Larry Gelbart

(Excerpt from Larry Gelbart interview)

You once said that, as a writer, one’s style is formed by what one can’t do. Now, how did you come to this conclusion? Were there different styles of comedy that you dealt with that were more difficult than others?

I should have said “subject” instead of “style.” This would be the subject matter, rather than the style, of a comedy piece. Experience has taught me that what seems like a slam dunk rarely makes the most successful finished product. While confidence is always a comfort, risk provides a good deal more adrenaline. The project that requires me to learn about characters I’ve never met is the kind I enjoy the most. I’m always drawn to those subjects least likely associated with comedy, such as war, or God, or finance—in other words, subjects that I’ll have to wrestle with. I want to go to places I’ve never been before, in a sense. If my interest is piqued, perhaps audiences’ will be, too.

Are there any specific examples in which this happened? Where you took on a difficult subject, for the challenge?

I was referring to M*A*S*H and “Oh, God!” and even A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, which was timeless in its depiction of human frailties but required massive research on ancient Rome—years before HBO discovered it.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum is such an intricate work. How do you visualize a project like that? The summary of the play, alone, can run more than a full page.

At the risk of making it all seem somewhat metaphysical, you usually see things in your head, even before you’re able to capture it in writing—whether it’s a movie or a television show or, in this case, a stage show. You are watching it before anybody else does. You can visualize it. You see the characters, you see the situations, you get it. In my case, I saw it day and night for about five years. The problem, of course, is how to get what you see in your head onto the screen or stage.

Has this become any easier for you throughout the years?

I think so. I mean, after a while it’s not so much a question of, “Can I do this?” It becomes more a case of, “When I do this.” You get better at the craft. Your talent for writing may not be sharpened, or your originality. None of that has anything to do with craft.

If practice doesn’t make perfect, then it certainly can hone your ability to do the things you want to do. For instance, needing to get the feel of a scene. How do you know when a particular one is finished? You may not need three pages to get across what you need to get across. Half a page will do the same thing. Or even just a single sentence. Or even one word—if it’s just juste enough.

I keep thinking of what Miles Davis said about his style of jazz. He said, “It’s what you don’t play, you know.” However pretentious it might sound, I think of writing as a kind of music. A writer, like a musician, can hit the melody—and at just the right tempo—with precisely the right amount of whatever sense or nonsense is needed.

With comedy, would the jokes be the equivalent of the melody?

The plot is the melody and the jokes are the grace notes. I tend to think in those terms a lot. I think about how much less equipment a writer of dialogue has, as compared to what’s in a music composer’s toolbox. Writers are, by comparison, impoverished. We have to work with what we have…