by Mark Duplass
* The end.
WHEN WE MADE our second studio movie, Jeff, Who Lives at Home, the circumstances were perfect. Our friend Jason Reitman, who was the king of indie films that make lots of money, came on board to produce it and protect our way of filmmaking. Along with his financier, the wonderful Steve Rales, he curated the perfect environment for us. We made the exact film we wanted to make, we didn’t have to battle anyone creatively, and it may be the thing we are most creatively proud of to this day.
But when the film came out, it didn’t “hit” like we all wanted it to. It was well reviewed, and all the cinephiles came to see it, but it didn’t cross over into the mainstream like we’d hoped it might. In the end, everyone barely broke even and we all walked away feeling disappointed that our little gem of a movie had not traveled further. What we didn’t know at the time was that the middle class of independent film was beginning its decline. That’s to say, all of those midsize independent films like Juno and Little Miss Sunshine that used to cross over and break out were now just limping across the finish line. People were watching their “indie” movies at home on Netflix or iTunes. And they were also starting to watch the various amazing television shows being offered by the renaissance in cable programming.
So what we ended up doing was focusing a bit on the smaller films that we knew how to make well. We produced tons of little movies like Safety Not Guaranteed, Your Sister’s Sister, The One I Love, The Overnight, and Tangerine, among others. These were movies we could pay for ourselves, sell later at film festivals, and share our profits from with our cast and crew. It was all going well, but we didn’t have that one singular project that we wanted to write and direct together that normally took up most of our year. As a result, I had extra time on my hands while Mark was carrying the bulk of the producing load and I was acting in projects outside of our brotherhood, like Transparent.
With this extra time, I started meeting with our good friend Steve Zissis and discussing a small TV show that would be made specifically for HBO GO’s digital online platform. It was called Alexander the Great, and it was based on Steve and his life. It was a way to show the world what an immense talent we believed Steve to be.
When we brought the project to HBO, they decided they wanted it to be not only bigger but one of their premium Sunday night shows. They also wanted it to be about two couples instead of just one. At this point, Mark was brought more heavily into the process, and we found ourselves asking a big question about where we were headed with our careers. Were we willing to take on and run a TV show for HBO? We had mostly shied away from creating TV, as we’d heard what a time suck it could be and wanted to leave ourselves enough time to write and direct movies. But it seemed that, considering the decline of the kinds of movies we used to direct and the emergence of this new wave of great TV programming, the universe was ushering us toward this HBO show.
So we signed on to write and direct all eight episodes of the first season of what would become Togetherness. Mark would star alongside Steve, and we cast the incredible Melanie Lynskey as Mark’s wife and Amanda Peet as Melanie’s sister and Steve’s eventual love interest. The goal was to create a simple show. A show that was specifically “low concept,” if there is such a thing. A show just about people as we knew them, and their seemingly small but insurmountable interpersonal issues. What we didn’t realize then was that it would be the most challenging time we’ve ever faced as brothers.
* * *
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We used to joke that Togetherness was a show about trying to get as close as you could to the people you loved, and then once you achieved that high level of intimacy, realizing that you needed them to GIVE YOU SOME FUCKING SPACE! It was a funny, sweet conflict that we knew quite well. It turned out to be one that we faced as brothers, over and over again, on the actual making of Togetherness. From being together every day in the writers’ room to our thirteen-hour days on set while shooting to being together in the edit room every day after that. And then, as soon as season one was done, realizing that we would be starting season two right away and facing that full brothers immersion all over again.
But HBO loved our show. Audiences seemed to love our show. And as much as we were getting a little beat up by the intense schedule, it seemed like we were doing good work and we should keep going. After all, it was every storyteller’s dream to run a show on a channel like HBO.
But we were both feeling anxious heading into season two. About having to compromise on each other’s work rhythm and pace. About the long hours and lack of personal space. About how having both of us in the same room over long periods of time is almost like trying to breathe the same supply of oxygen. And how there only seems to be enough for one of us. But every time we started to complain, we would laugh at ourselves. WE HAVE A FUCKING SHOW ON HBO! PEOPLE LIKE IT! WHAT ARE WE COMPLAINING ABOUT?
So we rushed headlong into season two, and it was even more difficult than the first. We were promoting season one while working on season two. Mark was still shooting The League. I was now acting on Transparent. We were producing an entire slate of movies for Netflix. We had signed on to write this book. We were…fucking bananas.
Needless to say, we started to shut down a little bit. Less socializing. Less exercising. More emotional eating. Everything was out of whack. We really only had time for work and our families. And the strangest thing happened: Even though we were spending more time together than we ever had, we started to become strangers. Our brotherhood and friendship started to get swallowed by all of the work we were sharing. In essence, we were becoming more business partners and less brothers.
Reviews of season two were great, our viewership was steady, and our network loved the show. So when HBO provisionally greenlit another season after we wrapped, we opened up the writers’ room for season three. Everything was going our way. It felt like we were going to be making this show for a good six seasons or so. And that was all exciting, except for the fact that we were kinda miserable.
