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

  Happy reading!

  Jim Windolf, a contributing editor at Vanity Fair, has published humor pieces in The New Yorker, Esquire, and Vanity Fair. He has also written profiles of Jon Stewart, Larry David, and Sacha Baron Cohen, among other comics.

  Introduction

  by Mike Sacks

  E.B. White once wrote — and perhaps you already know where I'm going with this — that “analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it.” There's no denying that this quote is accurate and pithy and memorable and must be included within every book that has anything to do with humor, even in the most tenuous of ways. And maybe for good reason: the sentiment is easy to agree with. Yes, if dissected, the frog will certainly die. That's pretty obvious, even to someone who nearly flunked biology in tenth grade, chemistry in eleventh, and, for some bizarre reason, earth sciences in college.

  But is that our only choice? Can we not take the frog out of its cage and play with it for a spell? Watch it hop, watch it leap from table to table, watch it enjoy a freedom that may not last long but long enough to be enjoyable and interesting to both us and the frog?

  Like all questions involving metaphors, there may not be one correct answer — or any answer — but for the sake of this introduction, let me provide one: Why not? What harm can it do? As long as the frog is treated gently, as long as it is cared for in a respectful manner and then placed ever so carefully back into its cage after the allotted time (or, if you're really kind, released), what was the harm to you — or the frog?

  This book contains conversations with twenty-one top humor writers. If you're wondering what constitutes a “top” humor writer, I would say an impressive résumé, deep respect from peers within the industry, and a willingness to sit still for five to fifteen hours over a period of two to three days, usually on the phone, or in front of the computer, or in the back of a coffee shop — to answer question after question, in greater and greater detail, from a total stranger. And always for no payment. (Please keep in mind that if you cannot find your favorite writer[s] in this book, perhaps he or she had “better things to be doing,” such as “spending time with family” or “earning a living.” Those are actual excuses, and, I have to admit, pretty good ones.)

  If you are a student who wants to write humor as a career, or if you're a humor writer who wants to improve your standing within the industry, or if you're a reader who's interested in a bizarre, secretive occupation at which few will ever succeed and those lucky enough to do so tend to go slightly mad (or, at the very least, become horribly depressed), this book might be for you.

  I use the word “might” because, to be perfectly honest, I really don't know to whom this book will appeal. I have no special degree in humor, but I do know what I like, and I hope you will like it, too. I did not write this book for academic tenure; I wrote it because I wanted a (relatively) reasonable excuse to talk at length to my favorite humor writers. But let's admit it: If you find the subject matter not entirely to your liking or taste, I'll just assume this introduction is not going to convince you otherwise, regardless.

  I have no great words of wisdom to impart about today's state of humor — I'll let the experts do that for me, in their own, more succinct words. I only ask (plead, really) that you be extra careful with our new friend, the metaphorical frog. Observe the little fella, enjoy his company, even tickle him if you must, but please (please!) do not kill or dissect him — if only so we'll never have to hear about the poor bastard's fate again.

  Gently … there we go … careful, now … nice …

  “This is it.”

  — Chris Elliott as Skylark, the Chris Elliott Impersonator, Late Night with David Letterman, May 21, 1987

  Buck Henry

  Buck Henry seemed destined for a life in show business at an early age. At just sixteen, he was performing as one of the sons in the touring production of the stage play Life with Father (1947). A few years later, stationed in Germany, and maintaining helicopters and aircraft, he found time to write, direct, and star in a cheerful (if somewhat unorthodox) musical review called Beyond the Moon, in which two G.I.'s are accidentally rocketed to a distant planet, where they find a race of weird but gorgeous women.

  The sixties were, by all accounts, a golden era for Henry. In 1965, he and Mel Brooks co-created the Emmy Award — winning sitcom Get Smart, which ran until 1970. Though fans and critics adored its obvious spoofing of the James Bond spy genre, Get Smart was also a satire of government incompetence (and possible menace), a topic Henry revisited in his Oscar-nominated adaptation of Joseph Heller's Catch-22 (1970). But, arguably, Henry's biggest cultural impact was the screenplay for The Graduate (1967), the Mike Nichols — directed comedy about alienation, plastics, and MILFs, which would soon come to define the baby-boomer generation.

  In the seventies, Henry continued to create or co-create original TV shows, such as the little-seen, but well-remembered 1975 Robin Hood parody When Things Were Rotten, and, in 1977, the science-fiction spoof Quark, starring Richard Benjamin as the outer-space garbage collector “Captain Adam Quark.” Henry also wrote hugely popular feature films, such as the Barbra Streisand vehicles The Owl and the Pussycat (1970) and What's Up, Doc? (1972). But it was Saturday Night Live that turned Henry into a household name. During the late-night sketch show's first five years (1975–1980), Henry hosted a remarkable ten times, becoming (along with Steve Martin) a de facto cast member. He's probably best remembered for playing Uncle Roy, the middle-aged pedophile babysitter who invited two young girls, played by Laraine Newman and Gilda Radner, to find his “buried treasure.”

