by Nell Scovell
“Oh no. You worry about late night TV. I’ll worry about India,” she said.
She delivered this advice with a little smile. She knew it sounded flip, but her point was profound. Gender bias is everywhere and we need man-to-man—pardon the expression—defense on each front. We all need to speak up as much as we can with the specific influence we have.
I’ve seen how women advocating for other women in late night can make a difference. When Jimmy Kimmel Live! moved from 12:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m., ABC Entertainment President Anne Sweeney took an interest in adding more women to the staff. Head writer Molly McNearney, the only female writer on Kimmel at the time, reached out to me to get names of women who might want to submit packets. I compiled a list and encouraged Bess Kalb, a sly and hilarious writer at Wired magazine, to give it a shot. Dozens of other funny women applied. Standup Nikki Glaser was on my list but passed to focus on her performance career. The night before submissions were due, Nikki emailed me.
Courtesy of Nikki Glaser
If women who don’t help women get a special circle in hell, I think women who do help women should get a special cloud in heaven. Thanks to Nikki, Joelle Boucai’s packet made it to the show. And thanks to Anne and Molly, both Joelle and Bess were hired and have worked at Jimmy Kimmel Live! for more than five years.
In 2013, Laurie Kilmartin suggested I check out the Twitter feed of Jill Twiss, who made quirky observations like, “I’m just going to say it. Bananas are cliquey” and “Pretty worried for gluten-free pigeons.” I messaged Jill to learn more about her. During the day, she tutored kids for standardized tests and moonlit as a standup comedian and actress. When Last Week Tonight began staffing up, Tim Carvell asked for names and I mentioned Jill. That show reads submissions “blind,” removing any identifying details about the writer. Out of about a hundred submissions, Jill was one of eight people hired. She now has more Emmys than I do. (Although to be fair, anyone with one Emmy has more Emmys than I do.)
Jill Twiss bearing a striking resemblance to “Janice from accounting” on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver
Courtesy of the author
Last Week Tonight also hired Juli Weiner who was working at Vanity Fair. Juli’s blog pieces cracked me up and I emailed her with the same comment that I heard at roughly the same age: “I really think you could write for television.”
Unfortunately, my system for tracking down funny female writers isn’t methodical. It’s mainly based on word-of-mouth, which can cast a limited net. I always wish that I could help more women, and especially women of color.
In an ideal world, awareness would lead to action which would lead to change. But in the real world, awareness more often leads to defensiveness which leads to excuses. Emboldened by the forward motion in late night, I called a showrunner who ran a popular sitcom with a huge staff and only one female writer. We knew each other socially so I thought he’d be open to a discussion. I got as far as my observation that his staff had a gender imbalance before hitting a nerve.
“How dare you accuse me of being sexist,” he said. “My mother was the breadwinner in our family and my wife is one of the strongest women on the planet.”
I tried to salvage the phone call.
“I didn’t call you sexist. But just look at the numbers on your staff—”
“You think I don’t notice?” he said, ire rising. “I look around the room and notice it every . . . single . . . day.”
This showrunner bringing up his breadwinner mother and strong wife is a perfect example of “moral licensing.” Everyone—male and female—is biased. But no one wants to admit it so our brains search for examples that disprove the accusation. Moral licensing comes into play when people rely on past behavior to dismiss current prejudiced behavior. This is better known as the “Some of my best friends are . . .” defense. People who believe they are unbiased turn out to be more biased so it’s not enough to be aware that there’s a lack of women in a room; you must also be aware that your knee-jerk defensiveness is part of the problem.
“When you’re used to privilege,” the saying goes, “equality feels like oppression.” My showrunner friend felt under attack and our call ended on a sour note. I was angry with myself for coming on too strong. On the plus side, it taught me what not to do. It would be so helpful if blurting out, “Obviously, there’s a problem so just fix it!” worked. It doesn’t. Ask anyone fighting climate change or gun violence where the stakes are life and death.
