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For most of his career, from his early TV work on Freaks and Geeks through his recent films like The Green Hornet, Seth Rogen has distinguished himself by playing the everyman, the character with whom we can all associate—even when that character is an alien, a cop or a blob-monster. He’s often the lovable loser or the unlikely hero. Rogen posses a trait—in real life as well as on screen—that colors each of his characters with the distinct Rogenitude that makes him so personable: He laughs.


He laughs as the endearing stoner in Knocked Up and as the gooey, blue creature in Monsters vs. Aliens. With James Franco, he giggles over Pineapple Express, and as stand-up comedian Ira Write, he laughs all the way through the movie Funny People. It’s his signature. And although the Rogen laugh has, as he becomes a more mainstream star, somewhat dissipated from his films, it remains part of him and his persona.


Watch any interview with him and you’ll immediately recognize his signature chortle. I saw Rogen, then promoting his mall-cop comedy Observe and Report, at a 2009 taping of The Daily Show, and he laughed through the whole interview. His good humor seemed genuine and sweet, and those five minutes were more enjoyable than that whole movie (in which he never even giggled). Rogen was having a great time, and by being so close to a laugh which seemed so personal, we in the audience felt the joy along with him. 


Still, some people find it annoying. National Public Radio’s Linda Holmes has described his laugh as “tiresome”, “affected” and “kind of off-putting”. It tends to dominate both his TV appearances and his movies, and I admit that if the Daily Show interview had last 15 minutes instead of five, Rogen’s constant snickering would have been hard to watch.


Yet in his films, his gargling, sonorous laugh has a function. It doesn’t just augment characters like Cal in The 40 Year Old Virgin, it also helps us enjoy the film in a unique way. As part of a role, the laugh blends into the dialogs and scenes of the film as a whole. By responding to the jokes in his movies, Rogen creates an auditory cue for the viewer, essentially telling us when to laugh. It’s a system that’s become so ingrained in entertainment that we don’t we notice it happening.


There are two other events like this that we have all experienced. One is when a comedian pauses for laughter and the other is the laugh-track on a TV sit-com. Both events offer the viewer the same type of phonic signifiers, and both, because they are inherent to the way we enjoy comedy, fade out of consciousness the way Rogen’s laugh does.


In the first example, the stand-up comic pauses, and this pause is filled by laughter. This is a structured system, and one that certainly developed organically. Laughter is part of the show and the comedian is obliged to stop talking momentarily and then resume when the audience is finished laughing. But, that original system has evolved so that it’s now ingrained into the structure of the comedian’s set, rather than the structure of the live-comedy experience. This is demonstrated at any bad or poorly attended comedy show. When a joke bombs, the comedian still pauses—even when the pause only gets filled with silence or whispers or waitresses taking drink orders. It’s surely a painful experience for both the performer and the spectator.


Since in this new set-up the pause happens before the laugh rather than because of the laugh, the pause-for-laughs actually signals the end of a joke. Because we have come to expect these pauses, we know instinctively that a joke is over once we hear the pause. The comedian has completed his move, and now it’s our turn to react.


Likewise, the laugh-track is also an auditory-signal. However, it works in a slightly different way. In television, the laugh-track fills in the pauses automatically. The actors break their dialog momentarily and the “audience” inserts sound. In sit-coms—generally unlike in stand-up comedy shows—not every line of script is part of a joke, and so the laugh-track signals to the viewer which lines are the funny ones. The track not only says when one joke is over, it actually tells us what is and isn’t (supposed to be) funny, as well as the degrees of hilarity, with big jokes receiving a longer and louder reception than less important ones.


Essentially, this is what happens when Rogen laughs in his movies. This time, instead of the coming from an anonymous and unseen audience, the laugh-track comes from one of the film’s present characters. Like the comedic pause and the laugh-in-a-box, Rogen signals what is and isn’t funny. For example, in Knocked Up, Leslie Mann’s character thinks that her husband, played by Paul Rudd, is cheating on her, so she follows him one night hoping to catch him at his supposed lover’s house. 


Instead, she finds him at a fantasy baseball draft with his friends, where she confronts him for lying to her. Mann storms out of the house and Rudd chases after, prompting a guy at the draft to shout “Don’t let the door hit you in the vagina on the way out!” The scene is tense, the characters too surprised to react, and the joke doesn’t land.


Seth Rogen in Funny People

Seth Rogen in Funny People


A minute later Rogen’s Ben says to Katherine Heigl’s Allison “Did you hear what that guy said?” and then repeats the quip and chuckles. Even though he’s just repeating a weak joke, Rogen’s little response and laugh is much funnier than the original line. Rogen has transformed a stale joke into a solid punch line.


In that instance, Rogen’s response acted in the same way the laugh-track does, eliciting an audience’s response. Yet, the audience is rarely aware of this. Because it has been a TV establishment for as long as we’ve all been viewers, it’s something that we are used to. It was even used in cartoon shows. Remember Scooby Doo, Where are You? and The Flintstones? The canned laugh is so much a part of our TV watching experience that, at some point, we came to expect it, even on shows that would be impossible to do in front of a live-audience. It’s so ordinary that we gloss over it, and interestingly, often over the jokes themselves.

Daniel Tovrov is a freelance writer based in New York and London. His work, often focused on culture, finance and politics, has appeared in newspapers, magazines, journals, blogs and books.


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