By Lucy Atkinson
If someone were to ask me outright, I would probably describe my year abroad as a rather Eat, Pray, Love-esque affair: cultural enrichment, spontaneous travelling, questionable navigation skills and socialising with people from more countries than I could reasonably keep track of. All very picturesque. But what surprised me most were the quieter moments. The days spent in my own company, usually with a very British cup of tea and a YouTube rabbit hole that had started somewhere entirely unrelated. Somewhere along the way, I found myself poring over old Saturday Night Live sketches and discovering the comedic genius that was Gilda Radner.
More than three decades after her death, Radner’s warmth, wit and sheer eccentricity remain as infectious as ever. One of the original Saturday Night Live cast members, she helped establish the programme as a fixture of American comedy, creating characters that were as ridiculous as they were recognisably human. There was Roseanne Roseannadanna (“It’s always something!”) whose increasingly unhinged news reports descended into glorious chaos, and Emily Litella, whose spectacular misunderstandings became comedy gold. Watching these sketches now, it is difficult not to be struck by just how much personality Radner brought to the screen. She was silly, unpredictable and entirely unafraid of making a fool of herself. Quite the achievement in an industry that has historically been rather less forgiving when women do precisely that.
Born in Detroit in 1946, Radner rose to prominence in the mid-1970s as one of the original ‘Not Ready for Prime Time Players’, the ensemble that launched SNL in 1975. She was not simply a funny woman in a predominantly male comedy landscape; she was instrumental in changing what that landscape could look like. Her characters were often exaggerated caricatures, but there was always something recognisably human beneath the wigs, voices and absurdities. As she once explained, she frequently based her characters on the things she disliked about herself. There is something rather endearing about that willingness to turn one’s own insecurities into material. Rather than conceal imperfection, Radner made a performance out of it.
Perhaps this is what makes her work feel so contemporary. Comedy has always offered a way of making sense of the things we might otherwise struggle to articulate. Radner understood that humour did not have to be detached from vulnerability; in fact, the two could make rather good company.
In 1986, Radner was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She approached her illness with the same characteristic humour that had defined her career, documenting her experiences in her 1989 autobiography, It’s Always Something, published shortly before her death. The title itself encapsulates something of her outlook: an acknowledgement that life rarely unfolds as neatly as we might like, and that there is no point in waiting for everything to fall into place before deciding to enjoy it.
It is a particularly pertinent sentiment in an age of carefully curated Instagram feeds, relentless productivity and the expectation that everyone should be having the time of their
lives, all the time. We are encouraged to document our experiences, optimise our routines and make every moment count. Even a year abroad, apparently, is supposed to resemble a particularly well-funded coming-of-age film. Yet some of the most memorable moments are not necessarily the ones that make it onto the camera roll. Sometimes they involve doing very little at all, or stumbling across a comedian who died sixteen years before you were born.
Radner’s legacy also extends beyond the sketches themselves. Her husband, actor Gene Wilder, helped establish Gilda’s Club following her death, creating a network of community support for people affected by cancer. It was an extension of something Radner had believed in throughout her life: that humour, friendship and human connection could make even the most difficult experiences a little less isolating. The organisation continues to carry her name and her spirit, demonstrating that her influence was never confined to the stage.
It would be impossible to discuss Radner without considering the women who followed in her footsteps. Tina Fey, Amy Poehler and Kristen Wiig are among the performers whose work has helped shape contemporary American comedy, and Radner’s influence is evident in the possibilities available to women working in sketch today. Her characters demonstrated that women could be grotesque, ridiculous, loud, politically incorrect and unapologetically strange. They did not have to be the straight woman, the romantic interest or the sensible voice of reason. They could be the joke and the punchline as well as, crucially, the person telling it.
There is an interesting parallel to be drawn with British comedy, too. From Victoria Wood and French and Saunders to Catherine Tate and Diane Morgan, British women have long carved out space for characters that are gloriously peculiar, socially observant and occasionally downright absurd. Our comedy traditions might differ from their American counterparts, but there is a shared appreciation for the character performer who can expose something uncomfortable about society by making us laugh at it.
Perhaps that is what I find most appealing about Radner. Beneath the elaborate characters and wonderfully chaotic performances was someone who seemed to understand that life was not something to be perfected, but experienced. Her final reflections on uncertainty and imperfection, shared in an interview shortly before her death, are particularly moving. She had come to recognise that life rarely offers the neat narrative arcs we expect from it. Sometimes there is no satisfying conclusion, no carefully constructed beginning, middle and end. There is simply the business of getting on with things, adapting and making the most of what is in front of you.
Radner may have left the stage far too soon, but her work remains a reminder that there is something wonderfully liberating about refusing to take yourself too seriously. In a world increasingly concerned with getting everything right, perhaps we could all do with a little more of her willingness to get things spectacularly wrong. After all, it’s always something.