Sick in the Head: Conversations About Life and Comedy (7 page)

Albert:
If I can’t talk them out of it, yes. My mother kept trying to talk me out of everything. “Honey, fall back on business.” I never knew what it meant, and that’s the way it should be. I sum up all of show business in three words: Frank Sinatra Junior. People think there’s nepotism in show business. There’s no nepotism on the performing side, especially in comedy. I don’t know of any famous person that can tell an audience to laugh at their son.

Judd:
You once said you got such a kick out of making people laugh on the phone that it slowed down how much you would write for yourself.

Albert:
That was a big problem for me and still is. I have to be careful. I’m going to go do
Letterman
for
This Is 40
, and I told my wife and a couple of friends of mine what I’m going to do, and it makes them laugh. We were having dinner, and my wife goes, “Tell them what you’re going to do on
Letterman.
” I said, “No, no, no.” Because my problem was always that when I thought of something funny, if I called up a buddy, and I did it, the ship had sailed. I didn’t need seven thousand people. One person worked. The chromosome had clicked and I had an orgasm. I was done.

Judd:
And so you didn’t need to write a movie.

Albert:
It’s terrible. It’s not a commercial gene.

Judd:
At some point it’s like: How much need is there to—how much is too much?

Albert:
Let’s ask you that. You work a lot. I mean, if you enjoy it, it’s good. If you wake up and it feels like it’s destroying you, then you need to think about it.

Judd:
True.

Albert:
There are many aspects of work that are amazingly rewarding. The actual doing of it. The writing, when it goes well, there’s no better creative high. A day on the set where you assemble a bunch of great actors and you brought this to life. That’s a wonderful thing. There are other aspects where I’ve fought for things in movies. The movies that I’ve directed, for the most part, I’ve been able to win at the cost of alienating people.

Judd:
Such as?

Albert:
I wrote this movie with Monica Johnson called
The Scout
, that Michael Ritchie directed. I can’t stand the way it ends, and it was a fight that I lost. I yelled so loud at Peter Chernin, I never worked at Fox again. I lost my temper. I went crazy, and I said, “Look, you’re not the one in the paper getting…” And, sure enough,
The New York Times
, it was like the reviewer was listening. She said, “I’m so surprised that Albert Brooks would end a movie this way.” And I’m going, “Albert Brooks didn’t end a movie this way!”

Judd:
The work can really bring out the worst side of you when you feel like someone else is ruining it. I can completely lose my mind.

Albert:
But you’re supposed to. If you’re in a position where an argument can win, you’re supposed to argue. I mean, I’ve lost only a few arguments. That was the good thing about writing and directing my own movies. For
Lost in America
, they were telling me, “He doesn’t have enough stupid jobs before he decides to go back to New York. Put in more jobs.” And I said, “When you have a man in a crossing guard outfit, there’s no other stupid job.” They said, “Just try some.” So that was easy, because I was able to say, “Here’s one: Find someone who looks like me and you film it. If it works, we’ll put it in.” That argument I can win.

Judd:
How does it feel for you that these movies that were painful at the time and didn’t make that much money are now classics?

Albert:
It’s cool, but it’s not an active feeling. You don’t get up in the morning going, “My movie’s still here—fuck you.” That’s not a joyous daily feeling. I mean, as I told you, there’s no line at the bank for being ahead of your time.

Judd:
How did you find the process working on
This Is 40
?

Albert:
I liked it with you, because of the rehearsal. I like the idea of what the father was going to be. People ask me all the time about improv, and I tell them improv is just the final icing. You need a structure. It’s like, if you’re going to commit suicide, you need the building to jump out of.

Judd:
Which comedians made the biggest impression on you when you were starting out?

Albert:
The biggest influence was Jack Benny. Because of his minimalism. And the way he got laughs. He was at the center of a storm, he let his players do the work, and just by being there made it funny. That was mind-boggling to me.

Judd:
Were you around him at all?

