The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three Acts (13 page)

Lorne invited me to be in on his meeting with Chris. Chris showed up, and he was in full altar-boy mode, lots of “yes, sirs” and bright-eyed alertness. He was so transparently on his best behavior that you kind of had to laugh and wonder if it was inversely proportional to his worst behavior. Lorne talked about the show and what would be expected of him, and Chris just kept sweetly nodding his head in agreement. Lorne had been told, at that point, about Chris’s problems. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but he told Chris, in so many words, that it wouldn’t be tolerated. He even said something to the effect of “We don’t want another Belushi.”

It wasn’t presented to us that Chris had any sort of problem, just that he was still a little young and liked to party too much.

All the cast and writers were sort of strolling in over the course of that first week. Chris immediately gravitated to this younger, newer crowd of writers and actors: Rob Schneider, Adam Sandler, and David Spade. They were coming on as writers. The only two new cast members were Chris and Chris Rock. They got all the press.

I had done four shows as a writer/performer. Then it was summer break, and when I got back Farley and Rock came on as featured players. Sandler came about six months later.

I met Chris the first day, walking over from the Omni Berkshire, where
SNL
had put us up. I saw him downstairs, and I’d heard about him. We talked and then we walked over to 30 Rock together. I thought he was funny. He was a nice Wisconsin dude, a genuine, sweet guy. I was out from Arizona. I’m not really a bad guy. We just gravitated to hanging out all the time and stayed buddies ever since.

I first met him the day he started. He was wearing this English driving cap and looking very Irish. He was very quiet and deferential, very nervous, like I was the person in charge or something, which I thought was funny, because I wasn’t. He would get so nervous; that was one of the things that was really charming about him.

We both got hired the same day, which was probably one of the greatest days of my life. We were the new guys, and they threw us together. The funny thing was that everyone was worried about
me
—I lived in Brooklyn and didn’t want to move to Manhattan, because I couldn’t park on the street and I couldn’t get a cab. I said it in the
Live from New York
book: Two guys named Chris both get hired on the same day and share an office. One’s a black guy from Bed-Stuy and one’s a white guy from Madison, Wisconsin. Now, which one is going to OD?

When he got the show it was sort of strange, kind of scary in a way. Chris always liked the camaraderie of Second City, so a high-pressure situation like
Saturday Night Live
seemed mean and cutthroat. Dad was nervous. We all were. Chris could barely flush the toilet. How was he going to handle fame and television and New York City?

I was working at Bear Stearns in those days, at Forty-sixth and Park. Chris and I went out to lunch one day, and afterward I had to go back to work. We were standing on Park Avenue, right where it goes into the Met Life Building. Chris asked me about some good places to go shopping. I pointed him in the direction of Fifth Avenue. Then he said, “Look, I don’t have any money. I’m staying at this fancy hotel, and I’ve got this nice, big salary, but I haven’t gotten paid yet.”

So I went to a cash machine, got out $160, gave it to him, and went back to work. I got a call about a half hour later. “Uh, Tommy, I had a little problem,” Chris said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I went up to Fifth Avenue like you told me and I was walking down the street and I saw these guys playing cards.”

And I was like, oh no. “What did you do?” I said.

“Well, these guys were playing cards for money, and they were winning.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And the guy looked at me and he said, ‘Where’s the card? Take a guess. How much you got, buddy?’ And I said, ‘I got $160.’ And he said, ‘Well, put it down.’ ”

“Let me guess, you lost the whole nut.”

“Uh, yeah . . . can I get some more money?”

So I went and met him at the cash machine and said, “Don’t do that again. Stay away from the guys playing three-card monte.”

He said, “But I don’t understand. How were all those other guys winning?”

“They were all part of the scam, Chris.”

“Oh.”

Chris was very shy and self-effacing when he showed up. That never really changed too much, though he did get less shy. He was also one of these guys who came in with an incredible amount of respect for what had gone before him. He was just genuinely awed to be there, and wanted to know everything about the show. I don’t want to name names, but some people would come in saying, “I was destined to be here! Get out of the way, old man!” That was not Chris.

You could just tell he was funny. Normally you meet a guy, and you’re automatically skeptical about him. You’re basically not funny until proven otherwise. But there was something about Farley where you could tell he was funny when he said hi.

Chris called me up the first week he was there and said, “Hey, they’re going to film me for the opening montage. Do you want to come down and watch?”

I said, “Sure. Where are you doing it?”

“Well, you can pick anywhere you want,” he said, “so I was either going to do the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral or McSorley’s Ale House.” Two very telling choices, and no question as to which one won out.

“Which is it going to be?” I asked.

“McSorley’s.”

So I met him down there at like two A.M. on a Tuesday night after it closed. We kept drinking beer after beer during the shoot. “Draining our props,” as we called it. We were up till five in the morning.

My parents came into town for the first show. We had a blast showing them the whole New York thing. They stayed at the RIHGA Royal. We went to Gallagher’s Steak House, which was Dad’s favorite. Dad stayed in the hotel. He didn’t go to the show. With his weight it was just too much trouble. So we all went to the dress rehearsal and then went back to the room to watch the live show together.

We were just excited as hell. It was sort of surreal, sitting there waiting for his first scene. Kyle MacLachlan was the host, and they did this
Twin Peaks
parody. Chris was the killer. He really didn’t have anything to say, any real laugh lines in the sketch, but of course he found a way to milk a few laughs by giving a look or drawing a word out. It’s strange to see your brother on national television. I just sat there going, “This is weird.”

