Dustin Diamond

by Timothy Niedermann

  Backstage we would sit for makeup touch-ups and twirl for final wardrobe inspection. Here’s a tidbit about stage makeup for television: the lighter your skin, the more orange it must be made in order to even out the color scale. I’m not talking about fake-tan orange, I’m talking Chester Cheeto orange. We called it Cheeto makeup because everyone who had to wear it was the spitting image of that smudgy, curled, cheese-flavored cornmeal snack. If you were very fair-skinned, then every Friday you’d walk around set looking like Otto the Orange, the Syracuse mascot. Lark, obviously, was spared this indignity each week. Mario was also saved by his swarthy Latino complexion. But me, Mark-Paul, Tiffani, Elizabeth, and Den would get Cheetofied. You absolutely cannot tell on television how orange our faces were, but if you had bumped into us backstage you would have been horrified by what was clearly a tragic mishap at the Frito Lay factory—producing a mutant squad of oranginators. And as much as that sucked, sometimes there were scenes where I had to wear swim trunks or have my shirt off, and so I had to have my whole torso slathered in orange. That stuff is thick as pancake batter, and if I were to smear my finger across my cheek, I’d scoop off a little mound of what looked like whipped cheese. Once the basic Cheeto effect was achieved, the makeup artists toned the orangeness up or down as needed with puffs of powder like KT 1, Golden Dew Amber, and Bronze Tone. You might be thinking right about now, “Most guys don’t know what sort of makeup they require.” But trust me, in the entertainment industry, especially after you work on a series for ten years, it’s your job to know what makes you look good on camera. Don’t believe me? Just ask the ghost of Richard Nixon.

  Then, it was showtime.

  Hanging over the crowd during taping (just like that plastic bag filled with all my clothes, thanks to Bobo) were a series of directional microphones outfitted with tight cones to make them very specific sound receptors for different areas of the studio audience. All the applause and laughs and hoots and jeers and oohs you hear are real. But the directional microphones also allowed the sound editor to zero in on zones where clowns just wanted to act like asses because they thought they’d be heard on TV (i.e., “Wooo, Kelly, suck it baby! I’m right here!”). That hosebag would be wiped from the final soundtrack. The sound editor would just turn down the cone over the problem area and fill the space with more sound from surrounding microphones.

  From backstage, we could hear the audience being loaded into the studio. The set was hidden from view by a large wooden framework suspending long, black tarps. We would invariably poke a tiny hole or peel back a corner to peek at the audience as they found their seats. I would also locate the friends, family, and lady friends I had reserved seats for during the taping. My first girlfriend, when I was twelve and she was fifteen, was a fan of the show who sent me letters, which included very tasteful personal photos. We used to talk on the phone for hours. She only lived about fifteen minutes away from me in Diamond Bar, California. Ah, young love. She was a big fan of stuffing all our correspondences with silvery confetti that would scatter every-where each time I opened her latest letter. She thought it was hilarious. Me, not so much. But she was hot, and I was horny, so I put up with it. I invited her to a Friday taping with her mom with a promise to host a first-class tour of the SBTB set after we wrapped. We ended up dating for a long time. Corny as it may sound, it also helped when I—or any of the cast members—knew there was a guest in the audience who we could perform for. For me, it was a little added incentive to stay focused and do my best work, not unlike live theater.

  The audience was seated by NBC pages (i.e., Kenneth on 30 Rock). The pages also monitored the audience and guarded against any unruly behavior or crazy people storming the stage. I enjoyed performing before a live audience. It exuded a terrific energy, an immediate feedback from an intense, communal vibe created by a room full of people all hanging on your next line of dialogue. And the explosions of roaring laughter were very satisfying, though of course I also liked it when people laughed at the actual jokes written into the script.