Albert:
I knew him a little. He was very sweet to me once. I did a bit on
The Tonight Show
, early on, this bit Alberto and His Elephant Bimbo. I was a European elephant trainer. I came out and I was dressed up with a whip, and I was distraught because the elephant never arrived, and I said, “Look, the show must go on.
The Tonight Show
, all they could get me was this frog, so I will do my best.” So I took a live frog and put it through all these elephant tricks. Every time he did a trick I threw peanuts at him. And the last trick, I said, “I call this trick ‘Find the nut, boy!’ ” I gave the peanut to somebody on the stage. I walked over and gave it to Doc Severinsen. “The elephant will find the peanut!” I took this frog. I threw this black huge cloth over him, the one I said I used to blindfold the elephant, and this black rag started hopping all over the place till it eventually hopped over to Doc Severinsen. It actually found him. I didn’t know what the hell the frog was going to do. So after the bit I sit down at the panel, and Jack Benny was on. There was always that last two minutes where Johnny was asking people, “Thank you for coming—what do you have coming up?” And during the last commercial Jack Benny leaned over to
Johnny Carson and said, “When we get back, ask me where I’m going to be, will you?” So they came back. Johnny said, “I want to thank Albert. Jack, where are you going to be performing?” And Jack Benny said, “Never mind about me—this is the funniest kid I’ve ever seen!” And it was this profound thing. Like,
Oh, that’s how you lead your life. Be generous and you can be the best person who ever lived.

Judd:
When I used to do stand-up in the late eighties at the Improv, you’d always hear, “Albert might be coming in, Albert might be coming in.” I don’t think you ever came in. Ever. Why did people think you were coming in?

Albert:
Because I’d ask the guy to say that. Paid him forty bucks a week.

Judd:
So you thought about jumping onstage but—

Albert:
I did once. I even got a heckler. It was like I picked the wrong night. “Who are you?” I talk to a lot of friends now who tell me I would enjoy doing this again, because it’s different, and people would appreciate it. It’s a nice thing, because it’s so in the moment. That’s the lure.

Judd:
Do you miss that part of your career?

Albert:
I get it from the occasional talk show. The other thing would be to go do a stand-up special, something in front of a large audience. That’s what you’re really talking about. If I do
Letterman
, and it goes well, it’s a fun feeling, when I’m leaving. And I get back to the hotel—and I’m the same person. There was nothing more exciting in the early years than when Johnny Carson was still in New York. You’d go there and do a Johnny Carson show. You travel alone. And the show would be great. And then you go out by yourself and you have a meal and you go back to the hotel and you watch it. And then you’d go to bed and then you wake up at three-thirty and picture all your friends watching it in Los Angeles. That doesn’t work anymore, because people don’t watch shows like that. You can do a
Letterman
and somebody will catch it months later. “Hey, I saw that thing.” “It was two years ago.”

Judd:
What do you feel there’s left to write about?

Albert:
The subject of dying and getting old never gets old.

Judd:
It’s shocking as you realize:
Are we all going to have these horrible things happen to us?

Albert:
Well, aren’t we? I mean, this getting-old stuff is something. I sound like Bob Hope. I think I envy my dog, because my dog is sixteen and she’s limping and she’s still living, but she doesn’t look at me like she knows. She’s not thinking what I’m thinking. It’s a cruel trick, that we all know the ending.

Judd:
Are you religious at all?

Albert:
It’s funny, I don’t believe in the images of what God is, a thing or a person. I do wonder often the reason the sea horse is here, or a tree, or why I’m here, and so I don’t know if I’m religious. But it’s interesting when you’re part of a group—the Jews, to be exact—that the world has had such problems with. It has really nothing to do with religion. That’s why, if my kids didn’t want to go to temple, I used to say, “Let me explain something to you: If Hitler came back, he’s not going to ask if you went to temple. You’re already on the train. So you might as well know who you are and why they’re going to take you.”

Judd:
What do you get out of temple?

Albert:
I went to a memorial service and brought my kids and we thought about my dad and my mom, and the rabbi gave kind of a cool sermon, and you’re sitting in a room with everyone who would have to go on the same train. So there’s a bit of community there.

Judd:
That’s dark.

Albert:
But it’s true. Here’s what we know. We know meditation is healthy. Everybody says it slows your heart rate and everything, and the basis of religion seems to be that when you pray…I don’t know what people who are religious think when they pray, but it’s very close to what meditation is. It’s sort of ritualistic, it’s habit, it’s like exercising, so you might be able to get something out of that. I’m sure some people enjoy thinking it’s out of their hands. There’s all these people who think it’s “meant to be.” But I don’t buy that.

