Hear Him Now and Believe Him Later: Everybody Loves Kevin Nealon

Comics are a weird breed. And I’m talking about real comics, not some funny guy you went to high school with or that schmuck in your office who forwards those gut-busting lists of lawyer jokes. No, I mean the comics who actually go out night after night, delivering 30 minutes of stand-up to drunken accountants in Sheboygan or an hour of improv sketches to bachelorette parties in Nantucket; or that even rarer few who make it to the Really Big Leagues of comedy, like Last Call with Carson Daly or one of those little boxes on the MySpace homepage. Comedy is tough, man. It takes a toll. No wonder Sam Kinison screamed like a madman; no wonder Eddie Murphy makes shit like Norbit and Martin Lawrence did Big Momma’s House. Twice.

You see, there may be nothing more difficult in the world of entertainment than making people laugh. Really laugh, and repeatedly. It takes a certain stock, it takes a certain ilk. Call it a death-wish, call it self-loathing, call it what you will: Those who measure success by conjuring even the slightest smile on a stoic’s face, or those who mark their worldly worth by a wet spot on the front of a patron’s pants—man, those people are sick.

However, every once in a Belushi moon comes that special personality, that well-adjusted, family-driven, spotlight-sharing, helping-old-ladies-across-the-street—unironically!—kind of guy; that no-less gifted but, dare we say it, normal comedic genius. Kevin Nealon is such a talent. Born into a Protestant family in Connecticut and entering the lunatic fringe of Hollywood stand-up during the Reagan ’80s, Nealon has always possessed those two traits that every comic this side of Dangerfield would kill for: good jokes and respect.

Those qualities and the friendships they forged have served Nealon well, personally and professionally. As legend has it, Nealon’s close friend Dana Carvey was selected aboard the sinking ship that—at the time—was Saturday Night Live; learning from show captain Lorne Michaels that SNL was looking for a “big tall funny guy,” Carvey recommended his big tall funny buddy and, after wowing Michaels with his stand-up routine, Nealon, along with Jon Lovitz, Phil Hartman, and Carvey, joined the ranks on an S.O.S. mission—Save Our Show. Thanks in part to Nealon’s dry, sardonic deadpan, his hilarious (and newly acquired) sketch-writing skill, and memorable characters such as Hans and Franz and Subliminal Man, the good ship was righted and Nealon spent the next nine years going live from New York.

Today, multiple sitcoms and myriad film roles later, Nealon once again finds himself in the forefront of pop-comedic culture. As pot-crazy city councilman Doug Wilson on Showtime’s highly praised Weeds, Nealon is winning over both co-workers and viewers alike with his down-to-earth-yet-out-in-space portrayal of a hilarious everyman whose sole job seems to be to lighten the mood and raise the spirits of those around him. Quite appropriate for a man who, as Dana Carvey says, “is just one of those people in show business—Tom Hanks might be the other one—that I don’t believe has any enemy.”

Finding inspiration in his new baby, book, and banjo, Kevin Nealon is truly one of America’s favorite big tall funny guys of any comedic generation. Here, along with Dana Carvey, Tim Meadows and Mary-Louise Parker, we pay tribute to a comedian so humble that his comic legacy just might be, in fact, news to him.

 

A Conversation with Kevin Nealon

Was it always going to be comedy for you?

Yes, it was. In high school, I used to memorize the jokes on the back of Parade magazine from the paper. It had the favorite jokes of a different comedian each week. I memorized those jokes and then personalized them, and when I went to neighborhood parties I would tell them to people like they were my own. People started saying, “You should go to the comedy clubs in New York.” So, I went to check it out, and it was too aggressive for me. The crowds were packed in there, the comics were kinda brash. So, I went out to L.A. and did stand-up.

Did you plan to stick to stand-up, or did you have aspirations to be an actor?

All I wanted to do was stand-up comedy. But eventually I saw how it would be good to act as well. In fact, one of the co-owners of the Improvisation in Hollywood said I should take some acting classes because nine out of 10 times a casting agent will come into the club and see a comic they like and ask them to come read for their project. So, I started taking acting workshops.

