Protagony: Abed [Script]

The doors open. The line starts to move. The usher takes your ticket and points in the direction of your seat. Preshow music plays over the soundsystem as you side-shuffle past the knees of the folks in your row. You stick your bag and your jacket under the seat and sit down. You leaf through the playbill, futz around on your phone, until music starts to fade. The lights in the auditorium dim and the lights come up on the stage. The show is beginning.

This is one of those plays set in a single location: three walls on the stage represent the interior of a French bistro. French bistros typically have at least four walls, and that’s where you come in: the lip of the stage - what theatre nerds call “the proscenium” - is where the fourth wall would be, and it’s your job to pretend it’s there. Or - let me rephrase that: it’s your job to ignore that it’s not. That is the bargain you make when the lights go down.

To the characters onstage, everything inside those walls is real, and nothing on the other side of that fourth wall exists. The ambient noise, the guy two rows down and four seats over who’s clearly playing Words with Friends, even you yourself, you are - and this is a nerd word again - “non-diegetic.” You’re here, but you exist outside the story.

That is, until…

This is what we call “breaking the fourth wall,” and Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile is a great show for demonstrating it because the character Freddy literally reaches his hand through the wall and into the audience. Like many fourth wall breaks, this is played for laughs, because it’s a kind of narrative transgression; you’re not supposed to do that. When the diegetic intrudes upon the non-, the audience is reminded of all the things they were ignoring: that this is not a French bistro in 1904, but a bunch of plywood flats and actors in pancake makeup and period dress. The disbelief that was suspended is brought back to school, as it were.

But what I want to highlight is how durable the fourth wall is. For starters, in order for this joke to work, the audience has to be already suspending its disbelief; the boundary must be drawn before it can be broken. And, shortly after this gag, Einstein exits, Germaine enters [“Sorry I’m late”], Freddy makes a little wink to the audience [“You’re not late, you’re fourth”], and the scene continues as if nothing had happened. The audience wraps itself back up in the story, and the fourth wall is rebuilt, so that, when it’s broken later in the show [“When will you come?” “When the play is over.”] it’s funny again! If the wall had stayed down, that joke wouldn’t work.

Why do we build the wall? So we can have a wall to break.

Often enough, these acknowledgements - in theatre but also film, novels, video games - any time a narrative reminds you of its own artifice, it is contained such that it does not disrupt the narrative too much. It operates like the soliloquies in Shakespeare or the songs in musicals. Deadpool speaks to the audience and seemingly everyone around him goes deaf while he does.

But what I got curious about, when I first read Francesco Casetti’s Inside the Gaze - or rather I read the glossary because it’s very dense Italian film theory and I was nineteen - was, what if you didn’t make that bargain when the lights went down? What if breaking the fourth wall wasn’t a disruption of the narrative, because the story is built such that the artifice is part of the narrative? Can you break the fourth wall… diegetically?

Now, that was a punchy idea as a teenager. As a man in his late thirties, I am aware this idea has been approached many times in many ways throughout the history of storytelling [Brecht: “Am I a joke to you?”]. We’re currently living in a golden age of metanarrative where most major properties have folded the audience’s relationship to that property into the text. But I wanna talk about my favorite example: Abed Nadir.

Now, my feelings about the show Community are… mixed, but I love me some Abed. [“pretty adorable”] Abed is a pop culture-damaged perpetual college student raised by his television, who loves TV to the point where it’s his primary metaphor for looking at the world. In other words, he’s an American millennial. His tendency to filter his life through sitcom tropes is lent a certain pointedness by being a character on a tropey sitcom. Por exemplo, when Annie asks him for help [“Phoebe and Chandler” clip], or when the new school year coincides with the conclusion of the previous season’s arcs [“self-contained capers” clip], or when it looks like he’s going to spend the day locked in study hall [“starting to feel like a bottle episode” clip]. In these moments, Abed Nadir is not breaking the fourth wall. He may not fully understand that real life doesn’t have bottle episodes, but this is real life to him. He’s not trying to disrupt the narrative by winking at a sitcom audience.

But there is a sitcom audience - we are the sitcom audience - and the writers did just use Abed to wink at us. “Cooperative Calligraphy” is a bottle episode. Abed is speaking diegetically to his friends, who read his comments as the pop culture references they are, but they double as things a person who was breaking the fourth wall might say. [“This is totally meta” clip] The internal rules of the narrative remain undisrupted, and, yet, we are reminded that we’re watching a work of fiction all the same.

This kind of interreference, in which a sitcom points constantly at itself, at other sitcoms, and at “The Sitcom” as a medium, can come across kind of masturbatory. David Foster Wallace argued that the pop culture reference in mass media serves three functions: “(1) to help create a mood of irony and irreverence, (2) to make us uneasy and so ‘comment’ on the vapidity of U.S. culture, and (3) most important, these days, to be just plain realistic.” I would say (2) is far less prevalent now than when he was writing.

The reality is this: how you gonna write a twentysomething millennial in 2009 who doesn’t talk a lot about what’s on television? This is a conundrum many writers face. There is still the High culture urge to make art that is timeless, that avoids what Foster Wallace referred to as “the frivolous Now,” and the Low culture necessity of not looking dated eight months after you air. This can be approached many ways: you can avoid reference and just take the verisimilitudinous hit; you can create fictional, in-universe pop culture for your characters to reference; you can reference pop culture that is old enough to be considered timeless, functionally setting your story in a different “frivolous Now,” e.g. the way Sex Education and Life is Strange are both canonically set in the present but are aesthetically set in the late seventies and early nineties, respectively; or you can embrace chaos and just reference contemporary culture.

But, once you’re a show on TV with characters referencing other shows currently airing on TV, things might get a little meta, especially shows that lean into it the way Community does. So what does this do to the fourth wall? That supposedly sanctified construct, the violation of which is most often either a failure or an act of deliberate anarchy? How are we to suspend disbelief for stories that don’t even pretend not to be fake, and whose primary pleasure is in acknowledging the fakery?

Abed is, to me, a distillation of the modern audience’s more intricate relationship to the fourth wall. Art imitates life, and when much of life is spent discussing popular art, popular art begins to discuss itself. And art that discusses itself requires a more liminal relationship to the fourth wall. These days we don’t choose to either see it or ignore it, but pay both kinds of attention at once, letting the fourth wall, as needed, fade in and out of visibility, like glass when it catches the light, or seeing your face in the monitor when it fades to black. This was maybe inevitable in a media-saturated environment where the lines between audience, participant, and creator continue to blur, where we watch even straightforward media with an eye towards how it’s made, because we imagine making something like it ourselves one day, or because any viewing experience is potential #content. In a world where it is rarer and rarer to experience art in a darkened theatre that shuts out the world, but where it’s watched on phones during bus rides, in the background while cooking, in an open tab while writing emails. We keep fiction and reality running in tandem, shifting between them with little more than a saccade. The real world isn’t forgotten but edged out of the foreground during a cigarette break.

What tickles me is that Brecht violated suspension of disbelief to create distance between the fiction and its audience. But postmodern reflexivity just makes Abed relatable. He watches TV the same way we watch Community. You can imagine him watching his own show and responding much the way I am now: OK, so you want me to mentally construct a fourth wall that the performers will pretend is there, but the writers will constantly - and entertainingly - bring to my attention its nonexistence, such that I need to suspend my disbelief while thinking about the fact that I am suspending it, which should be mutually-exclusive modes of thought, but, to even understand what I’m watching, I’ll need to do both at once?

Cool.

Cool cool cool.