Crane (24 page)

I felt as though freelancing was in my veins—the uncertainty, the stress, the unknown, all rewarded by a sit-down with a boldfaced name for an hour, working a tape recorder, typing two-fingered, and all of it capped off with the receipt of a check payable in U.S. dollars. I thought I’d strike while I was hot. I called Rezek’s office and launched my best shot. “My favorite television show featuring the funniest cast on the tube, taped in Canada starring mostly Canadian performers and alumni of Second City
who skewer the phoniness of television programs and the insincerity of celebrities.” I took a breath. Rezek was still listening. “
SCTV. Second City Television.
It’s on NBC Friday nights after Johnny Carson.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Call me tomorrow,” Rezek said.

One of the impressive things about John as an editor was that although he didn’t strike me as a television watcher or a movie attendee (I always pictured him in his leisure time playing a game of chess or opening a cherished bottle of La Mission Haut Brion), he was aware of who and what was out there in the pop culture miasma. He had to be. I doubted he had ever seen an
SCTV
episode at 12:30 in the morning or had even set up his VHS recorder to tape one, but he probably knew about John Candy, Catherine O’Hara, and Eugene Levy, or, if not, he would certainly ask around the
Playboy
offices before the next time we spoke.

I had discovered
SCTV
through my dad. Besides taping
Carson
every night, he had begun to tape a half-hour, low-budget comedy show with a cast I had never heard of. It aired at the deadly time of 7:00 Saturday evenings on L.A.’s local channel 9. He told me
SCTV
was a show I “had to watch.” NBC’s
Saturday Night Live
had been on the air a year (1975–1976) capturing ratings and Emmys for the talented cast, which included Second City alums John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, and, in the second season, Bill Murray. Andrew Alexander, the co-owner of Second City, didn’t want to lose any more talent to
SNL,
so he helped create
SCTV
in 1976.

The next day I nervously dialed Rezek. The leap—opening myself to acceptance or rejection—has always been exhilarating, even with its downside.

“Mr. Rezek’s just stepped out,” his assistant said, and my heart plunged, “but let me go see if I can find him.” She put me on hold. After an excruciating sixty seconds or so, John came on the line. “Good news. We think
SCTV
is perfect for ‘20Q.’ Go ahead. Keep me updated.”

Now came the hard part. I actually had to wrangle an interview of the entire cast for the piece. I knew the Canadian Second City stage was in Toronto, so I started there. Another cold phone call (thank you, David Fryer), this time to the Great White North.

“Second City,” answered the clean, crisp voice. I explained that I was a writer from
Playboy
and needed to contact the
SCTV
publicist about an interview. The voice passed me to someone who knew something about something. Sally Cochran was her name. She ran Second City stage in
Toronto and happened to be married to the coproducer of
SCTV,
Patrick Whitley. I did my pitch on how
Playboy
would be conducive to translating the show’s humor to the printed page and how we were all big fans at the magazine. Sally was pleasant and seemed semiexcited that someone from a big U.S. publication wanted to focus on their farm club. Doing the interview was not going to be without pitfalls, she warned me. “You’re going to have to go to Edmonton. That’s where they’re shooting this season.” Cochran’s voice expressed dread, as if the shoot were taking place at the Molokai leper colony.

“No problem,” I reassured her.

I had never been to Canada. I got out a map to find Edmonton. In the minute or so between my hanging up with Sally and calling the
SCTV
office in Edmonton, she must have alerted the troops that they would be receiving a call from a
Playboy
scribe. When associate producer Jason Schub answered the phone, there was a distinct air of nonchalance, as if the interview were a matter of when, not if. Schub said that cast, writers, and crew were practically working seven-day weeks because NBC wanted ninety minutes a week instead of the show’s previously syndicated thirty-minute version. All work and no play would pay off in back-to-back Emmys for Best Writing for a Variety Series in 1982–1983. Plus, there wasn’t much to do in Edmonton except attend Oiler hockey games.

