Generation Friends

by Saul Austerlitz

  Schwimmer had recently attracted glowing reviews for his turn on NYPD Blue as creepy neighbor “4B.” Schwimmer was a theater kid like Kauffman and Crane, a trained actor with an impressively wide range and a seriousness about the craft that they admired. While they were working on the pilot script for Friends Like Us, Kauffman and Crane conferred about the Ross character, remembered the actor they loved but hadn’t been able to cast, and said, “David Schwimmer for this.”

  They envisioned Ross as a highly educated scientist in a crew consisting mostly of working-class strivers. “So his career is pretty together,” Kauffman and Crane wrote in their pitch document. “However, when we meet him, he’s just signed his divorce papers. . . . His wife left him for his best friend . . . Debbie. He had no idea.” Ross would be the “loyal husband” who suddenly found himself excited by the world of available women around him: “It’s kind of like he’s back in junior high. Only there are no books.” Kauffman and Crane pictured an episode where Ross would take a date to the planetarium and woo her under the stars—a plotline that would notably be reused, with a different woman. The pilot would eventually drop the wife-runs-off-with-female-best-friend angle but still retain Ross’s wife coming out as a lesbian.

  They were ready to offer him the role without his even having to audition—a rare privilege for a young, untested actor. There was only one problem: Schwimmer did not want to do the show. More than that, he did not want to do any more television at all.

  Schwimmer had just been on the short-lived Fox comedy series Monty (1994), in which he had played the left-wing son of a Rush Limbaugh–esque conservative firebrand, played by Happy Days’ Henry Winkler, and had found it to be a miserable experience. As he saw it, television was a place where nobody listened to your ideas, where you reported for duty every day to do mediocre, unsatisfying work. When Monty was canceled, Schwimmer felt immense relief and immediately returned to Chicago, where he was working on a new theatrical production of The Master and Margarita. His theater company, the Lookingglass, had just moved into a new space, and Schwimmer felt like he was in the exact place he wanted to be. He had gotten a buzz cut for the role of Pontius Pilate for the show and was prepared to thrust himself into Mikhail Bulgakov’s fantastical world of Soviet totalitarianism tempered with magical realism.

  Schwimmer had appeared in a number of pilots that had never gone anywhere, and he found the whole process mystifying and frustrating. What was the point of acting if no one could see your work? He would not, his agent Leslie Siebert told Kanner, be reading any more television scripts. Kauffman and Crane were chagrined but not quite ready to give up on their dream casting.

  In the meantime, though, the producers began looking at other actors. The casting process for Friends Like Us was moving slowly, and other, faster series began to snatch away talented performers. Kanner brought Noah Wyle in for the role of Ross. The producers liked his audition and wanted him to test for the network, but the pilot was not going to shoot until May. In the meantime, Wyle auditioned for ER, also being produced by Warner Bros. that same pilot season, and Friends Like Us moved into second position, meaning that they were second in line for the actor’s services. If the first show fell through, they would be able to cast him on their series. Wyle, of course, wound up being cast on ER instead. Among the other actors who auditioned for Ross was future Will & Grace star Eric McCormack, who came in two or three times.

  They also considered Mitchell Whitfield, who would eventually be cast as Rachel’s ex Barry. Whitfield advanced so far in the process that after one meeting, he received a surreptitious phone call from someone involved with the show who brought good, if inaccurate, news: “Hey, congratulations, they love you for Ross. Looks like you’re going to be Ross.”

  Meanwhile, Siebert had begged Schwimmer to look at the script, telling him that Kauffman and Crane were admirers of his craft. Schwimmer remembered how much he had enjoyed the Couples script and was pleased to learn that their new show was to be an ensemble series, with no designated star. This could be a television series that worked a bit more like a theatrical troupe.

