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Copyright © 2017 by Jay Chandrasekhar
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This book is dedicated to the many hilarious people whom I’ve been lucky to call friends.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER 1
Childhood
CHAPTER 2
High School: A Narc’s Tale
CHAPTER 3
Race in America: A Case of Mistaken Identity
CHAPTER 4
Colgate to Chicago: Making Strangers Laugh
CHAPTER 5
Colgate Part 2: The Seeds of Broken Lizard
CHAPTER 6
New York City: Hacking Our Own Path into Show Business
CHAPTER 7
Puddle Cruiser: How I Made a Film, When I Wasn’t Sure How to Make a Film
CHAPTER 8
Super Troopers: How It Happened and Almost Didn’t
CHAPTER 9
Casting Super Troopers: How I Almost Played Farva
CHAPTER 10
Making Super Troopers: How We Focused on Jokes We Thought Were Funny
CHAPTER 11
Selling Super Troopers: What It Was Like to Sell a Movie at Sundance to a Major Hollywood Studio
CHAPTER 12
9/11: Another Case of Mistaken Identity
CHAPTER 13
The Macho Contest, aka Wild Times on Club Dread
CHAPTER 14
The Dukes of Hazzard: Smoking with Willie, Fighting with Burt, and Other Stories from the Deep South
CHAPTER 15
Jackass Number Two: The Story Behind the High-Wire Act That Was My Collaboration with Johnny Knoxville and the Jackass Crew
CHAPTER 16
Beerfest: Origin Story
CHAPTER 17
Television: Or, Models Talking Tough
CHAPTER 18
Super Troopers 2: Bigger Mustaches and Hopefully Funnier (or as Funny) Jokes
PHOTOGRAPHS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
INTRODUCTION
Every morning, at my small, private, suburban Chicago grade school, we all stood and said the Lord’s Prayer. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t Christian. I loved it anyway. Afterward, we put our hands on our hearts and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I loved that too. Saying those words, along with my 250 schoolmates, made me feel like I was part of a tribe. And I needed to be part of a tribe. Perhaps starting Broken Lizard (our own little tribe) is evidence of my continuing need.
They say that first-generation Americans are highly patriotic. For me, that was true, and it still is.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”
As a kid, I loved those words. Those words meant that, though my sister and I were the only Indian kids around for miles, we were still equal. Eventually, I came to learn that Jefferson didn’t mean for it to apply to people who looked like me, but thanks to Dr. King, President Johnson, and many others, equality became the law of the land—for everybody—and I intended to hold America to its word.
My parents were like propaganda specialists, instilling in me the idea that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. America was fair and rewarded hard work. They drowned me in compliments, telling me how smart and good-looking I was, regardless of evidence that I was never much better than a B student and I was, objectively, an awkward-looking child. It’s like their plan was to stuff me with confidence, hoping to stay ahead of the real (racist) world that was bound to break my heart. It worked, because if you looked at my grade-school notebooks, you’d find whole pages filled with the words “Jay the Great.”
Even the name my parents gave me oozed confidence. My full name is Jayanth Jumbulingam Chandrasekhar, which literally translates to “Victorious Large-Penis Rising Moon.” It’s a family name. Though they never told me about the “large-penis” part. Instead, I found out at age twenty-five, from an Indian friend’s mom, who saw “Jumbulingam” in the credits of our short film and burst into laughter. When my friend called to tell me the good news, I immediately called Mom.
“Does my middle name mean ‘large penis’?” I asked pointedly.
She laughed. “Well, literally, sure, but it’s really just a euphemism for power.”
“You could have told me that earlier, Mom,” I said, truly annoyed. “It might have been helpful.”
When I was young, I didn’t understand that my color might be a hindrance to my dreams. And like any kid, I had big dreams . . . eventually. At age five, I wanted to be a garbage man so I could drive one of those big red trucks. Soon after, I decided I would follow my hero, Walter Payton, and be the starting running back for the Chicago Bears (yes, the first Indian in the NFL). Later, thanks to Muhammad Ali, I wanted to be the heavyweight boxing champion of the world (yes, the first Indian in professional boxing). President of the United States was a possibility (first Indian . . .). Heart surgeon was seriously considered (not the first Indian). My race didn’t matter. In my mind, I was great, and if I worked hard, America would reward me.
Then I grew up and realized that life was more complicated. Inside, I was a red-blooded American, but that’s not how I was perceived by strangers. For example, I was able to get girls, but only after months and months of a personality-driven long game. I had to use wit, charm, and friendship before lips ever touched, before I could get what my white friends just seemed to be handed. Racial reality didn’t dissuade me from the idea that I could do great things, but it did teach me that I would likely have to work twice as hard as everyone else and would probably have to create my own path to get there.
