We’re moving past it, but till a few years ago, every group of friends that would hang out together would identify with at least one of the Friends characters. ‘I’m so weird, I’m just like Phoebe!’ Or: ‘Oh, I’m really dry and sarcastic; I’m totally a Chandler.’ It went beyond that: ‘I’d say I’m a mix of Joey and Ross, with a bit of Monica in there.’ (Now that Friends isn’t literally the only English show playing on Indian TV, its legacy is being disputed. It hasn’t aged too well, and people are distancing themselves from it.)
After Friends, this need to identify with TV show characters was projected on to How I Met Your Mother, introducing unsuspecting victims to the most cringeworthy catchphrases lifted from the show. I haven’t kept track, but a new sitcom will come along every few years and people will start relating to its characters and get deeply invested in them.
Imaginary selves
I do it too. “Just one more episode,” I often tell myself. It’s a total lie, just like the snooze button on alarms. Next thing you know, it’s 4 a.m., and I’m covered in crumbs, empty chips packets everywhere. I’ve finished three seasons. The only reason I’m watching whatever trashy show on Netflix I’ve found is because I’ve internalised the habit. It’s “relatable,” all thanks to that one character who vaguely reminds me of a completely imaginary version of me.
I’ve been thinking about this: what role does “relatability” play in art? In storytelling, especially, the ability to ease the viewer or reader into the work is impressive. Build a world that’s easy to associate with, and then introduce the viewer to the fundamental purpose of the work: to enlighten, to enrich, to entertain, to just live in. But what about when it’s the end in itself, and not just a means to an end? Can something be good only because I can link it to myself?
So much of Indian stand-up comedy (and the form in general) is basically just this. Introduce a universal concept: classroom dynamics, calling an Uber, being single, being at an airport. Then mint it till the well runs dry. It’s a trick used extensively by Zakir Khan, the ridiculously popular comic who has developed an almost rabid following, thanks to the accessibility of his thinly-veiled misogynistic “sakht launda” persona, who draws on faux-naivety and tired Nice Guy tropes (as well as his gifts at storytelling and rousing audiences, but that’s an aside). It’s built on an experience seemingly shared by young men across India who’ve been unsuccessful in love, and who’ve then directed those feelings outward instead of introspecting.
With comedy, especially, the notion of relatability gets tricky. On one hand, it seems cheap to gain the trust of the viewer through generic tropes and easy-to-access emotions — a cheat-code of sorts. So often, the very first line of praise about a work is based on how easily relatable it may be. Equally, criticism about inaccessibility comes from the same place.
The endgame
But on the other hand, this very ability to get a viewer on your side is fundamental to the form. Humour is best experienced viscerally — it’s a physical reaction — in the precise moment when it is delivered. Unlike abstract art, music or modern dance or a painting, which can be appreciated without theoretical knowledge of the source material or even an understanding of what’s going on, humour asks for an immediate response. You let your guard down. You understand. And you laugh.
Of course, relatability is important, even when it comes to the most obscure, radical art, because forging a connection can be critical to appreciating its underlying aesthetic or emotional value. It’s a great entry point. The issue I’m concerned with — if there’s one at all — is relatability as a self-limiting aspiration or an endgame in itself.
Without getting into elitist connotations of ‘high’ and ‘low’ art, a work has the most impact (on me, at least) when it challenges me, when it demands that I make an effort to seek meaning from it. Relatability used as a crutch just feels manipulative, an absence of ambition; it’s low-hanging fruit. Is that enough? I don’t know, but I’m definitely a Rachel.
The freelance culture writer from New Delhi wishes he’d studied engineering instead.