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Overview
A wickedly delicious roman-a-clef about the making of a sitcom called My Urban Buddies, this satirical romp of a novel portrays life on the other side of the television lens, hilariously sending up self-serious Hollywood stereotypes across the board.
Programmed-for-success director J. T. Baker has to bring an up-and-coming sitcom to fruition after its initial director shoots himself in the head with a nail gun. Comically annotated with helpful and enlightening Hollywood glossary terms ("Creative-type director: One who has no hope of working in this town again"; "Eccentric: Affecting a style of dress, coiffure, speech, mannerisms, etc., carefully calculated to give the impression of creative credibility"), Benson creates an exaggerated world of crazy writers; backstabbing executives, agents, and producers; foul-mouthed everyone-elses; and hardcore cynics—and the ridiculous inner monologues behind them.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061245008 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 08/28/2007 |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Sales rank: | 1,067,129 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Who Stole the Funny?
A Novel of Hollywood
Chapter One
The Phone Call
In the Beginning, there is always the Phone Call.
In show business, life-changing information is almost always delivered in the form of a phone call. The reason? No one in Hollywood has the guts to look anyone in the eye. There once was a good man who hung up his phone, smiled, went into his bedroom, and shot himself in the head. The reason? He lost his Cocoa Puffs account.
That incident later became an M.O.W.
Cocoa Snuff won an Emmy.
Every sitcom director pretends to be busy, having a wonderful life, while out of work. The truth of the matter is, unlike actors who sit and wait, staring at their phones, directors socialize, and buy cardigan sweaters and very comfy shoes. Most also have the annoying habit of behaving like directors in public and even at home ("Somebody get me some water, dammit!" "Yes, Daddy"). All the while, they pretend not to be waiting for their cell phones to ring.
Jasper Jones's cell phone rang.
Jasper Jones was a middle-aged man in perfect shape who'd had multiple plastic surgeries to hide the natural aging process and was in good standing in the Directors Guild of America.
"Y'hello," he said into his phone from his place in line at Saks Fifth Avenue's men's department in Beverly Hills. A fastidious dresser, Jasper was more fashion-conscious than—conscious. Jasper had a closetful of Bruno Magli gored loafers, but now they just weren't . . . in. Especially the gored line. He needed to wear a different pair of comfortable shoes every day of the week, and since the SalvatoreFerragamo Gazette loafers were only $420 a pair, there wasn't a single reason in the world why he shouldn't do what was right for his feet, and buy seven pairs. And a new wardrobe to match.
Why the fuck do I have to wait in line? Jasper thought as he fiddled with his earpiece and his up-to-the-millisecond-model cell phone/toy. "Don't fuck up," he said (his standard greeting).
"Jasperoonie!" his directing agent answered. "It's me. Dick."
"Dick—it's Sunday. Whassup? Somebody die?"
Dick Beaglebum handled the top writers and show-runners in the television business, along with a few directors—Jasper being one of them. He loved to work on Sundays. It gave him a legitimate reason to get out of the house.
The Beaglebum Agency sat on prime real estate in the middle of Beverly Hills. The spacious office (with bookshelves full of classics whose bindings had never been cracked) boasted a stunning 180-degree view on days when the smog (excuse me: haze) visibility was more than two-tenths of a mile. Dick had an oversized desk that he'd paid too much for because he'd been told it was made from the sea-cured oak of a sunken pirate ship, circa 1650, that was excavated from the floor of the Caribbean. Dick had bought it as a $430,000 tax write-off.
Dick leaned back in his chair and swiveled it from side to side. "Jasper," he began in his overrefined, I-swear-I'm-not-from-Hackensack-accent, "how's my wildly eccentric director?"
In Hollywood, eccentric is good. Full-blown eccentrics are even better. Eccentrics satisfy the public's appetite for showbiz buzz. And well-cultivated eccentricity gives an impression of creativity while avoiding the kinds of problems that actual creativity can cause, like the ones implied by the phrase "creative differences."
Jasper hoped Dick meant the brand of eccentric that the studios and the networks desired (required), one with eccentricities they could manipulate, influence, and regulate. The last thing Jasper wanted was to seem too creative.
He kept playing with his cell phone and earpiece while he had "the Help" carry his purchases to his Jag. He jumped into the car and roared off, leaving the Help with an open hand and an open mouth. "Son of a bitch," the Help mumbled, staring at the single grimy quarter in his hand.
Jasperoonie drove while rehearsing his director skills on Dick and trying to give the impression of being very much in control.
The ability to appear to be very much in control is an art form in itself, a survival skill everyone in Hollywood must practice until they are proficient at hiding their own shortcomings with false cleverness, pseudocompetence, and a finger trained to point at the other guy. It's the one skill a working director must have. It's more beneficial to a director than talent. As a matter of fact, talent, a rare and almost archaic quality, can get in the way of a director's function on a television sitcom.
"Look, Dick," Jasper said, hoping he sounded very much in control, "I know you love to chat, but why don't you just cut to the chase. Quicker, faster, funnier. Get to it."
Dick knew that even when Jasper was at the top of his game, he was creatively benign. In other words, he was the perfect sitcom director. Directors, even though they are considered to be somewhere near the top of the creative food chain, are thought of as schmucks by agents (and the showrunners and the studios and the networks). An agent who handles bipolar writers, megalomaniac showrunners, and a few schmuck directors must perfect the art of phony enthusiasm/compassion. The agent needs this talent to broker and package a sitcom that gets on the air, stays on the air, and then goes into syndication, so he can make millions upon millions of dollars off the hard work of all the schmucks. Enthusiasm/compassion gets the agent past the possible bitter negotiations or conflicts in egos to a point where everyone is excited about the Nielsen Jackpot, the Syndication Gold Mine of a hit sitcom.
Dick Beaglebum had the enthusiasm/compassion shtick down cold. He was a better actor than most of the actors on the shows he'd packaged. Dick's clients all thought he was the one person in a world of sharks who actually cared about the show and their needs. Dick was very enthusiastic and compassionate.
Who Stole the Funny?A Novel of Hollywood. Copyright © by Robby Benson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
What People are Saying About This
“An irreverent and hilarious stroll down the dark alleys of Hollywood’s TV landscape.”