The first time I hosted SNL, surrounded by some of the most talented young comedians in the business, I was scared to death. Luckily, it occurred to me that, because I did not have an iconic career in films, because I wasn’t Schwarzenegger or Stallone or someone who invited a parody of their work, I was better off trying to just be a member of the company. I would play the soldier, the teacher, the priest, or the NPR guest in the sketch and do my best to just fit in. Once I did that, things got a bit easier. The cast wants the host to succeed, to make the show a good one, so they are very generous and helpful. The first SNL cast I worked with included Tim Meadows, Kevin Nealon, Jan Hooks, and the late Phil Hartman. Over the years, I worked with several different SNL casts and some of those performers went on to great careers in film and TV. But none was funnier than Hartman, who is perhaps the only person to crack me up during the live show. Phil could channel any kind of character, from smart to dumb to truly insane. He was a wonderful actor. When I heard about his death, I was stunned and sickened.
After the third or fourth time I hosted (I’ve been given many chances to improve), I started to get the hang of it. Along the way, I had the opportunity to do the show with some of the biggest musical acts in the business. One year I hosted when Whitney Houston was the musical guest. After her dress rehearsal, I was introduced to her backstage. “You truly are the most talented singer out there today,” I said, a bit starstruck. She paused and said, “I know, baby,” then walked on. In 1993, I hosted the show when Paul McCartney was performing and met the warm and down-to-earth Linda McCartney backstage. We briefly talked about her animal-rights work, since I had been introduced to the issue while living with Kim. Then she asked me, “Have you met Paul?” “No,” I told her. “Well, go over and talk with him. He’d like that.” The idea that I would approach McCartney like he was any other SNL music act was unimaginable to me. The music of the Beatles and McCartney’s solo career, along with other Brits like the Rolling Stones, the Who, and Led Zeppelin, made up the bulk of the vinyl and cassettes I collected back in my youth with the precious money I could spare. When I was in high school, a guy in my neighborhood had sold me his Acoustic Research speakers. Normally, they would have been prohibitively expensive, but he said he was desperate financially, and had to unload them. Because I couldn’t afford headphones, I would lie on the floor of my bedroom late at night, with the giant ARs framing my head, listening to Houses of the Holy, Quadrophenia, Got Live If You Want It!, and Abbey Road. Now, the musician who wrote and sang so many of those songs that I played over and over again, sprawled on that floor, was right in front of me. The guy who sang “I Saw Her Standing There,” “Blackbird,” and “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window,” with a range from “Helter Skelter” to “Yesterday,” was twenty feet from me, and his wife was telling me, “Go ahead. Go and talk with him.” When I finally did approach him, he was as charming as you’d expect. No one in show business has had to manage the feelings of his overwhelmed fans as much as McCartney. I realized then that this is the greatest thing about the business. One day, you’re on the floor, moaning, “Aaaaaaahhhhh, look at all the lonely people.” The next, you get to host your favorite comedy variety show and the musical act is Paul McCartney.
Hosting several episodes of SNL over the years exposed me to what good comedy writing is, but it didn’t make me want to run out and star in a sitcom. I would joke with Lorne about joining the cast, but it wasn’t until 2005, when I guest-starred on Will & Grace, that I began to think a TV comedy might fit into my ever-changing plan. I had played a part on Friends in 2002. I loved working with Lisa Kudrow and thought Jennifer Aniston was a doll. However, we began shooting the episode just a day or two after it was announced that the cast had signed on for season nine at a million dollars per episode for each of the show’s stars, and everyone seemed a bit distracted. On the set, I’d barely spoken with the producers, who were naturally focused only on their celebrated ensemble. Later, when I taped Will & Grace, the set was looser. The producers, Max Mutchnick and David Kohan, seemed as available to their guests as their stars did. The Will & Grace shoot also enabled me to talk with Megan Mullally and pick her brains about the realities of shooting a half-hour sitcom.
I have always been madly in love with Megan Mullally. Some have compared her to Madeline Kahn, and although I hear some echoes, Megan is such an original in terms of her timing, her warmth, and her mixture of insanity and sexiness. Like Megan, Jane Krakowski went on to nail the self-absorbed, horny femme fatale on 30 Rock. In my mind, there is a line from Marilyn Monroe to Madeline Kahn to Megan to Jane. Scattered in between are a lot of talented female comics and actresses who are scoring in film and TV, of all ethnicities and ages, like Rosie Perez, Wanda Sykes, Sarah Silverman, and Tig Notaro. But with her high-pitched voice and loopy delivery, I’ve always found Megan irresistible.
One day on the set, she outlined the sitcom schedule for me. In so many words, she said that they started on Mondays and read the latest script for a couple of hours, then went home. On Tuesdays, they rehearsed for a couple of hours, then left while the writers rewrote the script. Wednesdays, they rehearsed and camera-blocked all day, and the same on Thursdays. Thursday nights, they loaded in the audience and taped the show. Then they went home and got a big check. This was no chain gang. The day of the taping, we stumbled our way through a dress rehearsal and then performed one of the few live Will & Grace episodes ever produced. Like the SNL cast, Sean Hayes, Eric McCormack, and Debra Messing were welcoming and patient with me.
Television moves along. On films, you can sit around interminably. You hope the result is worth it. But you also think about all of the weddings, family gatherings, and overall moments of your life that you miss while shooting. Working with the legendary director Jim Burrows, who oversaw all 194 episodes of Will & Grace, made me think of the live, four-camera comedy like a miniplay. We were in the theater, playing to an audience, only we taped it, edited it, and ran it on TV to a few million people. The audience for one night of a hit sitcom is bigger than the entire run of a hit play. Funny people like Megan, the schedule, directors like Burrows—it all started to add up.
When Will & Grace was over, I thought about my arrangement with Ireland. I realized I might as well leave open the possibility for sitcom work if it came my way. My life at the time was flying to LA every other Friday. I’d head from the airport to pick up Ireland at school and take her to eat somewhere. Weekends at the time involved shopping, movies, lunches, and dance classes with her friends, while I stood off to the side. Divorce or no, a father is a chauffeur and chancellor of the exchequer to the mother’s role of queen. But, as all parents will no doubt acknowledge, we are there for their benefit, not the other way around. I would wait for and gratefully accept whatever crumbs of attention came my way. On Mondays, I would read to Ireland’s class through a volunteer program the school offered for available parents. By ten a.m., I was in a car on my way to the airport. I did that every other weekend during the school year. Eighteen times between Labor Day and Memorial Day. I spent more time on planes and in airports than I ever imagined possible, as travel seemed to take over my life. Ireland would sometimes opt out of our weekend early or wouldn’t show up at all, but I kept coming. I didn’t know what else to do. Like a dumb animal, I had only one thought, one gear. I wanted to see Ireland. To make her laugh, to do for her, to love her.