Pursuant to a post I recently wrote called “Keeping it Real”, a reader named Jed commented thusly:
Do you think the subject of that episode of “Friends”, the difference in the income of the friends, could never be funny or could it have been fixed?
First of all, Jed, thanks for writing in. Second, thanks for giving me something to write about. And third, how’re ya doin’? Sorry, I needed three.
Okay.
Income disparity among friends (or strangers even) is an extremely touchy area, and therefore uncomfortable, and further therefore not easy to make funny. Though it’s certainly not impossible. A skillful writer can make virtually anything funny, based on the approach they take to the situation. I’m sure there’s a funny approach to “income disparity.” I’d need time to come up with one, but I wouldn’t put it past me, or someone more talented, to figure one one. It is my judgment that Friends didn’t.
Part of the reason they didn’t was because Friends had not alerted its audience through its “mission statement” (offered subtextually in its pilot) that it would be tackling such meaty concerns. (As I recall the pilot included a runaway bride and a monkey.) Regular Friends viewers were conditioned to expect stories about attractive, single people in their twenties, with uncertain visions of their futures. And stories about sex.
The Friends ambience of choice was borderline fantasy. The friends’ apartments – you could land planes in them. They could never afford them. And the women’s haircuts, one of which triggered a national trend, would have cost even the most prosperous Friend a prodigious slice of their salary. Also, New York looked really clean.
The mistake the Friends show runners made in choosing the “money disparity” storyline was (paraphrasing The Three Amigos:
They strayed from the formula and they paid the price.
Now, back to Jed. The guy who wrote me.
I think that would be an interesting group of articles for you to write; how Earl Pomerantz would have written for various sitcoms. Not necessarily how you would fix bad episodes (although that would be interesting) but how would you fit your writing style in with the existing “universe” of the sitcom if they asked you to come in and write an episode.
Except for Becker, I was never asked to “come in and write an episode.” Wait, that’s not entirely correct. Garry Shandling once asked me if I’d write episodes for The Larry Sanders Shows, but I said no, because I can’t write dirty. I can think dirty, but I can’t write it. (I can also fix dirty, as I did for two seasons on Larry Sanders).
After running Best of the West and Cosby, I was at a place in my career where freelance episode writing was no longer an element of what I did. Mostly, I was contracted to create new television series. The closest I came to involving myself in other people’s shows, and something I really love to do – and would still love to do – was to consult.
People would ask me to come in a day or two a week and help them with their stories. (I would perform a similar service on new shows during pilot season.) But here’s the thing.
As a consultant, the first thing I try to discover is what it is that that particular series is trying to accomplish – to understand and internalize the basic premise of the show. It is not my job to pass judgment on its quality, or alter its direction. Whether it’s a revered series like Larry Sanders, or a less loftily aspiring series, like Goode Behavior (starring Sherman Hemsley) – both of which I consulted on during the same season – my goal was the same: To help the creators of the show fulfill the core intentions of their series’ concept as successfully as possible.
I worked just as hard preparing for Goode Behavior as I did for Larry Sanders. Maybe harder. Larry Sanders almost never sent me scripts ahead of time, the scripts rarely being completed until the night before they were to be read by the actors.
Hitting the wrong note, like the Friends people did on the “income disparity” episode, is easy to do. I did it myself on a show I co-created.
I forget the actual episode, but it was early in the first season of Major Dad. During one rewrite night, I supervised the replacement of the climactic scene of that week’s script with an entirely new one. I really liked what we’d written. But the next day, I was informed that the actors were unhappy, and they wanted to go back to the scene that our new scene had replaced.
I agreed to going back to the earlier version, but on one condition. Before we discarded it, I wanted the actors to read the new scene to me, so I could hear it out loud. The actors agreed.
I went down to the stage. The two lead actors, the director and I sat at a table, and the actors read the rewritten scene for me. It read beautifully. It was sharp. It was funny. And it wrapped up the story in a fresh and satisfying way. Only one problem:
It wasn’t Major Dad.
Nobody had to tell me. I knew it when I heard it, though I’d missed it the night before. It just didn’t feel like Major Dad. It had a different tone. The replacement scene was unquestionably well written. It was just for the wrong show.
It happens to the best of them.
It also happened to me.
-----------------------------------
I went to the Post Office to renew my passport. Seeking assistance, I entered the "Customer Service" office. There was nobody there. I returned to the Post Office area and said, "I can't find a 'Customer Service' assistant." A Postal Service employee officially replied, "The 'Customer Service' office is closed every day of the week."
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
"Living Will"
Yeah, it’s part of the surgery process. There are apparently legal problems if you haven’t specified in writing that you’d prefer not to live out your days as a turnip.
Which reminds me of this cartoon idea I had once. I may have mentioned it before, but current conditions propel it into my consciousness. Please forgive the repetition. And if I haven’t mentioned it before, please forgive the memory loss.
Okay.
A single-panel cartoon.
I’m dead and I arrive at heaven. Wait, let’s not personalize this.
A man’s dead and he arrives at heaven. The thing is, he checked off the box permitting organ donations. As a result, the man reaches the pearly gates, minus his eyes, his heart, his lungs and his kidneys. In the cartoon, these deletions would be represented by black organ-shaped holes in the appropriate locations.
The man hears lively chatter all around him, tennis being played in the background. From the visual depiction, we imagine jaunty exchanges, like, “Throw me the football!” and “You look radiant, today!” Absorbing this auditory information (his viewing apparatus now elsewhere), the man quickly senses that the inhabitants of heaven have retained all their organs, whereas he, in his generosity, has not.
