Once I started writing for the show, a clear pattern emerged. I had been hired by Al Franken and Jim Downey, not Lorne Michaels. Which was strange; it felt like being asked to play on a Beatles album by Ringo. No disrespect at all to Al and Jim. They’re great guys with great comic minds. But it was clear that there was one leader at SNL. Period.
So, from day one I was never really part of Lorne Michael’s “group.” He had clear favorites among the performers and writers, the ones whom he invited to dinner and events. Subtlety was never Lorne’s forte. You’d walk out of a meeting with him and twenty other people, and Lorne pretty much singled out those he wanted to join him to eat afterward. I always felt left out because, well, I was.
And not just socially. Lorne never really responded to many of my pitches, and when I handed in my sketches I didn’t get much feedback from him. But I wasn’t too concerned, since Franken and Downey remained huge supporters. They approved a lot of my pitches, so much so that Al and I wound up writing a few sketches together. And they were both very complimentary of the sketches that I did get on the air (although there weren’t a ton of them).
What made matters worse was that the more I felt Lorne rebuke me, the more I pulled away. I’d even purposely avoid him if I saw him coming down the hall or chatting with people. I felt the best way to handle his indifference toward me was to just stay out of his way.
Lorne Michaels has a small sign on his desk at SNL, and it reads “The Captain’s Word Is Law.” It’s a fitting nautical reference, since at times working there felt like being caught in a perfect storm. (From what I hear, it still graces his desk twenty-eight years later.) I really should have gotten the clear message from that sign. Instead of running away, I should have tried to penetrate his inner circle and draw out of him more thoughts on my work and how to make an impact at the show. Basically, I should not have taken his “no” for an answer. Plain and simple, pleasing Al and Jim didn’t mean I was pleasing Lorne. I should have been more aware of that, instead of foolishly thinking I was somehow protected by being liked by his Number Twos.
I wound up getting fired at the end of the season. (Well, not really “fired.” It’s a weird system there. They simply never call your agent and ask you back.) But no hard feelings. I wasn’t fully ready to become a writer then, and I did long to get back to my stand-up full-time. That turned out to be the right decision, because my act really grew and flourished most after my writing job at SNL. After all, I’d been part of an all-star team of writers that included Jack Handey, Don Novello, John Swartzlander, George Meyer, Bruce McCulloch, Mark McKinney, and Robert Smigel, who was an “apprentice” writer at the time (I used to tease him that it was a guild regulation that he always wear safety goggles while writing sketches).
Still, I wish I knew then what I know now, and I hope you’ll benefit from knowing now what I didn’t know then. Whatever workplace you’re in, always aim to please the captain. It matters, even if the first mate is ecstatic with your performance, because it’s the captain who ultimately decides who stays onboard. If, like I did, you sense that the one person in charge isn’t thrilled with what you’re doing, ask for feedback and figure out how to correct your course. Because flying under the radar is a passive tactic that will eventually get you tossed off the ship.
Can you pick out the only woman on the SNL writing staff?
Top row: Don Novello, John Swartzwelder, Mark McKinney, Jack Handey, Tom Davis.
Middle row: Bruce McCulloch, Robert Smigel, Carol Leifer, George Meyer.
Bottom row: A. Whitney Brown, Lanier Laney, Terry Sweeney, Lorne Michaels, Al Franken, James Downey.
CHAPTER 14
FRANK SINATRA CALLED ME BIG
Don’t think that the deepest valley of your career can’t produce the greatest moment of your life.
If there’s one constant I’ve experienced through all my many years in business, it’s that there are peaks and valleys. (Another constant? Somebody always shoves a bottle of water in my hand before going in for a TV pitch. It’s a meeting, people, not a 5K race.) Whatever your calling, the real test of your career longevity will come during the valleys. How will you rally and pick yourself up during those downtimes? That’s the true challenge.
In 1989, I was deep in the valley.
