My biggest regret from Arrested Development was turning down the role of the veterinarian in the episode “Justice Is Blind.” Julia Louis-Dreyfus plays a blind prosecutor with a guide dog. When Michael takes her dog to the vet, the vet tells him that the guide dog is, in fact, blind, which makes Michael realize that Julia Louis-Dreyfus is lying about her being blind. Mitch wanted me to play the part so much that he named the character “Dr. Jay.” But I passed on the part, telling him that directing and acting was too hard, and I wanted to focus on making the scene great. That was cockamamie, considering I had directed and acted in two feature films already. The real reason I turned it down was because I wanted a bigger part. What a fucking fool. If I had done a great job as the vet, who knows? When actors do well in small parts, writers find reasons to bring them back. I could have been on-screen in Arrested Development. Sometimes I’m a fucking idiot.
As great as we all knew Arrested was, not enough people were watching, and the show died after three seasons.
ENTOURAGE
In 2003, New Line asked Broken Lizard to write a pitch for a new Cheech and Chong film, which was to be directed by Larry Charles, who, at the time, was most famous for being a writer on Seinfeld. New Line and Larry liked our pitch, but Larry wasn’t sure how writing with the five of us would work, so he asked if New Line could buy the idea from us, so that he could write it himself. We said, “Sure,” and sold it to them.
A few weeks later, my agent sent me the pilot for a new HBO show called Entourage. He said the producers were fans and wanted to talk to me about directing episodes. The show was about four young guys in Hollywood who were trying to make it in the film business. I had some real-life experience with the topic. I sat down to watch, and I hated it. While I wasn’t quite as famous or successful as Vince, I had had a taste of it, and this pilot didn’t feel accurate. Not even close. I called my agent to vent about how the show was neither funny nor good. “How could HBO pick this up?”
He didn’t let me pass. “They really want to meet you. Will you just take the meeting?” Big mistake.
At HBO, I was directed to a meeting room. Already there were Doug Ellin, the creator of the show, and, I’m pretty sure, Rob Weiss, a producer. Also there was my Cheech and Chong buddy, Larry Charles, who was also writing on the show. I was happy to see Larry and spent the first forty-five minutes talking to him about Cheech and Chong. I barely even looked at Doug or Rob. Eventually, one of them broke in. “So what did you think about Entourage?”
I exhaled. “Okay, here’s the thing. I didn’t think much of it. This world is a lot funnier and more interesting than what you portrayed. I don’t think I laughed once. Plus, it’s miscast. If I were you, I would recast everyone except the guy who played E.” With that rude and awkward statement, the meeting ended. I said good-bye to Larry and walked out. When I called my agent, I said, “Yeah, that show’s not gonna end up working out.”
When HBO launched Entourage the following year, I tuned in to laugh at it. But something had happened. The second episode was . . . good. And the third was better. The fourth topped the previous three. Wait, this show was actually good, really good. The show felt real and funny and authentic. Plus, the actors I previously didn’t like were fucking great. By the end of the first season, Entourage was my favorite show. I watched every episode through all eight seasons. I even loved the Sasha Grey season.
Over the next few years, I met Kevin Connolly and told him the story and then asked him to apologize to Doug for me. When I worked with Perrey Reeves, who played Mrs. Ari Gold, I told her the story and asked her to apologize to Doug for me. When I worked with Constance Zimmer, who played superagent Dana Gordon, I asked her to apologize to Doug for me. When I recently worked with Emmanuelle Chriqui on Super Troopers 2, I asked her to apologize for me.
So, I’m going to do it here: Doug and Rob, I’m sorry. I was an asshole and I didn’t know enough about television to have a little patience. You made a phenomenal show and I was 100 percent wrong about it. And I deeply regret not being nice to you and not being a part of your great show. I’m so sorry, guys.
Here’s the lesson: Pilots are often just okay. There’s so much pressure on them to be great, and so many people giving notes, that the final result can feel watered down. Most shows need a few episodes to find their voice and become the great shows that their creators originally imagined. I didn’t know that then. I know that now. Dummy.