Did you put those skills to use immediately? Were they honed onstage doing stand-up?

It all evolves. You start doing stand-up, and you get better. You get better at writing; I wasn’t just doing bits memorized from Parade anymore. I was writing my own material. And then the acting started coming along. You start going in for more auditions and get better at that, too. That’s hard in itself; it’s nerve-wracking and it’s worse than doing stand-up—a closed room with people just staring at you. It all evolved into the experiences I have now.

As a stand-up comedian, was the prize just to get onstage and do your act, or were you working towards something? Was a Johnny Carson appearance the golden stage for stand-up?

For most comics at that time, that was the goal, to get on The Tonight Show. And that was what I did, I kept working at it and eventually auditioned for the talent coordinator, Jim McCawley, and he had me come on the show. I had a great set, and Johnny invited me over to sit on the panel with him and talk a little bit, and it was probably the highlight of my career. More than doing Saturday Night Live or anything else.

How did you go from stand-up to SNL? I understand that Dana Carvey really went to bat for you with Lorne Michaels.

Yeah, Dana was a friend of mine. He was renting an apartment over our garage in a house me and some buddies lived in. And he got hired to do the show that coming fall, and they still needed another guy, so he pitched my name and called me and said, “They’ll probably want to see some tapes.” So I sent my tapes in from The Tonight Show and they liked that and called me in for an audition. And then they offered me a job. We negotiated that I’d be a featured player on all the episodes, and that I would also be a writer.

What was your audition like?

It’s funny you should ask, because I just went to the party after this season’s last show, and somebody said they have my SNL audition tape and they’re going to send it to me. I was basically doing my stand-up act. I was doing stuff that me and Dana used to do in our driveway, which eventually was on the show; our characters. I hadn’t done sketch comedy. I didn’t do characters, so it was interesting. And it worked. I guess sometimes they’re just looking for a certain type: the tall drink of water.

The deadpan guy.

I don’t know how I became deadpan. I guess that’s what I was growing up; I liked that stuff. But it seems to work for me. I’ve never been the broad comedian—the in-your-face comic.

What dictates the success of a recurring sketch? Do you wait to see how audiences react, or is it based on cast or producer feedback?

It’s a little bit of everything. With “Hans and Franz,” we wrote that sketch and put it on kind of late that first time. The audience didn’t really know what to expect. There wasn’t an overwhelming reaction to them, and we didn’t put them on again for another couple weeks. And then I came up with an idea, and we voted to put it up and when the audience saw it, they just went crazy. It was just the familiar character-recognition thing.

How did you get to the “Weekend Update” desk?

Dennis Miller was leaving and Lorne thought I’d be good for it. He asked me and I agreed to do it, and I just started getting into that boat. I got out of the mode of writing character sketches and got back into the mode of writing jokes.

Did you write most of the jokes that you read at the desk?

I wrote some of them. You can’t write them all, but I would pretend I had to. It’s hard to get the writers to write for “Update” because it wasn’t a real glorifying job. Nobody at the watercoolers on Monday would be talking about a Clinton joke. Everybody wanted to write characters and sketches where they could do spin-offs and movies later, so to try to entice people to write for “Update,” they’d put out a buffet Saturday mornings in the writer’s wing. They’d have all kinds of AP photos and newspapers—some of the younger, newer writers would come and then Al Franken would come up and grab a paper and have breakfast.

Did you write your sign-off, “I’m Kevin Nealon and that’s news to me”?

I did. I didn’t have it the first time I went up there. I couldn’t think of one. And then sometime during the night, the week after that, I came up with it.

Did you identify most with a particular SNL cast from a certain season?

