The Chris Farley Show

Submitted by Shawn Westfall, DC stand-up, improviser and teacher at the DC Improv, regarding the latest book published regarding the life of the late comedian Chris Farley.
One of the more poignant and telling anecdotes from The Chris Farley Show, the new biography of the late Chris Farley, comes from Bob Odenkirk. Odenkirk, a writer for “Saturday Night Live” during Farley’s tenure as a cast member who would later partner with David Cross as part of HBO’s “Mr. Show, tells of an evening in which Farley was in Odenkirk's apartment, drunk. Many friends testified that Farley would often drink himself into a kind of energized hysteria and then proceed, in a kind of humorous, stylized ritual, to destroy the furniture. (Click on "Read More" to read the rest of Westfall's review)

Any one of Farley’s friends could be a potential victim: the evening would start as an innocent get together, and end with a sweaty, wild-eyed Farley violently dismantling a futon. These binges later became the staple of any SNL sketch Farley was in, but on this particular evening it was Odenkirk’s turn to look on helplessly as Farley turned his dinette set into firewood. Mid-ritual, Farley paused, looked desperately at Odenkirk, and asked with an earnest, child-like innocence, “Odie, do you think Belushi's in heaven?"

With his work now scorched into our collective consciousness (was there a frat boy in the ‘90s who couldn’t do a version of Matt Foley, Farley’s “motivational speaker”?) it’s not difficult for us to imagine Chris Farley in our living rooms seismically dismantling the second-hand sofa bed.

But the other Chris, the earnest, child-like one, is a bit more difficult to imagine. And yet so many of Farley’s friends testify that it was not only there, but it was actually the key to Chris Farley’s character. This was the Chris that people loved, the aspect of his character that helped friends and family look past those times – at first infrequent, and then not – when his drug and alcohol addictions made him violent and unbalanced. The poet, critic and lexicographer Samuel Johnson once wrote that “inconsistencies cannot both be right, but, imputed to man, they may both be true.”

If The Chris Farley Show is anything, it’s an attempt to catalogue and resolve those inconsistencies, inconsistencies that are in all of us, to be sure, but which were especially pronounced in Chris Farley.

We know about his work. And we’re all too familiar with Farley’s final few months and days: the all-too-frequent relapses, the booze and drug binges that cost him friendships and eventually his life; his final few hours, which made tabloid headlines. But brother Tom Farley and writer Tanner Colby seem to have written (though “culled together from interviews” would be more accurate) this book to rescue from those tabloid headlines the memory of a man whose heart was apparently as big as his appetites, whose generosity was informed by a deeply ingrained Catholic faith that never left him, and who felt that his gift – to make people laugh – was a moral obligation.

The side of Chris that few saw, a side that surprised even those who thought they knew him well, involved his devout Catholicism. Even at the height of his SNL popularity, Farley was usually at Mass every Sunday seeking expiation for his sins from the evening before. Fellow cast member Siobhan Fallon (pictured below) recalls frequently seeing him at Mass (they went to the same church) where Farley would sheepishly look up from prayers to tell her "God's gonnna be mad at me this time."

This faith informed his volunteer work at a local NYC Catholic charity, something he also did without any fanfare. Indeed, at his funeral as well as at numerous memorial services, people came forward to testify to Chris' generosity: at old folks homes, where he helped load wheelchair-ridden people up and down ramps and into passenger vans; at children's hospitals, where he frequently entertained entire wards; the Chicago Bears hat that Chris wore in the "Super Fans" sketch, which should rightly belong in the Smithsonian, instead became the property of a homeless man that Chris befriended during his stay in New York City, whom he would also frequently take out to dinner and to the theater, and who tearfully testified at Chris' memorial service a year after his death that it was the last thing Chris gave him.

Lifelong friends and relatives, fellow cast members were floored when this side of Farley came to light: he told practically no one about it.

This generosity extended to his fellow actors and writers. Nearly everyone -- writers, actors, castmates, hosts – talked in detail about Chris' generosity onstage as both a performer and someone who wanted to make a writer's material work. Much has already been written about the competitive culture that Lorne Michaels foments at SNL, where both performers and writers are pitted against each other in a cutthroat effort to see who rises to the challenge week after week; combine this with the already competitive nature of comedians in general, and its easy to understand how SNL continues to produce, alongside some very funny people, some people whose public behavior is downright awful: Chevy Chase, Joe Piscopo, Eddie Murphy.

By all accounts, Chris was different. "At read-through," Siobhan Fallon (pictured right) says, "people would purposefully not laugh at something even though it was funny, because they wanted something else to make it on the show. But Chris would laugh no matter what.... He didn't discriminate. He was honest."