My stand-up bookings were going from bad to worse. My agency couldn’t even get me arrested. (This was back when an arrest didn’t get you the cover of People and a series deal.) It can happen with talent agencies. They pay lots of attention to you in the “honeymoon phase,” but after a while they start to lose interest and think there’s someone newer, younger, and better out there. Sort of what it must be like to date George Clooney.
So, I was pleasantly surprised when I went on vacation in St. Thomas and ran into Rodney Dangerfield’s agent … let’s call him Shecky. I’d met him a year earlier when Rodney had picked me to be part of his HBO Young Comedians special. Shecky asked how my career was going, and I shared how disappointed I was that I didn’t get a bigger pop from the Rodney special. Shecky suggested I get in touch when we were both back in New York. He said he’d love to sit down and talk about representing me. I was over the moon.
Three weeks later, I met with Shecky at his office in Midtown Manhattan. We reviewed the gigs I had done over the past year, where they were, and how much I was paid. Shecky was not impressed, to put it mildly.
“You did Governor’s Comedy Club on Long Island for fourteen hundred dollars? Man, they got you cheap.”
“Coconuts only paid you two grand? They sure hit bargain basement when they booked you!”
And on and on … Shecky scoffed at every single gig I’d done over the last twelve months. Then he assured me that if I signed with him, he would raise my price dramatically and I would easily be earning twice what I had been. Making that decision seemed like an absolute no-brainer.
Cut to six months later …
Not only was I not earning double what I made before, but the gigs Shecky did land me were the bottom of the barrel. Like … a stand-up gig at the Ground Round restaurant on the Jersey Turnpike. For those of you unfamiliar with the franchise, it’s like Applebee’s, minus the pretension. One of the charms of the chain was that diners threw their discarded peanut shells on the restaurant’s sawdust floor. Imagine trying to land jokes against the background of that nutty din.
I just didn’t get it. I would call Shecky regularly and ask him what was up. Where were all the plum dates with the big ka-ching? “Carol, I’m working on a big gig for you. Opening for Frank, so sit tight.”
Dinner at the captain’s table, a perk of working a cruise. But … who’s steering the ship?
“Frank, who?” I would ask incredulously. “Frank Stallone? Because that’s around the level of the gigs you’ve been getting me.”
“Frank Sinatra,” Shecky said. “In Vegas.”
Oh, sure. You can’t get me beyond a Jersey Turnpike exit. Opening for Frank Sinatra? Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.
I scraped along as best I could the next few months. I took any gig Shecky threw me, because what else could I do? And each time I would call and confront him about my situation, it was an exact replay of the conversation we’d had countless time before.
“Frank, Carol. Frank!”
About six months later, I was working a cruise ship to Bermuda. (A gig, I might add, that I booked myself. I had given up on Shecky and started to solicit myself to anyone who had a legitimate gig, on land or at sea.) One day while I was playing paddle tennis on the upper deck, an announcement came over the loud speaker:
“CAROL LEIFER! CAROL LEIFER! PHONE CALL FOR CAROL LEIFER!”
My heart raced. In 1989, if you got a telephone call on a cruise ship, it meant one of two things. Either your house had burned down or a parent had died.
But in my case there was a third option. It was Shecky, calling to say that he had just booked me to open for Frank Sinatra. I was shocked! So much so that I made only one trip that night to the m
idnight buffet.
And lo and behold, a month later I opened for Frank Sinatra at Bally’s hotel in Las Vegas. Turned out, Shecky knew Sinatra’s manager Jilly Rizzo very well, and that led to my booking. It was as surreal an experience as I’ll ever have. I met Mr. Sinatra before the first show. Jilly escorted me to his dressing room. And I met Frank Sinatra—while he was wearing the top half of his tux and only boxer shorts on the bottom. Still, even half-dressed … I’m meeting Frank Sinatra!
I did four shows with Mr. Sinatra, and they all went like gangbusters. To a large degree I attribute that success to a piece of advice my good friend and fellow comic Larry Miller shared with me. I told Larry before the gig that I was really nervous. As rabid as Sinatra’s fans were, why would they want to endure the girl comic beforehand?