  Schwimmer had also gotten unexpected phone calls from Robby Benson, the former child star who had become a well-regarded television director, and from James Burrows, the legendary director behind Taxi and Cheers. Both of them were also telling him that Kauffman and Crane had specifically written the role with him in mind, which Schwimmer had not fully understood beforehand. If these titans of television were suggesting he reconsider, Schwimmer later told Littlefield, he would be an idiot not to go. Schwimmer read the script and agreed to fly out to Los Angeles to meet with them.

  Executives from Warner Bros. and NBC filled the edges of the room as Schwimmer picked up the pages of the pilot script. Kanner, who was reading with him, was immediately overcome with the quiet joy of knowing that an actor was perfect for a role. The role of Ross was like an off-the-rack suit that did not require any tailoring for Schwimmer to wear. He could simply put it on. It already fit perfectly. “OK,” she told herself, “this was meant to be.” Fortunately, Schwimmer agreed and accepted the part.

  After Schwimmer was cast, Bright and Kauffman spent weeks fruitlessly looking at actors for the other roles. They would listen to the script, day after day, being mauled by performers who could not locate the comedy trapped inside of it. They began to doubt the value of the script itself. Perhaps they had mistakenly believed it was funnier than it actually was?

  One early session was held in Barbara Miller’s office. The actors auditioning for Friends Like Us were surrounded by photographs of Greta Garbo and Bette Davis, as if to remind them of the legendary work that had been done on this very lot. Actors came fully dressed for the job they wanted, with a passel of Phoebes in nose rings and bell-bottoms, and an array of Joeys displaying ample chest hair. Auditions were a frustrating process, with actors displaying distinct limits to their range or unable to replicate what they had done in an earlier audition. Miller exchanged notes with Kanner, Kauffman, Crane, and the Warner Bros. executives after the session, and everyone agreed that there were only a few performers good enough for the next audition—which would be held at NBC. Some of the performers were too sitcom-y, while others were too theatrical. They would have to keep searching.

  * * *

  —

  Television acting was about graciously accepting the near-inevitability of failure. You would audition for a role, but you would never get it. You would get a role, but the show would never make it to air. The show would make it to air, but it would never find an audience. And even when big breaks arrived, they could vanish without warning.

  At Vassar, everyone had thought Lisa Kudrow was a dumb Southern California blonde because she was always smiling, but she had ambitious career plans for herself. She was a biology major, and after graduation, she would work for her father, a migraine specialist, before proceeding to a graduate program in neuroscience. In her spare time, she would turn on the television and catch an episode of a sitcom and be turned off by the ways their performers emoted. “I’d hear the delivery of a line or a joke and I’d think, ‘[They’re] pushing it too hard,’” she would later tell an interviewer. “It just kept happening and so I finally just surrendered and said, ‘All right, I’m going to give it a try.’” Kudrow worried about what it might mean to become an actor. They were, in her mind, doing things like appearing on late-night television to ask audiences to save the planet on their behalf and other acts of self-regarding hubris. What would happen to her were she to become a performer as well?

  Once Kudrow set out to act, she realized she could use what others mistakenly perceived to be her ditziness to her advantage. Kudrow joined the Groundlings improv troupe, briefly dated future late-night host Conan O’Brien, and took acting lessons. She soon came to understand that feeling the need to apologize for being an actor was an impediment to success. It would be far better to acknowledge that there were countless other a
ctors competing for the same jobs, and that solid work and dedication would eventually carry the day. Being funny was a serious business. It would be enough to maintain your dignity and do your work. Eventually, people would begin to notice.

  Kudrow appeared in small roles on Cheers and Mad About You, and was going out regularly on auditions. Cheers had just ended, and Kelsey Grammer was to continue playing Dr. Frasier Crane in a new show called Frasier. After wowing the producers during auditions, Kudrow received the opportunity of a lifetime: She was cast as Frasier’s radio producer Roz.

  Once the show was in rehearsals, cocreator Peter Casey was taken aback by what he was seeing. Kudrow was excellent, but Roz was intended to be a forceful foil to Frasier, able to give as good as she got. Instead, following each day’s run-through, Casey and the writers were modifying the script because Kudrow was not able to be as steely as they had intended Roz to be. And Grammer was playing down his lines because he was concerned that he might overwhelm Kudrow if he performed them as intended.

