Lorne begins with an admission. Perhaps “disclaimer” is the better word. Via a Chris Parnell voiceover and on-point visual examples, filmmaker Morgan Neville explicitly tells the audience that the subject of his documentary film is effectively unknowable.
The next two hours underscore that point, as we glean precious little from Lorne himself. The merely above-average reviews for this film likely owe to that supposed defect.
For me, this is not a criticism of this excellent movie. Rather, the inability to “know” Lorne is the point.
Lorne juggles a number of storytelling modalities. One minute, it’s a straightforward biography, in the vein of something like John Candy: I Like Me. The next, it’s a “making-of SNL show week” behind-the-scenes peek, spanning multiple hosts and different recent seasons. The next, it’s a history of the show itself. The next, it’s a series of quick-cut interviews with past and current cast members and Michaels confidants offering insights.
Although we learn very little from Lorne, there is still revelation to be found. The stories told by the likes of John Mulaney, Paul Simon, Tina Fey, Chris Rock, Bill Hader, Maya Rudolph, and many others certainly provide a more complete picture of Lorne the man.
But the most valuable information comes from the reflections of Lorne we see in show week prep. I don’t mean “reflections” as in “reminiscences.” I mean the actual reactions of cast members, writers, and hosts to Lorne’s words, body language, and facial expressions.
The respect, the fear, the desire for approval. He is revered, loved, admired on a level that likely exceeds that of anyone currently active in the field. And those responses are fully deserved.
Lorne makes clear that, in many ways, Michaels is television.
As Tina Fey observes, he is perhaps the last of his kind, as modern TV / streaming is populated primarily by pure businesspeople making pure business decisions. Michaels, on the other hand, has foundationally deep creative roots that inform who he is and how he shapes the show.
More than that, Lorne Michaels is a dividing line between the first era of television and the second: SNL was, as Lorne discusses explicitly, a reaction to that first generation of TV in the 50s and 60s. These were the children of the first TV generation rising up as a counterpoint (and counter-cultural) response to their “parents'” TV.
And SNL has been the most successfully reinventive show in TV history. The idea of a topical comedy show lasting over 50 years seems insane on its face. But, through hundreds of cast changes, and even a five-year span without Lorne, SNL survived at least three distinct rough periods—including two on Lorne’s watch—to become an institution as permanent and untouchable as anything on television could ever be.
At least untouchable as long as Lorne is around.
In perhaps the only truly revealing moment that comes directly from Lorne, he confesses to Steve Martin that not only does he not have plans to retire, but the primary driver of that is his loyalty to and protection of the show and its staff.
If Michaels is still there, he explains, the network is unlikely to touch it. If he leaves, he fears, the show will be broken down and auctioned off.
A companion revelation comes toward the end of the documentary, when Lorne notes that, as we get older, the inescapable power and inevitability of change becomes more obvious.
One sees that in the way that SNL has changed—and compromised—in recent years.
Watching a recent episode of SNL, it suddenly dawned on me that the show has become that which Lorne Michaels once derided as “Carol Burnett.” Lorne touches on his traditional “no breaking” rule, and cast members from prior eras have remarked that breaking was considered a lack of professionalism and disrespectful to the writers.
The strong taboo against breaking had been in decline since the Fallon / Sanz days (perhaps since Sandler), but the last few years have been a both-feet jump toward Burnett.
When I saw a sketch set in a classroom, which was proactively designed to make cast members break by giving them notes that were different than the ones they had read in rehearsal (complete with onscreen message telling the audience that this was intentional!), I knew we had crossed the Rubicon.
I think this softening attitude speaks to both the change Lorne wistfully acknowledges at the end of Lorne and his earlier comments to Steve Martin about his fears of what would happen to a post-Michaels SNL.
Today, much of the marketing around SNL is driven by clicks. This is consistent with most late-night programming, but SNL’s half-century-old structure is, amazingly, better suited for the YouTube era than most shows, even much younger ones.
And, so, there is an inherent tension between Michaels’ original vision for the show and the pressures of modern media consumption. It’s likely that pressure is one element that causes SNL to chase clicks / views. Breaking character certainly feeds that particular beast.
At the same time, I think Lorne still acts on his core beliefs. Case-in-point: Heidi Gardner completely loses it in the most viral sketch of the entire season, then, despite being a popular, accomplished cast member, isn’t asked back. I believe those stories are connected, if not explicitly so.