One hyphenated word graces the bottom of the panel.
“Uh-oh.”
Another unhealthy thought wafting through my brain…
If the doctors know you’re donating all your organs, do you think they try less hard with you? Dr, M says the doctors don’t know. It’s two totally different departments. But, you know, they’re in the same building, they get together for coffee, who knows what they talk about. All I’m saying is, when I’m surrendering to the anesthetic, I’d rather not hear the words,
“We could really use his nose.”
Random musings as the date approaches.
--------------------------------
Responding to a questioner: It is my view that actors from other countries are invariably better trained than our home-grown actor-waiters. In other places, acting is seen as a profession. Actors study hard and continue honing their chops. You wouldn't go to a doctor because he had graced the cover of "Hot Doctor" magazine. (Unless you were looking to marry one.) Respect for acting in other countries is not a contradiction in terms. That's because, in other places, they actually take the job seriously.
Which reminds me of this cartoon idea I had once. I may have mentioned it before, but current conditions propel it into my consciousness. Please forgive the repetition. And if I haven’t mentioned it before, please forgive the memory loss.
Okay.
A single-panel cartoon.
I’m dead and I arrive at heaven. Wait, let’s not personalize this.
A man’s dead and he arrives at heaven. The thing is, he checked off the box permitting organ donations. As a result, the man reaches the pearly gates, minus his eyes, his heart, his lungs and his kidneys. In the cartoon, these deletions would be represented by black organ-shaped holes in the appropriate locations.
The man hears lively chatter all around him, tennis being played in the background. From the visual depiction, we imagine jaunty exchanges, like, “Throw me the football!” and “You look radiant, today!” Absorbing this auditory information (his viewing apparatus now elsewhere), the man quickly senses that the inhabitants of heaven have retained all their organs, whereas he, in his generosity, has not.
One hyphenated word graces the bottom of the panel.
“Uh-oh.”
Another unhealthy thought wafting through my brain…
If the doctors know you’re donating all your organs, do you think they try less hard with you? Dr, M says the doctors don’t know. It’s two totally different departments. But, you know, they’re in the same building, they get together for coffee, who knows what they talk about. All I’m saying is, when I’m surrendering to the anesthetic, I’d rather not hear the words,
“We could really use his nose.”
Random musings as the date approaches.
--------------------------------
Responding to a questioner: It is my view that actors from other countries are invariably better trained than our home-grown actor-waiters. In other places, acting is seen as a profession. Actors study hard and continue honing their chops. You wouldn't go to a doctor because he had graced the cover of "Hot Doctor" magazine. (Unless you were looking to marry one.) Respect for acting in other countries is not a contradiction in terms. That's because, in other places, they actually take the job seriously.
Friday, October 16, 2009
"The Two Filming Techniques"
Getting so few questions on my blog makes me think I must have the smartest readership in Bloggerania. Of course, it’s possible I’m flattering myself in thinking this. You could just be not that interested. I, however, lean towards the earlier explanation, though it is not without its surprises. I am reminded of a Major Dad episode I wrote, where the Major imagined he was engaged in a “chess by mail” duel with some brilliant Russian physicist, when it turned out his opponent was actually an eleven year-old boy.
Anyway, when I do get a question, I feel so grateful, I am driven to respond at length. My concern when responding to a specific reader’s question, however, is that many of you already might know the answer to what the reader is asking about, leading to a reaction of boredom on your part to my response.
On the other hand, something I have already written has prompted this question, reflecting, on the questioner’s part, and maybe some others, a reaction of confusion. Now, in an effort to assuage the confusion of some readers, I am risking triggering the boredom of others. It’s a nail-biting profession, this blog writing. We’re walking such a delicate line.
So here’s the reader’s question. And I paraphrase, having forgotten their exact words:
“In the context of situation comedies, what’s the difference between the “single-camera” and the “multi-camera” technique?”
First, goodbye to the people who already know. We’ll see you tomorrow. For those remaining, I will not go to go into any great technical detail on the subject, because I’ll end up boring the rest of you, as well as myself.
I’m going to just jump right in and start with examples of both filming techniques. After I do, you might realize you knew the difference all along. You just didn’t know you knew.
CBS, Monday nights. Four consecutive comedies, from eight to ten (seven to nine Central Time, seven-thirty to nine-thirty in Newfoundland.) All four are filmed “multi-camera.”
NBC, Thursday nights. Four consecutive comedies from eight to ten (seven to nine, Central Time, seven-thirty to nine-thirty in Newfoundland.) All of them are filmed “single-camera.”
Think about those shows. Notice how they look different. Notice how they sound different. Notice their differently written comedy styles.
These shows are not the same.
“Single-camera” comedies use movies as their template. “Multi-camera” comedies offer the televised equivalent of a play. Today, in contrast to in my day, there are more comedies shot with the “single-camera” than the “multi-camera” technique. For two reasons.
One, writers today are, generally, more influenced by movies than they are by plays, and their writing-style preference is consistent with that influence. And two, also in contrast to my day, when shows were filmed with actual film, digital technology has made the “single-camera” process more economical.
Yeah, but what’s the difference?