Larry said, “Carol, you’ve got it all wrong. The audience is going to be looking at you like, ‘This is Frank’s girl! He chose her out of everyone to be his opening act, so she must be fantastic.’ ”
Larry was right on the money. I opened each show with, “I was so happy when Mr. Sinatra asked me to join him here at Bally’s …” And then I was off and running.
Frank Sinatra was a complete gentleman at all the shows I opened for him. First of all, he put my name on the marquee alongside his. I know that may not sound like much, but many of the stars in Vegas at that time wouldn’t give their opening comics any billing. (My good friend Bill Maher once opened for a big star who wouldn’t put his name up with hers. I won’t say who, but her talent is supreme.) Second, at each and every show, Mr. Sinatra brought me back out for a bow before he started his set. What a class, class act.
About to meet Mr. S.
A couple of times, Mr. Sinatra even personally complimented me to the audience as I took my bow. At one show, he brought me back onstage and said, “That’s one funny broad! I wish my mother had been that funny, I wouldn’t have had to work so hard.” On another night he said, “Carol Leifer! She’s big! She’ll knock you over for the phone!” To this day, I still wish I knew what he meant by that.
(As a writer, here’s something I especially appreciate about Frank Sinatra: Before every song he performed, he would credit the composer and lyricist. He felt their artistry was so important that it merited mention. Frank was a breed of performer that’s hard to find these days.)
Opening for Frank Sinatra remains the single greatest moment of my career. It’s that rare thing when fantasy meets reality to such a surreal degree. And it happened at one of the lowest points of my career. Somehow, the stars were aligned the day I got that call on the cruise ship. (By the way, if you thought you don’t like people on land …)
Unfortunately, that gig from Shecky was a fluke. Shecky and I stopped working together because, right after Frank, it was back to being booked at the “Ha Ha’s” and “Sir Laff-a-Lots” of the comedy world.
But much like an idiot savant, Shecky will always be fondly remembered by me as my “agent savant.” The dude got me gigs in some of the worst dives I’ve ever imagined, but he obliterated all of them in one fell swoop with that top-of-the-food-chain booking in Vegas.
So, when you find yourself in a career nadir of your own, take heart. Find humor in the situation if you can (see Chapter 12, “Heckled by Stephen Hawking”). Work hard to climb out of the valley. And keep in mind that once in a while, a deep dark crevasse may hide the most fantastic experience of your life.
And here’s a suggestion to the Ground Round restaurants that still dot our nation’s turnpikes: Edamame is a healthy low-sodium treat, and the shells are soft and quiet.
My “Frank” contract for Vegas.
CHAPTER 15
THE SHOW ABOUT NOTHING TAUGHT ME SOMETHING
Being a writer on Seinfeld was all about one thing—the big idea. That was the currency that kept you afloat or got you tossed.
And don’t all businesses run on good ideas? Even if you’re just selling hot dogs, you need to come up with ways to make people want your hot dogs more than the other guy’s hot dogs (like, sell them with papaya juice). Sure, in some workplaces you can get pretty far by clocking in on time, complimenting the boss’s tie, and never using more than your allotment of paper clips. But whatever your profession, I bet that sooner or later, a good idea will be the thing that gets you noticed.
At Seinfeld, we learned the importance of ideas pretty quickly. As soon as each season began, the first order of business was to secure time with Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld to go into their office and pitch. (Yes, their office. They were a team who worked with their desks literally pushed up against each other, like two concert pianists.)
Until you had a good idea that Larry and Jerry both loved and signed off on, you didn’t have squat to write. There were no “assignments” at Seinfeld. It was the only sitcom I’ve ever worked on that didn’t have a “room”—that is, a group of writers sitting around a table littered with junk food, trying to come up with story ideas or “beat” (top) one another’s jokes. In most places, the writers are assigned a script, and they go off and complete a first draft on their own. But when that first draft comes back, the bulk of the rewriting goes on in the “room.”
Jerry and Larry in their office at Seinfeld.
