And Here's the Kicker: Conversations with 21 Top Humor Writers on Their Craft

by Mike Sacks

  How often do you watch old episodes of The Simpsons?

  Rarely. When I do DVD commentaries, I usually haven't seen the episodes since we finished them.

  I was listening to the commentary track for an episode you wrote in The Simpsons' second season called “Bart vs. Thanksgiving.” It was about Bart and Lisa getting into a fight over the Thanksgiving holiday and Bart running away. There was very little praise for the episode from your standpoint. Instead, you mentioned that you had made mistakes with the writing. Do you remember what they were?

  In that show? The story was a bit repetitive, and some of the jokes could have been stronger.

  Any jokes in particular that you can remember?

  Lisa wrote a short protest poem â la “Howl”: “My soul carved in slices / By spiky-haired demons …” It was just a reference, not a real joke.

  You also mentioned in this commentary that, like Bart, you would go up on the roof when you got into a fight with your family. Are there other autobiographical elements from the show that appeared in that episode, or in others?

  Sure. Little observational things, like Bart with a can opener, saying in a singsong voice, “Mom, it's broken, Mom it's brokennnn.” Adults abusing their power. And being petty.

  Any elements from other episodes that come to mind?

  When the Simpsons' car is hit by a train and pushed down the tracks with a horrible screeching noise, and Homer suggests that they all try to get some sleep? That really happened.

  Do mistakes, or what you perceive as being mistakes, haunt you as a writer?

  Less than they used to.

  Outside writing, I used to lie awake wincing at some embarrassing things I'd said years before, most of which had to do with drunkenness. Later, my regrets were about opportunities I'd missed — classes I didn't take at Harvard, or girls who had crushes on me in high school and whom I didn't pursue because I was too hung up on some super-hot, unattainable girl with smoky, silver eyes.

  You're one of the most successful humor writers in the world, and you're still hung up on the way you treated some girls in high school?

  I'm damaged, baby.

  Do you think being like this — never forgetting, and having memories that haunt you — has affected your writing or humor?

  Yeah. You're always trying to get in the last word. That quest for vindication is what makes Curb Your Enthusiasm so hysterical.

  You've mentioned in the past that some of your best writing is done when you go into sort of a trance. Do you consider writing almost a form of hypnosis, where you lose track of time?

  Losing track of time is a sure sign that you're immersed in the joy of the experience. You're in the state that [psychology professor and author] Mihály Csík-szentmihályi calls “flow.” Actually, I had to be in that state now, just to get his name right. The work you do in this state has grace and ease and resonance. It's the opposite of what Michael O'Donoghue used to call “sweaty” comedy, when you've laboriously squeezed out something tedious, and the effort shows.

  When you're “in the zone,” a joke will just land on you like a butterfly, and only if you scrutinize it later do you see how it came together from disparate elements. Maybe it's an amalgam of an old half-idea, or something you saw on your way to work, or a strange symbol on someone's T-shirt. And it happens in an instant. Of course, this state is elusive; it has to be cultivated.

  How do you cultivate it?

  You have to be prepared. You need basic writing skills, of course, but you also want to have lots of raw ingredients rattling around in your skull: vivid words, strange song lyrics, irritating euphemisms, disastrous experiences that have been bothering you for years. To feed this stockpile, you need to expose yourself to the real world and all its hailstones.

  The other essential is humility. You have to be willing to look stupid, to stumble down unproductive paths, and to endure bad afternoons when all your ideas are flat and sterile and derivative. If you don't take yourself too seriously you'll bounce back from these lulls and be ready for the muse's next visit.

  What is it about writing in a group situation that you enjoy? Do you actually prefer this process to writing alone?

  Writing solo is lonely and you feel the heat — you want to keep topping yourself. I used to berate myself if I couldn't think of a killer joke for every spot, but I gradually eased up on that. You can't keep bitch-slapping your creativity, or it'll run away and find a new pimp.

