Nevertheless Page 18
I found that the world of independent film was changing underneath my feet as well. Production companies were offering interesting roles to good actors, but the budgets were plummeting and so were the paychecks, unless you ranked among the biggest stars. It appeared that Hollywood had come to heed Katzenberg’s prescient admonitions regarding the old, unsustainable economics of the movie business. TV was becoming the only place you could get paid, if getting paid was part of your plan. A great migration was occurring, as TV, and especially cable and then streaming services, gambled on the more complex, darker material that both film audiences and actors sought. People spoke of a new “Golden Age of Television,” and I had seen the example of Jimmy Gandolfini, who I had worked with on Streetcar in 1992. By 2006, Jimmy was heading toward the end of his remarkable run on The Sopranos. He’d won every award, the show had made him rich, and the role of Tony Soprano put him on the map as one of the most respected actors in the business.
In early 2006, before the voicemail incident, I pitched a television pilot, a political drama, to FX, and their executives sounded inclined to make it. As we began the most preliminary talks about the project, Lorne Michaels called me. He said he had a project—a sitcom—that he was producing for NBC and he wanted to cast me in the ensemble. Here it was: a job with a regular schedule that meant I could reliably travel to LA to see Ireland, who was eleven years old. Lorne, as you may know, is rather persuasive. And the next thing I knew, I was drinking an iced coffee on the set of his latest comedy venture, embarking on a role that would bring me something I hadn’t had in a long while: an audience.
13
Lemon, There Is a Word
Whenever anyone told me I was funny, I was reminded of when people in high school tell someone that he can hit a fastball or shoot a basketball well. Then he gets to college and everyone is big and fast and strong. After that, if he turns professional, everyone around him seems inhuman. They’re the biggest, fastest, and strongest. That’s what SNL was like for me. The worst idea the writers there came up with was funnier than the best thing I could think up. My definition of funny changed while working with them. If people think I can say a line in a way that gets a laugh, I’ll take it. But I’m not funny. The SNL writers are funny. Tina Fey is funny. Conan O’Brien is funny. You’re only funny if you can write the material. What I do is acting.
The first time I hosted SNL, surrounded by some of the most talented young comedians in the business, I was scared to death. Luckily, it occurred to me that, because I did not have an iconic career in films, because I wasn’t Schwarzenegger or Stallone or someone who invited a parody of their work, I was better off trying to just be a member of the company. I would play the soldier, the teacher, the priest, or the NPR guest in the sketch and do my best to just fit in. Once I did that, things got a bit easier. The cast wants the host to succeed, to make the show a good one, so they are very generous and helpful. The first SNL cast I worked with included Tim Meadows, Kevin Nealon, Jan Hooks, and the late Phil Hartman. Over the years, I worked with several different SNL casts and some of those performers went on to great careers in film and TV. But none was funnier than Hartman, who is perhaps the only person to crack me up during the live show. Phil could channel any kind of character, from smart to dumb to truly insane. He was a wonderful actor. When I heard about his death, I was stunned and sickened.
After the third or fourth time I hosted (I’ve been given many chances to improve), I started to get the hang of it. Along the way, I had the opportunity to do the show with some of the biggest musical acts in the business. One year I hosted when Whitney Houston was the musical guest. After her dress rehearsal, I was introduced to her backstage. “You truly are the most talented singer out there today,” I said, a bit starstruck. She paused and said, “I know, baby,” then walked on. In 1993, I hosted the show when Paul McCartney was performing and met the warm and down-to-earth Linda McCartney backstage. We briefly talked about her animal-rights work, since I had been introduced to the issue while living with Kim. Then she asked me, “Have you met Paul?” “No,” I told her. “Well, go over and talk with him. He’d like that.” The idea that I would approach McCartney like he was any other SNL music act was unimaginable to me. The music of the Beatles and McCartney’s solo career, along with other Brits like the Rolling Stones, the Who, and Led Zeppelin, made up the bulk of the vinyl and cassettes I collected back in my youth with the precious money I could spare. When I was in high school, a guy in my neighborhood had sold me his Acoustic Research speakers. Normally, they would have been prohibitively expensive, but he said he was desperate financially, and had to unload them. Because I couldn’t afford headphones, I would lie on the floor of my bedroom late at night, with the giant ARs framing my head, listening to Houses of the Holy, Quadrophenia, Got Live If You Want It!, and Abbey Road. Now, the musician who wrote and sang so many of those songs that I played over and over again, sprawled on that floor, was right in front of me. The guy who sang “I Saw Her Standing There,” “Blackbird,” and “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window,” with a range from “Helter Skelter” to “Yesterday,” was twenty feet from me, and his wife was telling me, “Go ahead. Go and talk with him.” When I finally did approach him, he was as charming as you’d expect. No one in show business has had to manage the feelings of his overwhelmed fans as much as McCartney. I realized then that this is the greatest thing about the business. One day, you’re on the floor, moaning, “Aaaaaaahhhhh, look at all the lonely people.” The next, you get to host your favorite comedy variety show and the musical act is Paul McCartney.