That all segues back to what is perhaps the underlying theme of Lorne. The era of television comedy that Lorne helped usher in and, against all odds, maintained for over 50 years, is coming to an end. Soon. As indicated above, it’s already happening.
And that may not be the scariest part. Rather, unlike the era that witnessed SNL’s ascendance, this era of television comedy will almost certainly end by being replaced by something that isn’t television at all.
A hypothetical, post-Michaels SNL likely shifts almost fully to Peacock, with occasional specials or best-of episodes on NBC. Freed from the format constraints of network television, sketches are more frequently shorter, making them easier to merchandise on YouTube or, especially, TikTok. Likewise, the show fully embraces click-chasing, whether that means having non-traditional (but “online-famous”) guest hosts or intentionally attempting to create “viral” moments.
I think that’s the decline (or, if you prefer, “transformation”) that Michaels fears. And I think his mindset would shift back to that of 1980 and his initial departure, when, as documented in Lorne, he just wanted the show to die.
Sure, there’s a world in which someone like Tina Fey takes over the show and keeps it very much on its traditional rails. But, to Michaels’ point, how much of a bulwark against network interference would even Fey—or anyone—be compared to Lorne?
Late night TV is dying. SNL has much more protection against that tide because of its format and because of Michaels. But, in Lorne, we repeatedly get the sense that, even as topical and timely and constantly refreshed the show is, there are some inseverable elements that remain anchored to a world that no longer exists.
Lorne (and Lorne) subtly ponders the question of whether such a show can survive without its creator.
Personally, I don’t think it can. And, increasingly . . . I don’t think it should. Not because I don’t like SNL. But because I love SNL.
Let us remember it as it was, rather than have it crumble to digital dust three or four years after Michaels retires, finally shuttering for good after a few seasons as a streaming show reconfigured for TikTok attention spans.
While Lorne doesn’t quite succeed as an illuminating deep dive into the subject in the same way that, e.g., Mel Brooks: The 99-Year-Old Man! succeeds, it provides a constellation of data points about Michaels, SNL, and the television business itself that connect in compelling and sometimes sobering ways.
Lorne should enthrall die-hard SNL fans and fascinate anyone who has even a passing interest in the most successful comedy show in the history of the medium.
The Axis of Ego 
Timely Movie Review: Lorne
The next two hours underscore that point, as we glean precious little from Lorne himself. The merely above-average reviews for this film likely owe to that supposed defect.
For me, this is not a criticism of this excellent movie. Rather, the inability to “know” Lorne is the point.
Lorne juggles a number of storytelling modalities. One minute, it’s a straightforward biography, in the vein of something like John Candy: I Like Me. The next, it’s a “making-of SNL show week” behind-the-scenes peek, spanning multiple hosts and different recent seasons. The next, it’s a history of the show itself. The next, it’s a series of quick-cut interviews with past and current cast members and Michaels confidants offering insights.
Although we learn very little from Lorne, there is still revelation to be found. The stories told by the likes of John Mulaney, Paul Simon, Tina Fey, Chris Rock, Bill Hader, Maya Rudolph, and many others certainly provide a more complete picture of Lorne the man.
But the most valuable information comes from the reflections of Lorne we see in show week prep. I don’t mean “reflections” as in “reminiscences.” I mean the actual reactions of cast members, writers, and hosts to Lorne’s words, body language, and facial expressions.
The respect, the fear, the desire for approval. He is revered, loved, admired on a level that likely exceeds that of anyone currently active in the field. And those responses are fully deserved.
Lorne makes clear that, in many ways, Michaels is television.
As Tina Fey observes, he is perhaps the last of his kind, as modern TV / streaming is populated primarily by pure businesspeople making pure business decisions. Michaels, on the other hand, has foundationally deep creative roots that inform who he is and how he shapes the show.
More than that, Lorne Michaels is a dividing line between the first era of television and the second: SNL was, as Lorne discusses explicitly, a reaction to that first generation of TV in the 50s and 60s. These were the children of the first TV generation rising up as a counterpoint (and counter-cultural) response to their “parents'” TV.
And SNL has been the most successfully reinventive show in TV history. The idea of a topical comedy show lasting over 50 years seems insane on its face. But, through hundreds of cast changes, and even a five-year span without Lorne, SNL survived at least three distinct rough periods—including two on Lorne’s watch—to become an institution as permanent and untouchable as anything on television could ever be.