  Many Simpsons writers have acknowledged that you're a master when it comes to re-writing other writers' scripts.

  I eventually settled on re-writing as my strong suit. Writing scripts by myself was usually traumatic. On “Brother's Little Helper” [Season 11, Episode Two], the episode where Bart is dosed with a Ritalin-like drug, nothing went right. I couldn't even think of a title. I eventually turned it in with the bad title “Bart A-Go-Go,” under the pseudonym Vance Jericho. I was that unhappy with it, but the episode turned out okay.

  The fun thing about the re-write room, when it's working, is that people surprise and challenge you, and the collective mind goes off on unpredictable benders, which can be thrilling. The best times are when everyone tosses in a pinch of spice.

  The Simpsons writers' room is hallowed ground for other comedy writers. Can you go into the process a little? Do writers shout out jokes and ideas?

  There's not a lot of shouting — it's not Caesar's Hour — but there is “pitching” of lines or story turns. You wait for a pause, and then toss out your “pitch,” often in the voice of the character who'd be saying it. If the room laughs, it usually goes into the script, unless it's too tasteless or raunchy or out of character.

  What you're doing is trying to improve on the writer's draft, which usually needs to be “punched up” — made funnier. Slow sections are tightened or cut entirely, and new scenes and characters are invented as required.

  Is it true that the only reading material in the writers' room is a dictionary and a thesaurus?

  There's not much else. Maybe some garbage from lunch.

  Do you have a favorite type of Simpsons episode? For instance, a Bart versus Lisa episode? Or an episode that takes place outside of Springfield?

  I prefer episodes that are inspired by someone's real-life experience. They're more satisfying, somehow.

  Would you say that writing this sort of episode is your strength?

  I think my strength is conceptual comedy and creating unlikely juxtapositions that shouldn't work, but do.

  Can you give me a specific example?

  In “The Parent Rap” [Season 13, Episode Two], which I wrote with Mike Scully, Homer is prowling around Judge Harm's house in a burglar outfit. When she's about to discover him, he prepares to throw a heavy object at her, with the prayer:“O Lord, guide this cinder block …”

  It's an insane thing to say, but you can see the logic, too, so it makes me giggle.

  You and the other Simpsons writers have written thousands upon thousands of jokes over the years. How do you keep track of previously written ones?

  Al Jean, a longtime show-runner, has an uncanny memory, so he's the first line of defense. Sometimes we consult books or websites.

  On a similar note, there is an incredible number of secondary Simpsons characters available for you to use — more than two hundred. How do you keep track of them? Do you mentally catalogue each of them and use them when a specific type of joke is needed?

  Ideally, they present themselves as needed. Sometimes we cheat by checking a poster of several hundred Simpsons characters.

  Characters go in and out of vogue as we explore what we can do with them. For instance, the character of Gil, based on a Jack Lemmon–type schlub, had a good run — he seemed able to fit into anything for awhile. And Fat Tony is a perennial, largely because of Joe Mantegna's mesmerizing staccato delivery — and also because criminals are always useful.

  Are some Simpsons characters more popular among the writers than others?

  Sur
e. It's always easier to write for a dynamic character with a clear agenda — someone like Monty Burns.

  What about for you? Which character do you most enjoy writing for?

  Homer, of course, is the big gun. He's impulsive, he's ravenous, and he never looks back. I also like characters who deliver florid speeches, like the bombastic [aliens] Kang and Kodos.

  Do you feel that Homer has become too stupid since the show began? In one episode, he literally forgets how to breathe.

  It's always a danger with Homer. It actually got to the point where he talked to a framed picture of Lenny, believing it to actually be Lenny [“Homer's Enemy,” Season Eight, Episode 23]. This goes beyond mere stupidity into Oliver Sacks– style neurological deficit.

  Some fans feel that Homer became more and more coarse over the seasons, while becoming less of the sweet man that he used to be. Do you agree with this?

