As a seasoned writer with a rich background, I can confidently say that discovering your voice is like unearthing a hidden treasure. It’s a journey through the labyrinth of your roots, heritage, and experiences. Just as a miner digs deep into the earth to find gold, you must delve into your own life to find the goldmine of humor that lies within.
In February 2007, I had a meeting with the multi-talented Marshall Brickman, a writer, director, and musician, at his apartment on the Upper West Side overlooking Central Park for an interview regarding my book “And Here’s the Kicker”. Following our conversation, he collaborated on the script for the 2010 Broadway play “The Addams Family”, featuring Nathan Lane and Bebe Neuwirth. This musical, which received nominations for two Tony Awards and seven Drama Desk Awards (winning in the category of Best Set Design), ran for over 700 performances on Broadway and is still touring today. Sadly, Brickman passed away on November 29 at the age of 85 in Manhattan. Here’s an abridged version of our interview.
During the mid to late 1970s, Woody Allen’s career experienced its peak and golden age, a time that his dedicated fans often reminisce about. Interestingly, three of the films that received critical acclaim during this period – “Sleeper”, “Annie Hall”, and “Manhattan” – were not solely written by Woody Allen. Instead, another talented Jew from New York, Marshall Brickman, played a significant role in their creation.
Brickman may have looked like an overnight success in 1978 when he walked onstage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion to accept the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for Annie Hall (which he shared with Allen), but he was far from a novice to the comedy-writing game. He was already an accomplished television scribe, a former head writer for The Tonight Show (a job he received at the relatively young age of 27), and a staff writer for Candid Camera and The Dick Cavett Show.
In 1975, Brickman was instrumental in creating an unconventional pilot titled “The Muppet Show: Sex and Violence“. This daring production combined the innocent charm of Muppets akin to Sesame Street with adult humor. Despite the risky blend, Brickman skillfully injected witty, if somewhat naive jokes into it, such as the “Seven Deadly Sins Pageant”. Notably, the character of Sloth, who appeared just as the credits were ending and asked, “Am I late?”, added to the show’s offbeat humor. Brickman departed when “The Muppet Show” was greenlit for its first season, but his impact lingered. His absence might have denied us the delight of watching a furry-browed Swedish Chef exclaiming “Bort! Bort! Bort!” in frustration.
Following his contribution to Woody Allen’s first Academy Award, Brickman proceeded to pen and direct numerous personal ventures such as “Simon” (1980), “Lovesick” (1983), and “The Manhattan Project” (1986). In collaboration with Allen, he scripted “Manhattan Murder Mystery” in 1993. He also directed a television rendition of Christopher Durang’s play, “Sister Mary Explains It All,” which was a satirical take on Catholicism (2001). Additionally, Brickman co-authored the successful Broadway musical, “Jersey Boys” (2005), a production that delved into the story of the renowned early rock-and-roll band, the Four Seasons.
It’s no accident that Brickman wrote about a singing group since he was once part of one himself. In the early to mid-1960s, before becoming a professional writer, he was a member of the folk trio the Tarriers, followed by another group called the New Journeymen. This band was comprised of two musical pioneers, John Phillips and Michelle Phillips, who would later form the Mamas and the Papas.
It’s possible that Brickman’s most concealed skill lies in his background with bluegrass music. He played both guitar and banjo, alongside banjo virtuoso Eric Weissberg who was also a Juilliard graduate, on the 1963 album “New Dimensions in Banjo & Bluegrass”. This album wouldn’t gain widespread popularity until almost a decade later when it became the soundtrack for the hugely successful film “Deliverance”, directed by John Boorman.
There’s an amusing contradiction in the fact that the banjo tunes from the movie “Deliverance,” often linked to the stereotypical Hollywood portrayal of southern rednecks, were partly composed by a man who later became a writer for The New Yorker and a collaborator with Woody Allen. It’s yet another demonstration of Brickman’s skillful and surprising subversion.
Growing up, what drew me to bluegrass music was something I discovered around age 11. A friend, Eric Weissberg, had been mastering the banjo for several years by then and his skill was simply amazing. The sound of it left me spellbound; it filled me with excitement.
However, I’ve always struggled to convincingly explain why this specific genre of music resonated with us Brooklyn guys, urban Jews. This was particularly challenging during a time when our skepticism ran high regarding this type of local southern music due to its political, social, and cultural connotations. It seemed so foreign, almost exotic in a way. Yet, it might have been precisely that unfamiliarity that drew us to it. Or perhaps it was the rhythmic, robust sound that appeals to young boys before puberty.