Judd:
I’d love to buy it, though. I wish I could.

Albert:
I don’t buy it, but I love it.

Judd:
It would make the day so much easier.

Albert:
Look, only a few people get to die peacefully in their sleep after a wonderful life. So that’s like not making the football team. There’s lots of things you don’t get to have. That’s probably one of them. Thank God, I consider myself lucky that I live after anesthetic. Can you imagine those days? “Sit down. Tuesday, we’re taking off your arm.”

Judd:
The whole setup sucks. And comedy is a constant exploration of it. I still can’t figure it out, because it’s so absurd and so awful that I can’t do anything but laugh in its face.

Albert:
But it’s really not awful. If I’ve learned anything—anything—getting older, it’s the value of moment-to-moment enjoyment. When I was young, all my career was “If I do well tonight, that means that Wednesday will be better. That means I can give this tape to my agent and…” It was this ongoing chess game. And that is a really disappointing game, because when you get to checkmate, it never feels like it should. And there’s another board that they never told you about. So if I come here and talk to you, if I have an enjoyable three hours, god damn it, that counts.

Judd:
Do you ever have a spiritual feeling when you’re creative?

Albert:
I used to hate when people say, “I feel it come through me,” but there are moments where two hours go by and you don’t know what happened, and you got all these words, and it’s the highlight of my life.

This interview was originally published in
Vanity Fair
in January 2013 (Jim Windolf
/Vanity Fair;
© Condé Nast).

I was sitting in my car one day, listening to
The Howard Stern Show
, when Amy Schumer came on. I think I had seen her do a little stand-up on television once or twice before, or maybe just some jokes at a roast, but that’s about it. But sitting there in my car, listening to her talk to Howard, I was blown away by how funny and intimate and fresh she was. You could sense that she had stories to tell and was a lot more than just a comedian. I instantly thought:
I need to make a movie with her.

So we did.

Amy and I spent the next few years working on
Trainwreck
, and I found that she was, indeed, so much more than just a comedian. She is someone who is willing to go emotionally deep, as well as work obsessively hard, and there’s a frankness to her work that I find inspiring. The stories tumble out of her. She is able to make important points about our culture and feminism and relationships and what it’s like to be a woman in America right now, and to do it in a way that is consistently insightful and hysterical. Here is someone at the beginning of a very exciting career.

Amy Schumer:
I did an interview with Jerry Seinfeld the other day.

Judd Apatow:
You did? Did you know him at all?

Amy:
We met a bunch of times at the Cellar, but I didn’t know him well. He picked me up in a Ferrari, and then it broke down on [the] West Side Highway. It was a real piece of shit. It was smoking, it was real scary.

Judd:
That’s awesome.

Amy:
Yeah, that was awesome. It was the best time.

Judd:
And how was the interview?

Amy:
He completely changed my philosophy about stand-up. He was like, “This idea that your generation has about ‘you have to burn your material and start fresh every time’—it’s just so self-important. Not everybody’s watching everything you do, you know.” He said, “Focus on coming up with your best act for a live show. Remember: Seventy-five percent of the crowd has never seen you, and they’ll never see you again, so you should be working on the best possible show.”

Judd:
He’s the main voice railing against the modern comic constantly turning over her act.

Amy:
He changed my thinking. For TV, you always have to do new stuff, obviously. But for a live show, rather than trying to work out a whole new act, just do the stuff that’s pretty well worked out.

Judd:
But he goes beyond that. He’s also saying that, at any time, half your act can be greatest hits. Like, who decided you couldn’t do that?

Amy:
I don’t know why that became the thing. I don’t know why the idea of doing an older joke is supposed to make you feel embarrassed. It’s not about impressing the five comics in the back of the room. As Jerry said, if he sees someone, he wants to see their best jokes. Jokes are like works of art and they take years to figure out. He said you only get six closers in your whole life. Like six big jokes—

Judd:
In your whole life.

Amy:
Yeah.

Judd:
I think the first person who turned over his material like that was George Carlin. He did a special every three years or so. Robert Klein put out a lot of specials, and I assume he was writing new material, too. But Seinfeld put out one special in his entire career. Leno has never put out a special. It’s a generational shift. The modern comic says, “Hey, this is what I’m going through right now.”

Amy:
Yeah. “Check in with me, here’s where I am now.”

