by Mike Sacks
Do you think audiences are willing to forego perfection and craft if the characters are strong and the jokes are solid?
In any genre, viewers want to feel something. They want to have an experience. There are more well-made movies than good movies. That's sort of my new mantra. Plenty of people can shoot beautiful films. There are a lot of great editors, a lot of great designers. But where is the content? Who are the characters? Is it moving? You want the audience to feel something, and if it's comedy, you want them to laugh hard, even if it's at the expense of a better shot or a better edit. There are many times when the editor will say to me, “Well, that's not a real good cut.” And I'll say, “Yeah, but it's funny. Let's just do it.”
As a director and writer, you must have been happy to have had Bill Murray at your disposal.
I always tell students to identify the most talented person in the room, and, if it isn't you, go stand next to him. That's what I did with Bill. I met him when he was really young — in his early twenties.
The problem with that advice is that everyone thinks they're the most talented person in the room.
Yes, but if you're smart you know.
Bill Murray has a reputation for being difficult to work with.
Billy has that thing I've seen in only a few people in my life. Robert De Niro, whom I worked with in Analyze This and its sequel, has it also. It's a kind of penetrating intellect and a very intense kind of scrutiny. They look at you really hard, and you always feel that you're being judged for honesty and sincerity and clarity. You never want to hype those two or bullshit them in any way. It's as if you could be dismissed in a moment if they sense you're not a genuine or serious person.
People melt under that kind of stare. Chris Guest and Chevy also used to do it, but they did it almost as a tactic. They would just look at you without saying anything.
Almost as a bullying tactic?
In a sense, yes, bullying. It is intimidating. But with De Niro and Billy, it's not just a tactic. Billy just doesn't have time for fools or insensitive people.
Judge Reinhold, who acted in Stripes, said that the director, Ivan Reitman, was able to control the Army and the tanks and everything else connected with the shoot, but the only thing he couldn't control was Bill Murray.
Well, you don't try. I mean, I never try to control an actor.
You understand the parameters and you work within them?
It's like that great saying, “You ride the horse in the direction it's going.” Billy goes his own way. But he'll go my way if he thinks it's a good way. So my job is not to force the actor to do anything; it's to convince them. Billy was smart enough to know a good thing when he heard it. If I said, “Try this” or “Try that,” and it was really funny, he'd do it.
Do you think there's any chance you'll work with Bill Murray in the future?
I highly doubt it. We hardly talk. I've just seen him a handful of times over the years.
Was it a specific falling-out? What was the reason?
No, it was just that his life changed. Both our lives changed in a big way. He left his wife, whom I knew before they were even married. He embarked on another life. Some of his old friends are still his friends, but he and I haven't spoken in years.
Was Groundhog Day always intended to be a comedy? From what I've read, it started out quite differently.
It wasn't anything broad. The first screenwriter, Danny Rubin, doesn't have a style that goes for big jokes. But it was touching. I got tears in my eyes after I read it. One of the differences was that when we first meet the Bill Murray character, Phil Connors, he's already repeating the same day, which has gone on for ten thousand years. There was a voice-over that explained how that came to be.
Ten thousand years? It sounds more like a horror story than a comedy.
That was one of the first big changes I made right away in my rewrite: to show how Phil Connors first found himself in this situation, rather than come into it after it's already been going on for so long. I think this helped ease the audience into the movie. And it was kind of a clever device. Actually, I had assured Danny that I wouldn't change that aspect of his original script. I told him, “It's so cool starting right in the middle. I'll never change that — I promise!” Of course, that was the first thing I changed.
I just thought, from a dramatic point of view, that this would be a big moment to miss, the moment when the character first experiences the repetition — to show him going through those stages of disbelief and disorientation and confusion. Why jump past all that good material?
What I love about that movie is there's no explanation as to why Phil Connors finds himself in this situation. It just happens. Which is the polar opposite of most Hollywood films, where everything is overexplained.
Actually, the studio insisted on an explanation. So I wrote one.
What was it?
I wrote that Phil Connors had a disaffected lover who buys a book called 101 Hex Spells or Enchantments You Can Do For Free. And she does some incantation, and she burns something and then smashes a wristwatch, which was obviously Phil's.
And the executives were happy with that?
Yeah, they were. But then the executive in charge at Columbia lost his job. A new executive came in, read the script, and said, “What do you need this for?” I said, “Okay, thank you.” That was the last time we attempted to explain it.
Groundhog Day has become very popular with religious audiences — of all faiths. And yet it wasn't an overtly religious movie.
Everyone saw their own faith in Groundhog Day. And it was not really faith in a God, because there's no God postulated in Groundhog Day. It was a faith in humanity. And I'm nothing if not a secular humanist. You don't need religion to be a good person. Maybe there's a simpler way.
Do you think Groundhog Day is one of your films that came closest to the intended vision?
I think it's a film that I can stand behind on a moral, ethical, and spiritual level.
Are there any movies that didn't come close to your intended vision?
