Use a dramatic irony into your communication

Visual
6 March 2025

Mathilde Pottier

Designer & Founder

When cinema plays with dramatic irony, it becomes a cruel mirror of power relations. This form of irony – where the audience knows more than the characters – reveals much more than a simple comic relief: it exposes the fragility of a social order based on the illusion of control. Le Dîner de Cons, an adaptation of Francis Veber’s play, is a perfect example of this. Behind its razor-sharp dialogue and absurd situations, the film employs a mechanical inversion. It’s not just one idiot who invites himself to the table but an entire social hierarchy that staggers under the weight of its self-importance. Far from simple vaudeville, the film subtly questions the complacency of the powerful and the blindness of those who believe they are in control. In this sense, it opens up a broader reflection on contemporary social irony: the irony that slips between the discourse of power and the perception of the dominated.

A dramatic irony of class in film

The wealthy people idiots

Paris, early 1990s. In a small theatre on the Left Bank, a play catches the eye: Le Dîner de Cons, written by Francis Veber. The idea is simple, cruel, almost absurd: every Wednesday, a group of wealthy men organise a dinner party where each brings an “idiot” to make fun of. But this time, the trap slowly and methodically backfires. In 1998, Veber himself adapted his play for the screen. He reunited with Jacques Villeret, already unforgettable on stage, to play François Pignon opposite Thierry Lhermitte. It was an immediate success. The comedy is based on dramatic irony: the audience knows what the characters don’t, and each clumsy mistake tips the balance. The idiot becomes lucid, the cynic loses his footing. On screen, every detail counts: a stuck back, a phone call, a missed train. Le Dîner de Cons is not a farce. It’s a game of masks that always falls in the end.

Loosing control

Everything is in place from the very first minutes. Pierre Brochant’s back hurts, but not his ego. He believes he has a perfectly controlled evening in his hands. In contrast, François Pignon appears harmless, clumsy, and almost pathetic. But the audience sees something else. They can already see Brochant’s fragile arrogance, his need to dominate, to reassure himself. Above all, they can see that Pignon, without wanting to, will turn everything upside down. This constant discrepancy – between what the characters know and what we know – creates a constant comic tension. Every misunderstanding, every misinterpreted silence, and every phone call becomes another part of an absurd spiral. Dramatic irony is not just one source among many; it’s the heart of the show. It allows the comedy to go beyond easy laughs by highlighting what social complacency often refuses to see: the vulnerability of those who believe they have everything under control.

Where the absurd comes from

In Le Dîner de Cons, laughter never comes alone. When the roles are reversed, another reading emerges. Pierre Brochant, a self-confident publisher, embodies a form of bourgeois self-importance: he judges, classifies and organises. François Pignon, a model-making enthusiast, enters the play as an easy distraction. But every attempt at manipulation fails. The “idiot” gets in the way, insists, means well – and destroys everything without ever understanding why. The audience laughs, but the laughter slips away: it becomes a way of questioning contempt, condescension and the gentle violence of social relations. The dramatic irony here reveals more than a simple comic reversal: it exposes the very idea of superiority. In the end, Brochant loses his hand, his voice, and his face. Pignon, on the other hand, remains on his feet. Not because he won, but because he never played. That’s where Veber hits the nail on the head.

The leaders dramatic irony

Those with power

Dramatic irony is not confined to fiction. In social life, it manifests itself when those in power fail to see what others perceive. A phrase, a posture, or a public speech can reveal a profound discrepancy between intention and reality. The spectator – or in this case, the citizen – witnesses a scene where arrogance is unaware of itself. The effect is often striking. A leader who defends meritocracy, asserting that everyone can succeed ‘if they have the will’, sometimes ignores everything about the real conditions of access to success. Not out of malice, but out of disconnection. The public, on the other hand, perceives the abyss: the invisible obstacles, the absent networks, the early breaks. There’s nothing comical about this form of irony. It makes visible a social blindness – that of the dominant, who speak in the name of a universe whose limits they do not measure.