Judd:
So maybe the secret is doing more specials than Seinfeld and less than Louis C.K.

Amy:
I’m going to do one every couple of years, but I want it to be really great. Because the thing about specials is, they’re going to be there forever.

Judd:
Do you think Seinfeld will ever do another special?

Amy:
I don’t think so, no. He’s been doing Caesars for ten years, maybe fifteen, and the crowds are great. He gives them a great show and they leave happy. He asked me, “Do you want people to come and say, ‘Oh, she was good,’ or do you want them to come and say, ‘You
have
to go see that show’?”

Judd:
But modern comedy fans
will
go see you again. That is something Jerry doesn’t understand. Young people will go see Marc Maron every year.

Amy:
That’s a good point. I guess the question is, is it better to please the twenty percent of the crowd who comes to see you every time, or is it better to give a killer show, like an epic performance, for the rest?

Judd:
This may not apply to anything, but I was watching a movie about women in comedy recently—I think it was called
Women Aren’t Funny
? And I noticed that you weren’t in it. Was that by choice?

Amy:
I got cut out. Actually, I am in one scene. But I don’t talk.

Judd:
Oh, I thought maybe it was a political choice, a way of saying, we shouldn’t even be debating this anymore.

Amy:
No, that debate is insane to me. It doesn’t even make me mad. It’s like asking, “Do Jewish people smell like orange juice?” It’s just such a weird question. It’s not even a question. The thing that gets to me is the question “Isn’t this a great time to be a woman in comedy?” I mean, all the TV I watched growing up featured funny women.

Judd:
People said the same thing when
Bridesmaids
came out. We never thought about that when we were making it. I just thought,
Kristen Wiig is funny. It would be fun to make a movie with Kristen Wiig.
And then she had this idea to make a movie about bridesmaids. We never thought of it as a female movie. At some point, in the middle of it, it occurred to us:
Oh, it’s kind of cool to have so many funny women in one movie.
But it wasn’t conscious or anything. At the end of the process, we realized that it
meant something to people. But what is shocking to me was that, even after the movie did well, there was almost zero follow-up in the culture.

Amy:
In terms of what?

Judd:
In terms of funny movies that are dominated by women. The studio system didn’t embrace them. They don’t know how to do it.

Amy:
In my experience, there will be a script and you’ll be like,
This is funny, I think I’ll audition.
And you’ll know other women, who are hilarious, are auditioning, too. And then they give it to, like, Jessica Biel. They’re great actresses and they’re really pretty, but they’re not funny. Nobody’s like, “Oh my God, you guys have to hear Jessica Biel tell this story.”

Judd:
When we did
Undeclared
, the note from Fox was: You need more eye candy.

Amy:
Do you think that’s true? Do people really need more eye candy?

Judd:
I have thought about that a lot. I don’t know. But what if people do want it?

Amy:
I’m not above that. I want to look at Jennifer Lawrence eating cereal.

Judd:
I mean, it depends. People are pretty happy looking at James Gandolfini, or Bryan Cranston. They’re happy looking at Nurse Jackie and everyone on
Parks and Rec.
So I don’t know. There’s escapist television and soap opera–type television, but for the most part, you just want a hilarious person or an interesting person. Are you someone who believes that life is easier if you’re attractive?

Amy:
I think that beautiful people are not any happier than people who are not as beautiful. Even with models—there’s always someone who is more beautiful or younger. So no matter what realm you’re operating in, it’s all relative. I didn’t develop my personality, or my sense of humor, because I felt unattractive. I thought I was attractive until I got older. It was probably a defense mechanism for whatever pain was going on around me. But I don’t think that people who feel beautiful feel like,
I don’t need to do this other thing.

Judd:
You’re in a weird area. I would describe it as: Everyone thinks you are beautiful, but maybe you don’t agree with their opinion.

Amy:
Um.

Judd:
I’ll talk about me for a second. I always thought I was right in the middle, looks-wise, and that if I had a good personality, it could put me over the top. But it wasn’t like, behind my back, everyone thought I was handsome. I get the sense that you feel like some days you’re looking great, some days you’re not, but the audience sees you in a certain way that maybe you don’t agree with. Does that make sense?