The soundtrack for the movie “Deliverance” has an intriguing tale behind it. In 1963, Eric and I produced an album titled “New Dimensions in Banjo & Bluegrass.” This record sold approximately 5,000 copies and was somewhat experimental, blending traditional Earl Scruggs-style picking with a more flowing and melodic approach. Though others like Bill Keith and Béla Fleck later refined this style significantly, we were among the pioneers. Fast forward to around 1971, and John Boorman, the director of “Deliverance,” had an idea for a scene where one character plays a duet with a child. Eric and Steve Mandell then recorded the track named “Dueling Banjos.” I wasn’t involved in this process as I was already working on “The Tonight Show” as a writer. Warner Bros. released it as a single, which became surprisingly popular in Detroit. To capitalize on the success, they remastered our old album and marketed it as the soundtrack from “Deliverance,” even though it wasn’t. Nonetheless, it has remained a consistent seller for 30 years now.
What was your background before joining the folk group, the Tarriers? Did you team up with them post-college?
As a moviegoer, I’d say: “What role did I assume within our circle? Well, I was the one strumming various melodies on instruments like bass, country fiddle, guitar, and banjo. Given my knack for quick tuning and a smidgen of comedy experience, I naturally took over the task of providing the interludes between songs – a staple for folk groups back then. Essentially, I was the joker in front of the group, cracking jokes to lighten the mood.
Do you recall any particular details about the pattern?
Apart from myself and Eric Weissberg, there were also Bob Carey and Clarence Cooper in our group. We were a diverse bunch, with me and Bob being Jewish, while Eric and Clarence were African American.
A unified group was undoubtedly an exception. It seemed impossible for us to perform south of Washington D.C., and we faced difficulties in securing accommodations at the same hotels.
What year was this?
1964 or so.
At approximately the same period, there was the British Invasion. However, being purists of folk music, we never considered ourselves to be part of their sphere or the American bands competing with them for a spot in the Top 10 on Billboard.
How did you come to be part of the team with John Phillips? It wasn’t so much a matter of joining forces as it was him absorbing me, like a python does its prey. In the early 60s, he was leading a group called the Journeymen. He met a striking young woman named Michelle Gilliam and fell in love. We all became friends and eventually formed a new version of the Journeymen, which we creatively named the New Journeymen. So, that’s how John, Michelle, and I ended up together.
Did you ever consider joining the Mamas and the Papas?
In a town for our performance, I’d frequently express the need for rehearsal and sound check. John, however, would often respond, “Relax.” Meanwhile, John and Michelle would explore, such as purchasing motorcycles and cruising around town. On the other hand, I would stay at the hotel, engrossed in creating bass charts. [Laughs]
After parting ways with the music industry, we managed to stay connected. I moved on to work for Candid Camera and later The Tonight Show. By then, John and Michelle had become quite successful and were living in Jeanette MacDonald’s old house in Bel Air – a grand chalet featuring an expansive pool and peacocks roaming the estate, much like a surreal Versailles under the influence of drugs. It was quite the spectacle! I would spend my days at NBC in Burbank and, after work, I’d change focus and catch up with John to find out what was new and exciting.
One Friday back in 1969, I gave John a call to discuss our plans, and he replied, “We’ve got two options. A gathering is happening in Malibu, or we could head towards Benedict Canyon instead.
In my role as the chief writer for a daily program similar to The Tonight Show, I was constantly seeking fresh material. I would voraciously read every magazine and newspaper I could find, in an unending quest to fill our show with new content. Earlier that day, while reading the science section of the Los Angeles Times, I came across an intriguing piece about a colony of glowing plankton that had moved from the Pacific Ocean into Malibu. Each time a wave hit the shore, it illuminated the entire beach like a giant neon tube. Being the fun-loving guy I am, I decided to check out this spectacle myself and suggested to John, “Let’s head to Malibu!