Kelly Sikkema

The gap with the audience

Powerful individuals sometimes speak confidently about the world, believing they are describing a shared reality. But what they say often reflects their trajectory, not that of the majority. This creates a form of dramatic irony: the discrepancy between what the speaker believes and what the audience perceives. This phenomenon is common in public speeches, media appearances and management advice. The intention may be sincere, but the vision remains limited, filtered through a sheltered life experience. When a manager says that ‘young people don’t want to work anymore’, he forgets the concrete conditions: split working hours, low wages, inaccessible housing, and precarious contracts. Blindness is not only a question of ignorance but also of position. Those who control the stories sometimes forget to look down. And those who listen can hear exactly what’s wrong.

The discrepancy moments

Power sometimes gives the illusion of stability. Certain dominant groups come to believe that their position is established, rational, almost natural. They think they can control their environment, anticipate risks and foresee crises. And yet this is often where the irony comes in: when perceived security reveals its cracks. This discrepancy comes to the fore in times of economic downturn, social crisis or political upheaval. Suddenly, words of reassurance are no longer enough. This is a classic example: a property investor, convinced of the solidity of his assets, is surprised by a crisis that causes the value of his property to plummet. It’s not the loss that hits him, but the incomprehension that accompanies it. The dramatic irony lies in the moment when the dominant party discovers what others already knew: that control is always partial, and that comfort often rests on balances that are no longer monitored. Until they give way.

When the dramatic irony hits LVMH

LVMH

The luxury beginning

In the beginning, there were two worlds: prestige leather goods, led by Louis Vuitton, and fine wines and spirits, brought together under Moët Hennessy. In 1987, they merged to form LVMH, a conglomerate that would become the world leader in luxury goods in just a few decades. Under the leadership of Bernard Arnault, the group expanded its empire into fashion, jewellery, cosmetics, and hotels. Dior, Bulgari, Dom Pérignon: each brand embodies expertise, but above all, the promise of exclusivity. The model is based on a clear principle: produce little, sell a lot, and cultivate desire. But there is a certain irony. What was designed for an intimate elite has become an object of desire for the middle classes. Buying an LVMH bag or perfume is like being on the edge of prestige without actually belonging to it. Luxury retains its codes but spreads them to those it excludes – and makes them dream.

The wrong target

Luxury is as much about manufacture as it is about distance. LVMH knows this very well. Its products are not simply beautiful or well-designed: they are fundamentally inaccessible, creating a space between those who can buy them effortlessly and those who have to contend with desire. The group feeds on this tension. It charges high prices and organises selective distribution, while at the same time hinting at more accessible entry points: perfumes, small accessories, eyewear and cosmetics. This is where the irony comes in. What LVMH builds for the elite is often bought by those who do not belong to it. Some go into debt, others sacrifice, but all share the same idea: to own an LVMH object is to approach status. In some urban cultures, a Vuitton bag or a Gucci belt becomes a visible sign of success, distracting from the original intention but reinforcing the power of the logo.

The rarity loss

The more visible a brand becomes, the more it has to fight to remain rare. LVMH is experiencing this all the time. By seducing the masses and charging high prices, the group creates a paradox: the ultra-rich turn away from products that have become too recognisable, while the middle classes continue to buy them, sometimes at real cost. To preserve its image, LVMH is tightening its filters: limited collections, ultra-exclusive collaborations, private salons and invitation-only services. Some brands are going even further upmarket to re-establish a clear boundary between those who see and those who have access. Therein lies the irony: commercial success undermines what luxury sells above all else – rarity. The more a product circulates, the more it loses its symbolic value in the eyes of the elite. And LVMH must constantly reinvent new barriers to ensure that the dream remains inaccessible, even when it seems within reach.

The social hierarchy, dramatic irony

Dramatic irony, whether staged in a comedy like Le Dîner de Cons or observed in social and political life, acts as a rift. It reveals the distance between words and the world, between those in power and those who listen to them. This gap, often imperceptible to those who create it, becomes glaringly obvious to those who suffer it. Through laughter, Veber reveals the mechanisms of a domination that ignores itself, and this is what makes his work so enduringly subversive. This mechanism can still be seen today in the world of luxury goods, political discourse and professional relationships. Those who think they have mastered the codes are sometimes trapped by their narrative. Perhaps that’s where the real irony lies: in the blind certainty of those who believe they will never fall. Dramatic irony, on the other hand, is relentless. It watches, waits, and then hits you where it hurts.