Executive producer Andrew Alexander and his partner Len Stuart, producer Whitley, the writing staff, and, of course, the cast—Candy, Levy, O’Hara, Dave Thomas, Joe Flaherty, Andrea Martin, and Rick Moranis—had debated and voted that appearing in
Playboy
magazine was better than not appearing in
Playboy
magazine. There must have been at least one call made to Belushi, Aykroyd, or Murray about how
SNL
had been treated by the magazine in its
Playboy
interview. Anyway, we had liftoff.

As the Air Canada flight made its approach to Edmonton and I was directed to stow my tray table and raise my seat back in both English and French, I looked out the window and saw miles and miles of wheat fields and farmland. This was a comedy hub? Oy, Canada!

I rented a car, drove to the Four Seasons downtown, checked in, and then sped out to the ITV Studios in the ’burbs, which began in Edmonton after what seemed like a couple of highway minutes. I wanted to be on the set pronto. I wanted to hang out with Guy Caballero, Edith Prickley, Johnny LaRue, Bob and Doug McKenzie, and Lola Heatherton.

SCTV
was sharing stages and offices with “the regulars” who were
producing news and other “real” programs for the local market. When I arrived at the studio, a collection of nondescript buildings in an industrial park, I was escorted onto the soundstage, where John Candy, playing Gil Fisher, the Fishin’ Musician, was interviewing punk rockers Wendy O. Williams and the Plasmatics. Wendy was decked out in a platinum Mohawk and ripped tights, her prominent breasts adorned only with electrical tape Xs over her nipples. The NBC censor on set was having conniptions. Phone calls were made to 30 Rock in New York City. Pixilation was discussed. Tighter camera angles were considered. Cancellation of the segment was threatened. John Candy wanted her on the show because Williams as the
SCTV
musical guest would stand in stark contrast to
SNL
’s usual acts, more conventional ones like Paul Simon and James Taylor. Levy and Moranis were adamantly opposed to her being there, but Candy won out. The series belonged to the cast, writers, producers, directors, and the hair, makeup, and wardrobe personnel, but this segment was Candy’s baby.

As I met each cast member in a hallway, office, or dressing room, I jotted down notes: “Creative chaos; the energy from the cast could light up much of Canada; they tape in Canada because they don’t want to be part of the scene in New York or Los Angeles, where the
SNL
rip-off called
Fridays
was taped. These were the very places where the shows they satirized were made.” As I interviewed each cast member, I wrote down brief impressions: “John Candy—lovable bear, a warm, funny man; Andrea Martin—least inhibited, most accommodating; Eugene Levy—careful, most precise; Rick Moranis—best impressionist; Dave Thomas—most opinionated and thought-provoking; Joe Flaherty—most shy and introverted off-camera; Catherine O’Hara—most changeable in appearance and the best figure.”

During the week, I would interview them all one-on-one, occasionally in pairs, and sometimes in tag teams. They answered every question I asked—involving television, drugs, group dynamics, sex, censorship, words you can’t say on TV (which, oddly, included
breast-feeding
and
turd
), and comparisons with
SNL
—with gusto and candor. These people were smart and needed constant challenges.

Somehow, word had gotten out at the
SCTV
offices that Colonel Hogan’s son was the writer on scene for
Playboy.
I had never mentioned it. But when I stepped through their asylum door, there were never any sideways glances or rooms getting quiet. John Candy would later tell me
that everyone immediately felt more comfortable with me because I had been around the business for years and obviously appreciated comedy. Of course, the fact that I told the cast and writing staff that
SCTV
was my favorite television program didn’t hurt either.

There is what I call the show business club. It’s been there for as long as film, television, radio, stage, music have existed. Its members are performers, writers, directors, producers. They enter a room, glance at one another, and give the all-knowing nod. As in most professions, performers have their own language, their own shorthand. With a look, a word, or a phrase they can communicate volumes to each other. They acknowledge that they are different from the masses. For better or worse, they occupy a different orbit because they have talents most people don’t. The club doesn’t differentiate between those talents. If you’re one of those rare people who as a profession stand in front of a camera or an audience and make people laugh or cry or cower in fear, then that’s the ticket of admission to the club. My dad was never more comfortable than when he was in front of a microphone, a camera, or a live audience. The club creates, however temporarily, a warm cocoon, nurturing among its members the shedding of inhibitions.