I was there for so long, I saw so many cast members come through, but the initial cast I came in with was Dana, Phil Hartman and Jan Hooks, those people—we were there for a couple of years before they started bringing in Spade, Rock, Farley, Sandler and Myers. It became diluted. There was no real lineation in the cast. But I don’t think a lot of us were on the same comedy level as some of the newer guys. I guess you could say it was a different kind of comedic generation. Their stuff was a little more along the lines of MTV-style comedy. Every week that first year we thought the show was going to be canceled. We were all living out of our suitcases.

When did you realize that you were safe?

After about two years. And even then, you’re still not completely safe. That’s so typical of the business. You always think that the last thing you do is your last project and then you’ll never work again.

How do you remember your time at SNL?

It was an incredible experience. You’re in this institution and you never really felt like you belong there. You felt like you were trespassing; especially me, because I had never done sketch comedy. But I enjoyed the whole process. It was exciting to work with a different talent each week and meet the musical guests, and live in New York City—there was this energy there that was unparalleled. I have no bad memories of it at all.

When did you know it was time to leave?

After about nine years I was kind of done with it. I still appreciated the show, but I was getting bored. There were so many people in the cast. It wasn’t what it used to be for me—it didn’t have the same excitement. I’d be eating at the craft services table in between sketches and then I would actually be in the sketch with food still in my mouth. That’s how casually relaxed I’d become with it.

So, what did you want to do from there? What did you do immediately afterwards?

I kept doing stand-up during off-weeks. I’ve never stopped doing stand-up since I started. But I actually left SNL because I had an offer to do a pilot. It was a sitcom for Dreamworks called Champs, with Timothy Busfield and Ed Marinaro. And that seemed like a good stepping-off point. I think we shot a full season but they only aired eight episodes. And then I had a series called Hiller and Diller in 1997 with Richard Lewis that lasted about the same amount of time as Champs.

Can you sense, on a show like that, that it’s not going to be continued?

I was so new to the sitcom world. I was at SNL for nine years—live television—so I didn’t know too much about sitcoms. I thought it was a shoe-in; both of them. We had good time slots!

But now you’ve got a prime role on a very successful show. How did you get started on Weeds?

I was still doing my stand-up and going on auditions and there wasn’t much good stuff out there. I got my hands on the script for Weeds and told my agent I really liked it and that I’d like to go for a reading. I went in and met the people and read for them. And it was just for a guest role on the pilot, but they liked me so much they kept me as a regular when the show got picked up. That role just seemed like a natural fit for me.

Mary-Louise Parker’s line referring to your crew of white collar delinquents sums it up: “I’m surrounded by the fucking Lost Boys.” How does this show’s success feel?

It’s always nice to be on a show that people respect and appreciate. Everybody always asked me about SNL, and I started wondering if that would be the benchmark of my career. I was always hoping I’d be able to do something else that people would be interested in and would want to talk about. And Weeds seems to be that now.

It’s funny how people automatically think I smoke pot because I’m on that show. And I don’t smoke. But I’ll go do a stand-up club and invariably somebody will come up to me with a joint and say, “Dude, you wanna go smoke some weed?” And I’ll say, “Thanks, I don’t really smoke.” And they don’t believe it, they’re like, “C’mon, it’s good stuff!” I wonder if the actors from The Sopranos, like after they’re finished with dinner, if anybody comes up with a .38 caliber, “Hey, you wanna go whack some people?” We’re just actors!

Your role as Doug Wilson on Weeds really seems to keep the mood light during some of the heavier plots.

I am kind of the comedic relief on the show. Not that the other actors aren’t funny, but Mary-Louise comes from a theater background; so does Justin Kirk. But with my background, there’s really no other role for me. It’s what I do.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing stand-up comedy, because I really love it, and it’s the reason why I got into this business. After Weeds, I’d like to do my own project. Maybe a half-hour show on TV or some films. Maybe I’ll write another book. I love being a Dad. I love staying home and hanging out with my son.

I also like to play the banjo. Occasionally I get together with other banjo players in the business like Steve Martin. Eric Idle plays the guitar. It’s a lot of fun.

Does playing the banjo provide you with anything that comedy can’t?

