by Apatow, Judd
Judd: You’ve had enough of TV comedy?
Michael: I’ve had enough. It’s frustrating, live TV. Actually, there’s a different way to do live television, but—
Judd: How would you like to do it?
Michael: Shoot it all with creepers.
Judd: With what?
Michael: Shoot it all with creepers—handheld cameras. Put the cameras on the stage with the actors. Can I use obscenities in this—where is this broadcast, because I’m watching my language as I talk.
Judd: We’ll bleep it out.
Michael: Ah, okay. Well, then. I don’t think anybody gives a flying fuck if they see a cameraman on a stage, okay? I don’t think anybody cares. It’s the liveness of it that they like. Not how technically perfect everything is. So that frustrated me. It frustrated me when I went back to Saturday Night Live and they wanted to shoot it the same old way.
Judd: Do you think when they did the “new” Saturday Night Live they should have changed it, and tried new things instead of the same things?
Michael: Jesus, yes. All TV knows is winning combinations. Of course they should have been trying something new, something interesting. Something that made us, in the first two or three years, look like fools—like Red Skelton or something, you know what I mean? It’s stupid.
Judd: What kind of humor don’t you like?
Michael: Almost everything. Aside from the stuff I write, there’s not much that appeals to me. I’ll watch—I like individual performances of people like Michael Keaton, who was wonderful in Night Shift. I’ll watch Shelley Long forever. Or somebody like Carol Kane, who’s a brilliant comedic actress. I like Andy Kaufman quite a bit. Richard Pryor’s great.
Judd: You don’t like the normal comedy—you like a different element in it.
Michael: Well, I think Erik Estrada is the funniest man in America. I will say that. I watch CHiPs. I suffer for CHiPs. It’s so stupid, those big yo-yos on motorcycles. Just kills me. You know, like most people, I like The Jetsons. Who doesn’t? But there’s not too much out there for me.
Judd: Are there any topics you think shouldn’t be discussed in comedy? I guess that’s silly to ask.
Michael: No, no, I’ve never found anything that’s—
Judd: Even like topics like cancer?
Michael: Especially cancer. I’ve always found cancer an amusing weapon—I’ve always found, ah, anything that creates tension, tension and release, and cancer creates major tension.
Judd: When did you first start working in comedy?
Michael: That’s hard to say. I was a serious literary writer writing for the Evergreen Review, doing poetry and stuff like that. And then I slid off into a comic strip called The Adventures of Phoebe Zeit-Geist, which I did in the late sixties, middle sixties, and then somehow I ended up at the National Lampoon. Then I slid into show business. It sort of shocks me to realize that I’m in the same profession as Charo and Sonny Bono. But I am—I slid into that at the National Lampoon radio office. Which I started in about ’73, and I quit later and John Belushi took it over.
Judd: Now, what kind of comedy did you do on the radio hour?
Michael: Essentially the sort of the thing that they’re doing on Saturday Night Live. I had very much the same cast—John and Chevy and Gilda and Bill Murray, odd people like Steve Collins, who’s now been in Tales of the Gold Monkey. I had a great group of people, plus a lot of the writers for Saturday Night Live. It was very much like Saturday Night Live, but it was a little freer because radio’s a little freer. But it’s not quite as powerful. We did most of the scenes—John had some great characters, which he never created on Saturday Night Live—
Judd: Such as?
Michael: He did a guy called Craig Baker, the Perfect Master—the eighteen-year-old perfect master—and it was just funny. It’s the concept of—instead of this guy living in India, he was just like this asshole kid who lived out in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. Which is where John is from. And Indians would come to seek guidance from this dumb kid. It was funny. He just said, “Well, drink a lot of beer and go to Fort Lauderdale, and you need to mellow out, man.”
Judd: How did this all lead into Saturday Night Live?
Michael: Lorne Michaels, the producer of Saturday Night Live, heard the show. And Chevy had let it be known that Marilyn Miller, who had been writing for Mary Tyler Moore, was a big Lampoon fan, and she recommended me to Ed Bluestone, who used to write for the National Lampoon. A very good writer. So Lorne had heard of me in a variety of ways. I was in the middle of starting a new humor magazine at that time, and I went in to sign a contract on this, with Stan Lee—
Judd: Then at Marvel Comics.