At this party, hosted by British director Michael Sarne, who had faced criticism for his films “Joanna” and later “Myra Breckenridge,” we found ourselves in a scene reminiscent of Caligula’s Rome. A large heap of mescaline was on display, with attendees casually sampling it. Intrigued, I followed suit. On the beach, a massive bonfire blazed as people sang, played, and engaged in activities unfit for family reading. Suddenly, my hand began to flicker before my eyes. Up until that point, I was pharmaceutically naive, having only dabbled with a bit of marijuana backstage. Overwhelmed by the situation, I panicked and shared my concern with John. He seemed unfazed, his pupils mere black dots, before asking, “What?” I shouted about my hallucinating hand, to which he responded, “God has given you a gift, man. Why don’t you enjoy it?” Realizing I needed rescue, I urgently called a friend and begged her to get me out of there.
That evening, my friend drove me and dropped me off at the hotel on Sunset Boulevard where ‘The Tonight Show’ crew were staying. I hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and slept. Upon waking, I found around sixty messages waiting for me. It turns out that night was when the Manson murders occurred, an event happening at another party I could have attended – the one in Benedict Canyon. The initial victim discovered was a young man similar to my age who suffered multiple gunshots. Everyone thought it might have been me.
As a passionate cinema-goer, I can’t help but think: If I had been there, it might as well have been me. The chilling thought crosses my mind that perhaps the tragedies could have been avoided if I had been present instead. Yet, I cannot ignore the reality that in such a situation, I would likely be among the casualties. And here we are, with this very conversation unimaginable under different circumstances.
Reflecting on this experience, we might gain insight into personal preferences. For instance: New York’s music scene didn’t resonate with me as much as I had hoped, so perhaps exploring other cities could be more fulfilling for my musical pursuits. The reflection of a distorted mirror on 57th Street reminded me of the unexpected twists and turns life can take, leading me to contemplate, “Is this the reason my father left Poland – for me to become a wandering musician with an altered appearance?
Eventually, I left the music world behind me completely and ended up working as a writer for Candid Camera, before moving on to write for The Tonight Show.
What process did you follow to land the job on Candid Camera? I submitted my application to Allen Funt, the show’s creator, by presenting a few pages filled with concepts for some of his pranks. In essence, Candid Camera could be considered as one of the early precursors to reality television.
Today’s antics seem quite tame compared to the ones back then, which were remarkably charming and innocent, as there was no need for anyone to consume tarantulas.
What was it like working under Allen Funt? Well, he had quite an eccentric personality and whenever he entered a room, there was a palpable sense of tension in the air. I ended up getting let go after around seven months, which seemed to be the norm for that show. In fact, many writers were dismissed at some point or another from that program.
What were some creative concepts you proposed for the TV show? One idea I believe I originated (although it’s been quite some time) revolved around a dry-cleaning business. A man would drop off his suit for cleaning, and we’d secretly produce an exact replica, but in miniature size, like for a chimp. When the man came back to collect his suit, the clerk would bring out the mini version and explain that it had shrunk due to not following the warning on the ticket. Some people found this amusing, while others became quite agitated. Interestingly, there was one customer who didn’t take it well. It transpired that this individual had previously been pranked by Candid Camera. He was in a location he shouldn’t have been and with someone he wasn’t supposed to be with. So when caught for the second time and told “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!”, instead of smiling, he became enraged. He spotted the hidden camera and picked up a heavy ashtray, smashing it at the camera operator and breaking the two-way mirror behind it. He then assaulted the clerk, who was, of course, an actor for the show. All in good spirits, of course! Needless to say, he didn’t sign the release, but the footage was quite popular at the show’s Christmas party.
Was it frequent for such events to occur frequently, given that approximately 20 filmed segments were not aired for every one that got broadcasted?
Indeed, it seemed quite challenging to execute those daring stunts. The cameras back then were significantly larger than today’s models, and I presume a considerable amount of illumination was required due to the shift from black-and-white to color film, which needed approximately five times more light. As a result, they had to equip the lamps with 2,000-watt bulbs in the sets, whether it be the fake offices or other locations. The majority of these “locations” were essentially movie sets rather than actual offices, as the walls seldom reached the ceiling. There would often be someone working for just $4.10 an hour, hired temporarily, sitting at a desk. The “boss” might tell this temp, “I’m going out for 20 minutes, so just answer the phone and take messages.” Only to return later, claiming, “I’m back from lunch. Did anything happen?” followed by a man in a gorilla suit rushing through the scene.
And the temp would often say, “No, nothing.”
