But a network like ABC doesn’t just buy your idea and put it on the air—there are hoops to jump through first. Usually, they pay you to write a script. If they like the script, then they give you the resources to record one episode of the show for them to evaluate, which is the pilot. If all the right executives like the pilot, then they green-light your idea as a series and order a certain number of episodes for broadcast in the next television season.
Fortunately, ABC believed in the script and gave us the go-ahead to tape a pilot. We put together an amazing cast to play my Philly family: Yvette Nicole Brown, Keith David, Aaron Grady, Arnetia Walker, and Faizon Love from Friday.
I flew my actual family to Los Angeles for the live studio taping. It ate up a good chunk of my advance from ABC, because I didn’t just bring in my mom, dad, and brother. I also flew in my aunts Patsy and Mae and my cousins Darryl, Kimberly, Michelle, Thelma, and Shirrel. If they were a Hart, I invited them to L.A.
Besides wanting them to see the Hart family brought to life on stage, I wanted to give them a taste of the Hollywood lifestyle. I picked them up at the airport in a limousine, took them to the best restaurants, and saved the front rows of seats for them at the taping.
They arrived on set like a herd of elephants. My dad spotted the craft services table, where there were chips, candy, and other snacks piled up for the cast, crew, and guests to eat. He snuck over to the table and filled his hands and pockets with goldfish crackers and cupcakes, then brought them back to the family to share, as if he’d just robbed a convenience store.
While the rest of my relatives were telling stories and laughing hysterically like they were at a family dinner, Dad kept going back and forth from the food to the seats, making conversation to distract anyone who was near the table. “Yeah, that’s my son Kevin right there. He turned out to be a fine boy, even though Nance always be spoiling him.” While his lips were moving, his hands were grabbing as much food as he could carry.
Eventually, a production assistant told him: “You know, Mr. Hart, you don’t have to take that stuff—”
My dad grabbed him by the collar before he could finish. “What are you, a rat? You trying to drop down on me, man?”
I had to come over, break it up, and tell my dad that everything was complimentary. He looked at me like I’d just said that it was free-money day at Citibank. He started gathering everything he could—staplers, pens, stickers—and running it back to family members to hold for him. I think he was worried that other people would find out this information and start taking everything for themselves.
As Dad was pocketing a fistful of Red Vines, Faizon Love walked by. My dad recognized him from Friday and shouted, “Oh, I know that fat motherfucker right there!”
“Whoa, Dad, you can’t say that! Don’t embarrass me.”
“No, I need a picture with that fat motherfucker right there!”
That fat motherfucker clearly heard every word my dad was saying. “Who’s that?” Faizon asked.
“Faizon, I give you so many apologies right now. That’s my dad. He’s never been on a set before.”
“It’s okay, Kevin. Don’t forget, I’ve read the script—and now I know you weren’t exaggerating. I’ll take a picture with him.”
I’d never seen my dad so excited. At a live taping, audience members are supposed to just applaud and laugh on cue. They’re not supposed to yell, “Naw, you gotta be kidding me. That’s Nance right there!” or “What? Ain’t no way in hell that’s me!”
Even my mom’s side of the family started hooting and hollering like I was doing impressions just for them. Eventually, a nervous producer pulled me aside. “Hey, we’re glad that your family’s enjoying themselves, but we just wanna let you know that we’re gonna have to ask them to just kind of keep it down a little bit.”
When we edited the show, the biggest problem we faced was finding ways to cut and fade out my family’s comments. On the raw tape, you could actually hear the specific verbiage. After one joke, I distinctly heard my cousin Darryl cackling, “They got you good on that one, Shirrel!”
It made me wonder if the characters on the show were too normal. But if I’d written them just like my family, no one would have believed it.
After the taping ended, the waiting period began. Once again, someone was going to make a decision that would either make me a star or put me back at square one.
While I was hanging out with my family, I got the call. I could just barely hear Dave Becky over the sound of my dad offering to copy his latest bootleg DVDs for my cousins:
Dave: They wanna pick up your TV show.
Me: What?
Dave: They wanna pick up your show.
Me: Who?
Dave: ABC just green-lit the show. They want twelve episodes for their fall season. They’re revamping the network; you’re gonna be one of the shows in their new “Thank God It’s Friday” lineup.
Me: Hey, everybody, shut up! Mom, I’m about to get you a house. Kenneth, I’m gonna get you a house, a car—I don’t know what you want. Dad, I’m gonna set you up. This is it. I finally hit it! Y’all told me to go to community college and focus. Look at me; I’m focused now, bitches! . . . Sorry about the language, everyone.
According to my contract, I’d get paid twenty-five grand per episode as an actor, then something like ten grand for other duties like executive producing. So that was some thirty-five grand an episode. At twelve episodes, that was $420,000!
There was nothing that could bring me down after that. I was about to be on buses, billboards—everything I had dreamed about when I first landed in L.A.
Oh, Mr. Hart, can I please have your autograph?
Sorry, young lady, if I give one to you, then I’m gonna have to give one to all those other fine ladies screaming over there.
But please, Mr. Hart, I’m your biggest fan. I’ve memorized every episode of Big House.
That’s The Big House. Don’t forget the The . . . Oh, no, don’t start crying. I’m sorry. Here, look, I’ll sign your Kevin Hart-throb poster.
Thank you, Mr. Hart. You’re the best!
Call me Kevin . . . No, actually, keep calling me Mr. Hart. I like the way that sounds.
* * *
A few days after my family left, I got my third callback for a movie audition I’d gone on. The director, Jessy Terrero, told me at the end of the session: “Look, this is a big movie for me, and I think it can be big for you. I want to put you in the lead role. I’ll make sure you look good, and we’ll knock this out of the park.”
It was a “black version of Airplane!”—as he put it—about a guy who sues an air-travel company and wins enough money to start an airline modeled to his own taste, N.W.A. The film was called Soul Plane, and the producers agreed to pay me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to play the lead, Nashawn Wade. Ol’ Kevin Hart’s time had finally come. I had my own prime-time sitcom and a leading role in a feature film. This was the year that was going to break me.
And break me it did, though not in the way I was expecting.
Life Lessons
FROM OBSTACLES
* * *
Sometimes you got to take three steps back to know that there’s a lot more steps you can still take backward.
At the Soul Plane premiere party
61
* * *
MAKING TELEVISION HISTORY