COMMUNITY
Dan Harmon’s brilliantly hilarious show about community college was challenging for directors in the best of ways. While Community seemed simple on its surface, it tackled complex themes, and it broke many storytelling conventions. The show required directors to think.
The other challenging element to Community was that the scripts tended to be delivered on the late side. In a typical show, the director has five days to prep a show and five days to shoot. Usually, you’d get the script on the first day of prep and then spend those five days casting guest actors, choosing locations, and picking wardrobe. Community was such a personal reflection of Dan Harmon, that most of the scripts had to be rewritten directly by him. I get it. I might run a show that way too. The problem is that, in addition to writing scripts, the show runner is also responsible for editing the episodes. The job requires being in many places at the same time. It’s impossible and your work is never done. People put years on their lives running these shows, and Dan was no different.
I remember running into Dan in the hallway on Friday, the fifth day of prep. As we were chatting, he glanced toward the script in my hand. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Uh, it’s the script.”
He grabbed the script and pretended to leaf through it, before throwing it over his shoulder. “Fuck that. It’s junk. Total nothing. The real script is coming tonight!”
The next morning, I checked my email. No script. I checked again on Sunday night. Nothing.
On Monday at four A.M., my phone rang. It was the producer telling me that Dan’s script was in my email. Did I need someone to drive over a hard copy?
I got out of bed and read the script. As usual, it was fucking brilliant. This guy really knows how to write. Mad genius. No doubt.
But it was four thirty in the morning, and I needed to prep what we were going to shoot in two and a half hours. So I called the producer back with a list of all the things that were needed for the day’s work.
I might say, “I need six Hula-Hoops in every color because the script doesn’t specify. I need top hats in three colors. Get small, medium, and large, as we’re not sure who is playing the guy yet. I’m going to need a Steadicam. If you need names of operators, I have some,” etcetera.
Was it a high-wire act? Sure, but if we didn’t have what we needed to make the scene great, we waited for it to arrive. I work as fast as quality will allow.
Tone meetings with Dan were hilarious and unique. In a normal show’s tone meeting, the director meets the head writer in his office for an hour to talk about the script, jokes, tone, and levels of performance.
In one tone meeting with Dan, we met at a restaurant (Little Dom’s) on a Sunday afternoon. There was no script to discuss yet, so we talked about the history of the seven P.M. prime-time slot versus the eight P.M. slot. Dan asked about Beerfest, and then we went drink for drink during that three-hour “tone meeting,” with him downing white Russians and me drinking vodka south sides. We both had to cab it after that.
The cast on the show was special. Joel McHale was edgy and hilarious and loved making fun of my shoes. Ken Jeong had a bizarre comic energy that was extremely original. Jim Rash as the preposterously flamboyant Dean Pelton was a Maserati of comedy. Alison Brie was a money player and nailed everything she attempted. I love Al. Gillian Jacobs played the knee-jerk college liberal so perfectly that I couldn’t wait to hear her character speak. Danny Pudi and Donald Glover had such perfect timing that it felt like I only
had to call “action” to see something comedically world-class. Yvette Nicole Brown had a million funny facial moves. And Chevy was, well, he was a comedic hero of mine. On some days, he was okay being directed, and on others, not. I’m going to leave it at that out of respect for what the man accomplished in his storied career.
Community was an entirely original show that came from an entirely original mind. Due to uneven ratings but a dedicated and vocal fan base, it was canceled and brought back from the dead three times. During the last incarnation, I made sure to savor my time with Dan and the cast, knowing deep down that that sixth season was likely the end. Unless, of course, Dan comes through on his frequent mantra: “Six seasons and a movie!” Dan, I’m available.
KNIGHT RIDER
When my producer friend called to ask me how I felt about Knight Rider, I laughed. “I felt great about it when I was a kid.”
