Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (12 page)

Devon really wanted to say,
Because they asked you and not me,
but he broke it down into the actor’s vocabulary, putting emphasis on each
action verb
. “It’s
desperate
on your part. It
belittles
you.

They
coax
you with money. They
boost
your ego. They
appeal
to your vanity. I’m
astonished
you would
demean
yourself.”

A putzy Woody Allen-wannabe type (ineffectually so, not

least because he was six foot two, weighed about two hundred

pounds, and slicked his brown hair so heavily to cover his balding spot that it photographed black), Devon was actually the Alpha Celeb off-camera, ruling the Buddy roost (and especially the Betty roost). Devon came from old money—a lot of old money.

Very old money. Money so old it had Spanish conquistadors on

it. His father and mother were acting teachers, so everything he did was affected, the result of bad acting classes. Devon believed, and informed everyone, that he knew more than they did about

show business.

“I am . . .
hammered,
” Betty tested her acting-vocab chops.

“Good
try,
but ‘hammered’ connotes drunkenness.
Action
verbs
should be
precise
so we, as actors, can
understand
the language immediately. So now you are
empowered
with knowledge to
instruct
your agent to
condemn
the idea and
deflect
the offer. Did I
inform
you enough to
galvanize
your position?”

“I guess,” Betty
speculated
.

“To
guess
is good! Perfect! Always
remember,
” Devon said with R o b b y

B e n s o n

8 3

condescension, “I
grew up
in an acting class and was
raised
in a
the-atre
.
Remember
that’s thea-
truh
. Not thea-
terrr
.”

“But what does the thea-truh have to do with
signing
a million-dollar deal with a cosmetics company?” Betty percolated.

“Real actors don’t
do that
. Real actors
stay true
to themselves.”

Devon was getting flustered.

Helena, who just went by the name Helena, overheard Devon

and snorted.

“So real actors don’t
endorse
Snickers candy bars?”

“In my case,” Devon said in defense of his recent promotional

gig, “I had a lot
to do
with the copy and the
direction
of the ad campaign and
creating
awareness for the Peanut Allergy Foundation.”

“And the direction of the paycheck? I guess you use Stanislav-

sky’s Method acting technique when you endorse your checks?”

Helena channeled Jerry Lewis in her pantomime of Devon endors-

ing his check, adding, “Remember, it’s a C-H-E-
Q-U-E
! Not a C-H-E-
C-K
!”

“Wow,” Betty swooned, “you’re so community-friendly, Dev-

on. Maybe with my cosmetics deal I could
donate
time and money—well,
time
—to people who were born with . . . what’s it called?

Really fucked-up faces and stuff.”

“I think Devon could rationalize that, couldn’t you, Devon?”

Helena taunted.

“It’s a good thing you’re a girl or else I’d—wait, you
are
a girl, right?”

“Clever, Devon. Clever.” Helena was the experienced founda-

tion of the cast—and a closet lesbian with a big walk-in closet. She had the role of the “odd” (go-to for funny) next-door neighbor.

She was used to dismissing these kinds of sexual barbs. She was a gifted comedienne, an athletic, wiry woman with a shock of short red hair, who could’ve been a test subject for restless leg syndrome.

J.T. had worked with her before and tried to catch her eye, but only managed to catch a paper napkin she’d balled up and thrown at

8 4

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

Rocky Brook, a young man with spiky blond hair who’d become

famous for his abs from an underwear campaign.

Rocky, unlike the others, was at least holding his script, but he was shifting it from one hand to the other doing biceps curls with it. J.T. saw Rocky remove a bottle of something from the pocket of his preppy twill trousers and take a swig with his free hand.
Oh
great,
J.T. thought.
Booze? Worse?
Bored with the paper-ball game, Rocky wandered over to get a better view of Janice Hairston, a

blonde bombshell whose role in
Buddies
was to be flaky (every sitcom needs a flaky/dipsy/quirky blonde), and who was showing

Marcus Pooley what she would look like with breast augmenta-

tion. Janice managed to be discreet enough so that everyone in the room could see.

Talented,
J.T. thought.

Betty, watching with dis-

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dain, rolled her eyes, tight-

BLONDE BOMBSHELL:
(1) The

ened her thin lips until they

epitome of stereotypes: an ac-

turned the exact shade of

tress burdened with a beauty

Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and

greater than her talent. (2) A

flipped her hair. Devon had

bright, talented actress who

now switched his attention

is typecast as a dumb blonde

to Janice too, and Janice,

bombshell.

Janice is definition 1.

very aware of her audience,

slowly licked her upper lip

from one side to another. She wasn’t a conventional bombshell: her nose and head were a little too big, the skin more Mediterranean than porcelain, even the hair bigger than had been currently fash-ionable until
Buddies
became a smash. But no one ever seemed to see Janice piece by piece. The overall effect of Janice Hairston was one of raw sexiness of the kind that caused blood pressure surges, adrenaline rushes, and, of course, “boners, silly.”

And Kirk Kelly was there too, standing a little apart from the

others; his role was as the dumb, darkly handsome, nutty room-

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B e n s o n

8 5

mate of Rocky Brook’s character. Kirk finished off a breakfast bur-rito he’d brought with him and gave J.T. a shy, toothy smile. He seemed nervous.

There they were. All in one room. The Buddies. Kirk came over

to say hello to J.T., which made the rest of the cast members finally notice him. The rest of the Buddies then came over and greeted

their new director as if J.T. were a long-lost somebody they didn’t know but should adore.

Hmm,
J.T. thought
. At

least I have a good cast
.