Michael: Yes, exactly. And the wing of that company went bankrupt and Lorne had kept offering me a television show and I didn’t want to do television. Then I had no choice but to do television or magazine—I had no way to earn money, so I said, “Okay, I’ll do your television show.” I was sort of backed into it.
Judd: How did they decide what kind of show they wanted?
Michael: Well, they didn’t—this got decided by getting a bunch of smart people in a room. The results were that show.
Judd: Now, when Saturday Night Live started, weren’t you a prime-time player?
Michael: I was for the first show, as a matter of fact. And then, I don’t know why I was eliminated from that slot—I think it was because Lorne was having some problems with Chevy. But I’m not a particularly good actor.
Judd: But you starred in the first sketch of the series?
Michael: I did. I did the first sketch. The Wolverine sketch. God, that was scary.
Judd: Why is that?
Michael: Because nobody’d ever done live television. Twenty million people are watching you. My little heart goes thump, thump, thump, thump. I thought I was going to pass out from fear.
Judd: So it was only for the first show that you were a prime-time player?
Michael: I think I was in the second show as a prime-time player, too. And then I was dumped somehow. I don’t know.
Judd: Why weren’t you on the show more often?
Michael: Lorne didn’t like me in the show that much.
Judd: Really?
Michael: Yeah. I wish I had been on the show more. It was always a problem about writing and acting for that show at the same time. All this crap about—
Judd: Isn’t there a lot of competition being on the show?
Michael: You bet.
Judd: Were you on the show straight through for the entire original run?
Michael: No, I quit after three years.
Judd: Why?
Michael: People were giving me shit. At a certain point, I didn’t want to go through these comic meetings where my work was discussed. I figured I’d proven that I could write stuff. I just wanted to do what I wanted to do. I got fed up with the whole process.
Judd: Because I can see how they would question putting some of your stuff on the air.
Michael: Yeah, me, too.
Judd: I can see how somebody could question, you know, the Mike Douglas sketch. [Michael would come out and do an impression of Mike Douglas if giant knitting needles were driven into his eyes.]
Michael: Well, you know, they actually went for that one easy. I don’t know why. I used to do it at parties with my friends. I originally did it on National Lampoon Radio Hour. And then I would do it to entertain the people at Saturday Night Live, and finally somebody said, “Let’s put that on the air if it gives us laughs.” That was always our standard. If it makes us laugh, it should make them laugh. And it did, in a way.
Judd: The other night, I saw—do you ever watch the repeats?
Michael: No.
Judd: Why not?
Michael: Because I don’t live in the past. That just dredges—I know exactly where I was during that period. It’s like asking about Beatles songs. I don’t care anymore. Game over.
Judd: What kind of arguments did you get in with the censors?
> Michael: Well, the censors were actually pretty nice people. They had this concept that people turning the dial would hit NBC and go, “Ah, NBC: the quality network. Oh, now my children are safe to watch this.” But people have no idea what network they’re watching.
Judd: What would be examples of the skits they didn’t let on?
Michael: Oh, a lot of ’em. The thing I got fired over last time was this piece about NBC president Fred Silverman called “The Last Ten Days in Silverman’s Bunker.” It’s built with Fred Silverman as Adolf Hitler and they would not let it on. It was a twenty-minute sketch starring John Belushi as Silverman. Twenty minutes. And they fired me for having written it.
Judd: They ripped Silverman up in the show, though.
Michael: But not the way I ripped him up. They pretended to rip him up. I ripped him up.
Judd: So this is when you left the show. This is the—
Michael: This is the last time. Grant Tinker, the president of NBC, personally axed me. That bitch.
Judd: What were the contents of that skit that were so—
Michael: It’s been a long time. It, ah—you sort of had to see. Silverman always had some new wacky idea of some show that was going to bring him back on top. It was all Silverman talking to his generals. He had a show called Look Up Her Dress, and the camera was right under these women’s dresses. Women would stand on a big Plexiglas thing, and if they missed one question, we’d look up their dress—it was all these silly giggle shows, you know, that this guy wanted. He was very clever, it was very smart.