Simply put – and I hope I can live up to that – “single camera” comedies are filmed with – Duh – a single camera. This one camera is used to film each scene from various angles, and with various compositions – long shot, combination shots of groupings of actors, close-ups of individual actors, cutaways to a cat. With “single-camera”, the same scene is required to be shot over and over to maximize, what they call, the “coverage.” Later, selected “takes” are edited together to produce the finished product. I’m hoping that was reasonably clear. A writer can hope.
With “multi-camera” (the process, originally using three cameras, advanced to four cameras, to provide greater “coverage”), scenes are shot with three (or four) strategically placed cameras all running at the same time, allowing you, at least theoretically, to shoot each scene only once. (Sometimes, a certain shot can’t be included, and has to be covered separately in a “pick-up” shot.)
What’s the advantage of the “multi-camera” technique? It’s faster. Who cares? You’d care, if you were paying for the show, and more importantly, if you were sitting in a studio audience and you had to endure watching the “single-camera” filming of the same scene twelve times. You’d go bloody balmy. (Ooh, I went all English there for a moment. Sorry.) Understandably, “single-camera” comedies didn’t have a live audience.
The “multi-camera” technique was developed to make the inclusion of a live audience possible. Shooting a show “single-camera” can take two to three days. What audience can sit that long? By contrast, a “multi-camera” episode can be finished in two to four hours. Paraphrasing Jon Lovitz in A League of Their Own, “That would be less, then, wouldn’t it?”
The presence of a studio audience means you get natural laughter, which sounds considerably better than the previously used “canned” laughter. More importantly, the immediate response of a live audience energizes the actors, many of whom have theater or comedy club backgrounds, and thrive on actual people responding to their work.
It is said that the “multi-camera” process was invented by Desi Arnaz, who used it first on I Love Lucy. Some of this decision had to do with making the episodes available for future syndication (I don’t really understand that part), but the audience also brought Lucy excitingly to life. Would you really want Lucy stomping grapes or stuffing chocolates in her blouse without the live audience, shrieking with laughter? It was the invention of “multi-camera” that made those shrieks possible.
The price, with the “multi-camera” technique, however, was a loss of nuance and subtlety. Both in the production and the writing.
The shooting of a “multi-camera” show requires the three (or four) cameras to be deployed in pretty much a straight line, to preclude the possibility of one camera catching another camera in its shot. You can see how that would limit the cinematographic possibilities in a way that the “single-camera” technique does not.
The lighting on “single-camera” comedies is more specific, because each individual “take” is treated to its own lighting pattern. “Multi-camera” shows are lit like night baseball. There are no shadings whatsoever.
(On Best of the West, I had a Lighting Director who had worked for Alfred Hitchcock. (And now he was working for me.) In the script we were shooting, I had written, INTERIOR CABIN – DUSK. They guy came over to me and said, “Earl. You’ve got ‘DAY’ and you’ve got ‘NIGHT.’ That’s it.” That’s “multi-camera” lighting.)
From a writing standpoint, if there’s an audience present, you feel successful when you make them laugh. And the harder you make them laugh, the more successful you feel. Optimal “big laughter” requires a “Big Formula Funny” style of writing. Set-up – punch line. Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Single camera” comedy writing? More subtle. Naturalistic dialogue. Sometimes, no dialogue at all, just, often hilarious, exchanges of looks. Wordless “reaction” shots. An insinuating camera, catching characters “off-guard.”
Final point. The soundstage, where the shows are filmed, are if limited size, and can only accommodate so much. Since “single-camera” sets can be smaller – you don’t have to allow room for three (or four) cameras to move around – you have room to build more sets on the soundstage, providing the possibility of a greater number of shorter scenes. Writers of “multi-camera” sitcoms, limited by three, or at most, four larger sets, are required to write longer scenes, because there are less locations for them to move to. The number of sets available to you fundamentally affects how you tell your story.
Plus, “single-camera” comedies, unencumbered by soundstage-bound pedestal cameras, can easily go outside. “Multi-camera” comedies can’t.
I think that’s more than enough for you to chew on. Now, here’s a test. ABC, Wednesday nights. Four consecutive half-hour comedies. A mixture of filming techniques. See if you can tell which one is which.
If you can, I’ve done my job.
If you can’t, well, consider whether it’s really all that important.
Thanks for the question, reader.
Keep ‘em comin’.
Anyway, when I do get a question, I feel so grateful, I am driven to respond at length. My concern when responding to a specific reader’s question, however, is that many of you already might know the answer to what the reader is asking about, leading to a reaction of boredom on your part to my response.
On the other hand, something I have already written has prompted this question, reflecting, on the questioner’s part, and maybe some others, a reaction of confusion. Now, in an effort to assuage the confusion of some readers, I am risking triggering the boredom of others. It’s a nail-biting profession, this blog writing. We’re walking such a delicate line.
So here’s the reader’s question. And I paraphrase, having forgotten their exact words:
“In the context of situation comedies, what’s the difference between the “single-camera” and the “multi-camera” technique?”
First, goodbye to the people who already know. We’ll see you tomorrow. For those remaining, I will not go to go into any great technical detail on the subject, because I’ll end up boring the rest of you, as well as myself.
I’m going to just jump right in and start with examples of both filming techniques. After I do, you might realize you knew the difference all along. You just didn’t know you knew.
CBS, Monday nights. Four consecutive comedies, from eight to ten (seven to nine Central Time, seven-thirty to nine-thirty in Newfoundland.) All four are filmed “multi-camera.”