Sure. I mean, I've done some things that had no vision. I co-wrote Caddyshack II. I'm forever ashamed of that. We crawled out of the theater when we saw it — me and the other writer, Peter Torokvei.
How do you feel about sequels, in general?
In my experience, they cost twice as much and they're half as successful. But then again, I didn't make the Star Wars sequels. I'm sure George Lucas feels very good about sequels. But I haven't had much luck with them. Ghostbusters II cost more and did less well than the original, and it was the same thing with Analyze That. I'm not such a fan.
Do you have a target audience in mind when you write? Do you picture anyone in particular?
No, I write for everybody. Or, really, for anyone who can read and is not hopelessly fucked in the head.
Do you think today's comedies are less risky than those made in the seventies and eighties?
I don't think so. Comedies might be less risky politically, but taking political risks or going after sacred cows doesn't necessarily lead to good comedy. It may be well motivated and it may be well-intended, but that doesn't mean it's going to be funny.
Ivan Reitman said something interesting about the difference between a comedy made twenty years ago and one made today. He said that if you looked at Stripes or Ghostbusters, the lead characters were much smarter than everybody else in the movie. Whereas today, the main characters aren't the smartest guys; they're even the dumbest guys. Would you agree with this assessment?
Yes, I can see that. But for me, it was never about my characters having more learning or technical ability. It was more about them being socially smart, cutting through all the pretension in the room and all the illusions and recognizing what's really going on. You know, just cutting to the most practical and realistic position right away. And it's not always the most heroic position. Sometimes characters may turn and run; they might not stick around and fight. They don't have to be the heroes, necessa
rily. But they should be intelligent.
A lot of your movies represented the comedic sensibility of the time period in which they were released — Animal House in the late seventies; Stripes in the early eighties; Ghostbusters in the mid-eighties; Analyze This in the nineties. Looking back, do you think that you captured the sensibility of the periods, or created that sensibility?
I don't know. I just did what I wanted to do and what interested me. As I tell writing students, the only thing you have that is unique is yourself. You can write a movie that's like some other movie, and that's what you'll have: something that's completely derivative. But the only thing totally unique is you. There's no one like you. No one else has had your experience. No one has been in your body or had your parents. Yes, we've all had the same cultural influences. We've all lived at the same time, watched the same shows, gone to the same movies, listened to the same music. But it's all filtered through our unique personalities. And I honor the things that have influenced me. I'm grateful for whatever it is that became the particular lens that's allowed me to put out what I have.
Do you consider certain movies or a certain period in your career as having been your golden age?
No. I think I'm still waiting for my golden age. I really feel that way. I've had fun my whole career. Every movie I've made has been a wonderful experience in lots of ways. And right now I'm working on what I hope will be the best movie I've ever made.
Can't say it will be, but ….
Quick and Painless Advice for the Aspiring Humor Writer, part xxx
Q&PA GUIDE TITLE
Q&PA Sub
You don't need an agent to pitch a humor piece to a magazine.
Do not explain why a piece is funny. It either is or it isn't.
Do not copyright your work. No one's going to steal it. This is just a sign of being an amateur.
No fancy fonts.
The font should be no bigger than 18-point. In other words, don't make it huge.
Do not try too hard — or even at all — to be funny in the cover letter. Jokes in the story are fine. Jokes in the pitch are not.
When a piece you write is accepted and the editor has “a few small changes” that kill your idea, go along with them cheerfully. There are plenty of writers out there. Editors do not like dealing with those who are deemed “difficult.” As you die a slow death on the inside, you'll have more and more bylines.
Submit your work to the editors who are lower on the masthead; the editor-in-chief is not going to be interested in what you're pitching. Associate editors are a good place to start.
Always e-mail. The subject line should read “Story idea” and then the name of the pitch.
Never call, unless you already have a relationship with the editor.
Writers sometimes talk about the awards they've won. Don't.
A good idea is a good idea, and it's easy to spot. So that should be the first part of the pitch. The credentials should be at the end — unless you're dropping the name of a mutual contact. Obviously, that should be up front. There's no shame in vouching.
Don't use Mr. or Mrs. [last name of editor here]. Weird. Arcane.
If the story idea came out of a writers' workshop, keep that to yourself.
If you're pitching a draft on spec, do not include footnotes, embedded headers, or formatted bullet points. Also, do not use boldface or underscore. Just submit a document with characters that form words and sentences.
The basic rules of grammar and punctuation should be followed. Specifically: Learn the difference between its and it's. Learn the proper usage of who and whom. Learn the difference between their and there and they're.
As far as The Onion is concerned, you sometimes have to pitch headlines for years before one is ever bought.
Be confident but not obnoxious. Be persistent but not overbearing. Do not bombard a Web site with submission after submission. After four or five unsuccessful tries, it might be good to take a break for a spell and get more acquainted with what the site is looking for before trying again. Pluck is good, but not when it veers on throwing whatever you have against the wall and hoping it sticks.