Judd: And then you left the show—what did you do in between the time you left and when you came back?
Michael: I wrote a song for Dolly Parton called “Single Women.”
Judd: Are you serious?
Michael: I am serious. Top ten. One of the top ten country songs in the country. In fact, I just wrote two more country songs. It’s easy. It’s just a skill I have.
Judd: I don’t know if you’re kidding.
Michael: I swear to God. See, I wrote a lot of music for the show. I wrote music for Madeline Kahn.
Judd: “Antler Dance”?
Michael: I wrote “The Antler Dance.” Of course, the legendary “Antler Dance.” I wrote “The Castration Waltz.” And then I wrote “Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals” for the Gilda Radner show. And suddenly it occurred to me: Why am I writing these novelty songs when I could be writing real songs and collecting real royalties on ’em? So I did, and I did.
Judd: Why did you decide to come back to Saturday Night Live in 1981?
Michael: Money and the promise that I could do whatever I wanted. As it so happened I was totally boxed by a big towheaded dork called Dick Ebersol and his Judas accomplice, Robert Tischler. And they hired people like—ah, you know, not a box of talent between all of them. All I had was Eddie Murphy and Joe Piscopo, who’s decent. Lame writers. I was totally miserable. I was nuts and finally they fired me.
Judd: So when you came back, did you know as soon as you got there that this wasn’t gonna work?
Michael: Yeah, I began to get some idea. I tried. I brought in a couple people, but really—we just couldn’t do anything, it was impossible, and I actually sort of engineered it so I’d get fired.
Judd: So you wrote that skit that got you fired because you wanted to get fired?
Michael: Oh, yeah, I was asking for it. “Come get me.” I was just being so obnoxious. I was dressing like a maniac. I was attacking the cast. I did something so funny. There was a Christmas show, and afterwards, there was a meeting. And they came in, they thought I was gonna give them presents or something. I did. I gave them an honest evaluation of their talent. I ripped them apart.
Judd: What did you say?
Michael: I was on a roll. I was just on a tear and I went through every one of ’em. Ah, they made me angry.
Judd: Did you write anything at all that you liked?
Michael: I wrote some things—I did the TransEastern Airline ad during that period. I did, I don’t know, a couple of things I like. But it was uphill all the way.
Judd: And then you left and now you’re working on a screenplay?
Michael: I’m working on a screenplay with Mitch Glaser, one of the writers from Mondo Video, on a detective story set in Miami. I think we’re about forty-five pages in.
Judd: And what kind of story is it?
Michael: It’s a serious detective movie with real violence and real villains. The hero is a funny kind of guy. He’s an asshole. He likes to jerk people around; that’s how he gets his kicks. Somewhat like me in a way. Very much based upon me.
Judd: What’s gonna be in the screenplay that the masses are going to enjoy?
Michael: Sex and violence, you know. They always go for that. This is just loaded with sex and violence. It’s very funny.
Judd: And people will like it? I mean it’s not just for people who like and enjoy humor, but I’m sure, you know—
Michael: I don’t care about people over forty-five. They can be tossed in a shallow grave, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t write to them. Let Masterpiece Playhouse or something write for them. I write for people younger than myself. My target group’s about twenty to twenty-five—always has been.
Judd: If you could move into doing whatever you want to do in the future, what would it be?
Michael: Rule the earth. And people would have to do whatever I say, and give me their stuff—all their stuff belongs to me if I want it. It’d be great.
MIKE NICHOLS
(2012)
I met Larry Gelbart at the end of his life, and I’ve always regretted that I didn’t get to spend more time with him. I was juggling a bunch of projects at the time, basically just being my distracted self, and when he died, I had this feeling of devastation. Because I realized I had missed it. I should have found a way to connect with him more.
So, when I was introduced to Mike Nichols, I resolved not to make the same mistake again. I was alert to the idea that every moment with him was precious. I asked questions, I listened. He was already in his eighties, but still sharp as a tack, funny as can be, but also incredibly open and willing to tell me anything I wanted to know about his journey and his work. When I would have breakfast with him, I would record our conversations because I knew he was saying so many things I would want to remember for the rest of my life.
