Judd: They ripped Silverman up in the show, though.
Michaeclass="underline" But not the way I ripped him up. They pretended to rip him up. I ripped him up.
Judd: So this is when you left the show. This is the—
Michaeclass="underline" This is the last time. Grant Tinker, the president of NBC, personally axed me. That bitch.
Judd: What were the contents of that skit that were so—
Michaeclass="underline" It’s been a long time. It, ah—you sort of had to see. Silverman always had some new wacky idea of some show that was going to bring him back on top. It was all Silverman talking to his generals. He had a show called Look Up Her Dress, and the camera was right under these women’s dresses. Women would stand on a big Plexiglas thing, and if they missed one question, we’d look up their dress—it was all these silly giggle shows, you know, that this guy wanted. He was very clever, it was very smart.
Judd: And then you left the show—what did you do in between the time you left and when you came back?
Michaeclass="underline" I wrote a song for Dolly Parton called “Single Women.”
Judd: Are you serious?
Michaeclass="underline" I am serious. Top ten. One of the top ten country songs in the country. In fact, I just wrote two more country songs. It’s easy. It’s just a skill I have.
Judd: I don’t know if you’re kidding.
Michaeclass="underline" I swear to God. See, I wrote a lot of music for the show. I wrote music for Madeline Kahn.
Judd: “Antler Dance”?
Michaeclass="underline" I wrote “The Antler Dance.” Of course, the legendary “Antler Dance.” I wrote “The Castration Waltz.” And then I wrote “Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals” for the Gilda Radner show. And suddenly it occurred to me: Why am I writing these novelty songs when I could be writing real songs and collecting real royalties on ’em? So I did, and I did.
Judd: Why did you decide to come back to Saturday Night Live in 1981?
Michaeclass="underline" Money and the promise that I could do whatever I wanted. As it so happened I was totally boxed by a big towheaded dork called Dick Ebersol and his Judas accomplice, Robert Tischler. And they hired people like—ah, you know, not a box of talent between all of them. All I had was Eddie Murphy and Joe Piscopo, who’s decent. Lame writers. I was totally miserable. I was nuts and finally they fired me.
Judd: So when you came back, did you know as soon as you got there that this wasn’t gonna work?
Michaeclass="underline" Yeah, I began to get some idea. I tried. I brought in a couple people, but really—we just couldn’t do anything, it was impossible, and I actually sort of engineered it so I’d get fired.
Judd: So you wrote that skit that got you fired because you wanted to get fired?
Michaeclass="underline" Oh, yeah, I was asking for it. “Come get me.” I was just being so obnoxious. I was dressing like a maniac. I was attacking the cast. I did something so funny. There was a Christmas show, and afterwards, there was a meeting. And they came in, they thought I was gonna give them presents or something. I did. I gave them an honest evaluation of their talent. I ripped them apart.
Judd: What did you say?
Michaeclass="underline" I was on a roll. I was just on a tear and I went through every one of ’em. Ah, they made me angry.
Judd: Did you write anything at all that you liked?
Michaeclass="underline" I wrote some things—I did the TransEastern Airline ad during that period. I did, I don’t know, a couple of things I like. But it was uphill all the way.
Judd: And then you left and now you’re working on a screenplay?
Michaeclass="underline" I’m working on a screenplay with Mitch Glaser, one of the writers from Mondo Video, on a detective story set in Miami. I think we’re about forty-five pages in.
Judd: And what kind of story is it?
Michaeclass="underline" It’s a serious detective movie with real violence and real villains. The hero is a funny kind of guy. He’s an asshole. He likes to jerk people around; that’s how he gets his kicks. Somewhat like me in a way. Very much based upon me.
Judd: What’s gonna be in the screenplay that the masses are going to enjoy?
Michaeclass="underline" Sex and violence, you know. They always go for that. This is just loaded with sex and violence. It’s very funny.
Judd: And people will like it? I mean it’s not just for people who like and enjoy humor, but I’m sure, you know—
Michaeclass="underline" I don’t care about people over forty-five. They can be tossed in a shallow grave, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t write to them. Let Masterpiece Playhouse or something write for them. I write for people younger than myself. My target group’s about twenty to twenty-five—always has been.
Judd: If you could move into doing whatever you want to do in the future, what would it be?
Michaeclass="underline" Rule the earth. And people would have to do whatever I say, and give me their stuff—all their stuff belongs to me if I want it. It’d be great.
MIKE NICHOLS (2012)
I met Larry Gelbart at the end of his life, and I’ve always regretted that I didn’t get to spend more time with him. I was juggling a bunch of projects at the time, basically just being my distracted self, and when he died, I had this feeling of devastation. Because I realized I had missed it. I should have found a way to connect with him more.
So, when I was introduced to Mike Nichols, I resolved not to make the same mistake again. I was alert to the idea that every moment with him was precious. I asked questions, I listened. He was already in his eighties, but still sharp as a tack, funny as can be, but also incredibly open and willing to tell me anything I wanted to know about his journey and his work. When I would have breakfast with him, I would record our conversations because I knew he was saying so many things I would want to remember for the rest of my life.
When This Is 40 came out, I screened it for him in New York City, and I remember him coming up to me afterward. He had tears in his eyes because he was so moved by how personal it was, which was wonderful to hear, but really what I came away thinking was: This man is so connected emotionally, so moved by human beings and touched by our struggle. That was his genius. He was completely plugged in to the human experience, and what was dramatic and humorous about it. I miss him.
Judd Apatow: This is so exciting. I’m such a gigantic fan of yours. Many years ago, when I first tried to write a good screenplay, I wrote a screenplay with Owen Wilson. We drove across America, trying to write it, and I remember being in a hotel, watching The Graduate. We took out notepads and outlined it because we were trying to understand how it worked and we didn’t understand. We were trying to figure out how much information the movie gave about Benjamin, the main character. And so we just wrote down everything. Like, we don’t know anything about him. All we know is he ran track and worked for the school paper and had no friends.
Mike Nichols: It’s funny. I’m trying to think back to what we said to each other about Benjamin. We said very little to define him because we’d had this very strange experience, which was as we saw boy after boy come in to play him, it never seemed right. We’d seen every actor in the country in that age range, which was actually seventeen to thirty—that’s how old Dustin was at the time. Thirty. He was, in fact, two years younger than Anne Bancroft. But I had seen him playing a transvestite fishwife in a play called Journey of the Fifth Horse, which was a sort of Russian-type play. And I said, “I like that guy. Why don’t we have him in to test?” He had that strange thing, which I had experienced in the only other movie I’d ever made, Virginia Woolf: He was better when he was on film than when you were looking at him. Certain actors have a deal with Technicolor. In the bath overnight, they do things to them. Somehow, we couldn’t get him out of our heads. The whole thing of casting—tell me, how do you feel about casting? Do you outline who you’re looking for, or do you wait to see who turns you on?