Satire: A Deep Dive
Do Americans take themselves too seriously?
In modern American culture, true satire is an endangered species. For that reason, when people encounter it, they often don’t know what to make of it. For instance, I’ve heard more than one person admit that, on their first read of Pride and Prejudice, they didn’t realize it was meant to be funny.
As Americans, we hail from the Hemingway school of thought—plain, literal, no-nonsense communication. We like things simple and direct, without much room for irony or subtlety. Contrast this with England, where the literary pedigree includes Jane Austen, P.G. Wodehouse, and Winnie the Pooh.
Americans, by comparison, have Steinbeck—a brilliant but blunt, non-verbose straight shooter who might be described, in Wodehouse’s words, as someone who “took life the hard way.”
There’s a place for that kind of storytelling, of course. But a curious thing resulted for us stateside types.
We started forming committees.
What Is Satire?
To grasp what we’re missing, let’s clarify what satire is.
1. Satire Assumes a Fierce Moral Standard
At its core, satire critiques moral and social failings. But it does so indirectly. This is where confusion arises. For instance, some viewers of Jojo Rabbit (I promise, I’m done with it, now!) struggle with its tone, mistaking its humor as “winking” at evil. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, the film doesn’t play with the villain—it plays with the audience at the villain’s expense.
Satire winks with the reader, not with the villain.
I’ve mentioned it before with reference to this topic, but a rare modern American example of this is The Office. As a comedy of manners, The Office is a study in virtue and vice. It’s rooted in a fierce moral critique of its characters’ flaws. Take Michael Scott, for instance. We’re never laughing with him. We might pity him and occasionally empathize with him, but we don’t condone or celebrate his behavior. Instead, the humor lies in exposing his vices.
Compare this with a show like Friends (or substitute pretty much any modern sitcom), and you can see a striking difference. To tell the truth, I’ve only seen a handful of Friends episodes, and that was only when the show first aired in the nineties, so I’m taking a slight gamble in using it as my example.
While both series revolve around quirky, flawed characters, the differences are stark. In Friends, the characters are fundamentally likable people with endearing imperfections and foibles.
In The Office, Michael, Dwight, and Angela, for example, are just messed up—often unkind, self-absorbed, or outright absurd. Yet that’s what people like. Audiences resonate with this unapologetic portrayal of their undisputed flaws. We laugh at their vices, recognizing their humanity while never excusing it.
Why Does This Matter?
American culture has a humanistic sentimental streak that struggles to portray true villains. We think it’s compassionate to create characters who are basically good. But it’s woefully not.
“It’s considered an absolute necessity these days for writers to have compassion. Compassion is a word that sounds good in anybody’s mouth and which no book jacket can do without. It is a quality which no one can put his finger on in any exact critical sense, so it is safe for anybody to use. Usually I think what is meant by it is that the writer excuses all human weakness because human weakness is human.”
—Flannery O’Connor
This can make our villains shallow, falling into two camps:
1. Over-the-top, world-domineering “big bosses.”
2. Misunderstood victims of circumstance.
Neither of these archetypes forces us to confront moral characters in a meaningful way. By alienating “badness” from ourselves, we lose the ability to discern it in others or in ourselves. Plus, this is not a true reflection of the world. Nor is it the type of story that God tells.
G.K. Chesterton put it best: “Certain new theologians dispute original sin, which is the only part of Christian theology which can really be proved… Original sin is the only doctrine that’s been empirically validated by 2,000 years of human history.”
2. Satire Doesn’t Take Life Too Seriously
Another hallmark of satire is its refusal to treat life—or villains—too seriously. Medieval thinkers understood this well. Laughing at vice isn’t just entertaining; it’s good for you.
Laughter helps us put ourselves and the world into proper perspective. It helps us not take ourselves, the world, and everyone else so terribly seriously.
Americans tend to take problems with heavy seriousness. We raise awareness, hold rallies, form committees, and have long-winded discussions.
As I said here: “We regard someone like Elsa in Frozen with so much sober and superfluous rhetoric. We are in such a hurry to put on our grownup pants and act like life is some eternal city council meeting or therapy session.
Instead, we should often see our villains in the same light as The Famous Mr. Toad, who sang songs in his own honor at his own banquet about how the queen and her ladies in waiting cried, ‘Look, who’s that handsome man? The famous Mr. Toad!’”
Villains also take themselves very seriously. We should laugh at them instead of joining them. People who take themselves too seriously often turn sour and exhibit villain-worthy behaviors (like Dwight). The problem is that we sometimes take our antagonists seriously in the same way they take themselves, according to their terms. We respect them when we should laugh at them.
People who take themselves too seriously are ripe for satire because they often display villainous traits—self-importance, rigidity, arrogance.
The Divine Laughter
God laughs at sin. Psalm 2 declares, “He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision… Now therefore, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth.”
Satire does something similar. It takes evil down a notch, deflating its self-importance while also humbling us. It forces us to confront our flaws but with enough humor to make the process bearable.
Why We Need Satire
Satire shouldn’t be our only tool, but its absence is keenly felt. It sharpens our moral vision, gives us permission to laugh at life’s absurdities, and prevents us from taking ourselves—or evil—too seriously.
So laugh at Eeyore, Mr. Toad, Mrs. Bennet, and Dwight, and maybe (a little) at yourself.
I remember a grad school professor saying, in the context of the infamous 2020, how surprised she was that there wasn’t more satire being written about the whole situation. She said that satire is a valuable way of dealing with dark times, like the Blitz in World War II - laughter really helps.
I also remember hearing part of a radio show discussing the difference between satire and sacrilege. The speakers agreed that satire comes from a love of the good, while sacrilege seeks to mock and ridicule good things.
It’s ironic you’ve mentioned Gk Chesterton, I’ve started reading the everlasting man, and he references this obsession to illustrate using sterile systematic language in his intro. There is no room for satire in this world, seeks to understand things through the consensus of committees, influencers, and deconstruction of the minds imaginative organ.
I’ve had this goal of memorizing the entire book of proverbs and satire is all over the place, but I’m convinced many who read them can’t process it as such. Another brilliant composition, thank you, reading them blesses me each time