  Homer acting crazy is like crystal meth: a little is good; too much can be deadly. [Writers] Bill Oakley and Josh Weinstein used to complain about Homer becoming a “food monster.” And we would discuss how nasty he could be. An early episode where he probably crossed the line was “When Flanders Failed” [Season 3, Episode Three]. Homer was relentlessly malicious toward Ned; one of the writers said he was “acting like a mean retard.”

  If there's no grounding in reality, most people won't be interested. You'll only attract the comedy fanatics.

  Fans sometimes talk about a “Simpsons golden age,” and they often refer to this time as lasting from 1992 to around 1997. Do you agree that there ever was such a time — when everything seemed to be clicking and coming together?

  Those were certainly strong seasons. In general, I prefer the leisurely episodes with simple and involving stories to the frenetic episodes that assault you with disconnected jokes.

  What season do you think the show really hit its stride?

  By the second season we felt confident, and by the third and fourth seasons we had a real swagger. We were a lean, agile team.

  How many re-writes will a typical Simpsons script go through before the voice actors even see it?

  Many.

  How many exactly?

  Some scenes are re-written five or six times.

  Does a script get re-written even after it is initially animated?

  Yes, it's re-written at every stage of production.

  How long is this production process — from first draft to finished cartoon?

  About six months.

  How draining is the schedule for you? Is it more exhausting to write for a show like this than it would be for a non-animated show?

  Most TV shows are exhausting. The network figures out how many shows will literally kill the staff. Then they do one fewer.

  Jon Vitti, another Simpsons writer, once told The Harvard Crimson, “The physical pain [that] lousy comedy costs George is incredible. You don't want to be responsible for that.”

  It only hurts me if I had a hand in it. I guess I find life so disappointing that I can't bear to be part of the problem.

  Are there specific comedic tropes that drive you crazy?

  Just material that's lazy and fake. For instance, when a character has to think of a phony name, sees an ashtray, and then calls herself “Susan Ashtray.” That's boring. Billy Wilder's first commandment was “Thou shalt not bore.”

  It's easy to pick up bad habits from watching hackneyed comedy. You'll find yourself resorting to stock situations, straw men, and hokey resolutions. An artful slice of life, even if it isn't totally free of editorial contrivance, will inspire you to build your work on the bedrock of reality.

  Do you think that the pace of The Simpsons has changed over the years? I've noticed that the early episodes tend to be much more dialogue-heavy than the later ones. Do you think this has to do with the shorter attention spans of viewers?

  Probably. The world is speeding up, to no particular benefit. People today are almost proud of their inability to focus; I see it as a crippling handicap. The future belongs to those who can think clearly and don't submit to the jittery rhythms of advertising.

  Another change in the show since the beginning is the length of each episode. When The Simpsons began in 1989, each episode was twenty-three minutes. Now each episode runs about twenty-one minutes. Has that affected the writing at all?

  Advertising always has a coarsening effect, and its inane monkey chatter makes your story less coherent. As the commercial breaks got longer, we had to start recapping the plot at the top of Acts Two and Three, because you'd forget where you were in the story.

  I sense you're not a huge fan of advertising.

  It's a conscienceless industry, populated by cowards and idiots, that warps and drains everyone. It eggs on the worst in all of us.

  So, let me get this straight: You're not a huge fan of advertising?

  If I could eliminate either advertising or nuclear weapons, I would choose advertising.

  There are few television shows that have a more ardent fan base than The Simpsons. It's shocking to read some of the websites and books — and perhaps even this interview — devoted to it. The knowledge and trivia that these fans possess is incredible.

  Ain't it the truth.

  From your standpoint, it must be strange to read websites where fans dissect the show to such a point that they know that Marge's pubic hair is blue.

  Recently, she started shaving it into a landing strip.

  Or that Homer's blood type is B positive, and Bart's is double–O negative.

