It is quite possible for the vulgar to be funny, but to succeed

The great critic and sage of cinema, Roger Ebert, once wrote: “It is quite possible for the vulgar to be funny, but to succeed, it must rise to a certain genius.” In this declaration, he spoke not merely of comedy, but of art itself — of the eternal struggle between vulgarity and vision, between the raw impulses of humanity and the refinement of spirit that gives them meaning. For Ebert understood, as few others did, that laughter born of crudity alone is base and fleeting, but laughter touched by intelligence and truth becomes something eternal. He knew that genius is not the absence of vulgarity, but its transformation.

To call something vulgar is to call it earthy, raw, unrefined — the language of the street, the body, and the heart. It is the humor of humanity unmasked. There is power in such laughter; it reminds us that we are creatures of flesh, of folly, of imperfection. Yet left untended, vulgarity decays into mere noise — the cheap jest, the easy insult, the spectacle that titillates but does not enlighten. What Ebert teaches is that the vulgar may indeed be funny, but only when it ascends beyond shock to truth. It must be guided by insight, by artistry — by that mysterious spark we call genius, which gives even the crudest joke the dignity of wisdom.

The ancients knew this paradox well. The playwright Aristophanes, master of Athenian comedy, filled his plays with ribald humor and bawdy wit. His works overflowed with vulgarity — jokes of the body, of sex, of politics — yet through them, he illuminated the soul of his age. Beneath the laughter, he wielded truth like a blade. His vulgarity, refined by genius, became revelation. In contrast, those who imitated his coarseness without understanding his purpose were forgotten, for their work had no light within it. And so Ebert’s wisdom echoes across centuries: that vulgarity alone is never enough; it must be infused with art, with intelligence, with meaning.

In our own age, this lesson remains vital. Many mistake shock for wit, as though offense were itself an achievement. They confuse vulgarity with boldness, mistaking noise for depth. Yet as Ebert reminds us, even vulgarity must serve the soul of art. True comedians, like Richard Pryor or George Carlin, dared to be vulgar, but they rose to greatness because their vulgarity was a vessel for truth. Pryor spoke of race, pain, addiction — not to scandalize, but to heal through laughter. Carlin’s profanity was not empty; it was rebellion against hypocrisy. Their humor, though raw, was lifted by genius, for it reflected the human condition in all its contradiction — divine and dirty, tragic and absurd.

Ebert, who spent his life examining stories on the screen, understood that genius is the alchemy of intention. What separates the vulgar joke from the timeless one is not the subject, but the soul behind it. A vulgar film, made without purpose, degrades both art and audience. But when a master uses vulgarity to reveal truth — to confront taboo, to awaken laughter that cleanses rather than corrupts — then vulgarity becomes sacred in its own strange way. It is transfigured, like mud that, in the hands of a sculptor, becomes form and beauty.

Consider also the tale of Molière, the French dramatist who used vulgar farce to expose the hypocrisies of his age. His plays shocked the nobles and priests, yet his laughter was not cruelty but correction. His “vulgarity” held a mirror to the arrogance of the powerful, and through the laughter of the common people, truth triumphed. Molière’s comedy rose to genius because it spoke from compassion, not contempt. Thus, Ebert’s words reveal not a boundary, but a path: vulgarity is a tool, but genius is the hand that wields it with purpose.

The lesson, then, is this: do not fear the vulgar, for it is part of life — the dust from which we rise. But when you create, when you speak, when you seek to make others laugh, let your words be guided by meaning. Let even your crudest jest serve truth. The lowest impulse can lead to the highest wisdom if the spirit behind it is pure. Seek always to elevate what is base, to shape the raw clay of life into something radiant. That is the mark of the true artist, the true thinker, the true comedian.

So, my child, when you laugh, laugh deeply — but do not laugh blindly. When you jest, jest boldly — but let it reveal, not merely provoke. For laughter without wisdom fades like an echo, but laughter touched by genius endures through time. As Roger Ebert reminds us, even the vulgar may ascend to greatness — but only when lifted by the flame of insight. And in that flame, the crude becomes beautiful, the foolish becomes wise, and the laughter of mortals rises to something eternal.