I remember walking out of Rockefeller Plaza after the first show on our way to the after party. There were all these limos lined up. Chris said, “Wow! Look at all those limos! Ain’t that something?” Pause. “I wonder if we can get a cab.”

“Chris, who do you think these limos are for?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I saw some guy with a clipboard and walked over to him. “Is one of these cars for Chris Farley?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Right over there.”

“Wow,” Chris said, “How did you know that?”

“Because that’s how it works here.”

The first show he didn’t have much, because nobody knew him to write for him at that point. But that always takes a while. We knew he was going to hit big, and he did it pretty quickly. The “Chippendales” piece was only his fourth show.

The thing that suggested “Chippendales” was less Farley and more Patrick Swayze being the host. You had a guy who was sort of built like—to the extent that I notice these things—like a male stripper. And he obviously could dance; that was how he’d come up in show business.

The second element was that nothing made me laugh more than the band Loverboy, whose big hit was “Working for the Weekend.” So you had Patrick Swayze, male stripper, you had Loverboy—just add Farley.

I played one of the judges, and my experience was the same as anyone who’s seen it on television. I can’t even think of the word to describe it. Incredulous, maybe? I did everything I could to keep a straight face.

We didn’t know it was going to be as popular as it was. You never do. In read-through Chris is just sitting fully clothed at the table while Lorne reads stage directions. We didn’t know until he did it at dress.

I knew in rehearsal that a star was born.

Adam Venit and I were agents at CAA. We’d known about Chris from Chicago, and we had been talking to Marc Gurvitz at Brillstein about signing him. At CAA, you have to get a consensus from the entire group of agents if you want to sign someone. All we did was show everyone a video of the “Chippendales” sketch, and it was done. We signed him right then.

I didn’t like the fact that the first thing he became known for was that Chippendales thing, which I hated. Fucking lame, weak bullshit. I can’t believe anyone liked it enough to put it on the show. Fuck that sketch. He never should have done it.

When you get laughs like that, there’s nothing wrong with what’s going on onstage.

It was a fantastic sketch—I’d say it’s one of the funniest sketches in the history of the show—because of the way Downey wrote it. If the sketch had been written that a fat guy was trying out for the Chippendales and everyone was making fun of him or acting like it was crazy, then yes, it would have been just a cheap laugh at the expense of a fat guy. But the way it was constructed, with everyone sincerely believing that this guy has a shot, the judges studiously scribbling notes on his dance moves, that’s what makes it original and completely hysterical.

My overriding note to Chris was, “You’re not at all embarrassed here. They’re telling you, ‘Our audience tends to prefer a more sculpted, lean physique as opposed to a fat, flabby one,’ but your feelings are never hurt. You’re processing that like it’s good information. Like you’re going to learn from this and take it to your next audition.”

Of all the pieces I’ve done it’s one of the most commented upon, and that’s of course because of Farley. I can’t take any credit for that except casting him. He was also very nimble and a good dancer, which made it impossible to feel like it was just a freak show.

Later in that show, Jack Handey had written a sketch about a mouse-trap -building class. It was one of those group scenes where everybody has a very small part to play. Farley had only one little bit to do, but he had so won the audience over with “Chippendales” that he got the biggest reaction in the piece. They had already adopted him as their own.

“Chippendales” was a weird sketch. I always hated it. The joke of it is basically, “We can’t hire you because you’re fat.” I mean, he’s a fat guy, and you’re going to ask him to dance with no shirt on. Okay. That’s enough. You’re gonna get that laugh. But when he stops dancing you have to turn it in his favor. There’s no turn there. There’s no comic twist to it. It’s just fucking mean. A more mentally together Chris Farley wouldn’t have done it, but Chris wanted so much to be liked.

I wanted to be liked, but I had no problem saying something was racist and I wasn’t doing it. Imagine if they’d had me in that sketch and then said at the end, “Oh, we can’t hire you. You’re a nigger.” Would I have done a sketch like that? If I had, ten years later I’d want to shoot myself.

That was a weird moment in Chris’s life. As funny as that sketch was, and as many accolades as he got for it, it’s one of the things that killed him. It really is. Something happened
right then.

You had to prove yourself to get airtime and to get your sketches on. It was obvious after “Chippendales” that he was going to be one of the standouts. I can’t remember too many read-throughs where he didn’t have something to do.

During the early read-throughs, I was shocked when I heard him struggle to read scripts he was seeing for the first time. He struggled with reading in the way of someone who was not schooled well. But on the stage he was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. He was a star. I saw it the first day he walked in the office. There was some quality that shone brightly. Despite his shortcomings as someone who hadn’t honed his skills yet, it was clear that he had the raw talent to work on that show successfully, which he did.

In the cast of
Saturday Night Live
you have people who’ve come from improv troupes, and you have people who’ve done a lot of stand-up comedy. You can distinguish the real actors from the stand-ups, and Chris was a good actor, a very good actor. He could have had a career for the rest of his life. Fat, thin, old, young, he was a really talented guy.

Farley was like an old-school cast member. The first cast was a repertory company. They weren’t comedians; they were funny actors, and they were called upon to do lots of different things. In the nineties, we got those with more of a stand-up background. And that’s not to knock the stand-ups. Nobody has ever made me laugh harder than David Spade. But the danger is that a stand-up can do an absolutely devastating ten-minute audition, but that might not help you two years later when you need a Senator Harkin in your congressional hearings piece. As a general rule, we’ve always done better with the old Dan Aykroyd types.