Most editors say they want more humor in their magazines, but not many do. What they really want is humor that they find funny and that they would write if they could, which they can't, or else there would already be humor in their magazines. Consequently, you have to adapt your sense of humor to meet their sensibilities. It's very difficult. So if and when you find an editor who shares your sensibility, marry, adopt, imprison, or do whatever it takes to maintain that relationship. The other approach is to skip the pitch and just write it. You don't want to waste a lot of time waiting for an editor to evaluate the pitch. Just write it — either the editor will laugh or not.
Every writer, no matter how famous, will at some point be rejected. Do not become overly frustrated if you too are rejected. On the other hand, there might be a lesson to be learned. Take that lesson and apply it to a future submission.
Dan Mazer
A writer's worst critic (besides himself, and perhaps a reviewer or two) is, typically, another writer. So when a writer receives a compliment from one of his peers, especially glowing praise, it can be the most satisfying validation of his career.
In the summer of 2006, a group of respected comedy writers, including Judd Apatow, Larry David, and Garry Shandling, were invited to a private Los Angeles screening of a new movie called Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, co-written by Dan Mazer. As the closing credits rolled, perennial Simpsons scribe George Meyer purportedly turned to Apatow and said, “I feel like someone just played me Sgt. Peppers for the first time.”
Borat went on to become a critical and box-office smash, and was even nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay at the 2007 Academy Awards (losing to The Departed). But, despite all the excitement, Dan Mazer did not become an overnight celebrity. Reporting on his Oscar evening for the U.K.'s Observer, he wrote, “I was with the elite … and I was being regularly shouted at to get out of the way of the elite. Despite lingering for twenty minutes nobody took my photo or spoke to me.” Such is the life of a writer even at the top of his game.
From an early age, Mazer demonstrated a skill for getting people to say and do things they might not have under normal circumstances. When he applied to become a law student at Cambridge University in the early nineties, his academic record was far from impressive. It was only after a college interview — in which he bonded with a Cambridge official by discussing their shared desire to play Hamlet — that he was accepted. “If we had talked about law for even a second,” Mazer later admitted to U.S. News & World Report, “he would have uncovered me as a fraud and never given me a chance.”
Though Mazer and comedian Sacha Baron Cohen first met as pre-teens, they did not begin collaborating with one another until 1998, when Mazer was hired as a staff writer for The 11 O'Clock Show, a late-night satire showcase on British TV that launched the career of, among others, Ricky Gervais. Mazer recruited Cohen, and the writing duo soon created Ali G, a functionally illiterate hip-hop poseur who interviewed unsuspecting politicians, celebrities, and anyone else foolish enough to chat with him. The character became so popular that he was given his own show, Da Ali G Show, which ran first in the U.K. in 2000 and then on HBO from 2003 to 2004.
Ali G was the first of Mazer's and Cohen's characters to make the leap to the big screen, with the less than warmly received Ali G Indahouse (2002). As Mazer and Cohen soon discovered, the appeal of their creations was in the apparent spontaneity. Ali G Indahouse was too obviously scripted, and fans preferred a film that looked and felt more like “realistic” comedy, which is why the Borat movie ultimately became such a huge hit. Although the movie was carefully constructed, with very little left to chance, it played like pure improvisation.
It's a testament to Mazer's role as silent puppeteer that the audience never noticed the strings.
First of all, thanks for
doing this.
Before we begin, let me just ask you: How has it been going so far? Has it been fun to interview humor writers? Are they nice? Or are they humorless in person?
It's been miserable. Just a hellish experience.
You're joking … I assume. But do you know what I find with most comedy writers, or at least the ones I know? I think a lot of them genuinely might have some form of Asperger's. Most of the comedy writers I know are complete disasters — socially. You put them in the room, and it's just a car crash. It's horrible.
What other similarities have you noticed among comedy writers?
They have the same type of childhood. Not necessarily unhappy childhoods so much as lonely ones. I think humor writers have either unbelievably tumultuous upbringings, which forces them to go into their own heads and develop and hone their humor and their own unique points of view, or they have just the dullest childhoods, which also forces them to go into their own heads and create their own universes.
I have a friend who writes sitcoms in L.A. When he was growing up, his mother basically did not want to deal with him. He was a nuisance to her. So to minimize this nuisance she told him that all children went to bed at 5:30 in the afternoon. Until the age of eleven, he went to bed at 5:30, because he thought that's what all kids did. He would sleep for fourteen hours.
That wasn't my experience. My childhood was very mundane and suburban; you know, perfectly nice and absolutely no trauma. There was no horror, almost to a fault.
You were raised in the suburbs?
Yes. It was middle class … actually, it was not even middle class. It had aspirations toward middle class, but it was slightly below that. I grew up outside London, where it was just incredibly twee, incredibly reserved, and very English. I had a protective mother who would cocoon me to such a ridiculous degree that she wouldn't allow me to go outside and ride my bike, for fear that I would ride straight into a lorry and kill myself.