  Sometimes, when I would peek at the audience throughout the show, I would pick out a hot chick and ask one of the pages to approach her after the taping and tell her that I’d like to invite her backstage for a tour of the show. This technique was always a crapshoot, but it often worked marvelously. Girls would be thrilled to be invited backstage. If things were proceeding nicely, I would end my tour in the set graveyard (the place where all the old set walls, stage pieces and some props were stored) where we could spend some quality time alone, getting to know one another. I don’t remember any of my cast mates ever singling out audience members and inviting them backstage like I did. Strange as it may seem, it was I who developed into the real off-camera ladies’ man on SBTB. I was undercover for a long time; my reputation was very slow to catch up with my exploits, which was fine by me. I like to think I approached the backstage hookup with style, whereas Mario was just an unabashed slut, hitting on anything with a respiratory system. Mark-Paul, for years and years, was never seen with a girl on set. I was the true Super Pimp. Hand me my wide-brimmed hat with the snow-leopard trim, my gold-capped cane, and my chalice. Pimptacular.

  When the audience was loaded into their seats, they were first entertained by our long-time warm-up guy, Phil Stellar (he was the main one, we had others). A warm-up guy is a comedian who gets the crowd laughing and in good spirits by involving them in his silly, often cheesy routine. SBTB was a kid-friendly show, so Phil couldn’t be too risqué with his material. He would tell jokes and pick out people for some good-hearted ribbing, basically keeping their enthusiasm high leading into the main event. He ended his set with instructions for the audience on how loud they needed to cheer and laugh and “ooOOOOOooo” in order to fill the studio space with a big sound that would resonate on TV.

  When Phil had finished and the cast was ready (and Mario had done his push ups), we all came out for an opening bow. After that, we took our places, the tarps were lowered, and the first set was revealed. Then we dove right into filming from the top of the show. As I mentioned before, we moved through the script in chronological order for the benefit of the audience, even though it was more complicated and time-consuming to film that way. If, however, there was a scene that was more complex or involved a lot of intricate business, quite often we would not perform it live. Instead the scene as it had been taped earlier would be shown to the audience on large monitors while we set up for the next live scene.

  When we transitioned, the end of each scene was indicated by an applause sign. It’s a common misconception that the applause sign blinks and flashes after each corny gag to encourage the audience to laugh, even if they’re not amused. Really it was to signal to the crowd that the scene was over, but without the aid of music. On the screen, transitions from scene to scene or from scene to commercial are accompanied by music. But in fact, all of the music was added later, in post-production. Without music as a guide, we had to rely on the applause sign. For instance, if a scene were to end on a long pause, say Zack staring out into an uncertain future, without the aid of musical cues it’s difficult for the audience to know when to applaud. And you don’t want them starting early, ruining the take. That’s where the applause sign comes in. At a given, pre-planned moment, the applause sign turns on, and the audience applauds as if on cue. Simple as that. In the final edit, the music is mixed in with the applause mixes, and you get the full transition effect.

  As you can see, sound had to be managed carefully to avoid anything spoiling the scene. As a wall of defense against jackasses in the audience purposely trying to ruin takes, there were directional mikes on the ceiling. So, if while Zack is holding his pause some dipshit calls out, “Yeeaaahh,” he can rest assured he won’t be featured in the final cut.

  The producers of SBTB also employed a company called Audiences Unlimited, whose sole job was to fill the seats for every episode. They guaranteed to find an audience no matter what. Even if they had to drag homeless winos off the streets of Bu
rbank, that studio would be full for tape day. So, even if your show blew—and I make no accusations—there would be a warm ass in each and every seat.

  Everybody thinks bloopers are hilarious. Not so much. Keep in mind that, in 1990s dollars, it cost something like $10,000 an hour just to light the set for SBTB. Keep in mind also that every time we fucked up a take and had to do it over from the top, the production got that much closer to losing some of its younger actors due to child-labor laws. This was a formula that rendered the higher-ups most unhappy when bloopers occurred. They didn’t want to be viewed before a live audience as sticks in the mud, but at the same time they did tend to get pretty aggressive when things were lagging behind schedule. The show’s creators weren’t such big men and women that they were above leaning in and whispering a threat of punishment if we couldn’t get our shit together and stop laughing. We were kids. Trying to make each other laugh—through the use of funny faces or by whatever other means at our disposal—was practically a full-time job. For example, Screech might bid farewell to Slater as he walked off set, but Mario would linger, making faces and offering up lewd, suggestive body language in an immature attempt to distract my attention from the task at hand. An attempt that often worked wonders. Of course the classic rule applies: The more you don’t want to laugh, the more you will.