When This Is 40 came out, I screened it for him in New York City, and I remember him coming up to me afterward. He had tears in his eyes because he was so moved by how personal it was, which was wonderful to hear, but really what I came away thinking was: This man is so connected emotionally, so moved by human beings and touched by our struggle. That was his genius. He was completely plugged in to the human experience, and what was dramatic and humorous about it. I miss him.
Judd Apatow: This is so exciting. I’m such a gigantic fan of yours. Many years ago, when I first tried to write a good screenplay, I wrote a screenplay with Owen Wilson. We drove across America, trying to write it, and I remember being in a hotel, watching The Graduate. We took out notepads and outlined it because we were trying to understand how it worked and we didn’t understand. We were trying to figure out how much information the movie gave about Benjamin, the main character. And so we just wrote down everything. Like, we don’t know anything about him. All we know is he ran track and worked for the school paper and had no friends.
Mike Nichols: It’s funny. I’m trying to think back to what we said to each other about Benjamin. We said very little to define him because we’d had this very strange experience, which was as we saw boy after boy come in to play him, it never seemed right. We’d seen every actor in the country in that age range, which was actually seventeen to thirty—that’s how old Dustin was at the time. Thirty. He was, in fact, two years younger than Anne Bancroft. But I had seen him playing a transvestite fishwife in a play called Journey of the Fifth Horse, which was a sort of Russian-type play. And I said, “I like that guy. Why don’t we have
him in to test?” He had that strange thing, which I had experienced in the only other movie I’d ever made, Virginia Woolf: He was better when he was on film than when you were looking at him. Certain actors have a deal with Technicolor. In the bath overnight, they do things to them. Somehow, we couldn’t get him out of our heads. The whole thing of casting—tell me, how do you feel about casting? Do you outline who you’re looking for, or do you wait to see who turns you on?
Judd: That’s a good question. When we did Freaks and Geeks, we knew we wanted real kids and we decided that they didn’t even have to be actors. Wes Anderson had just made Bottle Rocket, which had all these strange people in it—people who were his friends from Dallas, like Kumar [Pallana], who’s in all of his movies and who’s, like, just a magician who owned a coffee shop. And I thought, Wow, he’s finding all these interesting guys and putting them in his movie and teaching them how to act. And it seemed to make the work better. Once we liked someone, we tried to work with them again. It’s scary meeting new people.
Mike: It’s interesting that Wes, you, and Louis C.K. are all people who are deliberately going in the other direction—untheatrical, unleading people, uneverything. It’s so refreshing and—in This Is 40, what I got excited about was that nobody has ever done a movie that was absolutely reality. For real, actual reality, actual wife, actual daughters, actual jokes about each other and you, together. You have to have an incredibly finely tuned sense of how far you can go. You have some kind of sense of what’s perfectly okay. I don’t know. You either have it or you don’t.
Judd: Maybe we should take a look at a clip from one of your movies, just to embarrass me.
Mike: Can we do a clip that I brought that’s not from one of my movies? I’m very boring on this particular subject. This is a moment where I think we can watch an actress invent movie acting. Sound movies didn’t happen until about 1930. That’s how young talking movies are. And there was a stage when movies were like plays: They were photographed. And then after that, they were like plays photographed with some reality beginning to show except in the acting, because the acting was still catching up. You can see, in this clip, that they are character actors and they’re very good but they, you could put them a mile away on the stage. And then here comes Garbo and you can actually see her in this clip—you can see the character thinking something, realizing something about herself. It’s not Traviata, it’s Camille, which is the same plot as La Traviata—namely, a very fancy courtesan falls in love with this young guy and they’re happy and his father comes to see her and says, “Please, please give him up. You’re ruining his career, he’s not gonna get the post he hoped for.” And she decides to do it. But the only way she can do it is to go to the man that she’s most afraid of, the guy who used to own her, who she worked for full-time, which is what courtesans did. There was somebody who owned them and kept them very fancy. So she goes back to him, and—Armand is his name—he goes away unhappy. Then he comes back and there’s a scene where they run into each other in the casino. And what I want you to watch for is the moment, right at the end, where she thinks, Oh my God, look at me, I’m a cliché. Let’s look at it.
