It’s notable that the many impressions of Lorne Michaels are more interesting than the man himself.
After decades building a television and production empire and achieving fantastic financial success, Michaels is basically a one-note figure. He’s the man behind the comedy; the powerful Palpatine-like figure mentioned in every memoir; the clever business mogul brokering deals so he can afford one more vacation home. He’s all that, but sadly, he’s not very interesting.
In Lorne, the latest film by documentarian Morgan Neville, the subject is Saturday Night Live’s longtime executive producer. Unfortunately, the subject never really comes to life in this movie, which is mostly an ode to Lorne’s many quirks, and his penchant for making millions of dollars for his many proteges.
The documentary is being shown now in select theaters nationwide. Presumably, given its production company, it will be streamed on Peacock eventually.
Neville spends much of his time showing the idiosyncratic habits of Michaels, who famously doesn’t report to the SNL office until at least 4 PM, and often spends his time schmoozing with celebrities and industry shakes/movers until the early hours of the morning. There we see his famous popcorn maker, and the always-present “Lornettes,” the attractive women who provide practically anything Lorne wants on demand. For Michaels, his world is like an iPhone. If he wants it, he gets it, NOW.
Michaels is understated, droll, and always perfectly polished. He doesn’t really ever say anything revealing in this film. He’s sort of a statue to himself: just there, holding a glass of wine or production notes.
In Lorne, we see far more of the wealthy man who loves glamor, money, and craves everything top-shelf, and far less of the blue jeans-wearing hippie who was there when SNL was born. Michaels the octogenarian is much more like Donald Trump than John Belushi. This is a man far kore interested in empire building than throwing darts at “the man.” Michaels is not taking on the establishment. He IS the establishment.
Michaels is the last of the “famous for being famous” celebrity producers. There used to be many of them in old Hollywood and television. But today, he’s a reminder of how the industry used to work: where one white man held all the power.
The Michaels story gets the same old (and inaccurate) treatment in Lorne.
Like Mark Zuckerberg, Michaels was present at the birth of a new thing, co-opted that thing, and shaped the origin story into a fable of his own genius. To be fair, much of that fable has been spun by sycophants. Michaels simply doesn’t correct them.
In the mid-1970s, Michaels secured the job as producer of a new late night program for NBC. The nugget for that program had been developed chiefly by Dick Ebersol, a 28-year old network executive who wanted a show that reflected the new age comedy of post-1960s hippies. Ebersole wanted to bring “rock and roll” sensibility to a variety program. He wanted it to be the show the parents didn’t understand. Ebersol hired Michaels, an unknown comedy writer from Canada who had connections with several emerging comedians and sketch troops, but no experience running a show on such a scale. Ebersole shaped the show as much and likely more than Michaels, shepherding it onto air, and protecting the young cast and writers from agitation by the executives. Almost immediately, Saturday Night, as it was known then, became a smashing success. Michaels deftly worked to snatch the credit. He’s been gobbling up power as television’s last great power broker ever since, except for a five-year sabbatical from SNL.
Speaking on the city of Oakland, author Gertrude Stein once famously wrote “there’s no there there.” That phrase can describe Lorne Michaels. He’s famous. He’s a kingmaker (somewhat still), and he’s filthy rich. But there’s zero that is interesting in the man and his career. Everything interesting floats around him, or exists as the caricatures expressed by Dana Carvey or Bill Hader or Alec Baldwin when they do an impression of the man.