No, not really. I took up the banjo after I saw Deliverance. It just moved me so much.

It was either taking up the banjo or taking up sleeping with your cousin.

Yeah, I had the choice of either one of those and went with the banjo. Probably a safe choice for all of us.

Well, Isn’t Kevin Special?
A Conversation with Dana Carvey

Kevin told me you helped him get to SNL. How did that go down?

I first saw him at the Improv in Hollywood in the early ’80s and got to know him in passing. My wife and I rented an apartment in a house he lived in, so I was his roommate in a sense. It was a dive; it was pretty rough.
When I got SNL, I went out to New York and stayed at Lorne Michaels’ house for a month before the show started. They were casting the show; it was a big overhaul year, and it became known to me that they wanted a big tall funny guy. [In a Lorne Michaels/Dr. Evil voice] “Maybe like Chevy, a tall, funny guy…” I said, “I know a tall funny guy!” So Kevin came out and he just stood there in the studio and did stand-up for 15 of us, which is very hard, but he killed. And that’s how he got it.

Was that an aspiration Kevin had expressed to you?

I think anybody around in the early ’80s at the Improv and The Comedy Store—unless they were already a star—wanted to go on SNL. I auditioned with Jim Carrey at one point. It was whimsy; it was bizarre that it even happened to Kevin and me.

Kevin and I came during a weird time, which was the first time in the show’s history—even now—that it didn’t get a full-season pickup. It was only booked for eight shows that year, and it had been cancelled. We were told if we didn’t hit the ground running, they’d pull the plug by Christmas. And so my very first show I was so nervous, I was just swearing at myself in the mirror. And Kevin did “Subliminal Man” on that show and killed, and several other things. He started off well.

How did you two develop such a good partnership for “Hans and Franz”?

We’d done stand-up together and had the same management team, so after our first SNL season they suggested we do a tour. So, Kevin, Dennis Miller and I went on a 20-city tour; we had Swatch sponsor us, we had a road manager—stuff I don’t even have now. Kevin had actually lived in Austria for a while, so he was really good with Austrian accents, and we saw Arnold [Schwarzenegger] on TV and started improvising. We had this little riff we would do, over and over again, [In Austrian accent] “You know, you get to the hotel and you do a nice workout, and you break a nice sweat and you take a nice shower. And you put on a nice white cotton shirt and then you’re ready for evening.” We repeated that 3,000 times; it was just one of those giggly high school things. I don’t know how it all came about, but it was a complete collaboration.

We were thinking of doing Arnold’s cousins, Hans and Franz, and at one point Kevin did the little turn where he does the paranoid, almost sadistic part of Hans and Franz: “If you don’t want to work out, we could very easily come to your house and stretch your flab,” and we giggled for hours at the idea that they never lifted weights, but they had this huge chip on their shoulders. It became a bizarre little sketch as it went along. It’s still one of my favorite attitudes to play.

And Arnold eventually came on the show, right?

Yeah, they all do. Arnold came, and we didn’t know whether he was going to be weird about it—of course we know now he’s brilliant, he just sees the big picture; “They make fun of me, and then I am the good sport, and everyone knows it’s good because we’re all relaxed.” He wasn’t defensive at all, he immediately loved it. And the girly-man thing, obviously he’s still ripping Kevin and me off.

One thing that’s kind of a shame is that [Robert] Smigel and me and Kevin and Conan [O’Brien] wrote a movie, Hans and Franz: The Girly-man Dilemma, which was really, really out there. We had Robert Conrad in it, and the bad guy had a button called “Hurt the Environment,” and then Sylvester Stallone would look out his window, [as Sly] “Hey, the environment seems sorta hurt.” And Arnold was in it, and he was swimming and we were water-skiing behind him, he was the boat; and the door to his house was a giant pair of buttocks. Crazy. Arnold really wanted to do it, but I didn’t understand how Hollywood worked and he had 19 projects in development, so that fell through. But that was a shame; it would have been fun.

What is Kevin Nealon really like?