People tend to overlook or disregard things they don’t want to acknowledge, often due to a lack of trust in their perceptions. Alternatively, fear of being seen as an outlier or facing ridicule may play a role. This behavior is reminiscent of the renowned experiment devised by psychologist Stanley Milgram at Yale University, as described in his book “Obedience to Authority” [Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 1963; HarperCollins, 1974]_. In this experiment, a person’s obedience could be influenced by someone in a position of authority wearing a white lab coat, who gave the impression that it was acceptable to harm another individual. Such individuals in positions of power can strip people of their rational decision-making abilities.
That’s especially true when you’re a temp.
You don’t want to rock the boat.
How did you manage to secure a position writing for The Tonight Show? Well, my friend Dick Cavett, who was a writer on the show in the early ’60s and was leaving to pursue stand-up, suggested I take a look at his submissions to Johnny Carson. My thought was that if Carson saw material presented in a familiar way, he might think I had already worked for him or was worthy of working for him. And that’s exactly what happened – he offered me the job!
Perhaps pretending that you already belong is the secret to life, isn’t it? If you possess these qualities, act accordingly; if not, strive to embody them.
In the early days, I didn’t have an assigned workspace; instead, I had a mobile typewriter stand with an old Royal typewriter. Whenever there was an empty corner in the office, that’s where I would set up shop to write my humor pieces. At that time, Walter Kempley, who later contributed to Happy Days, was serving as the lead writer. A dispute over a salary increase led him to depart from his role. One day, he invited me into his office and said with a smile, “Congratulations, young one. You’re now the head writer.” He passed on half a box of cigars and his collection of jokes as parting gifts. I inherited his office – complete with a window view – and a vast trove of jokes dating back over four to five years.
How long had you been on the show?
A month or two.
By passing over other candidates, you became the lead writer? That’s because they wisely declined the position. The monologue writers, such as David Lloyd who went on to work on shows like “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” “Cheers,” and “Frasier,” only needed to prepare a daily monologue for Carson by 3 PM. I may have used the word “merely” inappropriately, as crafting a daily monologue can be quite daunting. However, the head writer had even more responsibilities, including managing the writing department, creating all the sketches, interview segments, and comedy spots.
Similar phrasing could be: Stuff like Carnac the Magnificent, Aunt Blabby, and “The Tea Time Movie” – I’ve accumulated a lot of it, boxes full, stashed away somewhere.
Those sketches were reminiscent of vaudeville performances, according to Johnny. Being a nightly show allowed us the luxury that the material didn’t necessarily need to be evergreen or even extremely humorous. However, if there were timely references, it often resonated well with the audience. And Johnny was exceptionally adept at this, earning the adoration of the crowds.
TV is like an insatiable beast that consumes content relentlessly. It’s astonishing when a TV series manages to maintain quality, episode after episode, week after week. I regret to my core that I came up with the “Carnac Saver,” as it may have contributed to the oversaturation of television.
What was his saving grace whenever Carnac’s jokes flopped? It was like an instant crowd-pleaser, a “hecklerstopper.” We’d provide Johnny with a list of these jokes, such as “May the Great Sphinx of Giza leave you a surprise in your underwear.” Frankly, it’s hard to believe we got paid for this.
Was there a heavy sense of expectation for you during your time on The Tonight Show?
How would you describe your impressions of Carson, particularly from a professional perspective during our time together?
He was known as someone who kept his distance and was challenging to work with, yet he was appreciative, loyal, and an excellent manager.
From my perspective as a follower, what were his strengths, particularly as a writer? Well, he possessed the knack for serving up a laugh. He was adept at reacting to situations, making him an ideal fit for television. He always managed to keep us guessing, revealing only what was necessary. However, when it came to delivering comedic material, he had that sparkle – a unique quality that set him apart.
He had an innate understanding of what would resonate with his audience, both in terms of comedic style and political boundaries. In a way, he served as a gauge, setting trends for what was acceptable to joke about on television. People often perceive TV as a sort of guiding force or authority figure, and when Johnny made a jab at someone like Nixon or the mayor, it paved the way for others to follow suit.
A group of Jewish, liberal-left-wing authors consistently encouraged Johnny to deliver jokes with a stronger edge than he initially preferred. However, occasionally, Johnny seemed to instinctively recognize the opportune moment. This ability was actually his greatest strength; he was remarkably attuned to the emotional pulse of the nation, much like a finely tuned instrument resonating with its surroundings.
He knew when it was appropriate to share a specific joke, ensuring he didn’t alienate his supporters.