Reshaping our culture means reshaping ourselves. We’re raised in a biased culture and that sinks into our psyches in ways that are hard to escape. A few weeks after the release of Lean In, Sheryl’s friend Michael Lynton threw a backyard book party for her in LA. It was a fun, festive occasion and at one point, a young woman approached me.
“Would you sign my book?” she asked.
Without thinking, I waved my hand.
“Oh, you don’t want my signature,” I said. “It’s Sheryl’s book.”
She looked at me strangely. “Please?”
I signed her book, feeling a little freaked out by my reaction. I had just spent eight months cowriting a book encouraging women to “own their success,” so why was I backing away from taking any credit? I thought of inscribing the young woman’s copy with “Man, this shit is deep.” Instead, I wrote, “Don’t skim!”
The next day, I emailed Sheryl to tell her about the exchange because it was such a perfect example of how women are socialized to downplay our achievements. Within seconds, Sheryl emailed me back: “You know there’s this great book you should read . . .”
Chapter 17
Lily Tomlin, the Kennedy Center . . . and a Surprise Guest
And no one is more loyal. You get Lily, you have her for life. Like with her cosmically brilliant collaborator and spouse Jane Wagner. They’ve been together for 43 years. (beat) I don’t know what that’s like but it sounds terrific.
—Jane Fonda celebrating Lily Tomlin at the 2014 Kennedy Center Honors
IT TOOK A COUPLE OF YEARS, BUT SPEAKING OUT ABOUT the lack of gender diversity in late night went from being one of the scariest things I’d ever done to one of the best. It put me on the path to Sheryl and Lean In, and my fear that CBS would never hire me again proved wrong. In the fall of 2014, Tim Carvell gave my name to writer Lewis Friedman, who emailed me to say that he was looking for someone to help with the CBS special, The Kennedy Center Honors. Now normally I don’t work on such classy shows, but it seemed worth a follow-up.
Lewis explained that year’s honorees included Sting, Al Green, Patricia McBride, Tom Hanks, and Lily Tomlin. The executive producers were specifically looking for a female writer to help with Lily’s tribute. Was I interested?
I said “Yes” so fast I sprained my tongue.
Lily had been part of my life since I was nine. Most of Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In went over my head, but I loved Lily’s character Edith Ann, a little girl who sat in an oversized rocking chair and had a lot of opinions. She’d end her monologues with “And that’s the truth,” and then stick out her tongue and make a fat raspberry.
Lily moved from TV to movies, appearing in three of my all-time favorites: Nashville, All of Me, and 9 to 5. Lily also appeared on Broadway playing a dozen different roles in The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe, written by her now-spouse Jane Wagner. I’m still laughing from lines like: “I worry about things like, if peanut oil comes from peanuts and olive oil comes from olives, then where does baby oil come from?”
The Kennedy Center Honors had already booked Jane Fonda, Jane Lynch, and Reba McEntire for Lily’s salute. (Dolly Parton was unavailable.) Executive Producers—George Stevens Jr. and his son, Michael Stevens—considered adding one more performer. We batted around ideas over the phone. Sarah Silverman? Sketch gods Keegan-Michael Key and Jordan Peele?
“You know who’d be great?” I said. “Kate McKinnon.”
“Who?”
I explained that Kate was a cast member on Saturday Night Live and
had just received her first Emmy nomination.
“Does she have a connection to Lily Tomlin?” someone asked.
“I don’t know, but she plays Justin Bieber and Angela Merkel with equal ease so I’m guessing yes.”
They sent me on a fact-finding mission. A few phone calls later and Kate McKinnon was excitedly telling me how much Lily Tomlin meant to her.
“My mom talked about Lily throughout my childhood,” Kate said. “She gave me the book [The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life . . . ] and said, ‘You’re gonna need this.’ Like she was giving me a map. I read the book two hundred times. When I finally saw the video [of the stage show], I was like, ‘This is what I want to do.’ I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen . . . It’s not a caricature. She’s inhabiting those people and makes you really feel for them. That’s the standard for sketch characters. She created the field.”