Amy:
I think that’s probably true. I think that’s probably dead-on. I feel, like you just said, that some days I am like a real monster, completely unlovable and unfuckable, and then there’s a moment, every now and then, when I’m more like Elaine on
Seinfeld:
“Is it possible that I’m not as attractive as I had thought?” Or maybe it’s the opposite of that. Anytime I start feeling better about myself, physically, someone will say something that pushes me right back down. I think every woman feels this way.

Judd:
I ask about it because it is about who you think you’re speaking to.

Amy:
That’s a really good point.

Judd:
I was a year younger than everybody in school. I was the youngest kid in class, always. But I only realized, later in life, that I was much
smaller
than everybody.

Amy:
Physically?

Judd:
Yeah. And by the time I caught up a little bit, in sixth or seventh grade, I had been defined. On some level, I guess it made me feel less masculine. And as a result, I always feel like a nerd. I have a beautiful wife, I’m successful. But I still feel like the kid who’s picked last in gym class. And that shaped my idea of comedy being about outsiders. It was a way for me to attack all of these systems that I thought were unfair to me.

Amy:
I would say the same for me.

Judd:
What was your version of that? What happened to you as a kid that made you think and defined your sense of humor? Just the darkness of your house, primarily?

Amy:
Yeah, and one thing that’s too dark and private to even talk about. But I would say, with the physical stuff, that I was always pretty but not
beautiful. And that was something that you were punished for. I was very aware of this stuff early on.

Judd:
With girls, it’s weird because it changes dramatically. In high school, girls don’t look anything like they looked in third grade. Whereas guys, the handsome third-grade dude is still handsome in high school. Girls blossom and change. That was the kind of girl I always tried to date: the girl who, near the end of high school, got pretty but still acted insecure.

Amy:
Well, that’s the jackpot. That’s my favorite kind of guy, too. The guy that blossoms but still sees himself as the fat kid.

Judd:
Al Roker.

Amy:
Al Roker is the
perfect
example.

Judd:
He lost the weight but he’s still nice to you.

Amy:
Because he remembers. But I had no perspective on myself physically. All I knew was that I was pretty enough to get by. I remember in fifth grade, a guy who I was friends with said something to me about being pretty. I got my period in fifth grade. I had, like, boobs. I had an ass.

Judd:
Well, that changes everything. That’s just pollution on Long Island.

Amy:
Only recently have I got any sort of ownership over my body as a woman.

Judd:
What does it feel like, going through puberty so early? Are you getting hormones, like a teenager?

Amy:
I was totally boy crazy, running around trying to kiss them. My parents were getting calls. But I wasn’t very sexual or anything. I remember growing pains, and my boobs hurt and I was just getting a body that no one else had yet. I remember being sexualized by gardeners—gardeners are the construction workers of Long Island, you know. I’d walk past a gardening truck and I remember feeling like,
Wow, I’m way too young to be getting this kind of sexual energy from these guys.
I only wanted that attention when I wanted it. I guess that’s what every woman wants. No one wants unwanted sexual attention. But I felt confused by it, and it’s why I talk about it onstage so much. It’s the confusion of trying to figure out how attractive I am and laughing at myself—I can be easily convinced that I’m
gorgeous. Someone will be like, “You really are a beautiful girl.” And I’ll be like, “I know.” But then, an hour later, you’re in an environment where you feel like a troll.

Judd:
How does that relate to wanting to be funny?

Amy:
That was so interesting, when you asked me before about who I was talking to when I’m onstage. I just thought of that two nights ago. I was in Rochester and I was onstage and this is probably bad to admit, but I was like, I really am speaking to the women in the audience. I’m appreciative of the guys that can come along for the ride and not feel alienated because this isn’t some “pro-women, down with men” thing, but the reality is, I’m speaking to the women and trying to keep the guys interested enough that they still want to come to the shows.

Judd:
And what are you saying to them?

Amy:
“You’re doing the best you can and you’re good enough.” And that came from just sitting around with my girlfriends in high school and not having to pretend. You could just be like, “Well, I haven’t washed my hair in almost a full week, and do you want to hear what I ate last night?” You would feel so human—and, as a result, less apologetic.

Judd:
Your act is like that now.

Amy:
Well, I think it’s really comforting to people. It makes everyone feel better to acknowledge that no one has it together. I mean, I don’t know anyone that doesn’t have this big, dark cloud hovering over them. Just knowing that makes me feel better.