  In one scene, Screech had to stand up in front of the class to deliver a speech. I was holding a piece of paper that, in theory, was supposed to have the speech written on it, but really I already had the lines memorized. More often than not, the prop guys would write something on the page like, “Just a friendly message from the prop guys: don’t crease this paper, we’re going to need it later. Thank you.” Or more interestingly, sometimes you’d sit down at your desk on set and flip open your algebra book to find a picture of the prop guys mooning you. One week there was a Polaroid frenzy of full moon shots. Mark-Paul opened Zack’s locker to discover an impressive array of prop guy ass taped inside. These sorts of pranks made it all the more difficult to hold it together and get through your scene with the suits breathing down your neck.

  So there I was, standing at the head of the class holding a prop page to deliver this speech. Mario started me laughing, and I couldn’t stop. The director walked over and said, “What the hell’s going on?” I said, “He’s making me laugh.” His response was, “You’re an actor. Get through the scene.” But the giggles can be infectious. That particular time, St. Peter descended from the booth to administer a stern warning to me, Mark-Paul, and Mario, threatening to dock our pay if we couldn’t pull it together and get through it. My point is, I was also a kid. I know we were all there for our big-time jobs that were stuffing everyone’s bank accounts, providing them with those sporty convertibles and mansions in gated communities but, ahem, I was thirteen years old! So bloopers were not always fun; in fact, they chapped a lot of asses.

  That makes me think of the least-aired episode in SBTB history. At least it held that distinction for many years. These days, with its insane syndication schedule, it’s probably just melded in seamlessly with the others. I heard at one point the ratio was like one hundred to one, meaning every other episode would air one hundred times before this one. At the time, the episode was quietly swept under the rug. It’s called “Slater’s Friend,” and it featured Artie, Slater’s pet chameleon. Spoiler alert: Artie dies. We all knew on the set that this episode was incredibly cheesy. At the end, gathered around Artie to mourn his passing, the gang sings, “Oh, Artie Boy” to the tune of that timeless Irish dirge, “Danny Boy”:

  Oh, Artie Boy,

  The bugs, the bugs are buzzing.

  There’s gnats and ants, mosquitoes on the fly.

  And they’ll be there for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

  In that big, chameleon banquet in the sky.

  It doesn’t get much cheesier than that. What made it more ridiculous was that Slater was directed to cry during Artie’s funeral elegy. This had the effect of making us all quiver with barely repressible glee. We couldn’t help ourselves. We kept busting up in laughter. It was impossible to get through the song because the entire scenario was so incredibly stupid.

  We shared that “Oh, Artie Boy” scene with the fat, jolly Mr. Tuttle, who appeared in a few episodes as the driver’s ed teacher, the conductor of the Glee Club, and as head of the teacher’s union when they struck during senior year. Mr. Tuttle was apparently next in line at Bayside for the principal’s position. He once called Mr. Belding “Mr. Balding” and intimated that he already had the new colors of his office picked out. Mr. Tuttle was played by Jack Angeles, who was a real-life accountant who worked in the accounts department at NBC. He was the actual guy who cut our real-life checks. Mr. Tuttle’s signature line was, “Hup-hup-hup, everyone! Pushy, pushy, move your tushy. Now that’s not the way we do it!” Oftentimes, names that were used for teachers—particularly teachers you never saw, like Mr. Testaverde—were throwbacks, homages, and inside gags for the writers. There was reference made to a teacher named Mr. Tramer, alluding to our longtime head writer, Bennett Tramer. SBTB was loaded with those kinds of inside jokes.