When I consider Carson, I see him as embodying a kind and ordinary Midwestern character. Was it difficult for you, being a Jewish writer from Brooklyn, to adapt your humor to that sphere?
Building a comedic persona is one of the most challenging tasks, making it rare for fictional comedians in movies or plays to seem genuinely convincing. This is because it takes a substantial amount of time for an audience to assist a comedian in molding their comic identity. For instance, Woody Allen’s act was quite diverse at first. I recall that his early routines often revolved around hypothetical scenarios like: “What if Russia fired a missile and it was headed towards New York? And Khrushchev had to call Mayor Lindsay and warn him about it?” Then, Woody would imitate Bob Newhart as Mayor Lindsay during the phone conversation, which was undeniably funny. However, he eventually delved into more personal subjects such as his psychiatrist or marriage. Initially, people were taken aback by his willingness to be so candid on stage – something that may not seem surprising now given our current culture of open confessions – but they didn’t know how to react. Often, the audience would remain silent for extended periods, almost treating him like a piece of art instead of a performer.
Back in the early ’60s, I first crossed paths with Woody at the Bitter End, where he opened for The Tarriers. Our manager, Charles Joffe, had a vision that we’d make a good songwriting duo. Being the front man of The Tarriers and the jokester, I guess he wasn’t off-base. Indeed, as it turned out, his prediction came true.
In our previous conversation, I mentioned that Woody tends to act intuitively, while I lean more towards being analytical and logical in my approach.
How about collaborating on a script by exchanging ideas and drafts just as we’re doing now? He could write a scene, share it with me, and I would reciprocate, or we could brainstorm scenarios using questions like “What if this happens?” or “What if that occurs?” – similar to the method Woody Allen used when he first started stand-up comedy.
In a give-and-take scenario, one individual might propose an idea, while another might counter with something different. If you’re flexible enough, you can find a way to mesh them together effectively. That’s the challenge. It’s not easy to accomplish. It’s much like an actor who is deeply involved in their role yet simultaneously observing their own performance. This allows for the creation of suitable content. A significant portion of it relies on intuition, and overcoming your internal editor can be difficult because it tends to criticize before the thoughts are expressed.
Collaborations can sometimes be challenging due to differences in opinion about what’s amusing or not. In truth, there’s often one individual or group that holds the final say in such matters. This person or team serves as the guiding intelligence or creative force, ensuring that the outcome maintains a sense of unity and authenticity.
As a film enthusiast, I’d love to share an intriguing tale about collaborating with Woody on our initial project, “Sleeper.” We initially envisioned the movie to have an intermission, showcasing our audacity! The story would commence in contemporary New York, where a man who runs a health-food store undergoes surgery. After the intermission, this character would be revived and in the future.
Initially, we crafted a storyline where our strengths as writers, such as dialogue and humor, were absent in the second part of the film. Thankfully, we realized this approach was flawed. The movie eventually transformed into the well-known one, but it had to undergo an experimental phase initially.
Could you tell me about any humorously rejected jokes from the movie “Sleeper” that didn’t make it to the final cut? One example was a joke where the president of the future blew up, and all that remained was his penis. This was altered to a joke about a nose instead.
In a relaxed, intuitive state, you become susceptible to numerous external factors. During the 1972 Fischer-Spassky chess match in Reykjavik, we were two enthusiastic chess aficionados engrossed in the games on TV. This inspiration led us to incorporate a real-life chess scene into our screenplay, complete with knights riding horses and all the trimmings. Woody filmed this sequence in the desert on an expansive chessboard. He portrayed a white pawn, quivering with apprehension. One of the other players, taking on the role of the divine voice, ponders aloud, “Perhaps I should make a sacrifice and take that pawn?” Woody’s character then engages in a debate with the deity, eventually disregarding the rules of chess by fleeing the board, pursued by the other chess pieces.
In the end, that particular sequence didn’t make it to the final version. It reminded me of what transpired with “Annie Hall.” A significant amount of content was deleted because viewers aren’t interested in appreciating the writers’ cleverness. They simply desire a compelling narrative. And they’re absolutely correct.
Do you think there are any jokes in Sleeper that might require an explanation for modern viewers? One example is the Albert Shanker joke, which may not resonate as strongly today since he was a well-known figure in education back in 1973 when the movie was released.