  Henry's later comedy was never as dangerous, but for every misstep or creative flop during the eighties — First Family, Protocol — he would come up with something to remind his fans that he still had a few fresh tricks to offer, whether it was writing the celebrity satire To Die For (1995) or doing a hilarious parody of himself — all too eager to sacrifice his own masterpiece The Graduate for sequel material — in Robert Altman's The Player (1992).

  And then came his biggest coup: in August 2007, Henry, in his eighth decade, was hired by Comedy Central's The Daily Show as its “Senior Historical Perspectivist.” His first segment was introduced as “The Henry Stops Here,” and when host Jon Stewart questioned the title, Henry informed him, “Well, Jon, it's because my name is Henry, and I'm stopping right here. It's just common sense.”

  “Beyond the Moon” doesn't sound like your typical USO production.

  It was romantic comedy in which two lame G.I.'s were accidentally rocketed to a distant planet, where they found a race of weird but gorgeous women.

  We toured around Germany and England, playing military bases. Many of the audiences rioted when they saw our cute dancing — and singing — girls. Our first date was at a supply center in Dachau. We played on the stage inside the actual concentration camp.

  It was, uh, different.

  It doesn't sound too different from The Day the Clown Cried, Jerry Lewis's never-released movie about the Holocaust.

  I ran into Jerry while shooting in the middle of Tunisia, in the early eighties, for a movie called Protocol. He was preparing to make a movie called The Defective Detective, which, I believe, never got made.

  Jerry played golf every day in the 114-degree heat, and it was reported that his monograms were on his underwear and socks and, possibly, some body parts. He had brought with him two steamer trunks: one was filled with his monogrammed clothing, the other with bottles of Coca-Cola — from America, thus assuring cleanliness and proper taste.

  Speaking of proper taste, have you read I, Goldstein: My Screwed Life, the autobiography of Al Goldstein, the former editor of Screw magazine?

  I haven't read that yet, no.

  There's a passage about you visiting a San Francisco striptease club in 1981, where Goldstein had sex onstage with five women. True?

  All true. I've been in various seedy and unacceptable places for many years with
Al Goldstein, although we stopped communicating a few years ago.

  You've mentioned in the past that you have a voyeur nature. Would this be an example of that?

  I think all writers should have a voyeur nature. You have to look and listen. That's why some writers might run out of material; they're not looking, they're not listening.

  How do you achieve this? Where do you look and when do you listen?

  I think the problem is that, if you live in California — and especially if you live in Hollywood — you aren't connected to what the rest of the world thinks of as real life. Your observations are based on what you see on television and not what is going on in reality.

  Feeding from the same trough.

  Yes, right. If you ride in limos for too long, you tend to forget what cabs, buses, and subways are like. You lose contact. I think it's important to stay in contact with the outside world.

  How early did you begin writing?

  Early. The first piece I wrote was in elementary school, and it was an O. Henry — type of story with an appropriate twist.

  What was the twist?

  I don't remember. But a few years later, when I was twelve or thirteen, I was actually accused of plagiarism for another piece I wrote. This was in a military school, the Harvard School for Boys, in California. I wrote a story that had a paragraph that was metaphorical; I compared a piece of machinery to a caged beast. I'm sure it would be completely humiliating to read today, but I was thrilled with the metaphor at the time. That is, until a couple of teachers in the school started going through magazines and books, searching for this metaphor. I was living at the school, and the teachers looked through all the reading material I might have seen or read.

  It was very much like the idiot senator and his staff years later, during the hearings for Justice Clarence Thomas. You know, going through every book until they finally found a pubic-hair reference and then raising the offending paper above their heads with a “Eureka!” shriek.

  Did your teachers ever find that metaphor and successfully prove the plagiarism charge?

  No, they didn't.

  This doesn't necessarily sound like an environment conducive to creativity.

  There were maybe one or two teachers who were helpful and good, but for the most part this was a military school, and I was a kid. There wasn't a lot of need for the student body to be doing creative writing.

  You had a dichotomous childhood — military on one hand, Hollywood and show business on the other.

  That's true. My mother was an actress who had left Portland, Oregon, to make it in Hollywood. She acted in a lot of silent movies, but when she got married and simultaneously pregnant, she quit show business.

  My father was a general in the Air Force, and a stockbroker and a political conservative, but one of his closest friends was Humphrey Bogart. Go figure.

  Did you always gravitate toward comedy rather than other genres? Did it always come easily to you?

  Yes, but I'm actually more a fan of other genres than I am of comedy. I rarely go to comedies. I just don't find comedy as interesting as the forms that I don't do myself. It's harder to make me laugh than it is to make me cry.

  You once said that comedy covers a lot of faults.

  It is defensive in nature. With comedy, you deflect danger. You cover up emotion. You engage your enemy without getting your face smashed in.

  How did you first get involved in show business? What was your first professional writing job?

  I started acting professionally when I was a teenager. I toured with a company of Life with Father, in the New York area. Later, I was involved with an improvisational- theater group called The Premise in New York City. I had been involved with writing and acting at Dartmouth, and this seemed like a natural thing for me to do. Improv came easily to me, and it didn't seem like a special art form in and of itself. Not everyone was capable of doing it, though. It's sort of like sight-reading. Some actors can do it, and some can't. And that in no way suggests whether you have real talent or not.

