In Britain, as every Anglophile knows, the slumbering and sheep-studded countryside awakens each morning to the sound of footmen being thrashed. The smiling veterinarian rides his unicycle over the hill, a buttered scone in each hand. The smell of coal fires still pervades the cities, where undersized people with overbites sit at their tower-block windows strumming songs by Syd Barrett. And at night, the baying of the soccer hooligans, who are all on Ecstasy.
But there is laughter, too, in this little nation: complicated laughter, recondite and full of nuance, and adored—strangely—by Americans. They call it “the Briddish sense of humor.”
VIDEO: James Parker shares examples of Brand’s lanky sensuality and Gervais’s dumpy materialism
Not all the jokes translate, of course. The Sex Pistols, comic geniuses to a man, were poorly received on their one tour of the U.S., and the champagne wit of Prime Minister Gordon Brown went somehow unnoticed during his official visit earlier this year. Right now, though, over here, the British funnyman can do no wrong. Sacha Baron Cohen, with his Borat and his Brüno, has become a species of prancing cultural exorcist. Eddie Izzard—wobbling, quizzical—sold out in 34 cities last year. Craig Ferguson has a late-night talk show on CBS; my mother-in-law is devoted to him. Simon “Hot Fuzz” Pegg popped up as Scotty in Star Trek. And then we have Ricky Gervais and Russell Brand.
They’re not partners, I hasten to add—not a double act. Nonetheless, there is something dyadic about these two. Gervais is 47, dumpy and comfortable-looking. He’s a strict materialist: one of his stand-up routines involves reading aloud from the book of Genesis, while the audience falls about laughing. His characteristic expression is a slightly canine leer. Brand is 34, lanky, dark-complexioned, black-clad, immoderately sensual, lightly bearded, and announced in silhouette by an outrageous nimbus of back-combed hair: in full panoply, with his boots and bullet belt and chains and eyeliner, he looks like Chewbacca’s girlfriend. He describes himself as “a spiritual gent” and closes his stand-up act with a pious “Hare Krishna.”
We’re currently hearing a lot from both men. Brand has upcoming roles in The Tempest and the Judd Apatow production Get Him to the Greek, and last month, for the second year in a row, he hosted MTV’s Video Music Awards. The fact that he made a bit of a dog’s breakfast of it the first time (he disrespected the Jonas Brothers, among other sins) only added to the buzz.
Gervais, meanwhile, after getting so-so numbers with last year’s Ghost Town, is once again attempting to prove himself a bankable leading man. In The Invention of Lying, which he co-wrote and co-directed, he plays Mark Bellison, a sad sack “in a world where everyone can only tell the TRUTH,” who suddenly becomes the first man to wield the diabolic power of a lie—or as the Brits call it, a “porky pie.” Will the movie be a hit? Who cares? If Gervais entered a Carthusian monastery tomorrow (unlikely, given that he’s an honorary associate of the U.K.’s National Secular Society), his comedic legacy would be secure. Think of an office, any office, all offices: summon their atmosphere, that permanent hypoglycemic midafternoon. And at the center of that atmosphere, enthroned on a swivel chair, you’ll find regional manager David Brent.
True, America knows him as Michael Scott. In France they call him Gilles Triquet; in Chile, Manuel Cerda. But it’s Brent, the character created and played by Gervais for the original, U.K. version of the globally franchised series The Office, whose personality nailed the essence of white-collar purgatorio. His pale hands, fussing and fluttering at his shirtfront and tie with Oliver Hardy–like delicacy; his hair, endlessly smoothed, with its faint suggestion of ’80s pop quiff; his eyes, skidding constantly and uneasily to the camera. And the things that came out of his mouth! “Head office are talking of downsizing, but they’ve said clearly that the most efficient branch will incorporate the other one. We are the most efficient branch—cogito ergo sum, we’ll be fine.”
Elements of Spinal Tap were present, and of The Larry Sanders Show, but The Office was the first post-reality-TV comedy, the first to turn a sitcom audience into a reality audience—which is to say, a Greek chorus stuck on mute. No laugh track, no music. A lot of dead space and zoomings-in on evacuated faces. A lot of hate in the air. Brent spoke in sententiae or outright nonsense—“The point is, you talk the talk but you do not walk the walk, vis-à-vis, you have not yet passed your forklift-driver’s test!” He denounces sexism, racism, whatever else he’s just been trained on, but the carpets were crawling with detestation: “Naming no names, I don’t know any, but women … are … dirty.”
Because Gervais is a wonderful actor, with great volumes of emotion in the pouches and cladding of his face, we somehow credited David Brent with having the germ of a soul—or at least a heart. Gervais performed a similar magic with the character of Bertram Pincus, D.D.S., the misanthropic asshole dentist he played in Ghost Town. Here was an interesting movie: the mixture of Hollywood phantom-romance and Gervaisian disaffection made for an affecting brew precisely because it refused to jell.