  Casey consulted with James Burrows, the director supervising the series, and they were in agreement: Lisa Kudrow had to be fired. Frasier retooled, casting Peri Gilpin, another finalist for the role, as Roz, and Kudrow was convinced that the best opportunity she would ever get as an actor had slipped through her fingers.

  A few months later, running perilously low on money, Kudrow got a call from her agent, who was delivering an unusual message. There was an offer of a role that she should turn down. Mad About You had called about Kudrow’s coming back to play a new part. She would be needed on set in one hour and would not be able to see the script until she arrived. It was, her agent argued, insulting and demeaning.

  Kudrow took the job anyway, and did so well that series creator Danny Jacobson immediately offered her a recurring role, with at least five more appearances over the course of the season. One of the people she impressed on Mad About You was staff writer Jeffrey Klarik, who proceeded to tell his partner, David Crane, all about the gifted performer playing hapless waitress Ursula. One day, she got a call from Crane, who told her he was casting for his new show and would love to have her come in and read. Would she be interested?

  Phoebe was, according to the pitch, “sweet, flaky, a waif, a hippie.” Crane and Kauffman pictured her as a free spirit who played bad folk songs on her guitar and dated a lot: “She sees the good in everyone, which is a nice way of saying she’s indiscriminate. One week she can be in love with a Japanese businessman, the next week a street mime, the next a fifty-three-year-old butcher.” Phoebe would not have her own apartment: “She owns what she can fit in her backpack.” The pilot would eventually tone down Phoebe’s serial dating while retaining her musical stylings and her flakiness.

  When Kudrow arrived, both Kanner and Crane felt an instant buzz telling them she was just right for the part. But they knew that the networks would not be satisfied with only one choice, and so dozens of other actresses tried out for Phoebe as well, including future stars Jane Lynch and Kathy Griffin.

  Kudrow went back to work at Mad About You, where she was helping many of her friends and fellow guest performers run lines for their auditions. She was struck by the enthusiasm other actors seemed to have for this new show in particular. It seemed like every dramatic actor in Los Angeles was out for a role on ER, and every comedic actor was hoping to be cast in Kauffman and Crane’s show.

  It wound up being another month until Kudrow was called back to test for the role. While she waited, Kudrow had had ample time to think over the part of Phoebe. The day before the test, Kudrow’s agent called Kanner, frantic. “Look. Lisa is thinking about a different way to do the audition with you tomorrow at the network,” she told Kanner. “And she just wants to run it by you.”

  Kanner knew from experience that time was often not the actor’s friend. Actors granted too much time to ponder their performance might tweak it excessively, coming in with a take on a role so radically changed from their first attempt that the producers could no longer see what had appealed to them at first.

  Kudrow was wise enough to know that she might be about to stumble and asked if she could first appear in front of just Kanner and Kauffman. They agreed, and she came in to offer her new version of Phoebe. It was fine, but it lacked the brilliant flakiness they had loved about her first attempt. Kauffman and Kanner looked at each other, and Kanner said, “No no no no no, go back to the original way. That was what we want. That will get you this job.” “OK, great,” Kudrow responded, unruffled. “I just wanted to double-check.” She went back to her original take and got offered the role.

  Kudrow was excited about playing Phoebe but concerned that a failed series might do damage to her recurring role on Mad About You. She was relieved that Friends Like Us was going to be on NBC, meaning that her two series shared a network. “Pilots work and don’t work,” she told the NBC executives, “but we have to protect Mad About You, please.” Kudrow did not want a failed pilot to mean the end of her role on Mad About You.

  The biggest star the producers were considering for the show was Family Ties veteran Courteney Cox. Kanner originally had Cox on her list for Rachel, which she believed would be the best fit for an essentially sweet performer like Cox. Monica, who was not yet cast, they envisioned as an edgier role. The producers were looking for someone slightly less glamorous who could potentially play a harried, occasionally bitter everywoman.