  That job really led to everything else. After The Premise, I got a job writing for The Steve Allen Show in the early sixties.

  What was it like writing for Steve Allen?

  He was one of the most interesting comedians working. He was great with language, and he was really more contemporary than anyone else. He also had a good eye for talent. Those who first appeared on that one short-lived show included me, the Smothers Brothers, and Tim Conway. Steve was probably the only host to have Lenny Bruce on his show.

  Steve was genial and funny, and he had a lot of interests, including jazz piano. He wrote a lot of songs, which still bring in money. People only remember “This Could Be the Start of Something Big,” but he wrote literally thousands of others.

  He was very influential with talk-show hosts that came after him. I know that David Letterman was a big fan.

  Not just with hosts, but with comedy writers.

  Why do you think that was?

  It was the type of humor that he performed. There were never any sitcom-type jokes written for Steve, ever. We mostly wrote parodies and satires of politicians and political events, and also pop-culture situations. This was really different from the show that I worked on after Steve Allen, which was The Garry Moore Show.

  Garry Moore is a talent one doesn't hear about much anymore. Who was he?

  He was an actor and a comedian. He had a huge following in the forties and fifties among normal people. There was nothing hip or contemporary or modern or pretentious in any way about him. He was just the nicest, most straightforward guy. Very square.

  As opposed to The Steve Allen Show, Garry's show was very conventional. He did a lot of strict parodies and that sort of thing. Garry had a segment on his show called “That Wonderful Year,” and it was just an excuse for him to sing a song and do a sketch with the best comedians in the country. One week it would be George Gobel; the next week, someone else. And I would write a parody of a movie or a play or maybe a political event.

  How did you come to be so proficient with parodies?

  I think that it was built-in from having written for my college humor magazine, The Dartmouth Jack-O-Lantern.

  Do you prefer one form to the other? You're better known for satire than parody.

  One is a child of the other. Satire is usually more political, parody is usually more cultural. But on The Garry Moore Show, parody was what was called for. You know, if you have to write a skit based on a famous movie, you're not going to write a satire.

  With Steve Allen, we did all sorts of different things. Steve was really ahead of his time. He was responsible for a lot of bits and ideas that ran for years and years and that late-night shows still do. All of the “man in the street” bits originated with Steve. Also, Steve fooled around with language. I don't think anyone else was doing that at the time: puns, plays on words, strange captions.

  He was a smart man. When we rehearsed the show, we never used real punch lines. We substituted nonsense words for the punch lines. Just dummy text, like “Hutsut rawlston on the rillaw.” Nonsense stuff.

  Why?

  So that the band wouldn't know what the punch lines were. It was important to Steve that the band laugh during the show; it meant more to him. We used to call this the “hot laugh,” and it was when the band would laugh at a joke they had never heard before. Sometimes you would hear this very strange laugh on the air, because it would be unbalanced on the band side, particularly if the joke was very hip and the audience didn't quite get it.

  I tried to get a hot laugh years later when I was acting in Robert Altman's The Player. The joke was that I was pitching a sequel to The Graduate.

  The pitch was that Ben and Elaine were living in a big, old spooky house with Mrs. Robinson, who had suffered a stroke. You said it would be “dark and weird and funny and with a stroke.”

  Well, I tried to withhold that joke until the end, but of course I couldn't. There were eight takes, but once the first
take was over, everyone knew what the joke was.

  By the way, a film executive approached me in the lobby immediately after the screening of The Player, and said, “You've made a big joke out of it, but I think we could seriously talk about the possibility of a sequel for The Graduate.” I then quit listening.

  Did you see the potential right away in the Charles Webb book The Graduate when you were asked to write the screenplay?

  Yes, but I don't think I read the book until Mike Nichols gave it to me. Once I did, my feeling was, This is going to make a very good movie. There were strong characters and a good story.

  The book is dialogue-heavy. Did that make the process of translating it to the screen easier for you?

  Sure. The more there is to steal, the easier the job — although, in some cases, it isn't. In fact, sometimes it's just the opposite, because you can't figure out what to get rid of.

  I was going to ask if you had any idea whether The Graduate would become such a phenomenon, but does anyone ever really know?

  Oh, absolutely not. You never really know.

  With The Graduate, nobody expected that what happened was going to happen. I mean, I thought the movie was going to be a hit, but I didn't know it was going to be that kind of hit.

  How about specific lines and jokes? As a screenwriter, do you ever really know if a line or joke will break through?

  I can usually tell if a joke will work, but I can't predict if a joke or a line will become iconic.

  Such as the famous “plastics” line?

  Right. I had no idea what would happen with that line. I just thought that the line was good as a passing moment. Everything about that scene appealed to me, and the “plastics” line was only a part of it.

  The line was not in the book. What made you want to write it into the movie?

  I had a professor of philosophy at Dartmouth, and he would rail against the “plastic world.” I always remembered that phrase. The party scene needed something, just a little something, and “plastics” seemed to be the right word to use. I could have used “mohair” or another word, and if the actors had done it right, it still would have received a laugh. But “plastics” was just perfect. It captured something in that scene that another word never could have.