NBC, Thursday nights. Four consecutive comedies from eight to ten (seven to nine, Central Time, seven-thirty to nine-thirty in Newfoundland.) All of them are filmed “single-camera.”
Think about those shows. Notice how they look different. Notice how they sound different. Notice their differently written comedy styles.
These shows are not the same.
“Single-camera” comedies use movies as their template. “Multi-camera” comedies offer the televised equivalent of a play. Today, in contrast to in my day, there are more comedies shot with the “single-camera” than the “multi-camera” technique. For two reasons.
One, writers today are, generally, more influenced by movies than they are by plays, and their writing-style preference is consistent with that influence. And two, also in contrast to my day, when shows were filmed with actual film, digital technology has made the “single-camera” process more economical.
Yeah, but what’s the difference?
Simply put – and I hope I can live up to that – “single camera” comedies are filmed with – Duh – a single camera. This one camera is used to film each scene from various angles, and with various compositions – long shot, combination shots of groupings of actors, close-ups of individual actors, cutaways to a cat. With “single-camera”, the same scene is required to be shot over and over to maximize, what they call, the “coverage.” Later, selected “takes” are edited together to produce the finished product. I’m hoping that was reasonably clear. A writer can hope.
With “multi-camera” (the process, originally using three cameras, advanced to four cameras, to provide greater “coverage”), scenes are shot with three (or four) strategically placed cameras all running at the same time, allowing you, at least theoretically, to shoot each scene only once. (Sometimes, a certain shot can’t be included, and has to be covered separately in a “pick-up” shot.)
What’s the advantage of the “multi-camera” technique? It’s faster. Who cares? You’d care, if you were paying for the show, and more importantly, if you were sitting in a studio audience and you had to endure watching the “single-camera” filming of the same scene twelve times. You’d go bloody balmy. (Ooh, I went all English there for a moment. Sorry.) Understandably, “single-camera” comedies didn’t have a live audience.
The “multi-camera” technique was developed to make the inclusion of a live audience possible. Shooting a show “single-camera” can take two to three days. What audience can sit that long? By contrast, a “multi-camera” episode can be finished in two to four hours. Paraphrasing Jon Lovitz in A League of Their Own, “That would be less, then, wouldn’t it?”
The presence of a studio audience means you get natural laughter, which sounds considerably better than the previously used “canned” laughter. More importantly, the immediate response of a live audience energizes the actors, many of whom have theater or comedy club backgrounds, and thrive on actual people responding to their work.
It is said that the “multi-camera” process was invented by Desi Arnaz, who used it first on I Love Lucy. Some of this decision had to do with making the episodes available for future syndication (I don’t really understand that part), but the audience also brought Lucy excitingly to life. Would you really want Lucy stomping grapes or stuffing chocolates in her blouse without the live audience, shrieking with laughter? It was the invention of “multi-camera” that made those shrieks possible.
The price, with the “multi-camera” technique, however, was a loss of nuance and subtlety. Both in the production and the writing.
The shooting of a “multi-camera” show requires the three (or four) cameras to be deployed in pretty much a straight line, to preclude the possibility of one camera catching another camera in its shot. You can see how that would limit the cinematographic possibilities in a way that the “single-camera” technique does not.
The lighting on “single-camera” comedies is more specific, because each individual “take” is treated to its own lighting pattern. “Multi-camera” shows are lit like night baseball. There are no shadings whatsoever.
(On Best of the West, I had a Lighting Director who had worked for Alfred Hitchcock. (And now he was working for me.) In the script we were shooting, I had written, INTERIOR CABIN – DUSK. They guy came over to me and said, “Earl. You’ve got ‘DAY’ and you’ve got ‘NIGHT.’ That’s it.” That’s “multi-camera” lighting.)
From a writing standpoint, if there’s an audience present, you feel successful when you make them laugh. And the harder you make them laugh, the more successful you feel. Optimal “big laughter” requires a “Big Formula Funny” style of writing. Set-up – punch line. Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Single camera” comedy writing? More subtle. Naturalistic dialogue. Sometimes, no dialogue at all, just, often hilarious, exchanges of looks. Wordless “reaction” shots. An insinuating camera, catching characters “off-guard.”
Final point. The soundstage, where the shows are filmed, are if limited size, and can only accommodate so much. Since “single-camera” sets can be smaller – you don’t have to allow room for three (or four) cameras to move around – you have room to build more sets on the soundstage, providing the possibility of a greater number of shorter scenes. Writers of “multi-camera” sitcoms, limited by three, or at most, four larger sets, are required to write longer scenes, because there are less locations for them to move to. The number of sets available to you fundamentally affects how you tell your story.
Plus, “single-camera” comedies, unencumbered by soundstage-bound pedestal cameras, can easily go outside. “Multi-camera” comedies can’t.
I think that’s more than enough for you to chew on. Now, here’s a test. ABC, Wednesday nights. Four consecutive half-hour comedies. A mixture of filming techniques. See if you can tell which one is which.
If you can, I’ve done my job.
If you can’t, well, consider whether it’s really all that important.
Thanks for the question, reader.
Keep ‘em comin’.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
"It's Not Just Baseball"
The Los Angeles Dodgers and the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim are advancing in the playoffs.
And in a way, it’s a little sad.
Boston, Colorado, St. Louis and Minnesota have all been eliminated. I watched those elimination games, and what stuck with me most was stricken looks on the faces of their fans.
The fans in those cities - Boston, Colorado, St. Louis and Minnesota - they know what was really at stake. They understand in their bones that when their team makes their last out and they’re through for the year, it’s more than the end of the season.