Norm McDonald: "I don't think Chris knew how to hate. .... I’d be complaining and I'd go 'You know who sucks?' And I'd go off about so-and-so, some guy on the show. And Chris would immediately go 'I think he's funny, Norm. Why don't you like him?'"

Writer David Mandel: "He always went out of his way to make sure people knew what material was yours, that they were your jokes, and he was just the guy who said the lines." Chris' talent?

SNL Writer Fred Wolf: Comics are a pretty strange breed. Put all of us in a room and we can fight among ourselves and disagree with all our bitterness and neuroses. But when it came to Farley, it was unanimous: he was the best.

Norm McDonald: What astonished me about Chris was that he could make everyone laugh. He could make a child laugh. He could make an old person laugh. A dumb person, a smart person. A guy who loved him, a guy who hated him.

Very few hated Chris, and many loved him. But in the end, the desire to be -- and the ability to be -- the funniest person in the room, any room, wasn't enough. The gifts he felt compelled to use, either out of some sense of religious duty or some deep-seeded need to be loved, eventually proved to be his undoing. And as close as they were to him, the authors don't spare Farley here. We see the alcohol and drugs eventually taking their toll on his friends, his work, and finally his life. He died on December 18,1997. He was 33.

His death is often compared with John Belushi’s: Two large men, both from the Midwest, both SNL standouts, the funniest men of their generation, both victims of drug overdoses. And Farley apparently idolized Belushi and romanticized Belushi's life – as well as his death. But while Belushi's death seemed emblematic of the excessive times he lived in -- hell, who wasn't on drugs in the early '80s? -- Farley's seems much more tragic, frustratingly so: with so much talent, energy, and generosity, Chris Farley was surrounded by people who loved and adored him unreservedly, people who had experienced at first hand what had happened to Belushi, people who deeply understood what was happening to him, and were still powerless to do anything about it.

The Chris Farley Show is both a hilarious and heartbreaking object lesson in what it takes to be the funniest person in the room -- and what it sometimes costs.

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DC Comedy Spotlight: Shawn Westfall

Screw you guys. I don’t care what you “young people” think! With your Death Cabs and your backpacks with the seatbelt buckles on the strap and your new ways of shaking hands...you clench fists then hit them together? Bah! I am old school! You know why? Because some people never stop being funny. Some people just know comedy from the get go and ain't nothin' gonna change that. One of these people is Mr. Shawn Westfall.

Born and raised in Indiana, Shawn Westfall has performed improvisational comedy for over 14 years with a number of professional improv troupes as well as founding some of his own such as the sketch comedy troupe, Pretentious Actors Collective (P.A.C.), which played to audiences in Northern Virginia and Washington, DC and most recently Bright Young Things, an improv troupe specializing in long-form improv that played to audiences in Washington, DC (headlining at the DC Improv) and at the UCB Theater in New York City.

Shawn has also performed stand-up comedy in Texas and throughout the Washington, DC area, and has opened for comedian Adam Ferrara at the DC Improv.

In addition, this May will find Shawn marking five years as the exclusive improv instructor at the DC Improv. His classes (and the numerous DC Improv shows they've generated) have been featured in the pages of The Washington Post, The Washington Post Express and Washingtonian magazine and as well on Washington Post Radio, DC 101, WTOP, and on Mix 107.3’s “The Jack Diamond Morning Show.” He’s also the founder and primary facilitator of Improv Comedy Delivered, an improv-focused event-based business.

Shawn knows his shit, people. Sit down and pay attention. Learn something for once. Quit with your “hatin'” and your “just sayin'” for one gosh darn second.

(BTW, this is my cranky bitterness spewing forth, youngsters. Shawn always greets everyone he meets with warmth and vitality)

Shawn can also sing? What!? Fuck yes. Catch Shawn this weekend in:

iMusical
Friday 8pm $15
Flashpoint Theater
buy tickets here

"I'm always stunned and amazed how this troupe of improv geniuses creates a musical in front of our eyes. Get thee to the iMusical." -DC Theatre Reviews

DCC4N interview with Shawn:
When did you realize that you wanted to do comedy?

Not sure the exact age, but I suppose it was very early on that I learned that I could get attention (especially from girls — and that’s really what it’s all about, right?) by indulging in what appeared to be a god-given gift for mimicry, making a fool of myself, and getting laughs. Some guys could dribble basketballs or throw footballs. I could do bad Steve Martin imitations. Though I did, and still do, a spot-on version of Burt Ward’s Robin.

But once you’re past that, comedy is something you sort of fall into it by default, isn’t it? You discover your tendency to locate the humor in the mundane, boring, banal, and irritating. You start giving in to this tendency at work, in the grocery line, with friends, with your girlfriend, etc. And suddenly what started as an occupational hazard then becomes an occupation, or at least a vocation. It’s weird. For most comedians or comic performers, comedy is something they discover that they can’t *not* do.