Hosting several episodes of SNL over the years exposed me to what good comedy writing is, but it didn’t make me want to run out and star in a sitcom. I would joke with Lorne about joining the cast, but it wasn’t until 2005, when I guest-starred on Will & Grace, that I began to think a TV comedy might fit into my ever-changing plan. I had played a part on Friends in 2002. I loved working with Lisa Kudrow and thought Jennifer Aniston was a doll. However, we began shooting the episode just a day or two after it was announced that the cast had signed on for season nine at a million dollars per episode for each of the show’s stars, and everyone seemed a bit distracted. On the set, I’d barely spoken with the producers, who were naturally focused only on their celebrated ensemble. Later, when I taped Will & Grace, the set was looser. The producers, Max Mutchnick and David Kohan, seemed as available to their guests as their stars did. The Will & Grace shoot also enabled me to talk with Megan Mullally and pick her brains about the realities of shooting a half-hour sitcom.
I have always been madly in love with Megan Mullally. Some have compared her to Madeline Kahn, and although I hear some echoes, Megan is such an original in terms of her timing, her warmth, and her mixture of insanity and sexiness. Like Megan, Jane Krakowski went on to nail the self-absorbed, horny femme fatale on 30 Rock. In my mind, there is a line from Marilyn Monroe to Madeline Kahn to Megan to Jane. Scattered in between are a lot of talented female comics and actresses who are scoring in film and TV, of all ethnicities and ages, like Rosie Perez, Wanda Sykes, Sarah Silverman, and Tig Notaro. But with her high-pitched voice and loopy delivery, I’ve always found Megan irresistible.
One day on the set, she outlined the sitcom schedule for me. In so many words, she said that they started on Mondays and read the latest script for a couple of hours, then went home. On Tuesdays, they rehearsed for a couple of hours, then left while the writers rewrote the script. Wednesdays, they rehearsed and camera-blocked all day, and the same on Thursdays. Thursday nights, they loaded in the audience and taped the show. Then they went home and got a big check. This was no chain gang. The day of the taping, we stumbled our way through a dress rehearsal and then performed one of the few live Will & Grace episodes ever produced. Like the SNL cast, Sean Hayes, Eric McCormack, and Debra Messing were welcoming and patient with me.
Television moves along. On films, you can sit around interminably. You hope the result is worth it. But you also thi
nk about all of the weddings, family gatherings, and overall moments of your life that you miss while shooting. Working with the legendary director Jim Burrows, who oversaw all 194 episodes of Will & Grace, made me think of the live, four-camera comedy like a miniplay. We were in the theater, playing to an audience, only we taped it, edited it, and ran it on TV to a few million people. The audience for one night of a hit sitcom is bigger than the entire run of a hit play. Funny people like Megan, the schedule, directors like Burrows—it all started to add up.
