From Screen to Stage
How does a super-successful screenwriter transform himself into a Tony-nominated musical book writer? That's the question we put to The Wedding Singer's Tim Herlihy. And when we call him super-successful, we're not kidding: Before turning his attention to Broadway, Herlihy wrote or co-wrote the screenplays of Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, The Wedding Singer, The Waterboy, Big Daddy, Little Nicky and Mr. Deeds and was an executive producer of Anger Management and The Longest Yard. These nine films have grossed more than $1 billion in worldwide box office revenue. From 1994 to 1999, he served as writer, head writer and ultimately producer of the television variety series Saturday Night Live, for which he received an Emmy nomination. But as Herlihy shares with Broadway.com, it's the communal, collaborative nature of creating a Broadway musical that appeals to him most.
The job of writing screenplays has changed a lot since I got into the movie business 13 years ago. Back then I'd sit at a desk by myself for months on end, then fax the script out to L.A. and hope for the best. Nowadays, I sit at a desk by myself for months on end, then e-mail the script out to L.A. and hope for the best.
Don't get me wrong: the silver screen has been very good to me, and ultimately quite rewarding. But the day-to-day, nuts and bolts of it is basically hours of quiet desperation, broken up only by the occasional Starbucks run, perhaps a desultory phone call to my agent to see what's going on "Nothing. Get back to work." and a few minutes spent on that sad symptom of middle-aged male ennui—fantasy baseball.
So I came to ask myself, "Where is the thrill?" The rush of my Saturday Night Live days, when I was working in a pressure-packed environment with monumental talents, eating bad take-out food, having knock-down drag-outs over a single line? Where is the adrenaline rush of live, without-a-net performance?
Then Margo Lion called. What would I think about helping to turn The Wedding Singer into a musical?
Something I often think about is the creative meeting we'd have at the end of each day of rehearsals. Everyone was exhausted, burnt out, but they all piled into the house to go over notes. There's our lighting guy, Brian MacDevitt. I've written seven movies, and I must confess that I can't tell you the name of any of the people who designed the lighting for them. But not only do I know Brian's name, but I know where he's from, what he thinks is funny, how much he loves origami and why he's deathly afraid of mopeds. There's John Rando, high on whatever drug directors use to sustain their boundless energy. There's Rolt Smith, our stage manager, silently taking mental notes for that tell-all book he's undoubtedly planning to write. There's James Sampliner, the musical director, up from the pit and discussing some impossibly complicated acoustics issue with Peter and David, the sound guys. This meeting is all that stands between these tired people and their beds or a beer or two, but they're not rushing through it or mailing it in. As the clock creeps past midnight, they're thinking, arguing, working to make the show as close to perfect as it can be. Did I ever pretend to have to go to the bathroom and sneak out of this meeting? You bet I did. But it was never without admiration and awe for those who stayed behind.
But, after a few months of this, the producers insisted that we open the show, and so we did. And after all the hoopla, it was suddenly back to my office, back to my desk, back to the blank page on my computer. That is, until the morning of May 16, when the Tony Nominating Committee granted me a reprieve.
So, to me, the best part of the nomination, even better than the honor and the glory, is extending this wonderful experience for another few weeks.