There has been a lot of talk in the critical world about the parody of the film Twelve Angry Men in the comedy show Inside Amy Schumer. (See, readers, I not only write blogs but I read a lot of blogs on Slate, Salon, and New Yorker, all of them abuzz with praises of this parody. It ran a few months ago, but I thought I would at least sing the praises of Inside Amy Schumer before I see her film Trainwreck.)
If you didn’t see/read the media hoopla on this and don’t watch the show, a bit of background: the parody takes the claustrophobic room with a jury sequestered inside from the 1950s film Twelve Angry Men, but instead of debating the guilt or innocence of an accused murderer, it is Amy Schumer herself who is on trial. The accusation: whether or not she is sexy enough to have a TV show. (Alas, although the episode-long parody was available for streaming in May, it now seems to be behind a pay wall, but do check YouTube or Comedy Central for clips. I’m at least giving you a picture that gets the point across. Here on the right, the parody; on the left below, the original, with a special shout-out to the actor in the center who parodied Lee J. Cobb, the original actor pictured alone on the left. Of a group of great parodists, he was the best.)
Most of the critical conversation has centered around the hilariously accurate mirroring of the film’s 1950s milieu: the black and white film, the clothes, the fan blowing air around in the age before air conditioning, the histrionic debates. Several, notably Salon’s Katie McDonough have gone a bit deeper, noting that the parody hits deeper than skits usually do by pinpointing the pain underlying men’s objectification of women.
I want to put out another aspect that I think makes this parody kind of profound, one curiously uncommented on by anything I’ve seen so far. And that is the physicality that the 1950s film shares with the meaning of the parody. I saw the movie many years ago but I remember vividly being struck with the irregularity of the men’s faces in the film. They have wens. They have lumps (bulbous areas in both their faces and bodies). They have tics. Not only that: almost everybody is characterized by large waistlines, receding hair, unattractive eyeglasses.
I don’t say this to diss the guys’ overall appearance. In my initial viewing, I remember thinking something along the lines of “that’s how ordinary people looked in the 1950s.” Not a movie star style of attractiveness: these guys look more like Ralph Kramden or Ed Norton (if dressed in suits) than like 1950s icons of handsomeness Gregory Peck or Paul Newman. (Or for that matter, Henry Fonda, who, as the leader who is the voice of reason and charity, is the only actor with a symmetrical, handsome face. I have to disagree with Salon that the actors look like the originals: many of them strikingly do, but the actor in the “Fonda” role is just as asymmetrical and odd-looking as the others.)
And of course, if you do take them as very ordinary in looks, that’s an unstated part of the point. They are the very ordinary citizenry. They are called upon to do justice as interchangeable, unremarkable parts of a functioning democracy—the jurors. They start out dismissive of that responsibility (most of them want to get it over with as soon as possible, although they are weighing a death sentence). They do, though, in the end, through argument and debate, perform that justice. For all its focus on anger and hostility, the film seems to believe in the possibility of ordinary citizens serving justice (….as long as they have a good leader).
That subtext—that looking ordinary is a marker for an ordinary citizen—and that citizens might be called upon to do duty always implicitly theirs but seldom explicitly requiring action, even if they want to go to a ball game—forms an unspoken commentary in the parody. Because they are trying Amy Schumer for not being “bangable” enough to be on television. By extension, they are weighing whether ordinary women get to be public women with a public voice. (Yes, I know it’s television, but it is a metaphor for point of view and voice here, and also given the content of Inside Amy Schumer.) And it’s quite clear that the democracy of the body they enjoy—they get to speak and have a vote no matter how they look— is a) so implicit that they don’t even think about it and b) something they only grudgingly and ambiguously extend to her.