Kevin’s kind of shy, I’d say. Protestant family; he’s not one to get close to. I’d say I would be one of his closer friends. Kevin—and I put myself in this category—is sensitive for a stand-up, he’s not a bulldozer, show biz guy. He’s sensitive and polite. Comics really appreciate him; he has a dry, droll, subtle, very smart kind of humor.

How hard is it in this business to retain friendships?

We’ll go months without talking, but when you have that long history it’s just five seconds and you’re right into it, like high school buddies. We both went through that entire SNL thing—he stayed nine years, I was there for seven. And there’s nothing in your life that can be more intense than that, in terms of show business.

What are Kevin’s best qualities as a comedic personality?

He’s great at deadpan; he’s really good at keeping that straight face and saying outrageous things. Likeability is so huge in comedy, maybe more so than music or even acting. Kevin has that.

When Kevin graduated high school, he was five-feet-eight. He never seemed like a big guy—even though he was six-four, 220 and ripped when I met him. But he never played like a big guy. He didn’t want to stand-out, and I think that’s a key to him.

There’s a reason why class clown is singular. You never hear of class clowns. Kevin just stood out as generous. He didn’t really think to be cutthroat, or jump on a punchline to knock a guy out. Phil Hartman had that quality, too. I do a little more damage trying to get my face in the lens. I’m pathetic. But even though show business and Saturday Night Live can make you so competitive and bitter, Kevin just maintained his civility and his gentlemanliness in the midst of all that. He played by the rules. Everybody loves Kevin Nealon.

3,000 Laughs and Counting
As Told By Tim Meadows

Kevin was one of the veterans when I came to SNL, so it was really intimidating because I’d seen those guys perform for years. It was two different worlds then: the veterans and the new guys. But Kevin was really friendly with us new guys; we all respected him, and he made us laugh, too, because he’s just a naturally funny dude. And he’s a really good writer.

I remember one thing he did that always stuck with me at Saturday Night Live. During rewrite meetings they would bring in a large fruit salad and plates and plastic forks, and Kevin would come in and talk to the writers and while he was talking he would take a fork and pick up a piece of fruit and eat it, and then throw the fork on the floor. And then pick up another fork and eat another piece of fruit and throw that fork. And he would just keep doing it over and over until everybody was laughing. He would do bits like that all the time.

He’s really good when the cameras are on. We used to watch those guys work, so I learned a lot from him and Phil Hartman—how to work cue cards, that kind of stuff. Kevin and I just did this movie in New Zealand, They Came from Upstairs, and the way he would do different takes and add lines or improvise something were always good. He’s really consistent.

We’d all be having a normal conversation, and Kevin would say something funny and everyone would laugh, and then he’d turn to a non-existent camera and say, “We’ll be right back.” We were down there for three months—he probably did it 3,000 times, and I laughed every time he did it. I think he loves to be with comedians and make them laugh.

It was good to see him and talk. We had dinners a lot; we’d go out to fancy restaurants in Auckland. In all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’d ever spent that much time with him. I got to watch him do stand-up, which I hadn’t seen him do in a long time, and it was really funny. He’s still got it. He’s the same way he is in-person when he’s on stage. He’s not an angry comic. He’s not a brooding, sad comic, either. He’s normal, as normal as a comedian could be.

Kind Buds
As Told By Mary-Louise Parker

Kevin actually has a great, grounded quality and a real sweetness. A lot of times comedians are angry or damaged. Kevin is kind of the opposite. He is positive, sweet and humble.

You would be hard-pressed to find a more devoted husband and a more loving father. His love for his little boy is so profound that it just melts everyone. He is an incredible father. He is so nice that it is almost freakish. I am so happy when he works on the days that I do. He brings a really good vibe to the set. Sometimes he brings his banjo to the set and plays it for my son. He calls him the Banjo Man.

Kevin is constantly making all of us laugh, but never in a way that feels forced or obnoxious. Everyone is always happy when he walks on set. I can’t think of a single person who doesn’t love him. F