“What do you think about the joke suggesting Shanker had acquired a nuclear bomb and ended civilization? I find that kind of humor quite intriguing, as it reflects its era and setting. If people today don’t understand it, well, that’s too bad. To me, being precise and specific is crucial to creating something relatable on a global scale. However, the challenge lies in television, which often strives for universality but ends up achieving nothing.
It’s like E.B. White’s advice about writing: Don’t write about Man, write about a man.
Exactly.
It’s interesting to discuss Annie Hall. Initially, it seems like Woody Allan might have conceptualized it as a book, but I’m not entirely sure. Following Sleeper, we considered doing something new. We had two movie ideas in development: One was a somewhat quirky literary piece that eventually became Annie Hall, and the other was a traditional period comedy. Choosing between these two ideas was like being caught between two mirages in the desert – as I got closer to one, it would fade away, and I’d turn to the other, only for it to dissolve too. This went on for some time until one day, Woody suggested, “You know what? The movie that could make a significant impact is the one nobody has attempted before. So let’s go with the unconventional one, the literary approach.” That was Annie Hall.
In a unique approach, the French dabbled slightly by addressing the camera, blurring the boundaries between reality and film. This was distinctly reminiscent of Brecht’s style, keeping viewers aware that they were watching a motion picture, with unconventional techniques such as split screens and animated segments. This method hadn’t been attempted in American cinema before, and it was only at United Artists where we could have pulled it off. They were captivated by Woody Allen, and they granted him complete creative freedom.
Was the initial script for Annie Hall significantly different from the final film version? Indeed, it was quite distinctive. Originally, the script ran for approximately two hours and 40 minutes, and Annie played a minor role, appearing among other women in his life rather than being a major character. I seem to recall that she didn’t hail from Wisconsin; instead, she was a New York native. However, these details were altered during the screenwriting process. By the time the movie was filmed, Annie was portrayed as a woman from Wisconsin.
Initially, we assumed there was no plot here. However, upon closer examination, the first scene revealed Woody pondering about his life as he turned 40 and questioning how he had come to be who he is. This set the tone for a reflective and loosely connected narrative.
After viewing it, we pondered, “What’s the connection here?” When folks approach me with concepts, they often express, “I wish to craft a tale about war” or “I want to create a story about a hospital.” My consistent response is, “Share your story through the lens of a relationship.” Thus, in the case of Annie Hall, we recognized that it lacked the central focus on a relationship.
Readers aren’t particularly impressed by your intellect or literary connections as a writer, nor do they care about how clever you seem. When you boast, it can feel exclusive to the reader and make you appear arrogant and overly eager.
The reason it’s named “Annie Hall” instead of “Anhedonia” or “The Second Lobster Scene,” which were potential alternatives, is because those weren’t the chosen titles for the movie.
As far as I can remember, those weren’t the actual working titles of the movie. They seem more like humorous suggestions rather than official ones.
Initially, upon viewing the two-hour-and-40-minute unfinished cut, I felt quite unprepared. I didn’t grasp that such a rough cut is inherently imperfect. There’s an old saying in Yiddish: “Don’t show a greenhorn something half-done.” In this case, I was the greenhorn. It seemed unnecessary for them to present it to me. My reaction was, “Oh no,” and it reminded me of a spontaneous, improvised nightclub performance.
After the significant changes, I wasn’t disappointed that much of the exceptional content didn’t make it to the screen. Instead, upon viewing the final version, I exclaimed, “This is perfect!
Didn’t it require quite a few retakes for the ending to be perfected? I must admit, I can’t pinpoint why that movie resonates so much. It seems almost impossible to learn anything from it as a screenwriter or director because of its quirky nature. It’s such an unusual, individual creation, which might be part of its charm. And while Woody’s performance is undeniably skilled, I believe Diane Keaton’s endearing eccentricity and her ability to appreciate Woody and develop her character are largely responsible for the film’s success. She really makes the movie shine, leaving a warm glow in the viewer’s mind. However, one can never truly understand the reasons behind its success. A movie is never exactly what the creator intended; it’s the product of many compromises and happenstances, some good, some bad. If you’re fortunate, luck is on your side.
