I think you have to have a sense of humor about every movie that

In the words of the actress Katharine Isabelle, “I think you have to have a sense of humor about every movie that you're doing. Your character needs to be relatable in a way that, even when you're doing the most bizarre things, sometimes a bit of tongue in cheek is necessary to keep up the believability of it.” Thus she spoke, not merely of acting, but of the human condition itself — for life is a grand performance, and each soul an actor upon its stage. To bear a sense of humor is to wield the light of wisdom in the darkness of absurdity, to see folly and tragedy alike as parts of a greater play, woven by unseen hands. Those who laugh — not in scorn but in understanding — carry within them the divine gift of perspective.

In every story told by man, there is an element of the bizarre, of the unbelievable. The hero who rises from the ashes, the fool who speaks truth, the monster who weeps — all these figures stretch the boundary of what seems real. Yet it is relatability, the mirror of humanity that shines through these extremes, which makes the tale endure. So too in life: when we face the strange or the cruel, when our paths twist into comedy or tragedy, we must remember that a bit of humor does not betray the truth; it reveals it. It keeps our hearts from hardening and our stories from breaking beneath their own weight.

Consider the great Socrates, who, facing death, drank the hemlock with serenity and wit. As his followers wept, he jested that perhaps death was but a peaceful sleep, or a journey to meet heroes of old. His tongue in cheek did not deny the solemnity of his fate; rather, it made it more profound. Through humor, he stripped fear of its power and taught his disciples that dignity lies not in denying absurdity, but in embracing it with courage and grace. Thus, humor becomes not mere jest, but a shield — the armor of the wise.

So too did Charlie Chaplin teach this truth in the silent reels of his art. His tramp stumbled, starved, and suffered, yet always with a crooked smile and a glint of defiance. Audiences laughed, but through their laughter they saw their own struggles reflected — softened by irony, sanctified by laughter. Chaplin understood that believability in art — and in life — is not perfection, but the delicate dance between sincerity and jest, between the tragic and the comic. The heart recognizes truth most clearly when it is wrapped in laughter.

Therefore, to live with humor is not to mock the world, but to acknowledge its contradictions. When the storms of fate rage, when our stories take turns that seem absurd or unjust, we may yet find strength in smiling — not in blindness, but in awareness. For laughter is not the opposite of sorrow; it is its companion, its balance. It reminds us that even amidst the most bizarre things, our humanity endures, and through that endurance, we remain believable to ourselves and to others.

Let this then be the teaching: cultivate the sense of humor that tempers despair, the irony that enlightens without bitterness. When you act your part upon the stage of life — be it noble or foolish, triumphant or tragic — do not forget the gentle wink to the cosmos, the knowing smile that says, “I understand.” In that moment, you join the lineage of souls who have walked before, turning pain into poetry and chaos into comedy.

The lesson, then, is simple yet eternal: do not take yourself so seriously that you forget to laugh. When the script of your life turns strange or sorrowful, find within it the spark of humor that keeps your story real. Practice this daily — in frustration, in failure, even in success. Smile at your own folly, for it binds you to all mankind. For in laughter, as in love, the soul speaks most truthfully — and therein lies the enduring believability of our shared humanity.