It’s winter.
The L.A. teams get eliminated…
And it’s more of the same.
The Dodgers lose, the Angels get beat…
Sure, it’ll hurt.
But we won’t have to buy snow tires.
And in a way, it’s a little sad.
Boston, Colorado, St. Louis and Minnesota have all been eliminated. I watched those elimination games, and what stuck with me most was stricken looks on the faces of their fans.
The fans in those cities - Boston, Colorado, St. Louis and Minnesota - they know what was really at stake. They understand in their bones that when their team makes their last out and they’re through for the year, it’s more than the end of the season.
It’s winter.
The L.A. teams get eliminated…
And it’s more of the same.
The Dodgers lose, the Angels get beat…
Sure, it’ll hurt.
But we won’t have to buy snow tires.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
"A Joke Is Just A Joke?"
“It’s just one joke.”
And they don’t understand why you’re fighting for it.
Let me explain.
I’m working on Lateline, a sitcomical version of Nightline, co-created (with John Markus) and starring (now Senator) Al Franken. We did nineteen episodes for NBC, but they only aired, like, five of them. The rest were eventually aired on Showtime. Maybe now that Al’s important, they’ll release the entire set on DVD. I’d like that. We did some really good work.
On Lateline, (now Senator) Al played “Al Freundlich” (which means “friendly” in German), a guileless but legislatively all-knowing news correspondent. "Freundlich" knew precisely and in detail how a bill made its way through Congress. And he knew it wasn’t the National Institute of Health, but the National Institutes of Health. “Freundlich” was a polidiot savant.
Let me say this as a preamble. (I know a little bit about the government myself.) I write in a certain voice, which I’ll call, for want of a better label, mine. However, when I’m in a room with people who write in a different voice, but a voice I admire, not some dumb or leeringly sexy voice, my mind does this flip, and I am able to imitate the way they write.
I don’t become them, exactly, but somehow – and the transformation excites me – I hear myself pitching comedy that would never come to my mind if I were working alone. (Now Senator) Al’s “take-no-prisoners” brand of comedy, which is natural to him, and was further honed at Saturday Night Live, greatly expanded my range. Working with him, I was surprised (and delighted) with the things I came up with.
Example? It’s on its way.
We’re in the Writers’ Room, working on a script wherein “Freundlich’s” wife is chairing an important Washington fundraiser. Franken improvises the cause she’s raising the money for:
FREUNDLICH: (ENTHUSIASTICALLY) “It’s for a new Burn Unit and the Pediatric Jewish Hospital. It’s for kids!”
To which I add:
“And you don’t have to be Jewish. Just burnt.”
Well, people laughed a lot. I even laughed. Partly in amazement. I had never written a joke like that in my life.
We finish the script, and it’s handed in to the network. The next day, we get a call from the NBC censor.
“You can’t do the ‘burnt children’ joke.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ‘burnt children.’”
(Now Senator) Al hits the roof.
“But it’s a great joke!”
“It’s a great joke” is the comedy writer’s first line of defense. Great jokes are very hard to come by, and when a writer comes up with one, they prefer an enthusiastic “Way to go!” to an order to remove the joke from the script. Such a demand is incomprehensible to us, tantamount to a chef’s preparing a magnificent dish, and being told by his restaurant-owner boss to toss it in the trash.
But this is not the main reason writers explode when they’re told to take something out. Okay, writers never like being told what to do, but this goes far deeper than a sensitivity to criticism.
Getting challenged on their choices goes to fundamental issues of taste and judgment. And on these points, writers are steadfastly unwilling to surrender. Especially to some censor, whose job it is to look useful, and the only way censors can demonstrate their usefulness is by telling writers to take stuff out.
The whole writing process involves deciding as you go what to put into your script (or whatever it is you’re writing) and what to leave out. Writers censor themselves constantly, struggling to produce a work that expresses not only what they’re trying to communicate, but their unique and stylistic distinct way of saying it.
What makes one writer different from another writer? Style (which includes tone and taste) and content. That’s all we’ve got. Our essential “us-ness.” Expressed by each and every choice we make. It is therefore infuriating when our essential “us-ness”, arguably the quality that got us the job in the first place, is brought ringingly into question.
The establishment of a show’s voice is as important as the establishment of the show’s level of truth that I spoke about yesterday. Both contribute to defining what an audience can expect when they tune in. Now, I’ve heard network executives say many stupid things. But none is stupider than telling the creator of a new series, “You’re a new show. You haven’t earned the right to break the rules.”
The clear direction there is, “Be ordinary. When you’re a hit, we’ll relax the boundaries.” The problem with that is that “ordinary” shows get cancelled. If a series can’t capture its audience early with a way of presenting itself that distinguishes it from the pack, it won’t be around to be accorded the munificence of the networks’ loosening of the reins. When I worked, this network shortsightedness was apparent all the time. I don’t imagine it’s gone away.
After striking out with the censor, (now Senator) Al took his appeal to the highest level, calling, and screaming, at the president of NBC. At the same time, he remained reasonable.
“You have to take the joke in context. ‘Al Freundlich’ is a guileless innocent. He’d never take a gratuitous shot at “maimed children”. He’s just excited about the fact that the Burn Unit is for everybody. That’s why he says, ‘You don’t have to be Jewish. Just burnt.’”
