Each of the comedians has a method for suppressing their mirth. Harriet Kemsley gently coughs, in the manner of a child pretending to be ill. Richard Ayoade bites down on a finger. Daisy May Cooper scrunches up her face into a ghoulish expression that is at once a pout and a scowl.
They and seven other contestants are locked in a room together; over the course of six hours they must try to make each other chuckle without cracking a smile themselves. Anyone who smirks receives a “yellow card” warning; a second transgression results in a “red card” and elimination from the game. The idea of “LOL: Last One Laughing”, a reality-TV show, is straightforward: “You laugh, you lose.”
Viewers have found this a winning concept. Ms Kemsley, Mr Ayoade and Ms Cooper competed in the British version of the programme, which first aired on March 20th; almost a month on, it is still one of Amazon Prime Video’s top TV shows there. But “LOL” is not just a hit in Blighty. To date, more than 25 versions of the show have been produced in countries around the world, including Argentina, Brazil, Canada, Denmark, Italy, Mexico, Nigeria and the Philippines. (Surprisingly, there is no American version yet.)
This week “LOL” will return for its fifth season in France and sixth season in Germany. Parrot Analytics, a data firm, estimates that between 2020 and 2024 the “LOL” franchise brought in more than $110m worldwide in advertising and subscription revenue for Amazon.
All this is unusual. Streamers frequently have big, global hits with dramas; comedies, not so much. Television history is full of failed attempts to take a beloved sitcom from one country to another. Even places which share a language have different comic sensibilities. As one Reddit user has put it: “American comedy starts with everything being shit and ends happy. British comedy starts happy and ends with everything going to shit.”
That “LOL” has lived up to its name in so many countries offers lessons about how to make an international comic hit. One is the power of a simple idea, rather than a subtle conceit or witty script: anyone who watches “LOL” will recognise the exquisite torment of trying to suppress the giggles at, say, a work meeting or funeral. Another lesson is the value of drawing on local talents and allowing them to come up with the jokes themselves.
Matsumoto Hitoshi, a Japanese comedian, launched the format in 2016 because he “wanted to see what truly funny people are really like”. Many comedians work in standup or sitcoms, modes which are rehearsed rather than off-the-cuff. The set-up of “LOL” reveals which performers rely on tried-and-tested material and which are quick-witted, able to spot the comedy potential of a breadstick or a footstool.
Though the contestants must adopt deadpan expressions throughout, the show is structured to maximise viewers’ enjoyment, observes Louise Peacock, a historian of comedy. First there is the funny material—comedians must endure challenges as well as challenging conversations. Then there is a contestant’s stifled reaction to that material.
Viewers are primed to laugh at these moments by the host, who is merrily observing the action from another room. (After contestants are eliminated from the game, they sit with the host.) The comedians themselves also offer light-hearted commentary on their performance to the camera. By framing the action in this way, the producers give laughter an opportunity to catch on.
“LOL”, then, deals in easy, cheerful entertainment. The comedians are generally pleasant to each other. The jokes are avowedly apolitical, which gives the show a broad appeal. (That is by design, it seems: Amazon provides a “steer...in the right direction” when it comes to the content, says Kelly Day, the streamer’s head of international original programming.)
The tone is farcical rather than edgy. Many contestants try for physical comedy, as slapstick and buffoonery have been making people laugh since the ancient Greeks. In the Irish version, one comedian attempts to do Evel Knievel-style stunts on a child’s bicycle. Shock tactics are another constant ploy: an Australian comedian opens an icebox to reveal a pig’s head; a Japanese one tries to defecate on a table.
It is telling, though, that “LOL” has gone global because the universal elements of the format leave enough elbow-room for local tastes. It embraces the fact that what someone in Quebec finds funny is not the same as what someone in France likes. “It’s subtle nuances,” says Lucas Green of Banijay Entertainment, a production group whose labels make “LOL” in 11 markets, “but you’re able, through your cast, to reflect the sense of humour of your territory.”
Inside jokes
The comedians are attuned to what their peers will appreciate. Aisling Bea’s performance of “Only a Woman’s Heart” is funny partly because it is a famous ballad in Ireland and partly because, she says, “Irish people hate vulnerability.” Germany’s Max Giermann does a skit about Jorge González, a choreographer and TV personality, that is incomprehensible to someone unfamiliar with Mr González’s work, but it has his fellow competitors close to breaking. In the South African version Jason Goliath does a bit involving an oversize replica of boerewors, a traditional sausage.
Because the contestants have generally been on the comedy circuit for some time, they have a sense of where the line is for their audience. In buttoned-up Britain, for instance, it does not seem to occur to the comedians to take their clothes off at any point. In Australia and Japan, however, contestants are happy to expose their private parts to the public (though thankfully such bits are blurred out).
The show has given Amazon’s executives plenty to celebrate. It is crowd-pleasing and cost-effective—most of the season is filmed in one day. If it tempts other broadcasters and streamers to commission more funny material alongside po-faced dramas, then “LOL” will have proved its point: laughter is contagious.
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