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One by one the actors

took their assigned seats,

A GOOD CAST:
The factor that

prompted by a sincere Wil-

makes the writers, producers,

liam. When J.T. and Ash got

and director look good.

up to stretch, the Pooleys

quickly moved their cov-

eted chairs to the spots at

the head of the table. The network babe, Debbie, whom J.T. knew from another show about twelve years earlier (when she was a secretary who still hadn’t fucked the right guy yet), also sat at the head of the table next to Lance, the studio representative, who didn’t bother to introduce himself to J.T.

There were no more chairs. More specifically, there wasn’t a

chair for the director. At the table. Where the table read took place.

Where the director should sit.

J.T. did what every good-boy director should do: he went to his boss, leaned over his shoulder, and whispered, “Where would you like me to sit?” as the other people in the room began to settle.

“Jesus fucking H. Christ. You’re our director and I’ve got to tell you where to sit?” Marcus Pooley yelled.

“Well . . .” J.T. began, very quietly. He could tell his blood pressure was over 150. “I’ll just sit over here.” J.T. awkwardly took a seat next to a child guest actor he hadn’t been introduced to yet, 8 6

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

then searched the room until he located Ash, who had strategically placed himself behind the writers, who looked to be barely out of their teens. If there was gossip/intelligence to be leaked, he knew it would come from this bunch. Ash nodded imperceptibly.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Stephanie and I would like to take

this moment to welcome our new director, J.T. Baker.”

Before anyone could acknowledge J.T., Stephanie stood up and

took charge. “Marcus and I would also like to pay tribute in the form of a mini-moment to our dear friend, the former director,

Jasper Jones, whose passing came as a shock to all of us,” she said, trying to act sad.

“I’m sure it came as a shock to him too,” one of the baby writ-

ers riffed. The other writers snorted and their shoulders bounced up and down in mock silence.

Lance stood up and straightened his jacket with a quick down-

ward tug, then cleared his throat. “‘Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.’ George Bernard Shaw.” Lance bowed his head for a moment to let this piece of wisdom sink in, then sat back in his chair with exaggerated care.

“And don’t forget the death of our mighty network icon Min-

nesota B. Moose and the birth of Kalamazoo P. Kardinal!” Debbie added, because she felt the network should be represented in this time of grieving.

“Okay. Mini-moment is up,” Marcus announced quickly.

“Now, let’s read ‘The Best Ever Christmas’!” He began to read the stage directions.

The director
always
reads the stage directions. This is a routine that goes back to the infancy of the sitcom form. The job of reading the stage directions was probably initiated by writers who wanted to make sure that the director took their descriptions seriously. J.T. blushed as everyone looked at him; all he could do was give a half-assed shrug.

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B e n s o n

8 7

As Marcus maintained control and read the stage directions,

he emphasized the
best ever
qualities on each and every one of the pages in the script. The young man who was supposed to be an

awful actor, Kirk Kelly, didn’t give a very good table read. J.T. had seen that before. Wonderful actors can have trouble at table reads for many reasons.

The more J.T. studied the young man during the table read,

the more he developed a theory that maybe, just maybe, Kirk Kelly had a learning disability. He had trouble reading and many times switched words around, usually in the same pattern. But more important, Kirk was giving it his best. He was very game. He was always embarrassed when he made a mistake and Marcus or Stepha-

nie Pooley corrected him, with ugly disdain.

The baby writers laughed hysterically at every unfunny joke
.

No,
J.T. thought,
nothing has changed. Who stole the funny
? That’s all he could obsess about.
There’s not a single honest laugh in this
teleplay. Jeremy was so right. Who stole the funny? It’s like: Where’s
Waldo? I will try and find the thief and report back to Jeremy.

The read ended.

“Oh, we love it!”

“Great job on the

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script!”

“OH, WE LOVE IT”:
This sucks!

“Wow! What an episode!

The best ever!”

“I can smell an Emmy!”

The actors were oozing praise.

“How do you guys do it?!”

“Remarkable. I guess that’s why you guys get the—”

Yes.
The big bucks
.

William came up to J.T. and whispered in all sincerity, “What

would you like to do now, boss? Usually Jasper let the cast go home and we wouldn’t rehearse on Monday. During sex.”

J.T. peered over his electric blue reading glasses at his A.D.

8 8

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

“Well, William, I’m not Jasper, and as you know, I like my actors to feel prepared. And maybe, just maybe, we might discover something funny in rehearsal. So please ask them to stay until I find out what is going to get cut based on the studio and network notes.”

“Got it, boss,” William said, sincerely.

The actors left the room, all with smiles, hugs, and air kisses for J.T.

Thank God. They are the only way I’m gonna get through this.

We’ll work hard, be funny, and make great TV,
J.T. thought.

“See ya down there, J.T.,” Devon Driver said with mucho

charm. Damn, he was charming.

Everyone who wasn’t a Pooley or an executive left the room.

Only J.T. and Ash stayed behind.

“Why are
you
here? This is studio and network notes!” Marcus and Stephanie double-teamed J.T.

“Well, I’ve
always
been at these note sessions because it lets me know what to rehearse and what not to rehearse. It also gives me a sense as to what direction you and the studio and the network might want the episode to go in,” J.T. explained.

“I’m not comfortable with you here,” Stephanie said bluntly.

“Now I’m not comfortable being here, either,” J.T. said. “But

that’s not the point. It’s not about comfort or discomfort. It’s about giving you the best

show possible.”

“Are you patronizing us

The Hollywood Dictionary

again?” Marcus asked.

NOTES:
Look how big MY dick is!

“If I am, it’s not because

I’m trying to—”

“Well, if you stay, do not

speak to the studio or the network. Not one word. We will take

that as a form of betrayal. Understand?” Stephanie warned, her

voice low.

The last of the writers and actors were finally gone, taking as R o b b y