And then he’d scream some more.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Lateline was cancelled. And not because it was blanded out. For the most part, it wasn’t. Lateline failed because not enough people watched it. There’s no saying for sure, but I doubt it would have been more popular if it had been duller.
I claim no private wisdom on why television shows succeed or fail. I just wanted to make the case for why, sometimes, it’s important to fight for one joke.
And I believe I have.
And they don’t understand why you’re fighting for it.
Let me explain.
I’m working on Lateline, a sitcomical version of Nightline, co-created (with John Markus) and starring (now Senator) Al Franken. We did nineteen episodes for NBC, but they only aired, like, five of them. The rest were eventually aired on Showtime. Maybe now that Al’s important, they’ll release the entire set on DVD. I’d like that. We did some really good work.
On Lateline, (now Senator) Al played “Al Freundlich” (which means “friendly” in German), a guileless but legislatively all-knowing news correspondent. "Freundlich" knew precisely and in detail how a bill made its way through Congress. And he knew it wasn’t the National Institute of Health, but the National Institutes of Health. “Freundlich” was a polidiot savant.
Let me say this as a preamble. (I know a little bit about the government myself.) I write in a certain voice, which I’ll call, for want of a better label, mine. However, when I’m in a room with people who write in a different voice, but a voice I admire, not some dumb or leeringly sexy voice, my mind does this flip, and I am able to imitate the way they write.
I don’t become them, exactly, but somehow – and the transformation excites me – I hear myself pitching comedy that would never come to my mind if I were working alone. (Now Senator) Al’s “take-no-prisoners” brand of comedy, which is natural to him, and was further honed at Saturday Night Live, greatly expanded my range. Working with him, I was surprised (and delighted) with the things I came up with.
Example? It’s on its way.
We’re in the Writers’ Room, working on a script wherein “Freundlich’s” wife is chairing an important Washington fundraiser. Franken improvises the cause she’s raising the money for:
FREUNDLICH: (ENTHUSIASTICALLY) “It’s for a new Burn Unit and the Pediatric Jewish Hospital. It’s for kids!”
To which I add:
“And you don’t have to be Jewish. Just burnt.”
Well, people laughed a lot. I even laughed. Partly in amazement. I had never written a joke like that in my life.
We finish the script, and it’s handed in to the network. The next day, we get a call from the NBC censor.
“You can’t do the ‘burnt children’ joke.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ‘burnt children.’”
(Now Senator) Al hits the roof.
“But it’s a great joke!”
“It’s a great joke” is the comedy writer’s first line of defense. Great jokes are very hard to come by, and when a writer comes up with one, they prefer an enthusiastic “Way to go!” to an order to remove the joke from the script. Such a demand is incomprehensible to us, tantamount to a chef’s preparing a magnificent dish, and being told by his restaurant-owner boss to toss it in the trash.
But this is not the main reason writers explode when they’re told to take something out. Okay, writers never like being told what to do, but this goes far deeper than a sensitivity to criticism.
Getting challenged on their choices goes to fundamental issues of taste and judgment. And on these points, writers are steadfastly unwilling to surrender. Especially to some censor, whose job it is to look useful, and the only way censors can demonstrate their usefulness is by telling writers to take stuff out.
The whole writing process involves deciding as you go what to put into your script (or whatever it is you’re writing) and what to leave out. Writers censor themselves constantly, struggling to produce a work that expresses not only what they’re trying to communicate, but their unique and stylistic distinct way of saying it.
What makes one writer different from another writer? Style (which includes tone and taste) and content. That’s all we’ve got. Our essential “us-ness.” Expressed by each and every choice we make. It is therefore infuriating when our essential “us-ness”, arguably the quality that got us the job in the first place, is brought ringingly into question.
The establishment of a show’s voice is as important as the establishment of the show’s level of truth that I spoke about yesterday. Both contribute to defining what an audience can expect when they tune in. Now, I’ve heard network executives say many stupid things. But none is stupider than telling the creator of a new series, “You’re a new show. You haven’t earned the right to break the rules.”
The clear direction there is, “Be ordinary. When you’re a hit, we’ll relax the boundaries.” The problem with that is that “ordinary” shows get cancelled. If a series can’t capture its audience early with a way of presenting itself that distinguishes it from the pack, it won’t be around to be accorded the munificence of the networks’ loosening of the reins. When I worked, this network shortsightedness was apparent all the time. I don’t imagine it’s gone away.
After striking out with the censor, (now Senator) Al took his appeal to the highest level, calling, and screaming, at the president of NBC. At the same time, he remained reasonable.
“You have to take the joke in context. ‘Al Freundlich’ is a guileless innocent. He’d never take a gratuitous shot at “maimed children”. He’s just excited about the fact that the Burn Unit is for everybody. That’s why he says, ‘You don’t have to be Jewish. Just burnt.’”
And then he’d scream some more.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Lateline was cancelled. And not because it was blanded out. For the most part, it wasn’t. Lateline failed because not enough people watched it. There’s no saying for sure, but I doubt it would have been more popular if it had been duller.
I claim no private wisdom on why television shows succeed or fail. I just wanted to make the case for why, sometimes, it’s important to fight for one joke.