He told me he was producing the reboot and he wanted me to direct an episode. In TV, I take jobs for two reasons: either for art or because I’m friends with someone involved. In this case, I said yes for friendship.
On the first day of prep, I sat down to read the script and was surprised when Michael rolled down his car’s (KITT’s) window to talk to a hot girl. Look, I’ll admit it. I wasn’t the hugest Knight Rider fan, but I was pretty sure that KITT’s windows never rolled down. When I brought this up with one of the senior writers, he laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only Knight Rider.” It was then that I knew we were in trouble.
Though the original KITT was a Pontiac Trans Am, the 2008 KITT had become a Ford Shelby GT500KR. Ford was a sponsor of the show and also paid hefty fees to the network for product placement. Usually, with product placement, the company requests that its product be featured in the show in a complimentary way. Sometimes, actors will even say lines that are complimentary to the product, which can veer close to a commercial. I have no issues with any of that since the money the company is paying is very valuable to the budget of the show. Regardless, if the writers don’t feel like they can work the product in, they don’t. The story takes precedence. In the case of Knight Rider, the tail was wagging the dog.
When Ford wanted to show off the Explorer, they called the writers, and bang! KITT would morph into an Explorer. When Ford needed to sell vans, KITT turned into a van. When Ford wanted KITT to morph into a pink Mustang (in my episode), I almost walked. Not on my watch. Mercifully, they changed their minds and turned KITT into a pickup truck again—personal tragedy averted.
Though most of us were trying hard to make a great show, there was a feeling on set that we weren’t making high art. I was shooting a scene in the Knight Industries control room, where there were lots of TV screens with generic diagrams, scrolling numbers, and spy blizz-blazz on them. In front of the screens, model-good-looking actors were arguing, spouting generic tough-guy lines about the fate of the Western world. As I watched, I laughed, and then leaned in to one of the funnier writers on staff. “This show should be called ‘Models Talking Tough.’”
CHAPTER 18
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Super Troopers 2: Bigger Mustaches and Hopefully Funnier (or as Funny) Jokes
This won’t be popular, but it’s my book so I’m going to say it. We’re living through what might be the least creative period in American film history. Yes, there are writers and directors who have managed to keep making movies their way: Quentin Tarantino, Martin Scorsese, Richard Linklater, Kathryn Bigelow, Judd Apatow, Catherine Hardwicke, Seth Rogen, Jodi Foster, Todd Phillips, Elizabeth Banks, and more—I know there are plenty more. But if you compare the list of the top ten movies of each of the last three years to the top ten for, say, any three years between 1970 and 1999, it’s clear that the American film business has a creativity problem. This problem can be traced to something studio marketing departments consider to be the Holy Grail of modern film promotion, and it’s called “unaided awareness.”
When a film has “unaided awareness,” it means that the audience is either already a fan of the title or is at least aware of the title before the studio has even spent a cent on advertising. Mission Impossible was a hit TV show in the sixties and seventies, so when Paramount announced the movie, audiences said, Oh yeah, we love Mission Impossible. It’s that spy show with the great theme song that opens with a self-destructing tape. The movie has fans before the script has even been written. That is unaided awareness.
The other kind of film can only be described as being . . . original. I’m talking about films like Reservoir Dogs, Lost in Translation, Napoleon Dynamite, Being John Malkovich, Slacker, Dazed and Confused, Kids, City of God, Children of Men, Do the Right Thing, Mo’ Better Blues, The Hangover, Old School, Point Break, Rushmore, Bottle Rocket, and Super Troopers. These films had no preexisting fan base to lean on, but they thrived all the same.
When Searchlight bought Super Troopers, no one knew what the film was about. Through a great marketing campaign, which included a cool trailer and poster, Fox Searchlight told the audience that our film was about unconventional cops who enforce the law in their own unique way. But audiences had to take a chance. If they chose wrong and the film sucked, they would be out $9. But if they chose right, they would be proud because they would be on the cultural vanguard of their friend group.
