A World War II veteran processes the devastation he’s witnessed from the confines of an intergalactic zoo.
As an estranged parent and child meet at a fraught family reunion, a little girl mumbles, “How do you do?” from behind a dirty curtain.
After the death of his best friend, a lonely king travels to the end of the world in search for answers and... walks into a bar.
It may seem counterintuitive, but comedy is often key to a serious story. As a writer, you need your audience to experience a range of emotions, no matter what your genre. Whether you want to evoke fear, grief, or excitement, when people are exposed to one emotion for too long, they become desensitized to it.
Comic relief is a tried-and-true way of creating the varied emotional texture a compelling story needs. So how can you create this effect in your own stories? Whether you use characters, situations, language, or any combination of the three, timing and contrast are crucial. Take the “Epic of Gilgamesh.” This ancient Mesopotamian tale is possibly the oldest known work of literature, and yet the story remains compelling today. As King Gilgamesh approaches the end of the world, he walks into a bar. We think we’re reaching the climax of his story— only to have our expectations subverted. That brief respite allows the tension to build even higher to a later, true climax. It both relieves and creates tension. This lesson also applies to modern stories: by briefly lightening the mood, you can build tension in your stories exactly when it’s needed.
The moment at the bar doesn’t just amplify the audience’s emotional response— it also complicates it. The wise bartender questions the purpose of Gilgamesh’s quest— setting the stage for the final, more nuanced resolution.
You can use comic relief not only to create contrast with graver moments, but to comment on them. Sidekicks are one of the most common and direct ways to do this: they can supply sneakily perceptive commentary on the main action, often while simultaneously serving as blundering, hapless punchlines.
Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse-Five” takes a different approach: the story continuously alternates between horrific war scenes and wacky science fiction moments. These scenes provide comic relief, but also open a dialogue about what’s usually unspeakable, highlighting the arbitrary nature of human suffering in a way that makes it more impactful.
Arundhati Roy’s “The God of Small Things” takes yet another approach to comic relief. The narrative style draws upon the perspective of children to infuse a tragic story with poignant humor. When the adults funnel decades of tensions over race, class, and family dynamics into their expectations for their children’s behavior, you can’t help but chuckle with recognition when, at the moment she’s expected to put on a perfect performance of politeness, 7-year-old Rahel “[ravels] herself like a sausage into the dirty airport curtain and [won’t] unravel.” At the same time, you know her failure to behave will only add to the tension. Afterward, she thinks, “the play had gone bad. Like Pickle in a monsoon.” This punchline underscores the reality of the situation: the reunion is so forced and formal, Rahel feels like her family are actors in a play, and she feels powerless in the storm of what’s happening.
To make the most of comic relief, think not only about what moment in your story would most benefit from a splash of contrasting emotion, but also: what message you’d like to convey that you can’t say directly? Which of your readers’ assumptions would you like to call into question?