And I believe I have.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
"Keeping It Real"
In the early nineties, I attended a one-man stage show starring a comedian named Rick Reynolds. Two things attracted me to the performance. One was that Reynolds’ manager was the revered Jack Rollins, manager of Woody Allen and many other outstanding comedians, giving Reynolds a lofty stamp of approval. The other draw was the title of his show:
Only The Truth Is Funny
I recall the show being very entertaining. Though Reynolds’ act was comprised of extended anecdotes concerning his often nightmarish life, he made you laugh, the more so, at least for me, because you knew those stories were true. Reynolds’ life had some agonizing turns to it. But it made for an extremely funny show.
I thought, as Eddie Izzard often goes…”Yeh.” It is indeed the case that Only The Truth Is Funny. And then, as I often do, I thought again. And what I thought was, “Not so fast.” (I’m pretty much ready to discard my first thoughts, since my second thoughts are invariably deeper and more rewarding. My eighth thoughts are amazing, but by then, most people have generally left the room. Including me.)
I believe it can be persuasively argued that only the truth is funny. But with a caveat. (Not to be confused with Dick Caveat, who was also represented by Jack Rollins.)
That caveat is this:
Yes, only the truth is funny
But…
Not all the truth is funny.
You see what I did there? I agreed with the basic premise. But I qualified. Not all the truth is funny. A lot truth is not funny.
As I learned, or was reminded, I don’t recall which, while watching a particular episode of Friends.
I was a regular watcher of Friends, enjoying a great number of its episodes. Though I never cared who fathered Jennifer Aniston’s baby, which generated stories for, I don’t know, the last three seasons, I found the actors engaging and talented, and the jokes often hilarious, my favorite being,
“Let’s get some Chinese food. Or as they call it in China…food.”
That joke was just sitting there. But somebody found it. To which I proclaim, “Hat’s off!”
Top to bottom, Friends was a savvy enterprise. But once, early in the series, they hit a wrong note. By doing the right thing. That right thing being
Trying to tell the truth.
The story was about money. Some of the Friends had decently paying, fulltime jobs, and some didn’t. I think the breakdown was three and three. The show runners decided to do an episode about that. To wit:
How do you handle it when the Friends who have money problems can’t keep up with the Friends who don’t? How does the “affording” issue affect the group’s decision-making? How does it affect the spontaneity? The group cohesion?
In short, how does money affect the Friendship?
It sounds like a workable idea, based on the undeniable truth of the Friends’ situation. The result, however, was one of the sourest episodes in the history of the series.
It just didn’t feel good. And to a “feel good” television series, that’s the exact opposite of what they want.
It turns out Friends facing the truth about their unequal financial situations was, though true, painfully unfunny. It cut too close to an uncomfortable bigger truth. The capitalist reality. Where, without ignoring differences in wealth, we’re expected to act like they don’t matter.
For one episode, the Friends confronted that issue. They never did it again.
What do we learn here? First, we learn, as previously mentioned, that not all the truth is funny. Some of it is downright painful. And other things as well. If we have a desire to be entertained, we should not expect total truth from our television shows. (Who ever did? Me, and I was wrong.)
The best each television show can do is to define from the outset the level of truth that show will be making an effort to maintain. This is the undercurrent message of the pilot. It not possible for a show to tell the whole truth. There are always idiosyncratic “blind spots.”
Por ejemplo:
The Korean War lasted two years, but M*A*S*H, the show about the Korean War lasted eleven.
On Gunsmoke, Marshal Matt Dillon caught a bullet at least four times per season. Over the show’s twenty-year run, that means the man was shot over eighty times.
I don’t watch The Office that much, but does that paper company make any money at all?
How does the show on 30 Rock get done when you never see anyone working on it?
Could the obsessively id-driven Larry David we see on Curb Your Enthusiasm ever have run a successful television series like Seinfeld?
You like the show, you ignore the blind spots. As long as the show remains consistently faithful to its intentions.
The truth of Friends was bouncily delivered by its theme song:
“I’ll Be There For You.”
The Friends lived up to that.
Despite the disparity in their incomes.
Only The Truth Is Funny
I recall the show being very entertaining. Though Reynolds’ act was comprised of extended anecdotes concerning his often nightmarish life, he made you laugh, the more so, at least for me, because you knew those stories were true. Reynolds’ life had some agonizing turns to it. But it made for an extremely funny show.
I thought, as Eddie Izzard often goes…”Yeh.” It is indeed the case that Only The Truth Is Funny. And then, as I often do, I thought again. And what I thought was, “Not so fast.” (I’m pretty much ready to discard my first thoughts, since my second thoughts are invariably deeper and more rewarding. My eighth thoughts are amazing, but by then, most people have generally left the room. Including me.)
I believe it can be persuasively argued that only the truth is funny. But with a caveat. (Not to be confused with Dick Caveat, who was also represented by Jack Rollins.)
That caveat is this:
Yes, only the truth is funny
But…
Not all the truth is funny.
You see what I did there? I agreed with the basic premise. But I qualified. Not all the truth is funny. A lot truth is not funny.
As I learned, or was reminded, I don’t recall which, while watching a particular episode of Friends.
I was a regular watcher of Friends, enjoying a great number of its episodes. Though I never cared who fathered Jennifer Aniston’s baby, which generated stories for, I don’t know, the last three seasons, I found the actors engaging and talented, and the jokes often hilarious, my favorite being,
“Let’s get some Chinese food. Or as they call it in China…food.”
That joke was just sitting there. But somebody found it. To which I proclaim, “Hat’s off!”
Top to bottom, Friends was a savvy enterprise. But once, early in the series, they hit a wrong note. By doing the right thing. That right thing being
Trying to tell the truth.