Oddly, my being Indian is the very reason I made it in Hollywood—but not because there were racial quotas for Indians. No. In fact, it was just the opposite. When I was twenty-two, anyone with half a brain would tell you that my chances of making it as an actor, never mind a director, were less than zero. Because one had only to look at TV and movie screens to see that there wasn’t a single In
dian face on them. Well, there was one face: Ben Kingsley had played Gandhi and had won an Oscar for it. But Gandhi was also the only Indian Hollywood would ever make a movie about.
I had been acting in plays in high school and college, and I was playing leads. But the best I could hope for in real show business was playing the convenience store clerk, the cabdriver, or maybe a terrorist. Though, back in the eighties, Germans usually got those roles. Ah, such an innocent time. And I didn’t want to play those characters. I wanted to play characters in movies that spoke like me, characters who had my own, American, accent. That, however, had never been done. All of the roles for Indians were small and/or accented and, frankly, played by white guys. When there was a major role for an Indian, Hollywood turned to a white actor and put him in brownface. Peter Sellers was great in The Party—“Birdie num num.” Fisher Stevens played an Indian in Short Circuit 2, a film my dad counted among his favorites. When I asked him why, Dad said, “Because there’s an Indian in it!”
When I told him that Fisher Stevens wasn’t Indian, Dad shrugged. “Eh, it’s as close as we’ll get.” Those words stuck with me. This was America. Was that really the ceiling for me?
Since Hollywood was never going to let me play with their ball, I made a decision to make my own ball. I started a comedy group and learned how to write and direct movies. My secret mantra became: Oh, you don’t think an Indian kid can do that? Watch me, motherfucker. So I, along with my friends, wrote a script called Puddle Cruiser. We raised the money and shot it. I cast myself in the role of Zach, a college student, who spoke in my own voice. The film got into Sundance, as did our next film, Super Troopers, and the rest is history. Well, not exactly, but the rest—you’re about to read the rest.
To be clear, being Indian isn’t my whole story. Far from it. It’s just something that informed my entry point into show business. Had I been white, I would have approached this business differently. I would have graduated from Colgate, moved out to Hollywood, auditioned as an actor, and hoped for the best. I never would have learned to write or direct, because I wouldn’t have thought that I had to. Had I been white, I never would have made Super Troopers, Beerfest, or any of my other films, because I wouldn’t have known how.
Look, I know I’m lucky—lucky to have this career, which pays me to write and direct movies and television shows, and sometimes to act in them. I’ve had enormous ups and some pretty big downs, but, on balance, I’m grateful—grateful, but not comfortable, because this business is not designed to make you comfortable.
Every week, someone asks me to talk to their son or daughter about their decision to pursue a career in show business. They want advice. “How did you do it? How did you get to make films with your college friends?” And while they’re interested in my story, what they really want to know is, how can they do it? Here’s what I tell them:
“Before you load your car for the drive to the left coast, let me warn you: At its core, this is a business of rejection. It’s a massive ocean of ‘no’ surrounding tiny, almost invisible islands of ‘yes.’ Even Super Troopers endured seventy-five ‘nos’ before we got to ‘yes.’ And though Los Angeles is known for always being sunny, there’s an unseen cloud of sadness hanging over it, filled with the dashed dreams of the millions of talented people who came out here and didn’t get lucky. So if you can’t handle rejection, turn back now. Give up while you still have the chance to do something else. Show business doesn’t need you. We’re doing just fine without you. Stop trying to take my job. There are enough writers, directors, and actors in Hollywood already. Go home. Your mama’s calling! Fuck off!”
Still thinking about it? Okay, then read on. How one deals with the avalanche of rejection is the single most important determiner of who actually makes it and who doesn’t. For some, hearing “no” is like blowing out their pilot light. For others, “no” is pouring gasoline onto a raging fire—a fire that won’t go out until they finally beat the impossible odds and make something great (and financially successful) that they can shove up show business’s ass.
Making films requires the creative skills you’d expect, but it also demands immense noncreative skills, like the ability to raise all that money and the savviness to work the studios’ politics. Indeed, the most prolific filmmakers are also great wheeler-dealers who spend a thousand hours networking, negotiating, raising money, and arm-twisting for every hour spent writing, performing, and shooting. This career is a relentless hustle, because Hollywood is crowded, with too many smart, talented people pursuing the same dream and the same pool of entertainment investment dollars. And unlike in law or medicine, there are no college degrees required—no barriers to entry. Just ask the Kardashians, who are riding a wave of stardom on the back of a sex tape. That’s who I’m competing with.