Seinfeld was clearly its own animal, which is a big reason I was lucky enough to be hired in the first place. Larry and Jerry specifically wanted to hire writers who had never written on a network sitcom. So the mountain of spec scripts that had been submitted by seasoned writers from Murphy Brown, Cheers, and the other hit shows of the time were all nixed. The guys wanted a fresh perspective, from writers who came clean to the task. And being stand-up comics themselves, Larry and Jerry had a bent for hiring fellow stand-ups and buddies.
Pitching your ideas at Seinfeld was tough. Especially getting Larry David to bite. Larry had this physical tic when he was bored: he’d stretch his shoulder down from his neck and then move his arm around in a circle, looking like he was in pain. I’d pitch, Larry would listen while doing a lap with his shoulder, then at the end he’d often just shake his head and declare, “No, I don’t love that one.” I remember that the biggest putdown Larry could say after a pitch was “I could see that on another show.” Ouch! Knowing the visceral disdain he had for sitcoms on network television, that piece of rejection always cut me to the bone.
But when a pitch worked, there was no better feeling. From the first day, I could tell that the number one rule of pitching to Larry and Jerry was to be concise. One or two sentences, which would hopefully be punctuated at the end by a big laugh from both of them. With anything too long, you could feel them drifting off and almost hear them thinking, “Get to it, man!”
Knowing that, I got straight to the point when I pitched “George brings a deaf woman to a party so she can lip-read his ex-girlfriend’s lips to find out why she broke up with him.” It broke Larry’s shoulder spell. I knew I’d landed a winner because when he liked an idea, Larry would literally leap out of his chair and shout, “Yes! That’s a show! We’re doing that!”
(The inspiration for that episode came from listening to The Howard Stern Show. Kathy Buckley, a deaf comedian, had talked with Howard about what a proficient lip reader she was. It made me think that, were she a friend of mine, how I would have mined that superhero skill for personal gain!)
Pitching at Seinfeld also drove home a valuable strategy I’d learned as a stand-up comedian: to mine my own life—especially my life as a female (see Chapter 9, “The Singer, Then the Ventriloquist, Then the Chick”)—for ideas that were distinctive and would set me apart. For example, it’s doubtful that a male writer would have pitched “Elaine thinks the manicurists at her nail salon are talking about her in Korean behind her back.” I’ll never know for sure, but I still think the ladies were doing that at my nail place. (Though who cares; I get free manicures to this day because the owner’s still thrilled that we used the real name of her store on the show.) Or “Elaine thinks that the mirrors at Barneys are skinny mirrors.�
� I knew this one was a unique pitch for sure when I had to explain to the guys on staff what “skinny mirrors” are.
I was a fake date for a gay male friend once, accompanying him on an evening with his banker boss and wife at the Hollywood Bowl, which became the inspiration for the episode “The Beard.” I can pretty much assure you that not one of the guys on staff had ever been a beard for a lesbian. And though I never dated a saxophone player, my imagination ran wild about what sexual act, if performed on a woman for too long, would ruin his embouchure—a story point of “The Marble Rye.” (I still can’t believe that in 1995 the network never gave us one bit of resistance to that episode. The perks of being on a hit show—they leave you alone!)
The only pitfall of being on the writing staff of TV’s number one comedy was the constant flux of people coming up to you on a daily basis to share their brilliant ideas for the next episode. (Although the same thing would routinely happen to me as a comedian. People will tell you the worst or most offensive joke possible, or an incredibly boring anecdote, and then say, “You should put that in your act.” Umm … no thanks.)
On set with Jason Alexander.
Hello, Newman!
I usually took those Seinfeld suggestions with a polite grain of salt and then tried to move on as gracefully as I could. But when a friend from high school told me how this couple had gone to a dinner party, bringing a bread that was never served, and then they wound up taking the bread back home out of spite … I knew right away this was an idea that would make Larry leap to his feet. That idea morphed into the core story of the abovementioned classic “Marble Rye” episode. So whatever business you’re in, always keep a friendly ear out for a random pitch that you can spin into something viable. As my mother (and many other Jewish women) used to say, “You never know …”
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying Page 8