So we talked about it for a bit. We even made a list of the pros and cons of our situation. And as we looked at that list (almost all pros, by the way) we immediately felt like whiny assholes. HBO was going to pay us to make the exact show we wanted to make. With our friends. In our neighborhood. And we had the audacity to complain about it in any way, shape, or form? We were grossed out by our own ingratitude and quickly resolved to put our heads down and launch into season three of Togetherness with positivity and a renewed sense of appreciation for our situation. There. Done. Moving on.
Less than a week later we got a call from HBO saying that we needed to close up our writers’ room for season three. Togetherness was being canceled.
IT IS NOT easy to have a little brother who is so good at so many things. Particularly considering that, in the first fourteen years of our relationship, I was better at all things. But now I have a little brother who is a fully grown man, a man not only good at many things but better than me at many things. Frankly, this sucks.
By the time Mark was fifteen, he was playing guitar and writing songs that were beyond his years…and mine. At the time, I couldn’t handle the thought that he might be more advanced or simply better at these things. So whenever he played me a song that he had written by himself, I would give him enough encouragement to make him feel good and keep going, but I also made sure to hold my semi-professorial position with him. Or rather, above him. The constructive criticism was partly designed to affirm that I was still the big brother and thus the authority on all things. I didn’t even realize what I was doing at the time, and in hindsight I’m disgusted with myself for behaving this way.
I was threatened…terrified that I was turning out to be the Beau Bridges character in The Fabulous Baker Boys (the less talented older brother, desperately trying to retain some footing), or worse, the Fredo. The harder truth is that I still feel threatened. While we are writing this very book, Mar
k often disappears to bang out a few chapters at a blistering and incomprehensible pace. They are usually inspired and great, and I absolutely give him the props he deserves. But unfortunately I’m also a little jealous. Which, as mentioned before, sucks.
And the suckiness is a layered suckiness. Suckiness level one is fairly obvious: I don’t want to feel less than my creative partner, particularly one who is younger and who used to be, essentially, my pupil. But the deeper level of suck is that I beat myself up for feeling this way. I constantly have to remind myself that we are part of a collaboration, that we are complementary, and any strengths he has also benefit me. Any resentment I feel regarding his talent and success is petty and needs to be transcended. But sometimes I just can’t beat it, and I get down on myself for not being a better and bigger person.
This is when I turn to my journal. I write passage after passage about the challenge and beauty of our collaboration but also the courage I seek to be my own man and stand on my own merits. Journaling helps, but year after year the entries sound unnervingly repetitive. I realize I will always be struggling with this in some shape or form. It will ebb and flow randomly like the rivers and tides in the dorky nature documentary I watch to calm myself down. Perhaps feeling threatened and jealous is natural…maybe even okay? If so, I just hope Mark gets jealous of me too.
FOR YEARS, JAY and I would walk into a film festival or similar industry event and be greeted with big smiling faces. Because people love brother teams. They love that we work together, and they think we’re interesting because of it. And we get off on this attention. Because we’re human. And because we were so summarily ignored by the public for the first ten years of our creative partnership.
And then I got cast in a television show called The League and became a more recognizable face. And as we entered these same kinds of parties, people started to notice me first. And maybe talk to me a little bit more than Jay. It wasn’t egregious, but it was real. We both felt it. And while I found this to be very unfair to Jay, I have to admit something gross: I also secretly liked it. And this was a disgusting feeling that I wanted nothing to do with. Was it not enough to be the indie filmmaker brother duo who is greeted with a smile? I also had to be the “more prominent” brother inside that very duo?
Ewwww. Fucking ewwww.
But it’s the way I felt. I couldn’t help myself. I liked the attention. I wanted to transcend that gross feeling, but I simply couldn’t.
And as the years went by, Jay began to stay home from some of these parties. Because it made him feel bad that many of the people just wanted to talk to the Duplass face that they recognized from television or our movies. It wasn’t something Jay was morose about, it was just one of those things that we both understood as an “It is what it is” kind of thing.
And then Jay and I met with Mindy Kaling to discuss her acting in one of our movies. A week later, she actually called us and asked if we’d be willing to take recurring roles on her new show, The Mindy Project, as midwives who were also (wait for it) brothers. We were astonished and utterly flattered that she asked us. And we also found it odd that she wanted Jay to act, since he had no previous acting experience. It wasn’t necessarily that Jay wasn’t interested in acting. It was just that, from the first video camera our dad brought home, Jay had always held the camera and I had always been in front of the camera, so we legitimately never considered Jay as an actor before. But it seemed too fun to pass up. So we accepted, and over the next few years had a blast together playing these overly PC midwives on network television.
A few years later, Jay went to a party and met Jill Soloway, who asked for his advice on casting a brand-new “web show” she was making for Amazon. She needed a quirky, funny, mid-thirties Jewy dude who could play a bit of a jerk and still garner sympathy from the audience. Jay recommended every male actor he knew in that age range, and none were quite right for Jill. Then she simply looked at Jay and said, “It’s you.” And that is how Jay came to star in Transparent. And that is how Jay became an actor.