  Monica was to be “tough, defended, cynical, sarcastic.” In an ultra-nineties reference, they described her as having “the attitude of Sandra Bernhard or Rosie O’Donnell and the looks of Duff,” referring to the MTV VJ and model Karen Duffy. Monica, in this original conception, was to be a blue-collar New Yorker with aspirations of starting her own restaurant. She would work at a Le Cirque–like establishment: “We just think it would be fun to see this tough, downtown woman in this uptown, French bullshit arena.” Monica would also have a “real maternal side,” looking after Rachel and adopting a pregnant woman who would end up giving birth in her apartment. Monica dreamed of becoming a mother but first found herself in search of a man to have children with.

  When Kauffman and Crane had written the role, they had pictured the dialogue emerging from the mouth of Janeane Garofalo, who had the snarky attitude and comic bite that they envisioned for Monica. They offered her the role, but Garofalo turned them down, preferring to join the cast of Saturday Night Live instead. Kauffman and Crane were unsure where to turn next.

  Cox came in and read for Rachel, and was excellent. Afterward, Cox requested to come back and read for Monica as well, and Kanner acquiesced. Cox was good as Monica—a definite maybe—but the producers knew they wanted her as Rachel.

  They had already brought in hundreds of performers for Monica, including future stars like Leah Remini (The King of Queens). The producers were now strongly considering Nancy McKeon, another 1980s sitcom star, familiar to audiences as Jo from The Facts of Life.

  Kauffman and Crane were confident enough that Cox was right for Rachel that they were willing to offer her a test option deal, which gave her a guarantee of the role without another audition. Courteney Cox would be Rachel, and casting for Monica would carry on. Cox told them she was glad for the offer but really preferred the role of Monica.

  Kanner and the producers agreed to let her read again for Monica, figuring all along that they would offer her the part of Rachel immediately after the audition and that the excitement of being cast would win out over any lingering preference for the role of Monica. Instead, Cox came in and absolutely nailed it as Monica. “Holy crap!” Kanner thought to herself. “She’s great as Monica! Why didn’t we see that before?”

  Where Kudrow had gone off and returned with a performance less charming than her original version of Phoebe, Cox had clearly returned with a vastly improved Monica. She had committed to her vision of the role and had won over Kanner and the skeptical producers, who had initially been unable to se
e her in any role but Rachel’s. Cox’s casting turned the show away from its initial concept of Monica as a working-class interloper in an upper-crust sphere, and she was retooled as more middle-class and suburban. Now Monica was set—but casting Rachel was the new puzzle.

  Meanwhile, the role of Joey had been described, in the casting call for actors, as a “handsome, smug macho guy in his 20s” with a passion for “women, sports, women, New York, women.” The pitch referred to Joey as having moved to New York from Chicago to “become an actor. Well, to become Al Pacino.” Joey “really thinks he’s god’s gift to women,” but Monica in particular resolutely refuses to be charmed by his charms. Kauffman and Crane pictured Monica and Joey as foils for each other, squabbling about whether men are intimidated by Monica because she is a strong woman or because she is a “bitch.” (Kauffman would later make reference to never using the word bitch on the show, but it does appear in the pitch document itself.) Joey acts in children’s theater, which he finds unfulfilling, and works a variety of gigs to make the rent, including bouncer, bike messenger, and “the guy in the department store saying ‘Aramis? Aramis? Aramis?’”

  Kauffman and Crane sat through more than fifty prospective Joeys, including future guest star Hank Azaria, making their way through the lines they were handed—a monologue debunking the idea that there is only one woman for any given man. Women, Joey would observe, were like flavors of ice cream—each delicious in her own way. Writing those lines had brought up a certain sound. There was a pacing and delivery that Kauffman and Crane imagined for Joey, and no one yet had captured it.