  It is strange, but then I think of myself poring over the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main St. cover, or watching Godfrey Reggio's movie Koyaanisqatsi [1982] nine times. When you find something that zings you, you just want more, more, more.

  How aware are you of the fans' concerns? To use a specific example, when the Maude Flanders character was killed by a T-shirt cannon in the eleventh season, did you and the other writers take the fans' outrage to heart?

  The fans get incensed when we take a risk and it doesn't really pay off. But that's the nature of risk. The series isn't a museum. It has to be supple and surprising or else it becomes airless and stagnant.

  Some fans also criticize the more surreal and flight-of-fancy episodes, such as the two-parter from the sixth and seventh seasons, “Who Shot Mr. Burns?” Or the episode in the seventh season when President George H. W. Bush moved to Springfield. Do you feel that the show, even temporarily, became untethered to what made it popular to begin with?

  It's inevitable that the quality and tone will vary — and maybe this is even desirable. We're not aiming for consistency. We're not making screws; we're trying to innovate and keep a step ahead. And even among Harvard Lampoon alums, you'll find wildly divergent views on what's funny.

  The season is long and punishing. Sometimes you ring the bell; sometimes it falls on your head.

  Do you feel there's a common theme that runs through each or most of the episodes? Harry Shearer has said that he feels that one of the themes is “anti-authority.”

  Right, and I would add “futility.”

  Would that be one of the themes in the infamous “Homer's Enemy,” written by John Swartzwelder, in which an upstanding, decent and hardworking character named Frank Grimes is driven mad by Homer? It has to be one of the darkest half-hours ever on television, animated or not.

  It did have a sadistic tinge. We introduced a character, put him through hell, electrocuted him, then desecrated his funeral service. So in that sense, it was dark.

  Ricky Gervais, in particular, has called it one of his favorite episodes, and you can see certain elements of that tone in the British version of The Office.

  Ricky is a brilliant observer of human suffering. I love his work on Extras, particularly the episode in which David Bowie improvises an insulting song about him as he twists uncomfortably. The best comic actors — Steve Martin, Bill Murray, Sacha Baron Cohen — understand that life is basically cruel and random and, by letting their pain show
through, the eventual laughter becomes visceral.

  Are you happy with the Simpsons movie, released in 2007?

  There are jokes and runs I find hilarious, but I still mourn the brilliant stuff that got cut out. I have mixed feelings about it. We worked so hard, and people liked it, but it still feels slapdash to me.

  What “brilliant material” was cut out? Can you remember any specific jokes?

  When the townspeople are first trying to escape from the dome, Professor Frink finds it's made from a miracle substance: “It seems the harder we pound on it, the stronger it gets.” Silly stuff like that.

  After the family escapes to the carnival, they get jobs at the water-dunk booth as clown-driers. Hank Azaria, as Scummo the Clown, taunts the rubes, calling them “Skinny Minnie” and “Highpockets.” Then he sinks into self-loathing: “Why do I say the things I do?” Most of the writers thought Scummo was a riot, but he got cut out.

  In Alaska, Homer gets a job delivering newspapers in a small airplane. He walks into the propeller, gets flung fifty feet, and says “I'm okay.” Then he walks away, leaving a little red trail in the snow.

  The pressure to create the movie must have been immense. The fans are hard enough on the individual television episodes.

  Yes, well, we knew we couldn't please everyone. Just trying to give all the minor characters a line or a piece of business was a major undertaking.

  It doesn't sound as if you were very happy with the whole process and outcome of the movie.

  It was a tough gig.

  Listening to the Simpsons DVD commentaries, you hear a lot of “this was a joke about a popular item at the time” or “this used to be popular.” How do you think The Simpsons will age?

  Most of it will still be funny in twenty or thirty years. I always tried to emphasize the timeless and universal, and weed out the topical stuff, unless it was irresistible.

  Who has a say on when and how The Simpsons will end?

  I don't know who controls the rights, but all things must pass.