Filmmaking is the brutal intersection of art and commerce. When a painter messes up, he gets a new canvas and tries again. When a filmmaker messes up (loses money), he gets taken off the “hire list” and is relegated to “director jail.” I’ve been there. It’s not a nice place. Sustaining a career requires a combination of luck, persistence, talent, and more persistence. And when it all goes well, there’s nothing quite like the connection you make with an appreciative audience who seem to be saying, “We get you!” Or in my case, “Who wants a mustache ride?!”
But when it goes poorly—and if you hang around long enough, it will go poorly—you have to be mentally tough to withstand the sometimes gleeful wave of negativity that is heaped upon you by the media and in the Internet chat rooms. You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and say, “I know why I made that film, and I’m comfortable with the decision.”
—
What I’m talking about is creative integrity—something that is harder to come by today than ever before. And that’s because the corporate beast that swallowed Hollywood whole seems willing to fund only superhero movies, vampire movies, remakes of classic films, and movies based on toys. So what do you do? Where’s your integrity when you’re convincing yourself that you always wanted to make Monopoly, the Movie! Maybe I’m being too cynical, but in the end, we’ll be judged by the list of the films we made. And if you chase potential box office and forget what it was about your early films that made people pay attention, your audience will cry, “Sellout,” and turn away.
—
I’m going to tell you the story of how I used a combination of persistence, luck, hard work, partying, charm, strategy, and (I suppose) talent to make it in show business.
The stories I tell as a writer/director are fiction. These stories are true. I am going to tell you about the test I gave myself, which would determine whether I would even attempt a career in show business. I’ll tell you about how I met the members of Broken Lizard and about my early days as a stand-up. I’ll tell you about the films I made, including Puddle Cruiser, Club Dread, The Dukes of Hazzard, and Beerfest. I’ll tell you a lot about Beerfest, but more about . . . Super Troopers. I’ll also tell you about Super Troopers 2. Spoiler alert! There won’t be any spoilers!
I will also tell you what it was like to write, finance, shoot, edit, screen at Sundance, sell at Sundance, and have the film be released by a major studio. And I’ll tell you lots of other stories, like about directing Arrested Development, and about the time I told the creators of Entourage that the first episode of their show was unrealistic, unfunny, and uninteresting. (It quickly became my favorite show.) You’re not going to read a lot of gossip, but you will hear about my knock-down, drag-out, yelling fights with one of my childhood heroes, Burt Reynolds. And I’ll also tell you about smoking joints and hanging out with my other hero, Willie Nelson.
What follows is the story of a career that almost didn’t happen, that by probability shouldn’t have happened—an Indian kid trying to make it in Hollywood? Ha! Good luck with that. These are the stories of all of the nos I’ve heard, and how my pals in Broken Lizard and I hung around and turned
them into yeses. It’s a crazy business, but, man, do I love it.
When I started this book, I decided to write the stories exactly as I remembered them, regardless of how incriminating some of the details were. I figured I would go back later and “clean them up” for public consumption. But when I went back, I realized that the “clean” versions weren’t actually . . . anything. So in the spirit of the great Richard Pryor and the great Howard Stern, I’m going to be honest. Aside from changing some names to protect the guilty, this is what really happened . . .
CHAPTER 1
—
Childhood
My life as an American was not guaranteed. In fact, my existence on this planet was the result of a cosmic fluke. My parents were both born and raised in the town of Chennai (Madras) in South India. Both went to Madras Medical School, though they didn’t meet there.
My dad was the top student in medicine at the Madras Medical School. Twenty to thirty students would show up each night to observe him in the obstetrics wards. He was so good that they nicknamed him “the Professor.” His plan was to stay in India and become a doctor, but during the practical portion of the exam, he answered a single question wrong and, to the shock of his teachers, the external examiner failed him. So now he had a year to kill before he could retake the test. Or . . . Because of the Vietnam War, America had a doctor shortage and was recruiting doctors from India. One of his friends had an extra application for Queens General, so Dad applied and got accepted. Off he went to New York City. A year later, he moved on to the much more prestigious at the time Cook County Hospital in Chicago. My dad’s friend Badri (short for Badrinath, Beerfest fans) followed him there. A year later, my mom graduated from Madras Medical School and chose Cook County because of her friendship with Badri.
My mom arrived at O’Hare Airport in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter, wearing only a sari (an Indian dress) and a light coat. As she waited for a cab in sub-zero weather, a homeless guy approached, begging for money for food. A soft touch, Mom gave him the only cash she had, a twenty-dollar bill. In a predicament of her own making, she called Badri collect to tell him that she had arrived and she needed cab fare. At two A.M., Badri and my father met my mom’s cab outside the dorm and paid her fare. For my dad it was love/lust at first sight, because he whispered to Badri, “I’m going to marry that girl.” Soon after, they started dating, and soon after that (months), my mom was pregnant. My parents got married in front of the justice of the peace, and then the fun started.
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