When Will & Grace was over, I thought about my arrangement with Ireland. I realized I might as well leave open the possibility for sitcom work if it came my way. My life at the time was flying to LA every other Friday. I’d head from the airport to pick up Ireland at school and take her to eat somewhere. Weekends at the time involved shopping, movies, lunches, and dance classes with her friends, while I stood off to the side. Divorce or no, a father is a chauffeur and chancellor of the exchequer to the mother’s role of queen. But, as all parents will no doubt acknowledge, we are there for their benefit, not the other way around. I would wait for and gratefully accept whatever crumbs of attention came my way. On Mondays, I would read to Ireland’s class through a volunteer program the school offered for available parents. By ten a.m., I was in a car on my way to the airport. I did that every other weekend during the school year. Eighteen times between Labor Day and Memorial Day. I spent more time on planes and in airports than I ever imagined possible, as travel seemed to take over my life. Ireland would sometimes opt out of our weekend early or wouldn’t show up at all, but I kept coming. I didn’t know what else to do. Like a dumb animal, I had only one thought, one gear. I wanted to see Ireland. To make her laugh, to do for her, to love her.
* * *
When I first met Tina Fey—beautiful and brunette, smart and funny, at turns smug and diffident and completely uninterested in me or anything I had to say—I had the same reaction that I’m sure many men and women have: I fell in love. Tina was then the head writer at Saturday Night Live, and I was hosting that week’s show. The writers and producers were packed, impossibly, into Lorne’s satellite office overlooking Studio 8H, where SNL is produced. (This was once Toscanini’s private office when he directed the NBC orchestra in 8H. The building has quite a history.) When Lorne finished giving his notes after the dress rehearsal, I asked Marci Klein, the show’s talent coordinator, if Tina was single. She pointed to a man sitting along the wall. Or maybe he was standing? This was Jeff Richmond, Tina’s husband. Jeff is diminutive. Tina describes him as “travel-size.” When I saw him, I thought, “What’s she doing with him?” With his spools of curly brown hair and oversized eyes, Jeff resembles a Margaret Keane painting. When I ended up working with the two of them years later, I changed that to “What’s he doing with her?” Jeff, who was the talented music supervisor on 30 Rock, is as loose and outgoing as Tina is cautious and dry. “Just remember one thing,” Lorne said. “She’s German.”
30 Rock was a work in progress in its first season, like many hit shows. If you watch a series like Will & Grace or The Sopranos in their first seasons, the performances are nearly unrecognizable a year later, as the cast slowly perfects their characterizations. The character of Jack Donaghy is a guy from a background much like my own. After attending Princeton, he is drafted by the Dallas Cowboys of the business world, General Electric. GE owned the NBC television network when we started 30 Rock, so Jack is called upon to apply the expertise that enabled him to dominate the microwave-programming division to the task of TV programming. It’s the “Fairfield way,” a reference to the company’s then Connecticut headquarters. GE would “widgetize” comedy. Turbines, locomotives, comedy shows, it’s all the same. Just apply the tenets of Six Sigma, Jack Welch’s favorite management tools, and a GE exec will conquer the field.
An ensemble show will thrive only if you have the right ensemble. I know that sounds obvious, but if you change one element, change any role, you may not have the same success. I’ve read that the Beatles were offered the services of any drummer in London to replace Ringo Starr, who was viewed as the weak link in the band in terms of musicianship. At one point, Starr was called away to honor a previous contract to perform with another group. One of London’s top percussionists showed up at the studio to play with the Beatles, who had to finish recording an album. “The guy was the greatest drummer in London,” the source said. “And they didn’t want him. It had to be Ringo. The band said it had to be those four and no one else.”
30 Rock, of course, isn’t as culturally relevant as the Beatles. But similarly, I think 30 Rock had to be Tina, me, Jane, Tracy Morgan, and Jack McBrayer, along with a half dozen others in smaller roles, or it would not have flown. The show was a critical hit, but never a ratings juggernaut. Shows like Big Bang Theory and Modern Family eclipsed 30 Rock by wide margins in terms of audience. But 30 Rock, while taking more than its share of awards over the years, also benefited from being an industry darling. There are shows that people in the business don’t watch that are nonetheless huge hits. Then there are shows like The Larry Sanders Show or True Detective, to name just two, that the people who make TV will follow. If I was at an industry event, often some exec from some media company would come up to me and say, “My son broke his leg skiing. He was in bed for two weeks. We binged every episode of 30 Rock. Man, that show is funny!” I sometimes wondered if that contributed to keeping us on the air.