At least untouchable as long as Lorne is around.
In perhaps the only truly revealing moment that comes directly from Lorne, he confesses to Steve Martin that not only does he not have plans to retire, but the primary driver of that is his loyalty to and protection of the show and its staff.
If Michaels is still there, he explains, the network is unlikely to touch it. If he leaves, he fears, the show will be broken down and auctioned off.
A companion revelation comes toward the end of the documentary, when Lorne notes that, as we get older, the inescapable power and inevitability of change becomes more obvious.
One sees that in the way that SNL has changed—and compromised—in recent years.
Watching a recent episode of SNL, it suddenly dawned on me that the show has become that which Lorne Michaels once derided as “Carol Burnett.” Lorne touches on his traditional “no breaking” rule, and cast members from prior eras have remarked that breaking was considered a lack of professionalism and disrespectful to the writers.
The strong taboo against breaking had been in decline since the Fallon / Sanz days (perhaps since Sandler), but the last few years have been a both-feet jump toward Burnett.
When I saw a sketch set in a classroom, which was proactively designed to make cast members break by giving them notes that were different than the ones they had read in rehearsal (complete with onscreen message telling the audience that this was intentional!), I knew we had crossed the Rubicon.
I think this softening attitude speaks to both the change Lorne wistfully acknowledges at the end of Lorne and his earlier comments to Steve Martin about his fears of what would happen to a post-Michaels SNL.
Today, much of the marketing around SNL is driven by clicks. This is consistent with most late-night programming, but SNL’s half-century-old structure is, amazingly, better suited for the YouTube era than most shows, even much younger ones.
And, so, there is an inherent tension between Michaels’ original vision for the show and the pressures of modern media consumption. It’s likely that pressure is one element that causes SNL to chase clicks / views. Breaking character certainly feeds that particular beast.
At the same time, I think Lorne still acts on his core beliefs. Case-in-point: Heidi Gardner completely loses it in the most viral sketch of the entire season, then, despite being a popular, accomplished cast member, isn’t asked back. I believe those stories are connected, if not explicitly so.
That all segues back to what is perhaps the underlying theme of Lorne. The era of television comedy that Lorne helped usher in and, against all odds, maintained for over 50 years, is coming to an end. Soon. As indicated above, it’s already happening.
And that may not be the scariest part. Rather, unlike the era that witnessed SNL’s ascendance, this era of television comedy will almost certainly end by being replaced by something that isn’t television at all.
A hypothetical, post-Michaels SNL likely shifts almost fully to Peacock, with occasional specials or best-of episodes on NBC. Freed from the format constraints of network television, sketches are more frequently shorter, making them easier to merchandise on YouTube or, especially, TikTok. Likewise, the show fully embraces click-chasing, whether that means having non-traditional (but “online-famous”) guest hosts or intentionally attempting to create “viral” moments.
I think that’s the decline (or, if you prefer, “transformation”) that Michaels fears. And I think his mindset would shift back to that of 1980 and his initial departure, when, as documented in Lorne, he just wanted the show to die.
Sure, there’s a world in which someone like Tina Fey takes over the show and keeps it very much on its traditional rails. But, to Michaels’ point, how much of a bulwark against network interference would even Fey—or anyone—be compared to Lorne?
Late night TV is dying. SNL has much more protection against that tide because of its format and because of Michaels. But, in Lorne, we repeatedly get the sense that, even as topical and timely and constantly refreshed the show is, there are some inseverable elements that remain anchored to a world that no longer exists.
Lorne (and Lorne) subtly ponders the question of whether such a show can survive without its creator.
Personally, I don’t think it can. And, increasingly . . . I don’t think it should. Not because I don’t like SNL. But because I love SNL.
Let us remember it as it was, rather than have it crumble to digital dust three or four years after Michaels retires, finally shuttering for good after a few seasons as a streaming show reconfigured for TikTok attention spans.
While Lorne doesn’t quite succeed as an illuminating deep dive into the subject in the same way that, e.g., Mel Brooks: The 99-Year-Old Man! succeeds, it provides a constellation of data points about Michaels, SNL, and the television business itself that connect in compelling and sometimes sobering ways.
Lorne should enthrall die-hard SNL fans and fascinate anyone who has even a passing interest in the most successful comedy show in the history of the medium.
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