Annie Hall resonates deeply with people because it captures the essence of living in New York during that era. In many ways, it’s like an anthropological study. It was nearing the end of the new Hollywood revolution, which began with Easy Rider and saw young filmmakers from USC taking over the established industry. The atmosphere was filled with hope and potential, similar to the social changes in the ’60s when there was a sense that something fresh and exciting was on the horizon. Nowadays, it seems as though this spirit has faded, replaced by a more corporate and homogenized culture. For many of us who grew up in the ’70s, films were an essential part of our cultural identity, much like how music is for today’s youth. We found profound meaning in foreign films from directors such as Bergman, Truffaut, Resnais, and Fellini.
As a movie critic, upon viewing the final cut of Manhattan, I found it quite enjoyable with an exceptional visual appeal. However, during my discussions with Woody Allen, there was one scene that sparked a significant disagreement between us. This specific scene showcased Woody listing various elements such as Groucho Marx, Louis Armstrong’s “Potato Head Blues,” Flaubert’s “Sentimental Education,” Mozart’s “Jupiter” Symphony, and more – items that bring joy to life. While I appreciated the scene, I felt it could have been executed differently, reflecting a slight divergence in our creative visions.
I pondered, “Why Sentimental Education instead of Madame Bovary? Why choose the ‘Jupiter’ Symphony over another Mozart symphony?” Woody seemed to be judging works of art just as he criticized Diane’s character in the film. Isn’t that a bit narrow-minded? Shouldn’t we focus on things that truly enrich life, such as children, family, love, and sacrifice? Granted, this could be the perspective of Woody’s character, but I found it concerning – the boundary between who Woody was personally and his film characters appeared blurred. I voiced my concern, “The critics are going to crucify us! It’s a self-centered, egotistical, solipsistic view of the world that you’re presenting.” And he replied, “Nah, you’re off your rocker, nobody’s going to care, it’ll be just fine.
And he was right. The only person who criticized us was Joan Didion in The New York Review of Books. She said something to the effect of: “Who in the hell do they think they are with their things worth living for?”
That specific speech seemed crucial to the overall message of the film – it highlighted how focusing excessively on minor details can distract us from larger concerns. However, while this theme may be present in the movie, it wasn’t the main intent when we were writing the script. Our discussions primarily revolved around dialogue and plot development.
In Manhattan, it’s not always straightforward to distinguish who created which scene or joke. The wisdom I’ve learned from Woody Allen is that in a collaborative setting, both parties share responsibility for the outcome, assuming a roughly equal level of talent. This isn’t as elusive as it sounds. Often, an excellent line or idea can be sparked by something the other person says. This occurs frequently in collaborations, so to ensure fairness and accuracy, it’s best to attribute all contributions to both parties.
How did you end up creating content for the Muppets? I’ve always been an admirer of Jim Henson’s work, considering him a true genius. Eventually, a mutual acquaintance introduced us, and when Jim got the go-ahead to create a pilot for ABC, he invited me to collaborate with him. This was the 1975 TV special titled “The Muppet Show: Sex and Violence“. The Muppets were poking fun at adult themes like sex and violence on television, even holding a beauty pageant featuring the Seven Deadly Sins. The humor was quite mature for a show centered around puppets.
Based on these two jokes you’ve provided, it doesn’t seem like I am their author. However, I did contribute to the creation of several Muppet characters, including Statler and Waldorf from the balcony, as well as the Swedish Chef. There might be an old cassette tape of me imitating a mock Swedish accent that Jim Henson used for inspiration when developing the Swedish Chef’s character. Perhaps you’ll come across it someday on eBay.
In 1980, you crafted and guided a movie titled “Simon.” The storyline revolved around a group of intellectuals conducting an intriguing social experiment on a character portrayed by Alan Arkin. The goal was to persuade this character that he was actually an extraterrestrial being. I’ve always considered Simon as a film reflective of the 1970s, satirizing the societal trends – particularly television and scientific beliefs, which were quite prevalent during that era.
In one scene, a gathering prays before a large television screen. I guess you’re not particularly fond of televisions?
Do you have any interest in writing more humor for the page? You’ve written a few pieces for The New Yorker but not in a long while. It’s been more than 30 years.
I’d love to. In college I was introduced to the writings of S.J. Perelman, Robert Benchley, and the whole New Yorker bunch. What they were able to do with the written word had an effect on me similar to when, at the age of 11, I first heard Eric Weissberg play Scruggs-style five-string banjo. It was like watching someone levitate.