Jack McBrayer is a great actor. To play that modern-day Jim Nabors type, but with a twist of Tommy Smothers thrown in, is not easy to do, and I think Jack killed it. Any goodness or heart that an episode required, Jack could be relied upon to deliver it. Jane is an award-winning theater actress who also had her successes on TV, such as Ally McBeal, but 30 Rock was the culmination of a lot of years of good work for Jane. It gave her a reservoir of funny lines and situations, and like any great performer, Jane made the most of them. Whenever I had scenes with Jane, I was excited. She’s a wonderful acting partner and can play anything. Tracy Morgan is . . . Tracy Morgan. The persona of the playful, devilish man-child had been nailed by Flip Wilson and other comics, black and white, but many of those were, ultimately, more devil than child. Tracy often sees the world like a little boy. He maintained a sweetness and innocence that could astound me, right up to the next barrage of “motherfuckers” or some sexually graphic imagery that would come flying out of his mouth. But he’s an original.
Tina had an enormous level of responsibility on 30 Rock. The roles of writer, producer, and star are a lot to handle. Over the life of the show, she was honored for all of them. But Tina will tell you she is a writer at heart. Beyond dressing up for red carpets, hosting awards shows, or starring in films, Tina, I believe, is more comfortable in a room full of clever people doing what she does so well. Our characters, Liz and Jack, never consummated their relationship. There was, in place of that, a genuine respect, fondness, and, ultimately, love for a trusted and irreplaceable colleague. For Jack, the only thing better than good sex was a good hire. Over the years, I had bitched and moaned, as only actors can, about being tied to a contract for a show that would never be my own. After season five, I wanted to quit. I came back for season six, had a great time, and was ready to sign for five more years. But a wise decision was made to shoot a tight thirteen episodes and go out head high. As we shot the series finale, on a December night in lower Manhattan, my building rush of nostalgia for the show hit its peak. Freezing my ass off on a boat floating in a marina in Battery Park City, Jack groped his way toward telling Liz he loved her. “Lemon, there is a word, a once special word, that has been tragically co-opted by the romance-industrial complex.” That night was tough. The best job I ever had, that I will ever have, was over.
I was lucky to win several awards for 30 Rock. I think the audience for Tina’s writing was more discerning. When people paid a compliment to me about the show, it always began with “I never do this, but . . .” When actors can honestly believe that what they
are doing is working, it’s a great feeling. 30 Rock gave me a level of confidence that had been missing in my work for quite some time. I owe that to Tina and the other cast and crew. I owe it to the incomparable Robert Carlock, Tina’s right hand. I owe it to the other writers like John Riggi (the most lovable writer in the WGA), Jack Burditt, Matt Hubbard, Kay Cannon, Ron Weiner, Tracey Wigfield, Vali Chandrasekaran, Josh Siegal, and Colleen McGuinness, to name a few. Most of all, I owe it to Lorne. There is a saying in show business, “No one knows anything,” an attempt to convey the inscrutability of show business and particularly the key to success. That line should be amended to read “except Lorne.” Lorne is wise and discreet. He has walked a path in the industry that has made him one of the rare people I’ve met whom you would be lucky to know and blessed to receive advice from.
When high school ended, I didn’t feel appropriately moved. I wasn’t about to break out into a rendition of “Nothing” from A Chorus Line, but I didn’t feel that this was the end of something important to me. It wasn’t important. Same with college. I left GW for NYU, and as I said good-bye in DC to my graduating friends before I headed to New York, I felt detached and anxious. I didn’t graduate with my class at NYU either. I went off to work as quickly as possible. But when 30 Rock ended, all of the feelings one associates with the end of something seminal—feelings that I had missed or squandered earlier, that come from truly investing in an experience—finally came out. That was my graduation. I graduated from the University of Tina. Lutz and Grizz and Kevin and Judah and Katrina and Scott and Keith and Sue and Maulik were my classmates. I wanted to sing “To Sir with Love” to Lorne. Carlock gave me my diploma.