Because making and promoting films is so expensive, studios are always looking for ways to mitigate risk. In the nineties, this led to the industry-wide opinion that films with unaided awareness were less risky bets. But this financial strategy became a disease that infected the entire filmmaking organism. Unaided awareness took over and became almost a requirement for green-lighting a movie.
In the seventies and eighties, filmmakers used to complain about how TV writers copied their ideas, making watered-down versions of their films. Smokey and the Bandit became The Dukes of Hazzard, while Ferris Bueller’s Day Off became a short-lived TV series. In fact, there’s a famous saying that film people use to denigrate TV people: “Imitation is the sincerest form of television.” That used to be true, but the film business’s thirst for unaided awareness has flipped that equation. Now TV is the place to go for originality.
First the studios raided their TV departments, making movies like The A-Team, 21 Jump Street, Batman, Starsky & Hutch, The Brady Bunch, Charlie’s Angels, Mission Impossible, S.W.A.T., and yes, The Dukes of Hazzard, to name just a few. When they ran out of TV shows, the studios turned to classic film remakes, like Dawn of the Dead, War of the Worlds, The Birdcage, The In-Laws, Ocean’s Eleven, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and more. I was once approached to remake Caddyshack. I told the producers that if I did that, comics in town would hang me from the Hollywood sign. (Frankly, I would pay for the rope.) You don’t repaint the Mona Lisa. I suggested a new golf comedy, which I had been working on, but the producers demurred. They knew that the studio only wanted a golf comedy with unaided awareness.
Soon the studios turned to toys, with films like The Lego Movie, Battleship, G.I. Joe, Mars Attacks, Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Hot Wheels. They went for video games, amusement park rides (Pirates of the Caribbean), and then, of course, superhero movies—more on that later.
You remember when we read in the financial pages about those major corporations that were buying up movie studios because they wanted a “media piece” for their portfolio? Well, this is the culture clash. As expensive as movies are, they are still inherently creative and artistic ventures. But aside from companies like Apple, which have deep creative streaks, most corporations aren’t built to care about creativity or art. They exist to make a profit, and not just a reasonable profit, but the maximum profit. This lust for maximum profit has transformed the film business, which was once the most creatively vibrant moneymaking machine in the world, into what is now feels like just a moneymaking machine.
The problem with the film business is . . . the business.
I’m going to tell you a story about a c
onversation I had with a friend of mine who used to run one of the major studios. We were in his office talking about what movies we could make together, when my friend said he (his company) needed $100 million comedies, starring any two of the guys on a short list: Johnny Depp, Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Will Ferrell, Mark Wahlberg. That was the whole list. They didn’t want comedies with anybody else. To back this up, his company would pay the stars $20 million each, which would leave us with $60 million to make the movie. Sounds like a good plan, right? Here’s the problem. The five guys on the list had stacks of $20 million offers from each of the major studios that were already sitting on their agents’ desks. The wait for these actors to read a script ranged from three months to never. Worse still, often, the script would get pre-rejected by a manager or agent who had a financial interest in pushing their client toward a different film. Okay, but let’s say a miracle happens, and one of these stars actually agrees to act in your film. Since these actors are booked for the next two years, you had better get ready to wait.
But since I was talking to the head of a studio, I swallowed my cynicism and said, “Great, let’s do that. I’ll write big-concept, two-hander comedies and we’ll attempt to cast guys off of this list. However, while we’re going down that road, why don’t we make five $20 million comedies. We’ll find big-concept, R-rated scripts, and we’ll hire hip, young, funny comics to star in them.” (I had my own list.) “That way, we’ll take a couple of chances, we’ll make some great movies, create some new stars, and we’ll make some money.”
My friend leaned back in his chair. “What’s the most one of those movies can make?”
“A hundred million dollars,” I said with reasonable confidence. They won’t all make that, but I bet one or two out of five will. And the rest will make a decent profit or at least break even.
Mustache Shenanigans Page 25