[Hit the jump for one of our most insightful interviews yet. Plus, there is a video for you Gen X-ers!]

Who were some of your earliest influences?

Well, two of my earliest influences were my parents, who saw fit to bless me with a downright awful childhood. Nothing, in my experience, is more useful to comedy than a bad childhood. When reality is alternately boring and horrific, one’s imagination tends to vividly intensify. At least mine certainly did. Just the way it is, I suppose.

That said, my parents, perhaps because they were too drunk to care, allowed me to stay up to watch Saturday Night Live during its very first season, and those first shows — indeed, the first show — stayed with me, are with me even now. I once won a trivia contest by being able to name the person who spoke the first words on the first episode. Most think it was Belushi. But it was actually the late Michael O’Donahue — twisted, crazed genius that he was — in a sketch where O’Donahue’s character is teaching Belushi’s character to speak English using phrases like “I would like to feed your fingertips to the wolverines.” For weeks I went around repeating this. I was ten.

Where did you first start doing improv?

I was fascinated by SNL and from the Midwest, but because of my rather insular upbringing I didn’t discover until late in life that there was a career-track to getting on the show, and that it, generally speaking, went through something called “improv,” which was done, generally speaking, in some place called “Chicago.” My first exposure to it was about 14 years ago: I was studying acting with a guy named Kent Bateman (Jason and Justine’s father) near Park City, UT. He attempted something approximating improv by occasionally asking his students, as an exercise, to take the characters we were working on for scene study and put them in audience-suggested situations with other actors’ characters. The results were usually monumental failures, my improv scenes in particular.

A few months after working with Kent Bateman I saw a show on the A&E channel, late at night, where some very gifted actors were doing short-form improv. Lights went on, bells went off, etc. The moment I saw that I knew I was born to do this style of comedy/acting, and that I’d find a way to get involved.

From Utah I moved to Hawaii. Just as I arrived I saw an ad in the auditions section of the Honolulu Advertiser: a local improv troupe was seeking additional actors to flesh out their numbers for a 12-hour non-stop improv marathon to benefit a local theater. I auditioned, was told that my tenure would only be for this one show, got in, and was then given a six-week crash course in improv. The day of the show, though scheduled for only two hours, I ended up doing four hours non-stop, since the other actors refused to let me off stage. The troupe, Loose Screws (still extant and thriving, by the way) figured that since I had undergone this improv trial-by-fire, it was only appropriate to ask me to officially join. I’ve been involved in improv ever since.

What would you say is your improv-comedy style? What do you enjoy bringing onstage?

Given that I’m not really all that good at being me, and prefer, in fact, to be someone else, my improv is character-based, so I enjoy bringing as many unique, differentiated characters as I can to a performance. I’m very fond of Groundlings-style improv, where they seem to encourage strong, distinct character choices as the through-line for improv and sketch comedy. Some of my favorite comedic actors trained there, notably the late Phil Hartman, who is, in my opinion, the most gifted comedic improv or sketch actor we’ve ever produced, someone who could effortlessly go from persona to persona. People often forget just how brilliant Larraine Newman, another Groundling product, was on those first seasons of SNL. She created a different character for every sketch she was in. I also admire Peter Sellers, another character-mad genius, playing three (almost four!) different characters in “Dr. Strangelove.” And I don’t think it’s any accident that my favorite writer is the comic novelist Kingsley Amis, whose novels are basically catalogues of unforgettably rendered characters with distinct voices. Practically everyone who knew him testifies that in real life, Amis was an excellent mimic of voices and sound effects; one of his most requested parlor pieces was an impersonation of Franklin Roosevelt delivering one of his many fireside chats as heard on shortwave wartime British radio, complete with the buzzes, cracks, and whistles of signals fading in and out as they’re transmitted across the ocean. I actually heard a recording of Amis performing this. He could have easily been a master improvisational performer.

Do you enjoy the process of writing? How do you think your improv training has affected your writing style/process?

Well, no one enjoys the process of writing. Nearly every writer I know enjoys *having written.* However, about six years ago, I was involved in a sketch comedy troupe here in DC (Pretentious Actors Collective) and, had we not all had improv backgrounds and brought that to our collaborations, we would have killed each other (we did end up killing each other, but not over the creative process). It was basically understood that whatever sketch we individually brought was never a finished product, that others were given license to improve upon the premise in any way. In fact, there were a couple sketches I wrote that I was, at one time or another, ready to abandon when one or both of my partners would find ways to improve it, either at the writing stage or in rehearsal. We did this constantly. And that’s the collaborative nature of improv at work. You don’t own the comedy. And you have to be willing to check your ego at the door to find it.

What about performing live do you enjoy? Do you ever want to convey a message?

