sketch no longer holds our interest. This is why flat characters in sketch can be an asset — they may not be unique or idiosyncratic, but they can be generically reasonable, a reflection of how the average person, the viewer even, would react in the situation.

But then how do you make generic characters feel like interesting, truthful reflections of reality? Here’s my oversimplified recommendation: focus on intelligence, status, and tactics.

Intelligence

All your characters should be playing to the top of their intelligence. This is not to say that your characters need to be geniuses, but they need to be reasonable. You know that moment in a bad horror movie where a character who’s clearly in danger decides to take a shower? Or wander unarmed down a dark hallway? These moments can make the horror feel less horrifying. Even though they are scary on the surface (“My god! That person is so vulnerable in the shower!”), the lack of reasonable intelligence makes the scenario less true, and therefore less scary. We can see the writer setting up the characters in a way that’s convenient to the story.

The same principles apply in comedy. The audience can spot contrived set ups a mile away. If they see characters behaving unrealistically, it makes the comedy less funny. So make sure your characters are smart enough to understand the situation they’re in. If something unusual is happening, your characters should recognize and react to it.

Playing to the top of intelligence also means that characters should display a reasonable level of emotional intelligence. If one character is getting upset, the others should notice. If one is unexpectedly agreeing with the unusual character this is also worth noting. Characters should try to solve problems, or, if they’re not, we should at least understand why.

Status

Intelligence lets your characters behave rationally, but of course, humans aren’t rational all the time. We’re as constrained by the rules of social interactions as we are the rules of logic. Often more constrained. One way this most clearly manifests is with status.

Status describes the hierarchical relationship between your characters. High status characters have power over others: bosses, queens, influential pop stars, an armed attacker. Low status characters are subjected to the power of others: the sick, the needy, the abused. These are extreme examples; subtle status differencees exist between any pair of characters. A parent has status over a child. A twelve-year-old babysitter has status over an eight-year-old babysittee⁴. A crush has status over a love-struck admirer (even if they don’t realize it). These status differences can quickly establish character relationships that will intrigue an audience.

Status differences are also often responsible for justifying unusual behavior in a sketch. A low status character might be forced to endure the strange behavior of a high status one. A character might tolerate terrible things to impress a high status character. A high status character might be skeptical or resistant to the unusual behavior… until a low status character finds success with it and gains more status. People chase after chances to gain status, and react fearfully to any threats to their current status.

When you’re writing, consider what status difference exists between your characters and how that might affect their behavior and the way they speak, especially as it relates to the unusual thing.

Tactics

In sketch we return to the same unusual thing again and again. In previous posts I talked about how heightening and exploring can be used to keep this repetition surprising, but too often writers only heighten the unusual element of their sketch. We can’t ignore the other characters in the scene.

It’s tempting for your other characters to have the same reaction every time. After all, the same thing keeps happening to them and you, the writer, know it must happen again in the future. Doing the same thing will create a perfect feedback loop. But we’re not writing perfect machines; we’re writing people.

People change tactics when confronted with an intractable problem. They don’t try the same solution over and over again. Your characters should react to the unusual behavior using ever-changing tactics.

Imagine you’re at a party, and suddenly stuck in a conversation with the worst person in the world. What ways might you try to wriggle out of this. Here’s a non-inclusive list of tactics people use to deal with difficult situations:

• Avoidance: ignore the problem and hope it goes away.

• Retreat: leave the situation entirely.

• Subterfuge: lie to get out of the situation.

• Persuasion: Appeal to reason to make the situation stop

• Bargaining: offer something of value to make the situation stop.

• Begging: appeal to a sense of mercy to make the situation stop.

• Threats: Promise consequences if the situation continues.

And many more! You’re a human! You’ve been in difficult situations! How do you react? And which tactics do you try first?

In your sketch, these tactics should heighten along with the unusual behavior. People will always start with the easiest strategy that upends the fewest social norms. No one’s first tactic to a terrible conversation is to pull the fire alarm and escape… but you might eventually get to that point if you’re desperate enough.

Shifting tactics makes your characters more realistic, but it also leads to more surprise. The audience, like the straight man, assumes there is a solution to the unusual behavior. It can be escaped, conquered, or explained. But you, the writer, know this is not the case. You’ll get a laugh every time a character changes tactics and still fails in some unexpected way.

A Great Example of Truthful Characters

There’s a moment I love in this Norm MacDonald’s sketch “The Fantastic Four.” The whole thing is worth a listen, but the beginning is masterful. Listen up until 1:22. It makes me laugh every time.

Why is Ben Grimm’s “Ah, nevermind,” at 1:22 so funny?

The way the premise of this sketch is set up, we recognize the unusual thing before any character gives voice to it (specifically, that Mr. Fantastic is the only member of the Fantastic Four who doesn’t have a purely descriptive name, and, in fact, has a uniquely self-congratulatory name). When Ben interrupts Reed Richards, we expect him to point this out and object. A lot of sketch writers would probably do this. Instead Ben starts to object, then backs off.

Man, it’s great.

What a wonderful, simple way to reveal a bit a about how these characters relate to each other. This is the action of a man who is upset, but doesn’t want to have an argument. He’s decided the fight just isn’t worth it. Why? Just imagining the answer to that question starts to inform the relationship between these characters.

What begins as a simple observation about the Fantastic Four becomes a sketch about working with a friend with an overinflated ego. This feels very human and relatable even if you have no familiarity with the Fantastic Four.

You can imagine a much worse version of this sketch where everyone starts yelling at each other almost immediately. Instead, look at how the characters try different tactics to get what they want. Look at how perceived status influences the way these characters talk about themselves and to each other. Look at how much meaning is conveyed in a silence or a sigh. Look at how intelligent and perceptive they are about the situation and each other’s motives.

The pure, truthful realness that permeates this sketch makes it so much funnier than the premise alone would suggest. It’s carried by the strength of its characters.

Next Week

Another round of subscriber sketch notes. Submit sketches and read notes on previous submitted sketches by becoming a paid subscriber.

1. You know, the hilarious shit readers crave.

2. It’s heartbreaking to see a great sketch idea that doesn’t quite make it in execution. Usually because of weird character choices.

3. This is also one of the reasons I think some people just don’t like sketch as a form.

4. Not a word but feels like it should be.