The first thing I ever wrote for The New Yorker was actually published. It was called “What, Another Legend?” It involved a fake press release for a fictitious, 112-year-old Black clarinet player. But those pieces are not so easy. They take some time to get right. I am forever indebted to my editor at The New Yorker, Roger Angell, who led me through my overwritten stuff and edited it down to what finally appeared in print. At one point, many years ago, someone from the New York Times took me to lunch and asked me if I would be interested in taking over for the columnist Russell Baker. And I said, “You’re crazy. I could never do that each week!” Baker, as I recall, did two columns a week. I couldn’t imagine doing that. Besides, I didn’t really have a voice then.
How would you characterize your current voice? Perhaps it could be described as unsentimental.
Is there a particular instance from “Jersey Boys” that you could provide for illustration? In the second act of the play, when only two original Four Seasons members remain – Frankie and Bob – they are conversing over coffee. At one point, Bob suggests, “I believe you should perform live,” to which Frankie expresses concern, “What if audiences don’t take kindly to me as a single act singer?
In a different phrasing, the original line was: “Frankie, this is your time.” However, it always seemed off-balance to me. So I rephrased it as: “Frankie, why do you believe they appreciated you
It’s refreshing to see these characters interact in such a manner because it swiftly establishes their relationship. Plus, it’s amusing without being overly emotional. To put it another way, I prefer to take a different approach by steering clear of sentimentality and adding a touch of the unexpected instead.
It suggests a unique, humorous perspective often associated with people of Jewish heritage, even during challenging times.
“Indeed, I strongly disagree with excessive or unwarranted emotion being attributed to characters, a concept you might refer to as ‘unearned sentiment.’ After all, who would have thought I’d write the musical Jersey Boys?
What drew you to the story about the Four Seasons, whose 175 million records sold worldwide left me surprised? Upon hearing the tale of their journey from humble beginnings in New Jersey, with their ties to the mob and struggling financially, to eventually achieving success, I found it captivating. It seemed not only authentic but also exceptionally well-crafted.
Are you someone who appreciates musicals overall? While I do enjoy some like “Guys and Dolls,” I wouldn’t consider myself an ardent enthusiast. Instead, I lean more towards movies. For the past two decades, that’s where my interest has been focused. However, when a musical theater production is particularly successful, there’s nothing quite like it. In most films, audiences don’t often stand and cheer because they subconsciously understand that what they’re watching on-screen is something that has already taken place. In a very literal sense, movies are inanimate. Live theater, on the other hand, offers an opportunity for the audience to connect with the performers and other attendees during the shared live experience. It’s a moment happening in real-time right before their eyes, and it can be profoundly emotional and sociable.
What distinguishes composing for the stage from crafting scenes for the screen?
Let’s wrap up our chat now, and I’ll share a commonly appreciated question I often use. For aspiring comedy writers, what suggestions do you have for uncovering their unique voice? One approach could be to delve into your personal background, including your roots, ethnicity, and the dialect of those around you. Historically, many comedic works originate from underrepresented groups – economically, socially or ethnically. It’s worth considering that good comedy often serves as a form of correction, addressing real or perceived social, cultural, or economic inequalities.
Then there’s the issue of language and style, which gets into the equation somehow. But even that definition doesn’t cover the entire waterfront, as it doesn’t exactly include parody or other literary forms, such as with Benchley and Perelman and others. And yet, it’s a good start.
Does exploring your own cultural background and utilizing resources available make comedy seem more genuine, authentic, and therefore funnier because it’s more relatable? I’m not really sure what makes something funny, but I do know that when comedians or writers can connect with a specific societal group, their material tends to resonate better with me. For instance, Jonathan Winters with his Midwestern characters, Woody Allen from a Jewish-urban perspective, or Chris Rock with his urban-Black viewpoint. It seems like performers who originate from the world of media find it harder to make me laugh, but there are exceptions – David Letterman, whose humor often involves deconstructing media and expresses, or hides, an amusing anger against advertising, political doublespeak, etc. However, there are always exceptions.
Any advice for the comedy writer on how to succeed in the movie or TV business?
My feeling is that there are already too many comedy writers. What we need is people in health care. Learn CPR and how to fill out a certificate of death.
Or, if comedy writing is your passion but you’re not keen on learning CPR, consider having an uncle running the New York branch of the William Morris Agency.
If, unfortunately, you don’t happen to have an uncle running the New York branch of William Morris, then it’s time for you to explore the world of healthcare instead, my fellow movie enthusiast.
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2024-12-05 03:56