Basically discovering the right in-the-moment piece of information or character that I can bring to a scene. I’m usually listening intently for ways to help the scene or further the story (I’ve got an MA in English lit, so “story,” “three-act structure,” and narrative are things I’m kind of obsessive about). I took a workshop with Owen Burke of UCB last year, and he basically said that an improviser’s job is to serve the scene. Again: not to “be [individually] funny,” but to look for what the scene needs and bring it, so that the funny in a scene becomes something you create together.

Regarding messages: I have little patience for political art, “message art,” etc. Anytime I feel that I’m being exposed to propaganda, I just want to take a shower. And I don’t really care for overtly political comedians (standup or improv), either. Some do, but I don’t. I don’t think there’s any difference between comedians who walk on stage saying in essence, “wow, George Bush sucks” and getting a reaction and their saying “wow, isn’t DC [or geographic location X] great?” You’re just pandering. Of course, these tend to be the same comedians who mistake that for a successful gig, too. Plus, it’s all been done. Go look at Mort Sahl’s stuff from the late ‘50s, early ‘60s. Take out whatever politician he was trashing back then, insert one of today’s politicians, and you’re basically telling the same joke.

What's hacky to you?

Probably the same things that are hacky to everyone else reading this website. Topical humor, which, in my opinion, has a shelf life of last week. Dick jokes. I once commented to The Washington Post that nearly all beginning improv scenes default to either sex or poo, or both simultaneously. And because I have a pathological aversion to boredom, I get impatient when I see the same comic premises falling along those already well-traveled sex and poo routes. Indeed, one of the things I try to impress upon my students is that there are multitudes of paths towards the funny, and they don’t always fall along the cliché lines to which Hollywood — and by extension everyone else — defaults. It’s hard, but then a few weeks later, a light goes on and they get it. Of course, mea culpa, we’re all occasionally guilty of resorting to that.

You have been involved with DC comedy for years now. How do you feel about doing comedy in Washington DC?

Love it. I thought about leaving a few years ago, but I’m so glad I stayed. Whatever I would have achieved elsewhere, DC has rewarded me tenfold in other ways. DC may be, as the cliché goes, “Hollywood for ugly people” (which certainly explains why I’m here). But given that Hollywood has to have things like intellectual curiosity and irony imported by the truckload (nearly all of which is lost or damaged in shipment), I prefer DC and the East Coast. There are also some very personal, almost psychodrama-esque reasons for why I remain, which I won’t bore your readers with (not that that’s stopped me so far). But unless someone comes along offering me the standard rich-and-famous contract that necessitates my moving to either NYC or (Christ…) LA, I’m staying here.

You have been involved with DC comedy for years now. What are some of the biggest changes you've seen occur since you started here?

The biggest changes? More venues. More opportunities. A more vibrant and thriving community all around.

Eight years ago, there were only a handful of places where one could perform. The DC Improv hadn't started its open mikes yet, and if you wanted to do stand-up, generally speaking you went out to Wiseacres on open mike night, signed up, and got on a huge list of like 15 comedians who were given 6 minutes a piece. Then they added an extra night and you did the same thing. The improv scene wasn't much different. ComedySportz was in transition; when I got involved there, Liz Demery had just bought it, and was searching for a place to call home (one of my first tasks when I got involved in CSz was helping repaint the Victoria's Secret in Ballston to transform it into the Comedy Spot theater…we geeky theater types called it "The Old Vic"). And Mark Chalfant and Topher Bellavia were in the process of reenergizing WIT.

But from this came a groundswell of talent and desire to perform that manifested itself in a kind of DIY attitude. People began starting up open mikes in DC and online communities with information useful to local comedians; ComedySportz found a permanent home in Ballston; WIT began forming additional house troupes; and the DC Improv began offering more open mike opportunities as well as classes in improv and stand-up. Then suddenly we had this fantastic annual comedy festival.

There's not much practical value in pursuing an MA in English, but one of the things you learn is that great artists and performers usually do their best and most lasting work when they're part of communities. The myth of the lone writer struggling away in some garret far away who eventually publishes and is discovered is precisely that: a myth. It's no accident that writers, artists, and performers travel in movements, groups, and communities. The Romantic poets (Byron, Coleridge, and Shelley) all knew each other, vacationed together, and were audiences for each other's work. Post-War Modern artists hung out in the same Greenwich Village bars and championed each other's stuff. Bob Dylan and Richie Havens were buskers on the same New York City street corners.

This is one valuable way the community has grown and an equally valuable benefit of being part of the community. In fact, I tend to think the comedy community here in DC is like a family. Like any family, you're closer to some of your relatives than you are to others; like any family, there's infighting, squabbling, and petty territorial grievances. But we do a good job of defending each other to outsiders. And then on some nights we get together, tell stories about each other, have a few beers, and make each other laugh. And that makes the rest of the bullshit all worth it.

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