And that is when our experience showing up to industry parties started to shift. Because The League had now finished its run. I was working behind the scenes on a new show that would become Togetherness, and Jay ended up being the one on a television series for everyone to see. And Jay was now the brother that people wanted to talk to at the industry parties. Moreover, the kinds of conversations he was engaging in were like none I’d previously experienced while in his position. They were, to put it bluntly, of a much deeper, rewarding, and emotionally enriching nature because they were about the trans rights movement and the complex nature of family as opposed to the puerile (albeit hilarious) dick jokes of my former show The League.
And that odd, gross pride I took in being the brother everyone wanted to talk to was immediately replaced with jealousy. And I had a hard time transcending that feeling. And it made me feel doubly gross. Because I love my brother and am so happy for him to get the type of praise he has been robbed of and deserving of for so many years. And because inside of me, right next to my pride in him, is a little green monster throwing petty jealousy darts. And hitting targets pretty consistently.
And it makes me want to be a better brother.
WE WEREN’T IN the same room when we got the call that Togetherness was being canceled. Our bosses explained that there was some internal restructuring going on and that Togetherness was unfortunately caught in the crossfire. We took the high road, thanked our bosses for two great seasons, and let them off the hook for feeling so terrible about blindsiding us. And when we hung up with them, we didn’t call each other back (which we always do). I remember waiting for Jay to call. And thinking that he was probably waiting for me to call him. But neither of us did. At least not right away.
I was extremely upset at first. I was feeling all the wonderful things one feels when one gets fired. Rejection. A sense of failure. Embarrassment. Even a bit of the old “You don’t realize how good you had it with us!” And that stuck for a while. But I didn’t want to call Jay and put that on him. I didn’t know what he was feeling, and I felt like I needed to give him some space to experience whatever he wanted to feel without me putting my feelings on top of his.
The next day we got in touch and scheduled a hike. We didn’t speak for quite a while….
MARK: So. How are you feeling about it all?
JAY: Um…still pretty confused.
MARK: Yeah. Me too.
JAY: It’s like that George Carlin joke about someone burying an ax in your face. How it definitely hurts, but there’s also that cool blast of air on your brain that’s actually…actually quite nice.
(Again. Jay always good with the jokes in these situations. I will always love this about him.)
MARK: I feel it too.
JAY: You do? It’s weird. It’s like…would I have ever chosen to give up the incredible bird in hand that Togetherness was? No way. But…
MARK: But now that it’s not an option…
(Giggling. Devilish, secret giggling.)
JAY: Kinda nice to think about all that extra time we’ll have.
MARK: Maybe get life back in balance a little bit.
JAY: Take a walk? Exercise?
MARK: Play with the kids…
JAY: Or read a fucking book.
MARK: God. Yes. What are those things?
JAY: Yeah. I’m glad you’re feeling it. I was worried I was gonna be alone in this one.
MARK: Nope. I’m right there.
(It feels nice to agree. To be together on this idea. Because there is a bigger issue to be discussed. We both know it. And we both are terrified to bring it up.)
JAY: Remember last time we took this trail we were talking about me directing a movie on my own…
MARK: …and I lost my shit.
JAY: Ha! You were fine.
MARK: Whatever. I was terrified. I…I wasn’t ready to handle anything other than utter brotherly codependence.
(Jay smiles at me. It is at once funny, sweet, and sad. It occurs to me that I spend most of my time writing movies that can tee up a moment like this. Where people who love each other are about to break something new open. And are afraid it will change them forever.)
MARK: But I think that…I think that if you brought that same issue up to me today, I could handle it…better.
JAY: Yeah?
MARK: Yeah. I mean…look. You’re my big brother. I’m always going to look up to you and want to be with you in many ways. But…
(Silence.)
JAY: But maybe it’s okay if we get a little space?
MARK: Yeah. Maybe. I think that might be the cool blast of air on your brain you’re feeling.
JAY: I think so too.
(We both start to cry. But it’s a good one. It feels like a healthy one.)
MARK: I’ve been missing the way we used to be together. Summers in the nineties. Steely Dan…
JAY: Making shitty movies and covering Lionel Richie on acoustic guitars?
MARK: Yeah.
JAY: Yeah, I miss it too.
MARK: And I really don’t know how to get that back. Or if we can.
JAY: Yeah, me neither. But…I’m glad we’re talking about it.
MARK: Do you think…do you think that our working relationship has somehow hurt our relationship as brothers?
(We both consider this for a while, neither of us ready to answer that question. So we just hike the rest of the way in silence, which also feels nice.)
(We are seated at a JFK gate that is nowhere near our actual departure gate. But when we saw these two dudes coming through security we were fascinated by their dynamic. So we followed them. Two musicians who seemed to be in their mid-thirties, guitars slung over their shoulders, a tired gait, and a comfort with each other that most rock stars don’t have. When they sat down, we realized they were actually much younger. Early to mid-twenties, maybe. But their eyes were dark and their faces beat up. Something we knew and felt deeply.)