  If you look closely at the Artie-death-dirge scene in “Slater’s Friend,” you will notice each of us trying to hide from the camera as we labor to get through the song without exploding into hysterical laughter. For my part, I was swallowing what amounted to an infarction. I’m lucky I didn’t suffer a brain hemorrhage. These giggle moments were, of course, compounded by our fear of wasting costly production time with bloopers and outtakes. Knowing we were pissing off everybody up in the booth only made us laugh harder, spasming and convulsing. One might assume that our reactions to the scene would eventually be viewed as appropriate. The gang probably would giggle through that ridiculous song because the moment was so absurd. But if that’s what one might assume, one would be wrong. St. Peter and the writers were steadfast in their opinions that the scene was a somber one and should be acted as an authentic moment, honoring the passing of a noble reptilian soul, a soul that had brought Slater many hours of friendship and solace. In the end, we could never fully get through the scene. We always fucked it up, and that’s the footage they were forced to go with after many takes. That’s why “Slater’s Friend” became notorious as the least-aired episode of SBTB.

  Even though we were kids, we knew when something was lame-o. Allow me to sample a line for you: Screech knocks a turkey off the counter in the kitchen and goes to get it only to be stopped by Zack. As Zack lifts the bird from the floor, Screech says, “Okay, but don’t gobble it!” Truly, this was not exactly Pulitzer-worthy material we were working with. But what could we do? We groaned on the inside. Sometimes we would try to sabotage lines we knew were more stupid than our normal level of stupid. The corniness did exact its toll over time in our personal lives. No one wants to go to school and have kids go out of their way to get in your face and say, “You’re fucking stupid, man. Your jokes are dumb, and you play an asshole.” Thanks, chum.

  I had most of the stupid lines that needed to be delivered in each script. Sometimes, when feeling bold, I would try to submarine a particularly onerous slice of dialogue. The only thing I could really do was to deliver the line flat so it didn’t get the laugh that was intended. This required subtlety. I couldn’t appear that I was tanking the line; it had to look like the flaw was inherent in the writing. The best approach was to nail it all day until run-through, then tank it so St. Peter wouldn’t laugh, and it would get tossed out or kicked upstairs for a rewrite.

  The writers did not tend to welcome our suggestions for line changes. Our flashes of inspiration were definitely viewed as an insult. Sometimes I would try a new line out during run-through only to receive a note later from the director because the writer bitched. “Look,” the director would say, “just say it the way the writer wrote it.” No matter how big a laugh my new line got during run-through, I would be asked to revert back to the script. It’s a weird dance that develops between actors and writ
ers. From the actor’s perspective, I knew that if I wanted a change in dialogue I would have to present it in such a way that the writer thought it was his own idea. I needed to lead him to the banks of the river and, once he started drinking on his own, say, “Wow! Great idea, dude!” If diplomacy failed, though, I could also be devious.

  On tape day, I would deliver the line how it was written then gauge the reaction of the audience. I felt like, after playing Screech for so many years, I had the best sense of what sort of lines coming out of my character’s mouth would get the strongest reactions from the audience. If the line landed with a thud on the first delivery, on the second take I’d just do it my way. What were they going to do at that point? Especially when my line, as it invariably did, brought down the house. Even then, the call would come down from the director in the booth to Maria, the stage manager and she would tell me, “The director wants you to stick to the dialogue in the script.” Fine. At that point it was a moral victory anyway. I had proven my way was funnier. As the years went on and Screech had transitioned into SBTB: The New Class, I got bolder with my opinions and ad libs. Den and I had put our time in and had proven we knew our characters well.

  But things started getting weird between us and the writers during The New Class. The writers started fucking with Den and me, inserting a whole undercurrent of gay innuendo throughout the scripts between Screech and Belding. I’ll dive into that in more depth when I discuss my time on The New Class, but suffice it to say, as a result, Den and I started to deliver a lot of our own improvisational material in an effort to sidestep all that horseshit. I think Den and I eventually developed into a very in-sync comedy duo. From Screech’s early days as straight-man Zack’s goofy sidekick, I transitioned into Mr. Belding’s. Den would set the gags up, and I’d knock ’em down. We knew our characters so well we could feed off one another, even finish each other’s sentences. The crew grew to love Den and me and our scenes together because we did our jobs. They called us the One-Take Champions.