The producers worked out the details for Kate’s appearance and Lewis and I started shaping Lily’s tribute. It would open with Jane Lynch performing one of Lily’s most memorable monologues: “I’m Lucille and I’m a rubber freak.” Lewis had a fun idea of putting Kate in an Edith Ann rocking chair. She could do some physical comedy, sliding off the chair in her evening gown. Reba would talk about Lily’s authenticity. Jane Fonda would talk about their deep friendship that started in the seventies. I assumed that the tribute would conclude with Reba singing a rousing version of Dolly’s massive hit 9 to 5, but when I asked about it, the executive producers said Lily’s tribute didn’t need to include music. I wrote an impassioned email to try and change their minds.
I can’t say enough about how meaningful the movie 9 to 5 was and still is. It changed the world. 9 to 5 helped launch a union—Service Employees International Union—and became an anthem for feminism. Every woman connects with it. It’s both emotional and rousing.
One last thought: How great would it be to have SARAH SILVERMAN, REBA McENTIRE and KATE McKINNON walk out on stage from an elevator door dressed like this to Dolly’s thumping vamp? Laughs, applause, chills.
Still from 9 to 5
9 to 5 © 1980 Twentieth Century Fox. All rights reserved
Yeah, that didn’t happen. The producers wouldn’t budge on adding the song.
Stephen Colbert was set to host the Honors and had his own writers working on an opening monologue. Documentary filmmaker Sara Lukinson was crafting mini-bios of all the honorees. Lewis and I were responsible for intros, transitions, and generating additional material for speakers. Since Lewis lives in NYC, we collaborated through email and over the phone. We’d convene in DC right before the show. Two days before my flight, Lewis called.
“Hey, I thought you should know this,” he said. “David Letterman just narrated the Hanks film.”
“Okay,” I said.
A beat.
“That means he’ll be appearing on the show and we need to write some jokes for him,” Lewis explained.
Adrenaline surged through my body. I didn’t expect to ever cross paths with Dave again. My mind started spinning. Would he remember me? Had he read the article? Did he hate me? He probably hated me.
“Since you’ve written for Dave before, why don’t you do a first set of jokes?” Lewis said.
I couldn’t respond. I was too busy having a mini-panic attack.
“You’ll be great at that,” Lewis added.
That’s a wonderful boss. Lewis knew my history with Late Night and sensed my shaky mood. By giving me a task and encouragement, he refocused me on the work. I started at the beginning, brainstorming an entrance for Dave. The same way a good architect examines the physical landscape before designing a building, a writer examines the cultural landscape. I usually ask myself, “What is the audience thinking when that person walks on stage?”
In Dave’s case, there was one major event on everyone’s mind. That spring, Dave had announced that he was stepping down after more than thirty years on TV. This announcement triggered roughly 50,000 blog pieces about how CBS should replace him with a person of color or female host. A week later, Stephen Colbert was handed the baton.
After the announcement in April, Colbert stopped by the Late Show to chat with Dave, but the hosts hadn’t been seen together in over six months. An idea popped into my head. I emailed Lewis with the subject line: “Funny idea?”
On Dec 2, 2014 at 2:13 PM, Nell Scovell wrote:
Have Letterman start the show and then Stephen comes in and says, “I’ll take over.”
On Dec 2, 2014 at 2:34 PM, Lewis Friedman wrote:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
On Dec 2, 2014 at 2:38 PM, Nell Scovell wrote:
One way or another, we should engineer them together on stage. That’s the money shot. Alternatively, Stephen could start the Tom Hanks tribute and Dave interrupts and says, “This is my job. Not yours yet.”
On Dec 2, 2014 at 3:36 PM, Lewis Friedman wrote:
ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, 2012 Kennedy Center Honors winner, David Letterman.
[LETTERMAN walks to the SR LECTERN.]
[As he’s about to speak, STEVEN COLBERT enters, walking right up to him.]
DAVID LETTERMAN
Not yet!
[Colbert sheepishly exits.]