I received a guest pass (issued primarily by Candy and Thomas) to the
SCTV
chapter of the club. I sat in on script meetings, discussions with producers, chats among cast members, engagements with business managers, attorneys, and agents. I was more than a fly on the wall. Thomas invited me to watch him film a segment called “Power Play” on location in which he played William Shatner portraying a hockey coach as Captain Kirk. I felt included, honored. When he asked me to put on a sweater and play the coach’s assistant standing next to him for one shot, I felt like Mal Evans doing the audible countdown to the orchestra crescendo on the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.” The
SCTV
“20 Questions” appeared in the May 1982 issue. Billy Joel was the feature interview, though I thought they should have been reversed. My piece received good notices from
Playboy
staff and readers alike, and as a result, the editor’s door was cracked open: I had become a member of Rezek’s club.

25

I had become a peripatetic freelance writer, scratching out what I called a living. Most of my possessions were left in trunks and boxes, safely stored in my mom and Chuck’s garage. I lacked a steady enough income to rent my own apartment, so I lived at my mom and Chuck’s, ready and available to serve as somebody’s house sitter at a moment’s notice.

Through Diane during our days at USC, I had gotten to know a wonderful figurative painter named D. J. Hall and her husband, Toby Watson, a modernist architect. During that very dark summer of 1978, Diane had invited me to a party at D. J.’s studio in Culver City. Diane and I were a million light years apart by then, but she thought of me for the gathering and kindly asked me to accompany her. The star of that evening—and every evening where she was in attendance—was Debra Jane Hall. She is an attractive, athletic blonde who is alternately outrageous, funny, and obsessively creative. Toby, taking the permanent backseat, tolerated her many male fans. That night I joined the queue. Visiting this foreign world of “artistes” spieling on about the lackluster condition of the art world in minor league Los Angeles temporarily took my mind off the all-pervading, humorless wag called Death, who was my constant companion.

Venice Beach, California, was home to D. J. and Toby. When they took off to Hawaii for a couple of weeks they asked me to house-sit their 1920s Carroll Canal cottage and look after their black cat Mies (after Mies van der Rohe). I jumped at the opportunity for two reasons: I knew nothing about Venice and therefore my stay would be my own exploratory vacation, and second, my mom and Chuck would get a break from my long face.

I settled easily into the world of aging hippies and quacking ducks. Lots of duck shit covered the heaving, narrow walkways around the maze of canals. I played the house music chez Hall/Watson, which included
Steely Dan, but I passed on D. J. and Toby’s Tom Waits albums. I listened to the radio, which was always tuned to the Santa Monica–based National Public Radio station, KCRW. I looked through D. J.’s books on still-life and figurative artists Pierre Bonnard, Mary Cassatt, and Cecilia Beaux. I never turned on their elderly television. I also stayed away from the phone for the first few days, so at first I didn’t see the note D. J. had left on a torn piece of graph paper next to the black rotary dial phone. D. J. explained that their friends Bruce Everett and Kari Hildebrand had broken up after having lived together for five years. I had met Bruce once at an art opening. He was a talented plein air painter who taught art at Cal State Northridge. Kari, a former student of Bruce’s, was a professional landscape designer. D. J. suggested I give Kari a call during my stay. I trusted D. J.’s taste. I waited until late in the afternoon, and the passing hours gave me an opportunity to conjure up the nerve and contrive some warm dialogue for the cold phone call.

When Kari answered from her home in the San Fernando Valley, I introduced myself and lamely giggled as I mentioned that D. J. had left her phone number for me. Kari said D. J. had told her about me. She was working on a xeriscape design for a home in Calabasas. I asked what xeriscape was, and she explained that in the desert region we called Los Angeles it was worthwhile, if not necessary, to install drought-tolerant native plants that didn’t require much water. Kari said she despised lawns. She sounded like she was keenly aware of the environment, bright, and creative.

The conversation swung in my direction. “I do interviews with celebrities for magazines,” I explained when she asked what I did.

“Such as?” she probed.

“Well,
Playboy
is the big one. They’re the premier market for Q&A interviews.”