Cooper Long
Assistant ANDY Editor
It is probably unreasonable to expect major change from a TV show once it has been on the air for several decades. After all, the producers are not going to add a laugh track to National Geographic, or a rapping grandmother to Meet the Press.
Nevertheless, it seemed possible that the recent season premiere of Saturday Night Live could mark a meaningful shakeup in the show’s 39 year history. Three of SNL’s most popular and long-running players (Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, and Fred Armisen) departed at the end of last season, and Seth Meyers relinquished the head writing position that he has held since 2006.
Unfortunately, any hopes for a reinvention were dashed even before the first obligatory game show parody. SNL remains as stubbornly mediocre as ever.
First of all, the cast still doesn’t look representative of the people you would expect to see walking down the street outside SNL’s New York studio. To replenish his ensemble, series-creator and executive producer Lorne Michaels hired five virtually indistinguishable white guys and one woman. Of course, new cast members should be hired based on their abilities, not their race. It just seems hard to believe that Michaels’ nationwide talent search yielded five performers who can only be told apart by their haircuts.
The musical performances on the premiere were also typically thin sounding and poorly mixed. Arcade Fire debuted a hypnotic new track from their upcoming album, Reflektor. Yet, it sometimes seemed as if all the instruments were being played from inside the same glass booth where band member Régine Chassagne was briefly imprisoned.
Even the sequencing of sketches felt particularly routine. Jay Pharoah played President Obama in the customary ripped-from-the-headlines cold open, before disappearing for the remainder of the episode (another example of the show’s diversity problem). Then, as usual, all the strangest sketches got dumped after 12:30 AM, by which time the writers must assume most of the audience is asleep.
Despite all these flaws and missed opportunities, however, I still plan on watching SNL regularly this season, as I have for many years. Most weeks I find SNL disappointing. But I will always love the idea of SNL.
To me, there is something irresistibly compelling and romantic about the very notion of a live sketch series. I love the idea that every week there is a madcap team of writers crammed in a room together, feverishly pitching taxidermy jokes and arguing about whether they can say “toe blasting” on television. Indeed, this concept is so appealing that it served as the basic premise of 30 Rock for seven seasons. Saturday after Saturday, my fantasy about the fun and excitement involved in making SNL overwhelms my frustrations with the actual content of each episode.
Michaels himself even hinted at this appeal in a recent New York Times interview. “I think there’s something about what it’s trying to be,” he said. Even though, he admitted, “It will never get there.”
I am not merely trying to justify a guilty pleasure. Indeed, I think that this same distinction between concept and execution can be applied to all entertainment. It is possible to savour the idea and creative process behind a piece of pop culture, even if the final form falls short of that potential.
It may take SNL another 39 seasons before the sketches match the brilliance and promise of the show’s concept. Even so, I will keep staying up late on Saturday night until they do.
By: Lorraine Chune
Amy Poehler really seems to have it all, and to have done it all. Her career has been prolific in the last two decades; she’s helped start a sketch-comedy training center (The Upright Citizens Brigade), risen to Saturday Night Live stardom, and portrayed the hilariously endearing Leslie Knope for six seasons of Parks and Recreation. She somehow manages to do this all while maintain- ing a sense of normalcy in her life and parenting two small children. So it’s not surprising that in her new part-memoir, part-satire (and in many ways, part-self-help book) Yes Please, she imparts a sensible, heart- warming wisdom.
Considering her book is a memoir, Poehler is lucidly selective about what she shares with readers. She doesn’t hesitate to recount elaborate childhood tales, vivid accounts of her early improv career, or details of her BFF-ship with Tina Fey. But she reminds us that her memoir is not the place for divulging truly intimate information, and sets clear restrictions early on; mainly, she draws the line at her divorce, which is "too sad and too personal" to write about.
Despite setting these boundaries, Yes Please is still, at times, vulnerable and honest. This is perhaps most apparent when Poehler recalls her first big television faux pas, and the subsequent guilt and shame that followed her for years later. She shares this story, among many others, with an acute introspection and fantastic comedic delivery. And with each comical story, she also shares a tidbit of (mostly legitimate) life advice.
The book sometimes verges on chaos. For instance, much to my delight, every few pages are interrupt- ed with a nostalgic relic from a Random Stage in Amy’s Life (my personal favorite is a melodramatic poem written by her 13-year-old self for social studies class). In one particularly manic chapter, she crams all the highlights of her SNL career into one 20-page stream of consciousness (which includes anecdotes about humping Justin Timberlake, high-fiving Queen Latifah and how Antonio Banderas smells good). Rather than being abrasive, however, such pandemonium just seems to capture the essence of SNL and the whirlwind that is Poehler’s life.
Fans of SNL and Parks and Recreation alike will devour the inside scoop on what day-to- day life is like in TV-comedy land. Just like her on-screen personality, Poehler's writing is punchy, funny, and instantly likeable. Anybody who already loves Amy Poehler will surely appreciate Yes Please.