On Dec 2, 2014 at 6:38 PM, Nell Scovell wrote:
Yes! That’s all you need to do and it would get such a big laugh.
This was our complete email exchange and it shows the way a notion can quickly refine into a bit.
When I arrived in DC, Lewis told me that Colbert had approved the “Not yet” beat. We just needed to get Dave on board. Lewis sent an email to Tom Keaney, Dave’s point person, along with the opening and a couple of pages of jokes. Tom is Chief Strategy Officer at Rubenstein Communications and one of the most brilliant PR reps around. If Tom had been captain of the Titanic, he would have convinced the iceberg to move out of the way.
I was sitting at a desk next to Lewis when Tom wrote back. Lewis read the email out loud. Tom thanked us for the jokes and said Dave was jotting down some of his own. Oh, and they liked the opening.
“Yeah!” I said.
Lewis paused.
“Well, that’s interesting,” he said in his normal deadpan.
“What?”
“Tom just asked me a question about our meeting with Dave tomorrow—‘Now it’s just going to be you and the producer in the room, right?’ ”
Lewis stared at me.
“Do you think he recognized my name?” I said.
Lewis kept staring.
Of course. Tom’s job was to protect his client. This news didn’t upset me since the thought of sitting across a table from Dave filled me with anxiety. As I was convincing myself that it was all for the best, Lewis typed a response and hit Send.
“I just emailed him back,” he said.
“What did you say?”
“That you were working on the show and would be in the meeting.”
Again, that’s a wonderful boss.
The next morning, I asked a friend who knew Dave well for guidance.
“I think I’m gonna see Dave today on this Kennedy Center Honors thing. Yikes. He scares me,” I wrote.
My friend wrote back immediately.
“Just remember, his first thought about everyone is ‘They hate me.’ If you just smile and say hi and keep going, it will be a relief.”
I took my friend’s advice . . . and half a beta blocker to keep my heart rate down and minimize sweating.
Lewis, some assistants and I were in a rehearsal hall when Tom Keaney entered, followed by Dave. I jumped out of my chair.
“Hi, Dave,” I said, cheerfully. “I’m Nell.”
“Nell,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
I relaxed (or maybe that was just the beta blocker talking) and we got to work. Dave read some jokes that he’d jotted down.
“I noticed that if you take the T out of Tom and put it up next to Hanks, look what you get,” Dave said.
Four Unused Jokes I Wrote for Letterman
Thank you for including me tonight. I was already in DC to check out the Smithsonian. After my last show, CBS is sending me straight there. They found a nice spot between Marcus Welby’s lab coat and the hats from F Troop.
Tom keeps challenging himself. I think he’s covered every story there is: Man versus Man. Man versus Machine. Man versus Volcano.
And my god, does he deliver. Here are some words that have never been uttered: “Tom Hanks? Eh, I don’t care for him.”
Anyone else thinking Tom Hanks 2016?
Note: Last one less funny in retrospect.
Dave shook his head.
“I don’t want to mention that,” he said. “Tom Hanks winning after me was just a bookkeeping error.”
We discussed the opening moment between him and Colbert. Dave liked the bit but thought we could go beyond “Not yet.” Lewis and I offered to come up with some options. Dave left after an hour. His wife and son were in DC and he was eager to get back to them. We’d pick up the discussion tomorrow, which was also show day.
The next morning, Dave arrived at rehearsal with a few new jokes. He didn’t like our alternatives for the opener, and suggested that he pull Colbert aside after “Not yet” to say, “You’re embarrassing yourself. That’s my job.” The director tried staging the additional lines, but nixed them for camera purposes. Dave’s rehearsal wrapped. He did not seem happy. A few minutes later, Lewis and I were summoned to Dave’s dressing room. We raced over, joining Tom Keaney and a Late Show writer who’d come to DC to help. Dave was agitated.
“I don’t want to do the ‘not yet’ bit,” he said.
I was stunned.
“It got a big laugh in the run-through,” I said.