The story was about money. Some of the Friends had decently paying, fulltime jobs, and some didn’t. I think the breakdown was three and three. The show runners decided to do an episode about that. To wit:
How do you handle it when the Friends who have money problems can’t keep up with the Friends who don’t? How does the “affording” issue affect the group’s decision-making? How does it affect the spontaneity? The group cohesion?
In short, how does money affect the Friendship?
It sounds like a workable idea, based on the undeniable truth of the Friends’ situation. The result, however, was one of the sourest episodes in the history of the series.
It just didn’t feel good. And to a “feel good” television series, that’s the exact opposite of what they want.
It turns out Friends facing the truth about their unequal financial situations was, though true, painfully unfunny. It cut too close to an uncomfortable bigger truth. The capitalist reality. Where, without ignoring differences in wealth, we’re expected to act like they don’t matter.
For one episode, the Friends confronted that issue. They never did it again.
What do we learn here? First, we learn, as previously mentioned, that not all the truth is funny. Some of it is downright painful. And other things as well. If we have a desire to be entertained, we should not expect total truth from our television shows. (Who ever did? Me, and I was wrong.)
The best each television show can do is to define from the outset the level of truth that show will be making an effort to maintain. This is the undercurrent message of the pilot. It not possible for a show to tell the whole truth. There are always idiosyncratic “blind spots.”
Por ejemplo:
The Korean War lasted two years, but M*A*S*H, the show about the Korean War lasted eleven.
On Gunsmoke, Marshal Matt Dillon caught a bullet at least four times per season. Over the show’s twenty-year run, that means the man was shot over eighty times.
I don’t watch The Office that much, but does that paper company make any money at all?
How does the show on 30 Rock get done when you never see anyone working on it?
Could the obsessively id-driven Larry David we see on Curb Your Enthusiasm ever have run a successful television series like Seinfeld?
You like the show, you ignore the blind spots. As long as the show remains consistently faithful to its intentions.
The truth of Friends was bouncily delivered by its theme song:
“I’ll Be There For You.”
The Friends lived up to that.
Despite the disparity in their incomes.
Monday, October 12, 2009
"What's On Your Mind?"
I have an idea for a post chronicling how Friends, an enormous hit in its day, followed arguably the most important writing rule I believe in – “Write as truthfully as you can” – and wound up making one of the worst episodes of their entire series.
I also have an idea for a post concerning (now Senator) Al Franken’s comedy, Lateline, where I personally witnessed (now Senator) Al “going to the mat” with the NBC censors over one joke, not because it was funny (although it was), but because it represented the show’s boundaries-breaking audacity, which a new series desperately needs to promote its uniqueness.
I’ll probably write both those posts in the near future. They’re good stories, especially for people interested in half-hour comedy. The thing is, sometimes, you go to the computer to write something, and a part of you – the part where your talent lives – says,
“Ahhh, maybe later.”
I wanted to write those two stories. Did I mention they were good stories? I think I did. And they are. I’m not kidding. Really. They’re fascinating. As you’ll see when I write them. It’s just that sometimes, despite your best efforts to focus your mind on delivering the wisdom and experience of a longtime television scribbler, that mind – and the talent that dwells therein – is insistently, perhaps, obsessively monitoring other concerns.
This, then, is a story about when you have the intention of writing one thing, but that gifted thing inside you is determined to write something else.
Which, today, is this.
SURGERY DAY DOGGEREL
Written last night at 3:29 AM
(TO THE TUNE OF: “TEDDY BEAR’S PICNIC”)
When I go down to the hospital
They’re gonna go in my side.
They say it’s less painful than cracking your chest
But what do I do if they lied?
They’ll still my lungs and quiet my heart
And when they’re done, they hope they restart
Today’s the day the robots go in my bo…dy.
Okay, it’s out. Tomorrow, I’ll return with Thoughtful Observations on the Sitcom Genre.
Unless something else comes up.
I also have an idea for a post concerning (now Senator) Al Franken’s comedy, Lateline, where I personally witnessed (now Senator) Al “going to the mat” with the NBC censors over one joke, not because it was funny (although it was), but because it represented the show’s boundaries-breaking audacity, which a new series desperately needs to promote its uniqueness.
I’ll probably write both those posts in the near future. They’re good stories, especially for people interested in half-hour comedy. The thing is, sometimes, you go to the computer to write something, and a part of you – the part where your talent lives – says,
“Ahhh, maybe later.”
I wanted to write those two stories. Did I mention they were good stories? I think I did. And they are. I’m not kidding. Really. They’re fascinating. As you’ll see when I write them. It’s just that sometimes, despite your best efforts to focus your mind on delivering the wisdom and experience of a longtime television scribbler, that mind – and the talent that dwells therein – is insistently, perhaps, obsessively monitoring other concerns.
This, then, is a story about when you have the intention of writing one thing, but that gifted thing inside you is determined to write something else.
Which, today, is this.
SURGERY DAY DOGGEREL
Written last night at 3:29 AM
(TO THE TUNE OF: “TEDDY BEAR’S PICNIC”)
When I go down to the hospital
They’re gonna go in my side.
They say it’s less painful than cracking your chest
But what do I do if they lied?
They’ll still my lungs and quiet my heart
And when they’re done, they hope they restart
Today’s the day the robots go in my bo…dy.
Okay, it’s out. Tomorrow, I’ll return with Thoughtful Observations on the Sitcom Genre.
Unless something else comes up.
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